One year ago tonight was a terrible one. On this particular night, our cat Mojo lay dying in our bed. She had not eaten in many days, she was frail and gaunt, and could barely breathe. She had taken her final steps two days before...since then she had been too weak to move. I lay with my hands on her all night, feeling her muscles tense up every once in a while, and giving her a reassuring squeeze to let her know I was still there. Tonight, one year later, I still miss her, and feel the need to eulogize her...even in the face of potential ridicule that some would point my way for feeling so strongly about a pet, much less a cat. Some will empathize, some will think I'm an over-sensitive wussbag...c'est la vie.
It was the winter of 1999...Valentine's Day weekend to be precise...and Michelle and I had been married for about 8 months. We were living in our townhouse in Tinley Park with our cat Twiggy, a former stray that I had found in West Lafayette, IN and Michelle had subsequently adopted as her own. Most cats seem to pick one human as THEIR PERSON, and Twig had Michelle...she merely tolerated me. Twiggy also seemed to have trouble finding her litter box at times, and Michelle read somewhere that she might be getting lonely when we go to work, resulting in her misbehavior. It was this thinking that got Michelle motivated towards the idea of getting another cat to keep Twiggy company.
Now, as I said, it was Valentine's Day...our first as a married couple...so I had planned a weekend getaway to a local resort for some fine dining and swimming and other resort-like activities. Michelle had other plans....she had found kittens. Apparently, she was more than just a little fixated on the idea of getting another cat, it was going to happen, weekend getaway notwithstanding. So, it was with some reluctance that I had to cancel my romantic plans, and found myself a passenger in my wife's car heading over to a local Animal Shelter. I wasn't totally bummed, because I could not deny that having a new kitten in the house might be fun. Michelle informs me on the way over to see the kittens that she even has a name already picked out: Mojo. I was more in favor of deciding on a name AFTER we had seen/met the kitten, but Mojo DID seem like a good name...
Well, there were three kittens at the shelter, and after undergoing an interview process and background check, we were allowed to meet one of them. They were all from the same litter, and since there were two boys and a girl and we only wanted one, we were put into a room and the little girl was brought in to see us. Unlike her brothers, who were white and black, she was a true calico..mostly white, with orange and grey markings. She had a little orange patch around her nose, short, stubby legs, and a ringed grey tail that was longer than the rest of her body. She came right to me, and that was it...I was going to be her person.
I had never had a pet before. We had a cat, Macaroni, when I was growing up, but she was pretty much oblivious to any person in the world with the exception of my mom. She remained that way for 20 years, too...never gave anyone else in the family a bit of care, but she loved my mom. Past that, I had a fish for awhile, Otto, but he was never much for expressiveness, either...not that I expected much from a fish (I'm crazy, but not THAT crazy). Well, when the volunteer at the Shelter brought Mojo out to me after they had given her a bath and a blow dry, I took her in my hand and tucked her into the folds of my hoodie, and I knew this was my pet. She fell asleep in my arms instantly.
When we got home, we attempted to introduce Mojo to Twiggy. Even after following the carefully researched ideas on how to get an older cat to accept a newer kitten (rubbing the scent of the old cat on the new cat...really?)...it was apparent that things were NOT going to go smoothly. I have never since seen a mixture of fear and hatred on the face of an animal as I saw on Twiggy that day! She was mortified. Mojo took no notice at all. As soon as we let her out of her cat-carrier, she took over the house. She was so small, she actually ran UNDER a stunned Twiggy, which did not help things. In order to ease the transition, we confined Mojo to the spare bedroom initially, and I went in there to keep her company. She climbed all over me as I read books, and played fetch with me. Then, she would inevitably curl into a little ball and fall asleep next to me. Gradually, we let her have the run of the house, and she immediately began to terrorize Twiggy...something that continued for the remainder of the Twig's life. Our initial idea of getting Twiggy a "friend" rapidly became nothing more than a running joke...they clearly had no love for each other...ever. Poor Twiggy.
Mojo rapidly became like my shadow. As hard as Michelle tried to get her to like her, she would run to me every time I came into the room. She would stare at me from across the room when I was reading or watching TV. She would follow me up and down stairs. She would play fetch with me, and play soccer with me. She grew up, but she didn't get much bigger. She still had stumpy legs, made even more conspicuous by her incongruously large tail. She LOVED to play, and was a serious attention-hog. She would get jealous of Michelle, and liked to sleep between us in bed at night. She was also a little brat. If we were gone for a weekend, it would be a solid day after we returned before she would deign to grace me with her presence and accept my apologies for leaving.
Then, when she was three years old, she got sick. It started with repeated vomiting, then loss of appetite, and after a few days, I took her to see a vet. An x-ray showed that she had eaten a piece of ribbon, and it was lodged in her intestine. I was given some laxative to feed her, which she lapped right up, and she returned to normal shortly afterwards. I brought her back to the vet for a follow-up visit, and while showing me the x-rays, the doctor pointed out that she had some abnormalities in her kidneys. One kidney was shriveled and useless, and the other was extra large, indicating that at some point in her young life, she had probably contracted a uterine infection, which had done the damage. The prognosis was not good. The doctor gave her 3 years to live.
We went to another vet closer to home for a second opinion, and he agreed with the initial diagnosis. He also offered a way to extend Mojo's life: a diet of renal-friendly soft food, and treatments involving sub-cutaneous fluids. No sweat on the former...just needed to purchase the food. The latter, however, was more than a little intimidating. Basically, it involved what looked like an IV setup, bag, hose and NEEDLE...only instead of hitting a vein with the needle, all you had to do was get it under the skin. Riiiiiiiiiight. Sticking a cat with a needle. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?
When it came time for the first "treatment," Michelle said she wanted to help. So, she grabbed Mojo, and the three of us crammed into a small bathroom where I had the bag hanging. It took me a couple tries to get the needle in, and Michelle freaked out right away...even worse than the cat. She left, and it was up to me. I struggled, but for some reason, Mojo let me do it, rather than leaving me a bloody carved-up mess as I had thought.
For the next NINE years, I gave Mojo treatments. First once per week, then twice, then every other day, and finally, near the end, EVERY day. I can't say it was always easy. There were times when I left bloody. There were times when she decided she would NOT be having it and muscled away from me. There were times when I had to stab her more than once with the needle. There were times when the needle went all the way through the fold of skin I had grabbed. She hissed at me, growled at me, and yowled like a wild beast...but she NEVER, EVER, EVER bit me. And most of the time, she just calmed down and let me be her doctor. At times, I even sang her the song "Doctor Worm" by They Might Be Giants to calm her down. This really must have tested her patience, because I suck at singing.
Last year around Thanksgiving, Mojo started to slow down. She didn't play as much, and was hardly eating anything. I knew it was the beginning of the end. All those years of sitting and letting fluids drip had given me a lot of time to think about just how the end would come, and none of those thoughts were terribly appealing. We had stopped taking her to the vet for two reasons: One, we pretty much knew her condition was irreversible and deteriorating and that we were doing all we could for her, and Two, she absolutely HATED the vet. He had a very distinct deep voice, and even the sound of him talking in the other room started her growling. She became a DEMON when he came into the room, and actually bit one of the nurses one visit. We made an early choice to make things as easy as possible for her, and since the vet was uber-stressful, we just kept her home. Soon, it became obvious that the reason she would not eat was because her teeth hurt...the result of years of eating the soft food she needed for her kidneys. Ironic, but not unforeseen. The food that helped her stay alive, also contributed to her demise. Alone, I shed my first tears as the prospect of losing my friend became real.
Her condition improved slightly when we changed up her food...we figured taking away the healthy stuff at this point would not make much difference. When she stopped eating that, it was on to deli meat....ham and turkey had always been favorite treats, and whenever I made my lunch, she was right there to get her bite. That lasted a couple days, and then she just stopped eating altogether. We did what we could...hand feeding her, attempting to force-feed her (if you can avoid doing this in your life, I recommend it...who would have thought a dying cat could be so strong?). She spent her days on a couch in our living room, often not moving an inch from when we left her in the morning. Eventually, jumping onto the couch became an impossibility, and she found repose in one of her seasonally traditional favorite spots...under the Christmas tree.
I stopped giving her treatment when she stopped eating, the idea was to make things as comfortable as possible for her, and we were beyond the point of it helping, anyway. In the final week, she could no longer make it up the stairs to our bedroom, and when we went to bed, she would cry. I set up camp with a pillow and a blanket, and slept on the living room floor with her cuddled in my chest. Her final steps were taken as I lay down in front of the tree one evening...she came right to me, rammed her head into my chest, and lay down.
That next day, Michelle stayed home from school to be with her, keeping her company and grading papers all day. At night, we watched a movie with Mojo on a pillow between us...at one point, she was sleeping so soundly we thought she was gone. We brought her to bed with us on the same pillow, and I kept vigil over her all night...I don't think I slept at all.
We had decided that the next day would be the end, and I stayed home from work to be with her. I held her in my lap and thought about all the times I had I had envisioned the end. I remembered all the times we had played outside in the yard (her all-time favorite thing), I remembered her kills (she was a great hunter, claiming a pigeon, a sparrow, several cicadas, and earthworm, thousands of houseflies and two chipmunks among her victims, even though her outdoor activity was mostly "supervised" and she was mostly white...not too stealthy). I remembered how proud I was to have been able to treat her and keep her alive, and how happy I was that she seemed to know it. I remembered how I was never out of her sight, and how much she loved cuddling with me. I remembered how she had fallen asleep in my arms on that first day. I remembered how great it felt that Mojo had adopted me as her person.
She passed away in my arms. I am not sure what was worse, listening to her last heartbeat and her last breath, or telling Michelle that she was gone when she came home from school 20 minutes later. I do know that I will always remember my first pet, and I will always love her. I do know that tomorrow we will be celebrating the first birthday of our new kittens Sonny and Rico, and giving them an extra treat and cuddle in honor of their predecessor. I miss my Mojo.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Key West - Part III - The Final Chapter
The Return to Miami, Impressions of the Boat, and Random Musings!
When we last left off, our stay in Key West was pretty much wrapped up. We awoke Monday morning with thoughts of home on our mind. I was thinking about the movie "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," as we would be boating 165 miles, catching a plane 1200 miles to Chicago, and driving home from O'hare Airport. If everything went according to schedule, we would be leaving Key West at 10am Eastern Time, and arriving at home at approximately 1am Central Standard Time. A long day to be sure.
Pat and crew showed up from their fancy digs on Sunset Key with a laughably expensive itemized bill, including a "Valet Fee" for an island with no cars! We gassed up and hooked up with Laszlo Lukacs and his crew in another 37 Active Thunder, and pointed bows north..into the wind. Yes folks, there had been a steady wind out of the north all weekend, with seas forecast to be 5-7 feet, we were hoping for the best. With that forecast, I was happy to leave the driving duties to Pat. Leaving Key West, the waves were not bad at all, but as we progressed northward towards Marathon, they grew and grew. Add to that the fun we had with the occasional rain shower, and it was an interesting ride to be sure. We were passed by a 40 Skater JUST before things really turned ugly. The seas were tossed washing-machine style, probably a solid 3 foot with occasional 5 foot holes. The Skater never left our horizon, and slowly but surely came back to us, even though we were only running about 45 mph....my guess is the difference in comfort between standing and sitting in that water was what motivated the Skater captain to take it easy on his crew. Pat expertly guided the boat...dodging crab traps and bigger holes the entire way, and losing Laszlo in the process (he wisely went at his own pace). We stopped for lunch at the Tiki Bar at Marathon, then I climbed behind the wheel for inside run (no waves!). After very nearly running out of gas, we splashed some more in the tank ($5.20/gallon!!!!) and continued on to Miami.
Upon arrival in our destination city, Pat made an executive decision to head out to the Atlantic rather than idle through downtown Miami to return to the trailer at Haulover. I was driving, and he turned to me with a smile and said "You should probably let me drive. In about five minutes, you will wish you did anyway." I deferred and gave him the wheel. It turned out, he was wrong. It was only about THREE minutes until we hit the nastiest water we had seen the entire trip. Pat did his best to keep us dry, but it was somewhat in vain. The waves were solid 5 footers, with an occasional ocean roller towering overhead. We could only run about 30 mph, but, once again, Mr. Active Thunder safely guided us through the melee, and after a LONG 15 minutes or so, we shot through the Haulover Inlet and back to the waiting truck and trailer....our aquatic adventure concluded.
After briefly considering pulling the entire rig up to the departure gate at Ft. Lauderdale International, we went back to Active Thunder central, changed clothes, said our repeated "thank yous" and goodbyes, and headed to the airport. Our flight was only slightly delayed, and we crossed the threshold of our homestead right on time....1am...exhausted, but very, very happy.
The BOAT
Now its my turn to attempt to justify my journalism degree and create a short review of our newly purchased floating hunk of fiberglass fun. Many have asked "How did you like the boat?" or "Was the boat everything you thought it would be?" My answers have been more definitive than any others that I could give with regard to this entire adventure...YES...I LOVE THE BOAT. Granted, proper journalism would maintain an objective perspective, and I can hardly be considered an objective source since I had just spent a couple dollars on the actual PURCHASE. However, I am allowed to say that the boat was nice as I had expected, and more. We ran it through water that, unless we are somehow caught in a majorly unavoidable situation, I hope to NEVER have to deal with...and the boat handled it with aplomb. This greatly helps my confidence as an owner and a driver, knowing that it will get me and my crew home safely, even in the nastiness. Then, there was the cabin. One of the main reasons we wanted to get a larger boat was for a more spacious cabin, and that of the Active Thunder has few competitors. We jumped right in and slept on the boat three nights in a row, and it was AMAZING. An actual usable head (bathroom for the landlubber) with hot and cold running water, a nice stereo, refrigerator, microwave, flat-screen TV/DVD, and air conditioning...it was like going from a pop-up camper to a Class A motorhome. Michelle had some doubts about the boat, but they were allayed with much haste and she likes it as much as I do. Success. Yet another thanks to Pat and Active Thunder. What an amazing product.
Random Musings
-One should avoid travel with me if at all possible. Of the 6 flights back and forth to Florida since July, 5 of them were delayed in some way. Weather, damage to plane, and even a pilot that didn't show up...travel with Mike generally sucks.
-Boating in Florida is NOT for me. Seeing salt spray on the boat makes me very unhappy...but salt spray is always there! I wash my boats too much as it is...I would go insane in Florida.
-Channel markers are to be taken seriously. If they are not, severe consequences will occur. Pay attention to your navigator(s). I had at least three navigators as all times.
-Duval Street is the most fun single street I have ever been on.
-Key West is a very strange mixture of extreme wealth and hippies that couldn't care less about money.
-I will most likely never spend that much money in fuel in one weekend again.
-Powerboaters don't do anything "small." A 37 foot boat that goes 85 miles per hour ostensibly should not be the smallest and slowest boat on any run...but it was damn close on this one!
-EVERY frozen and/or tropical drink should be ordered with a "floater." A shot of Bacardi 151 in a test tube on top! It is also very important to MIX said rum into the drink before consuming!
-Boating is really a great way to see the Keys
-Bicycles are a great way to see Key West
and, finally,
-You can do a lot with a dollar in Key West
When we last left off, our stay in Key West was pretty much wrapped up. We awoke Monday morning with thoughts of home on our mind. I was thinking about the movie "Planes, Trains, and Automobiles," as we would be boating 165 miles, catching a plane 1200 miles to Chicago, and driving home from O'hare Airport. If everything went according to schedule, we would be leaving Key West at 10am Eastern Time, and arriving at home at approximately 1am Central Standard Time. A long day to be sure.
Pat and crew showed up from their fancy digs on Sunset Key with a laughably expensive itemized bill, including a "Valet Fee" for an island with no cars! We gassed up and hooked up with Laszlo Lukacs and his crew in another 37 Active Thunder, and pointed bows north..into the wind. Yes folks, there had been a steady wind out of the north all weekend, with seas forecast to be 5-7 feet, we were hoping for the best. With that forecast, I was happy to leave the driving duties to Pat. Leaving Key West, the waves were not bad at all, but as we progressed northward towards Marathon, they grew and grew. Add to that the fun we had with the occasional rain shower, and it was an interesting ride to be sure. We were passed by a 40 Skater JUST before things really turned ugly. The seas were tossed washing-machine style, probably a solid 3 foot with occasional 5 foot holes. The Skater never left our horizon, and slowly but surely came back to us, even though we were only running about 45 mph....my guess is the difference in comfort between standing and sitting in that water was what motivated the Skater captain to take it easy on his crew. Pat expertly guided the boat...dodging crab traps and bigger holes the entire way, and losing Laszlo in the process (he wisely went at his own pace). We stopped for lunch at the Tiki Bar at Marathon, then I climbed behind the wheel for inside run (no waves!). After very nearly running out of gas, we splashed some more in the tank ($5.20/gallon!!!!) and continued on to Miami.
Upon arrival in our destination city, Pat made an executive decision to head out to the Atlantic rather than idle through downtown Miami to return to the trailer at Haulover. I was driving, and he turned to me with a smile and said "You should probably let me drive. In about five minutes, you will wish you did anyway." I deferred and gave him the wheel. It turned out, he was wrong. It was only about THREE minutes until we hit the nastiest water we had seen the entire trip. Pat did his best to keep us dry, but it was somewhat in vain. The waves were solid 5 footers, with an occasional ocean roller towering overhead. We could only run about 30 mph, but, once again, Mr. Active Thunder safely guided us through the melee, and after a LONG 15 minutes or so, we shot through the Haulover Inlet and back to the waiting truck and trailer....our aquatic adventure concluded.
After briefly considering pulling the entire rig up to the departure gate at Ft. Lauderdale International, we went back to Active Thunder central, changed clothes, said our repeated "thank yous" and goodbyes, and headed to the airport. Our flight was only slightly delayed, and we crossed the threshold of our homestead right on time....1am...exhausted, but very, very happy.
The BOAT
Now its my turn to attempt to justify my journalism degree and create a short review of our newly purchased floating hunk of fiberglass fun. Many have asked "How did you like the boat?" or "Was the boat everything you thought it would be?" My answers have been more definitive than any others that I could give with regard to this entire adventure...YES...I LOVE THE BOAT. Granted, proper journalism would maintain an objective perspective, and I can hardly be considered an objective source since I had just spent a couple dollars on the actual PURCHASE. However, I am allowed to say that the boat was nice as I had expected, and more. We ran it through water that, unless we are somehow caught in a majorly unavoidable situation, I hope to NEVER have to deal with...and the boat handled it with aplomb. This greatly helps my confidence as an owner and a driver, knowing that it will get me and my crew home safely, even in the nastiness. Then, there was the cabin. One of the main reasons we wanted to get a larger boat was for a more spacious cabin, and that of the Active Thunder has few competitors. We jumped right in and slept on the boat three nights in a row, and it was AMAZING. An actual usable head (bathroom for the landlubber) with hot and cold running water, a nice stereo, refrigerator, microwave, flat-screen TV/DVD, and air conditioning...it was like going from a pop-up camper to a Class A motorhome. Michelle had some doubts about the boat, but they were allayed with much haste and she likes it as much as I do. Success. Yet another thanks to Pat and Active Thunder. What an amazing product.
Random Musings
-One should avoid travel with me if at all possible. Of the 6 flights back and forth to Florida since July, 5 of them were delayed in some way. Weather, damage to plane, and even a pilot that didn't show up...travel with Mike generally sucks.
-Boating in Florida is NOT for me. Seeing salt spray on the boat makes me very unhappy...but salt spray is always there! I wash my boats too much as it is...I would go insane in Florida.
-Channel markers are to be taken seriously. If they are not, severe consequences will occur. Pay attention to your navigator(s). I had at least three navigators as all times.
-Duval Street is the most fun single street I have ever been on.
-Key West is a very strange mixture of extreme wealth and hippies that couldn't care less about money.
-I will most likely never spend that much money in fuel in one weekend again.
-Powerboaters don't do anything "small." A 37 foot boat that goes 85 miles per hour ostensibly should not be the smallest and slowest boat on any run...but it was damn close on this one!
-EVERY frozen and/or tropical drink should be ordered with a "floater." A shot of Bacardi 151 in a test tube on top! It is also very important to MIX said rum into the drink before consuming!
-Boating is really a great way to see the Keys
-Bicycles are a great way to see Key West
and, finally,
-You can do a lot with a dollar in Key West
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Key West Poker Run - Part II
I awoke Saturday morning with a fuzzy notion of what had happened the night before. I say this mostly because I was still in awe of where exactly I was, but it also had something to do with the rum. Friday night we had cleaned up and grabbed a cab to Duval St. for the boat parade. No...the boats were not actually parading, all of the race teams had them lined up and the street was closed off for blocks with thousands of people craning necks at scantily clad women dancing on boats, gawking at monster pieces of fiberglass, and catching beads raining down from above. We met up with some of our oldest boating friends from Chicago, Jimmy and Ginny Vos and their friends, people that were there at the very beginning of our boating lifestyle, which put a very nice perspective on our dream trip. It helped that they are really fun people, and that they had been making this trip for over 20 years! Within minutes of them leaving, we hooked up with ANOTHER pair we'd become friends with over the years, Bob and Heidi Mathers from Boyne City, Michigan. We had a couple cocktails with them and wandered the streets a bit, and when they called it a night, we ended up right back with the Chicago folks again. Its a strange small world, this offshore boating community...and full of some of the nicest people I've ever met. We finished off the night by checking out the Poker Run village around the Galleon, where many of the big dogs were parked. I have seen a lot of horsepower before, but NOTHING has compared to this. Millions of dollars in fiberglass, carbon fiber, and gleaming metal glowing with LED accents...it was breathtaking.
Anyway, Michelle was still enjoying the comforts of our luxury accommodations, so I did my usual morning-on-the-boat activity...I quick-waxed everything above the rubrail (I had sent down a bottle of wax and some towels the week before!). When I finished, I took a walk around our marina to check out our neighbors. On my finger pier, we had the aforementioned MTI and Outerlimits, along with a 45 Sonic, a 37 Hustler Talon, a 34 Hustler Cheetah, a 38 Cigarette Flatdeck, and a 28 Skater...with twin 300 hp outboards. One pier over, there was a Statement! V, a 39 Cigarette Top Gun Unlimited, two 38 Cigarette Top Guns, a 41 Apache catamaran, and a 52 Outerlimits. These are boats that have paint jobs that cost more than my first boat. It was like a tiny slice of Mike heaven. We also had the fortunate position of being in the marina with the best launch ramp, so Michelle's wake-up call on Saturday morning was the sound of Bill Pyburn's 190 mph Skater "Pure Platinum" roaring to life.
Our crew was a little late getting rolling on Saturday, as a reservation snafu wound up with them staying on Sunset Key, so they were at the mercy of the ferry over to Cayo Hueso. Plus, it was cloudy and windy, so we were hesitant to embark upon the day's journey over to Boca Grande, an deserted strip of sandy beach about 15 miles away. Eventually, the sun came out, our crew arrived, and we were off, tailing a 42 Cigarette and being tailed by a helicopter taking pics and video of us. By the time we got there, all of the protected spots on the beach were taken. We attempted to beach the boat, but the waves kept us bouncing off the bottom, so Pat pulled the plug and Mike and I jumped in the water to drag the boat off to deeper water. While we were engaged in this activity, there was a shout from onboard the boat, directing our attention to a large, shadowy figure swimming out way....or should I say MY way. Now...I am paranoid of all ocean creatures...I have seen Jaws and I know what's down there and what they can do... I saw the figure and immediately recognised it as a stingray, and despite the fact that everyone says they are gentle creatures and wouldn't harm you, I can assure you that having one swimming towards you when you are waist deep is disconcerting. I maintained my composure, and forced myself to fight my instinct of launching out of the water and into the boat...you know...for the sake of my dignity and all that. We do not have such things in Lake Michigan. Pat had procured a couple pounds of stone crab, and his friends in the Cigarette had steaks...our intention was a nice barbecue on the beach. Mother Nature had other plans, however, and the constant wind and waves prevented our anchors from taking hold, and after about an hour of indecision, we finally gave up and headed back, disappointed....and very hungry. We broke out the stone crab back at the marina, with the Florida natives firing the stuff down like it was candy. I tasted some, but my menial penchant for trying new foods took over, and I had some Doritoes and beer to sate my hunger. I cleaned the boat again as well. After a while, the crew took off back to Sunset Key, and Michelle and I cleaned up for the Poker Run dinner....and broke out the rum.
We took a cab over to Duval Street, and made our way over to the Conch Republic, where, upon entering we found that the video playing on the huge outdoor screen was of US. Way cool! We finally got our Poker Run swag....a nice duffel bag, shirts, hats, and a bunch of beer coozies, and drew our cards...a pair of 5s...typical. We left the bag in a safe place, and rolled into dinner, quickly finding out that we knew NOBODY there. So, we had a couple drinks and ate our food...and the worst thing EVER began to happen: we got tired. This was SATURDAY NIGHT AT KEY WEST...we had to rally! We walked a couple laps around the area, and finally settled in to a spot at the bar and ordered up a couple rum'n'cokes. And just like that, right when the night was about to go south...the people next to us struck up a conversation. Boom. We were back in the game. I've said it a million times....I am amazed at how nice the people in the offshore boating community are in general. We talked to these people for twenty minutes and they invited us over to their house on the Gulf Coast in the spring! Crazy! In the meantime, our Chicago friend Trent had shown up and sent a couple shots our way....momentum was picking up! After that, a quick trip around the bar found us in the company of Jim Porter and Kirk Jurinek, more Chicago boaters enjoying their annual pilgrimage to Key West. We ended up sticking with them and moving on to Hogsbreath Saloon (which makes a MEAN Sailor Jerry and Coke...you have to SIP them!). Kirk then decided that we, as Key West newbies, really needed to experience exactly what the place was all about, We were whisked away in a cab... and deposited back at the marina by another cab at 3:30 am. The interim period represented by ellipses in that sentence is best left to the reader's imagination...but it was awesome.
Sunday morning, I was up at 7:30 am...and I felt GREAT. Now, I generally have the ability to drink a LOT in an evening and function well on very little sleep...the hangover hits a couple hours into the day. Not this time. I was a little shaky, and pounded a bunch of Gatorade and a breakfast burrito to be on the safe side, but I suffered no ill effects. I credit drinking good rum. Michelle was running a little rough when she was finally roused out of bed by the Turbine Express boat, Pure Platinum and Jim Lee's 46 Skater "Freedom US 1" rolling to the launch ramp. By repeating the mantra, "I will NOT lose this day" many, many times, she was able to get herself going...I was impressed with her mental fortitude. Plus, she wanted to take the boat out to watch the races. We fired up the engines and embarked upon our first solo journey, carefully following the navigational markers out of the marina and into the bay...right on to the race course itself. We had heard that they close the entrance to our marina during the races, and knew we had just over an hour before that happened, so we decided to go for a little blast. Only...I didn't know WHERE to go! I followed the route we had used when we came into Key West, only to find 4 foot rollers out past the end of the island. Not wishing to beat ourselves or the boat, I turned back around and ran past the gathering crowds of Mallory Square. We were then pretty much out of "known" real estate...with shallow spots and shoals lurking everywhere and a nervous captain at the helm...not very fun. The wind was still blowing pretty good, so I doubted our anchor would hold should we decide to watch the races out there. Plan B would be to ask a larger cruiser if we could just toss them a line and swing off their anchor...but I was feeling a bit shy and didn't want to impose on anyone...so we literally idled up and down the spectator fleet four times! We passed one cruiser twice, and both times, a woman on board waved at us happily...so I figured...that is the person I will ask to tie to. So I did. She answered, but neither Michelle nor I could understand a WORD of what she said...she was clearing hitting the sauce early! I gave up and headed back to the marina, figuring it'd be less stressful to watch from land, anyway. I snuck the boat between the MTI, a Cigarette, and a concrete pole for my first docking success...and I was happy.
We rented bikes across the street from our marina, and pedaled down to Mallory Square, catching the middle of the second race from a small beach before moving on to the main seawall for the conclusion and interim period before the final race. We stood in the crowd that grew to 5 deep as the Superboat Unlimited class hit the water, and enjoyed the thrill of watching and hearing them thunder past 50 feet away at speeds approaching 150 mph. There is NOTHING like it...it gives you goosebumps. After the first couple laps, we decided to move to another vantage point, and jumped on the bikes again, heading over to Ft. Zachary Taylor at the end of the island. The water was much rougher over there, as it had been in the morning, so our view from atop the fort was pretty thrilling, as we watched the boats getting some serious air and then mashing the throttles down for the front stretch. Pretty cool, I must say. The bicycles proved to be a most excellent decision, as the traffic jam leaving the fort and beach area after the race was quite large...and we just pedaled right by. We had called our Chicago friends to see if they wanted to come and check out the new boat, and by the time we had ridden back to the marina and gotten an ice cream cone, they were stepping out of a cab with a bottle of champagne to toast the new ride. We took them out for a sunset ride, and it was not lost upon me how awesome it was to be enjoying the company of these people who had been so instrumental in the foundation of my boating life so many years ago. Another dream come true.
We finished off the day with another bike ride down to Duval Street, and a nice dinner by ourselves, reminiscing about the events that had led to this trip, and also lamenting the fact that we had to go home tomorrow.
Anyway, Michelle was still enjoying the comforts of our luxury accommodations, so I did my usual morning-on-the-boat activity...I quick-waxed everything above the rubrail (I had sent down a bottle of wax and some towels the week before!). When I finished, I took a walk around our marina to check out our neighbors. On my finger pier, we had the aforementioned MTI and Outerlimits, along with a 45 Sonic, a 37 Hustler Talon, a 34 Hustler Cheetah, a 38 Cigarette Flatdeck, and a 28 Skater...with twin 300 hp outboards. One pier over, there was a Statement! V, a 39 Cigarette Top Gun Unlimited, two 38 Cigarette Top Guns, a 41 Apache catamaran, and a 52 Outerlimits. These are boats that have paint jobs that cost more than my first boat. It was like a tiny slice of Mike heaven. We also had the fortunate position of being in the marina with the best launch ramp, so Michelle's wake-up call on Saturday morning was the sound of Bill Pyburn's 190 mph Skater "Pure Platinum" roaring to life.
Our crew was a little late getting rolling on Saturday, as a reservation snafu wound up with them staying on Sunset Key, so they were at the mercy of the ferry over to Cayo Hueso. Plus, it was cloudy and windy, so we were hesitant to embark upon the day's journey over to Boca Grande, an deserted strip of sandy beach about 15 miles away. Eventually, the sun came out, our crew arrived, and we were off, tailing a 42 Cigarette and being tailed by a helicopter taking pics and video of us. By the time we got there, all of the protected spots on the beach were taken. We attempted to beach the boat, but the waves kept us bouncing off the bottom, so Pat pulled the plug and Mike and I jumped in the water to drag the boat off to deeper water. While we were engaged in this activity, there was a shout from onboard the boat, directing our attention to a large, shadowy figure swimming out way....or should I say MY way. Now...I am paranoid of all ocean creatures...I have seen Jaws and I know what's down there and what they can do... I saw the figure and immediately recognised it as a stingray, and despite the fact that everyone says they are gentle creatures and wouldn't harm you, I can assure you that having one swimming towards you when you are waist deep is disconcerting. I maintained my composure, and forced myself to fight my instinct of launching out of the water and into the boat...you know...for the sake of my dignity and all that. We do not have such things in Lake Michigan. Pat had procured a couple pounds of stone crab, and his friends in the Cigarette had steaks...our intention was a nice barbecue on the beach. Mother Nature had other plans, however, and the constant wind and waves prevented our anchors from taking hold, and after about an hour of indecision, we finally gave up and headed back, disappointed....and very hungry. We broke out the stone crab back at the marina, with the Florida natives firing the stuff down like it was candy. I tasted some, but my menial penchant for trying new foods took over, and I had some Doritoes and beer to sate my hunger. I cleaned the boat again as well. After a while, the crew took off back to Sunset Key, and Michelle and I cleaned up for the Poker Run dinner....and broke out the rum.
We took a cab over to Duval Street, and made our way over to the Conch Republic, where, upon entering we found that the video playing on the huge outdoor screen was of US. Way cool! We finally got our Poker Run swag....a nice duffel bag, shirts, hats, and a bunch of beer coozies, and drew our cards...a pair of 5s...typical. We left the bag in a safe place, and rolled into dinner, quickly finding out that we knew NOBODY there. So, we had a couple drinks and ate our food...and the worst thing EVER began to happen: we got tired. This was SATURDAY NIGHT AT KEY WEST...we had to rally! We walked a couple laps around the area, and finally settled in to a spot at the bar and ordered up a couple rum'n'cokes. And just like that, right when the night was about to go south...the people next to us struck up a conversation. Boom. We were back in the game. I've said it a million times....I am amazed at how nice the people in the offshore boating community are in general. We talked to these people for twenty minutes and they invited us over to their house on the Gulf Coast in the spring! Crazy! In the meantime, our Chicago friend Trent had shown up and sent a couple shots our way....momentum was picking up! After that, a quick trip around the bar found us in the company of Jim Porter and Kirk Jurinek, more Chicago boaters enjoying their annual pilgrimage to Key West. We ended up sticking with them and moving on to Hogsbreath Saloon (which makes a MEAN Sailor Jerry and Coke...you have to SIP them!). Kirk then decided that we, as Key West newbies, really needed to experience exactly what the place was all about, We were whisked away in a cab... and deposited back at the marina by another cab at 3:30 am. The interim period represented by ellipses in that sentence is best left to the reader's imagination...but it was awesome.
Sunday morning, I was up at 7:30 am...and I felt GREAT. Now, I generally have the ability to drink a LOT in an evening and function well on very little sleep...the hangover hits a couple hours into the day. Not this time. I was a little shaky, and pounded a bunch of Gatorade and a breakfast burrito to be on the safe side, but I suffered no ill effects. I credit drinking good rum. Michelle was running a little rough when she was finally roused out of bed by the Turbine Express boat, Pure Platinum and Jim Lee's 46 Skater "Freedom US 1" rolling to the launch ramp. By repeating the mantra, "I will NOT lose this day" many, many times, she was able to get herself going...I was impressed with her mental fortitude. Plus, she wanted to take the boat out to watch the races. We fired up the engines and embarked upon our first solo journey, carefully following the navigational markers out of the marina and into the bay...right on to the race course itself. We had heard that they close the entrance to our marina during the races, and knew we had just over an hour before that happened, so we decided to go for a little blast. Only...I didn't know WHERE to go! I followed the route we had used when we came into Key West, only to find 4 foot rollers out past the end of the island. Not wishing to beat ourselves or the boat, I turned back around and ran past the gathering crowds of Mallory Square. We were then pretty much out of "known" real estate...with shallow spots and shoals lurking everywhere and a nervous captain at the helm...not very fun. The wind was still blowing pretty good, so I doubted our anchor would hold should we decide to watch the races out there. Plan B would be to ask a larger cruiser if we could just toss them a line and swing off their anchor...but I was feeling a bit shy and didn't want to impose on anyone...so we literally idled up and down the spectator fleet four times! We passed one cruiser twice, and both times, a woman on board waved at us happily...so I figured...that is the person I will ask to tie to. So I did. She answered, but neither Michelle nor I could understand a WORD of what she said...she was clearing hitting the sauce early! I gave up and headed back to the marina, figuring it'd be less stressful to watch from land, anyway. I snuck the boat between the MTI, a Cigarette, and a concrete pole for my first docking success...and I was happy.
We rented bikes across the street from our marina, and pedaled down to Mallory Square, catching the middle of the second race from a small beach before moving on to the main seawall for the conclusion and interim period before the final race. We stood in the crowd that grew to 5 deep as the Superboat Unlimited class hit the water, and enjoyed the thrill of watching and hearing them thunder past 50 feet away at speeds approaching 150 mph. There is NOTHING like it...it gives you goosebumps. After the first couple laps, we decided to move to another vantage point, and jumped on the bikes again, heading over to Ft. Zachary Taylor at the end of the island. The water was much rougher over there, as it had been in the morning, so our view from atop the fort was pretty thrilling, as we watched the boats getting some serious air and then mashing the throttles down for the front stretch. Pretty cool, I must say. The bicycles proved to be a most excellent decision, as the traffic jam leaving the fort and beach area after the race was quite large...and we just pedaled right by. We had called our Chicago friends to see if they wanted to come and check out the new boat, and by the time we had ridden back to the marina and gotten an ice cream cone, they were stepping out of a cab with a bottle of champagne to toast the new ride. We took them out for a sunset ride, and it was not lost upon me how awesome it was to be enjoying the company of these people who had been so instrumental in the foundation of my boating life so many years ago. Another dream come true.
We finished off the day with another bike ride down to Duval Street, and a nice dinner by ourselves, reminiscing about the events that had led to this trip, and also lamenting the fact that we had to go home tomorrow.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Key West Poker Run - One Man's Perspective Part 1
Background
A long, long time ago in this very galaxy, Mike and Michelle decided to buy a boat. Yes folks, its been just over ten years since we threw rational thought to the wind and decided to embark upon a journey that has resulted in thrilling highs, torturous lows, a ridiculous amount of fossil fuel consumed, and a great number of invaluable friendships.
To those unfamiliar with our particular brand of aquatic enjoyment, we like to go fast. Our first boat had twin 454 cubic inch V8s and went about 70 mph, our second boat ended up with 540 cubic inch motors and topped out at about 84 mph. "Go-fast" boats, "Cigarette" boats, "Muscle" boats...obnoxious, loud, and really, really fun is our modus operandi.
The Dream
Way back when the whole thing started, I had a dream. My dream was to drive my boat through Government Cut in Miami, Florida, the birthplace of the offshore boat. Some of you might remember the scene in the opening credits of the greatest television show ever produced, Miami Vice, when a bunch of boats were racing around a turn towards a city....yeah...that was it. I thought...how AWESOME would it be if I was to buy a boat in Florida and step into Sonny Crockett's sockless loafers for one incredible moment. It was definitely a long shot, living around Chicago as I do, but, I kept that dream alive in the back of my mind for many a year.
This summer, I found the key to making that dream a reality. After 7 years in our beloved 35 Fountain, we decided we wanted to go bigger. Years of experience with successes and failures in our boating lives had created its own criteria as to what we wanted in our ideal craft and, in the end, only one boat really fit the bill...the Active Thunder 37 Excess. A spacious, well-appointed cabin coupled with an efficient hull and turn-key, fuel-injected Mercury Racing 525 horsepower motors had us heading down to the AT factory in Pompano Beach in July, and finalizing the purchase of the Sommer Thunder in September. That in itself was something of a dream-come-true....but we decided to push the envelop even further, rationalizing our impetus with the mantra "You will only have one shot at this, might as well do it!" We would shoot for the Florida Powerboat Club Key West Poker Run...the big daddy of all Poker Runs, coupled with the offshore racing World Championships. We had to make it happen.
Ignition
I would like the preface this tale of adventure by first thanking two persons instrumental in making it possible...my father, Don Sommer, and Pat Haughey, the owner of Active Thunder Powerboats. Without my dad, well, I'm not sure where I'd be in life, and without Pat, I know exactly where I would have been...stuck on a shoal somewhere between Miami and Key West! Now...on with the tale....
Michelle's job as an educator only provides for three vacation days per school year. She had already used one to attend a wedding in Florida in September, so our trip was going to be somewhat abbreviated. This was ok, according to our trip coordinator/advisor/navigator Pat...our livers most likely could not handle a longer trip. We flew down to Ft. Lauderdale after work on Thursday, and spent the night in a hotel on the south side of Pompano Beach. Pat's buddy Mike and his girlfriend Megan picked us up the next morning in what could only be described as the quintessential Florida vehicle...a diesel Ford F250 jacked to the sky with HUGE mudders on it. It took a step stool to get in...actually, a ladder would have been more helpful. We arrived at Active Thunder headquarters at around 8:30, and found our boat and the remainder of our crew, Pat and Jim ready to roll. Now, I am usually a complete freak about time...I am ALWAYS on time, and hate being late more than just about anything in the world. For some reason, the relaxed manner of our Florida compatriots must have shorted out that sector of my brain, and I felt only a mild discomfort when we encountered a blocked highway and subsequent detour through the surface streets of Miami. It might have just been masked by the relief I felt knowing that I wasn't the one pulling a 37 foot boat through a city! The Poker Run was scheduled to leave at 10 am...I was nervous about missing the driver's meeting, but my anxiety was pretty much laughed off by Pat...something that would occur quite a lot in the ensuing days. Pat had been there and done that too many times to remember, and as a personal friend of Stu Jones, President of the Florida Powerboat Club, he assured me there would be no repercussions. We launched the boat at Haulover Inlet in Miami, and went out onto the Atlantic with Pat behind the wheel, the idea being let the actual experienced guy (he has owned the company since 1994) handle what we had heard were "less than optimal" conditions. I had NO problem with this...once again, no anxiety for me! After banging through some 3-4 foot waves on the ocean, we came into Government Cut (and yes, I did find myself kind of tearing up), and met the other Poker Run boats as they headed out. The Key West Poker Run is a multi-day undertaking, with groups leaving each day from Tuesday through Friday...this year totalling some 140 boats. Most everyone had gone down earlier, so our group only consisted of 12 or so.
I slid behind the wheel as we idled out, and got comfortable in the driver's bolster. I had only driven the boat one time prior to this on the day I closed the deal, and then it was only for about 15 minutes. I scanned the boats around us, and immediately recognised an old friend from Chicago, Trent Hammerlinck, on board a 38 Donzi ZR. He was shooting pictures and video with his phone like crazy...I was trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest...and finding it difficult to look cool and relaxed whilst engaged in this activity. I had known from the start that despite the fact that we now owned this big and beautiful boat capable of speeds in the mid 80s, that we would be one of the smallest and slowest boats on this run. That became immediately apparent, when I scanned the fleet and found a 50 foot NorTech Super V, a 36 NorTech catamaran, a 42 Fountain, 39 Cigarette Top Gun, 37 Hustler Talon, and a couple of 36 Deep Impact center consoles. We hit the gas out into Biscayne Bay, where the water was flat as a pancake, and were soon running in the low 70s, trying to keep up with a couple of boats throwing rooster tails indicative of big horsepower and surface-piercing drives. Pat let me keep that up for a couple minutes to humor me, then suggested I slow down to run with the group behind me at a more reasonable (and fuel-friendly!) 55-60 mph. The idea, he said, is to make it to Key West and back WITHOUT BREAKING. I thought...this is a great idea...and we had something like 320 miles to go to make that happen! I slowed down.
We stopped for lunch about an hour into the run at Gilbert's Resort in Key Largo. There we stretched our legs, had a couple of cocktails, and met some of our fellow Poker Runners. People were walking down the docks taking pictures of the machinery, and I was proud to see that they were actually checking out my new ride. I answered some questions about the run from an Australian couple that had never seen anything like it...they were pretty impressed and amazed at the display of color and horsepower on hand. I made no bones about the speed of my boat compared to the 43 Motion cat and the 43 NorTech cat that were on hand...I proudly pointed out that those boats would likely run TWICE the speed of mine. They just smiled and shook their heads. I have never taken for granted the speed and power and MONEY it takes to keep these things going, and that has fostered a great appreciation and fascination for these machines that is probably pretty apparent to anyone unfortunate enough to be around me when I start reeling off boat statistics.
We got running again, dodging crab traps and passing through mangroves whilst running from one navigational marker to the next...things we DEFINITELY don't have to deal with boating on Lake Michigan. The first 120 miles of the run were the "inside" or Gulf side of the Keys, but in order to make the navigating easier (inside, the water was only 6-7 feet deep in the channel...MUCH shallower elsewhere), we would be going out into the Atlantic for the remaining 40 miles from Marathon Key to Key West. The north wind had been kicking all day....blowing over 20 mph...so there was a lot of chop on the ocean. Pat got behind the wheel again, and we ran very conservatively at around 45 mph through 4 foot following seas. That 40 miles seemed to take forever, but, finally, Key West was in sight, and in no time, we were cruising past Mallory Square and into our home for the next couple days, Garrison Bight. I wasted no time doing what I do best on the boat...CLEAN...she was covered with salt spray, and I do not rest until my boat is shiny...especially considering the company we were now keeping....a 44 MTI as our neighbor, and a 46 Outerlimits next to him...both boats worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Oh...and the rum came out for the first time this trip. We needed a celebratory cocktail or seven! Once we got all set up and Pat and the crew went off in search of their hotel room, I paused and thought...I cannot even believe I am here right now.
A long, long time ago in this very galaxy, Mike and Michelle decided to buy a boat. Yes folks, its been just over ten years since we threw rational thought to the wind and decided to embark upon a journey that has resulted in thrilling highs, torturous lows, a ridiculous amount of fossil fuel consumed, and a great number of invaluable friendships.
To those unfamiliar with our particular brand of aquatic enjoyment, we like to go fast. Our first boat had twin 454 cubic inch V8s and went about 70 mph, our second boat ended up with 540 cubic inch motors and topped out at about 84 mph. "Go-fast" boats, "Cigarette" boats, "Muscle" boats...obnoxious, loud, and really, really fun is our modus operandi.
The Dream
Way back when the whole thing started, I had a dream. My dream was to drive my boat through Government Cut in Miami, Florida, the birthplace of the offshore boat. Some of you might remember the scene in the opening credits of the greatest television show ever produced, Miami Vice, when a bunch of boats were racing around a turn towards a city....yeah...that was it. I thought...how AWESOME would it be if I was to buy a boat in Florida and step into Sonny Crockett's sockless loafers for one incredible moment. It was definitely a long shot, living around Chicago as I do, but, I kept that dream alive in the back of my mind for many a year.
This summer, I found the key to making that dream a reality. After 7 years in our beloved 35 Fountain, we decided we wanted to go bigger. Years of experience with successes and failures in our boating lives had created its own criteria as to what we wanted in our ideal craft and, in the end, only one boat really fit the bill...the Active Thunder 37 Excess. A spacious, well-appointed cabin coupled with an efficient hull and turn-key, fuel-injected Mercury Racing 525 horsepower motors had us heading down to the AT factory in Pompano Beach in July, and finalizing the purchase of the Sommer Thunder in September. That in itself was something of a dream-come-true....but we decided to push the envelop even further, rationalizing our impetus with the mantra "You will only have one shot at this, might as well do it!" We would shoot for the Florida Powerboat Club Key West Poker Run...the big daddy of all Poker Runs, coupled with the offshore racing World Championships. We had to make it happen.
Ignition
I would like the preface this tale of adventure by first thanking two persons instrumental in making it possible...my father, Don Sommer, and Pat Haughey, the owner of Active Thunder Powerboats. Without my dad, well, I'm not sure where I'd be in life, and without Pat, I know exactly where I would have been...stuck on a shoal somewhere between Miami and Key West! Now...on with the tale....
Michelle's job as an educator only provides for three vacation days per school year. She had already used one to attend a wedding in Florida in September, so our trip was going to be somewhat abbreviated. This was ok, according to our trip coordinator/advisor/navigator Pat...our livers most likely could not handle a longer trip. We flew down to Ft. Lauderdale after work on Thursday, and spent the night in a hotel on the south side of Pompano Beach. Pat's buddy Mike and his girlfriend Megan picked us up the next morning in what could only be described as the quintessential Florida vehicle...a diesel Ford F250 jacked to the sky with HUGE mudders on it. It took a step stool to get in...actually, a ladder would have been more helpful. We arrived at Active Thunder headquarters at around 8:30, and found our boat and the remainder of our crew, Pat and Jim ready to roll. Now, I am usually a complete freak about time...I am ALWAYS on time, and hate being late more than just about anything in the world. For some reason, the relaxed manner of our Florida compatriots must have shorted out that sector of my brain, and I felt only a mild discomfort when we encountered a blocked highway and subsequent detour through the surface streets of Miami. It might have just been masked by the relief I felt knowing that I wasn't the one pulling a 37 foot boat through a city! The Poker Run was scheduled to leave at 10 am...I was nervous about missing the driver's meeting, but my anxiety was pretty much laughed off by Pat...something that would occur quite a lot in the ensuing days. Pat had been there and done that too many times to remember, and as a personal friend of Stu Jones, President of the Florida Powerboat Club, he assured me there would be no repercussions. We launched the boat at Haulover Inlet in Miami, and went out onto the Atlantic with Pat behind the wheel, the idea being let the actual experienced guy (he has owned the company since 1994) handle what we had heard were "less than optimal" conditions. I had NO problem with this...once again, no anxiety for me! After banging through some 3-4 foot waves on the ocean, we came into Government Cut (and yes, I did find myself kind of tearing up), and met the other Poker Run boats as they headed out. The Key West Poker Run is a multi-day undertaking, with groups leaving each day from Tuesday through Friday...this year totalling some 140 boats. Most everyone had gone down earlier, so our group only consisted of 12 or so.
I slid behind the wheel as we idled out, and got comfortable in the driver's bolster. I had only driven the boat one time prior to this on the day I closed the deal, and then it was only for about 15 minutes. I scanned the boats around us, and immediately recognised an old friend from Chicago, Trent Hammerlinck, on board a 38 Donzi ZR. He was shooting pictures and video with his phone like crazy...I was trying to keep my heart from beating out of my chest...and finding it difficult to look cool and relaxed whilst engaged in this activity. I had known from the start that despite the fact that we now owned this big and beautiful boat capable of speeds in the mid 80s, that we would be one of the smallest and slowest boats on this run. That became immediately apparent, when I scanned the fleet and found a 50 foot NorTech Super V, a 36 NorTech catamaran, a 42 Fountain, 39 Cigarette Top Gun, 37 Hustler Talon, and a couple of 36 Deep Impact center consoles. We hit the gas out into Biscayne Bay, where the water was flat as a pancake, and were soon running in the low 70s, trying to keep up with a couple of boats throwing rooster tails indicative of big horsepower and surface-piercing drives. Pat let me keep that up for a couple minutes to humor me, then suggested I slow down to run with the group behind me at a more reasonable (and fuel-friendly!) 55-60 mph. The idea, he said, is to make it to Key West and back WITHOUT BREAKING. I thought...this is a great idea...and we had something like 320 miles to go to make that happen! I slowed down.
We stopped for lunch about an hour into the run at Gilbert's Resort in Key Largo. There we stretched our legs, had a couple of cocktails, and met some of our fellow Poker Runners. People were walking down the docks taking pictures of the machinery, and I was proud to see that they were actually checking out my new ride. I answered some questions about the run from an Australian couple that had never seen anything like it...they were pretty impressed and amazed at the display of color and horsepower on hand. I made no bones about the speed of my boat compared to the 43 Motion cat and the 43 NorTech cat that were on hand...I proudly pointed out that those boats would likely run TWICE the speed of mine. They just smiled and shook their heads. I have never taken for granted the speed and power and MONEY it takes to keep these things going, and that has fostered a great appreciation and fascination for these machines that is probably pretty apparent to anyone unfortunate enough to be around me when I start reeling off boat statistics.
We got running again, dodging crab traps and passing through mangroves whilst running from one navigational marker to the next...things we DEFINITELY don't have to deal with boating on Lake Michigan. The first 120 miles of the run were the "inside" or Gulf side of the Keys, but in order to make the navigating easier (inside, the water was only 6-7 feet deep in the channel...MUCH shallower elsewhere), we would be going out into the Atlantic for the remaining 40 miles from Marathon Key to Key West. The north wind had been kicking all day....blowing over 20 mph...so there was a lot of chop on the ocean. Pat got behind the wheel again, and we ran very conservatively at around 45 mph through 4 foot following seas. That 40 miles seemed to take forever, but, finally, Key West was in sight, and in no time, we were cruising past Mallory Square and into our home for the next couple days, Garrison Bight. I wasted no time doing what I do best on the boat...CLEAN...she was covered with salt spray, and I do not rest until my boat is shiny...especially considering the company we were now keeping....a 44 MTI as our neighbor, and a 46 Outerlimits next to him...both boats worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Oh...and the rum came out for the first time this trip. We needed a celebratory cocktail or seven! Once we got all set up and Pat and the crew went off in search of their hotel room, I paused and thought...I cannot even believe I am here right now.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
How to become a mountain biker.
In a sincere attempt to write things in this space that stay true to its intended message (I am a person who does stuff and then writes about it), I hereby present my personal insight into the world of the mountain biker.
HOW TO BECOME A MOUNTAIN BIKER.
The Decision.
Congratulations. You have made a decision that you feel will benefit your life as a whole, both physically, and mentally. You have decided that you want to be a mountain biker. The wind in your hair, the smile on your face, the bubbling laughter emanating from your epiglottis...ahh...those are the memories of your childhood on a bike. Why not bring those memories and associated wonderful feelings into your present day life? There is a forest preserve nearby with a lovely network of trails, and you still have that 1987 K-mart special "mountain bike" in the garage...and the shifters still work! Also...you have been riding the couch with an aplomb that Homer Simpson himself would find enviable, and mountain biking seems like a great way to get back in shape. Let's do this!
The First Ride
Arriving at the trailhead, you are immediately conscious of the glances the other bikers are firing off in your direction. You unload your trusty Roadmaster (we'll just say it's a Roadmaster for fun) with considerable effort...after all, it has to weigh 40 pounds...heavy gauge chromium molybdenum build strong to withstand all that offroad abuse. "Weight doesn't matter," you tell yourself. "That's why I have 18 gears." You have consulted a map and planned out a route for your initial excursion. 10 miles seems like a nice even number...how bad could that be? You swing a leg over your trusty steed, place your feet on the plastic pedals, and with a grunt, shove off into the wild. The bike comes alive under you as you leave the pavement...you tighten your grip on the bars as your front wheel dances a jig...bouncing off rocks and roots as you struggle to keep it pointed in the right direction. Your chain speaks to you loudly, saying in a high-pitched and constant chirp "You really should have oiled me, stupid!" Then, just as you are getting annoyed by the insolence of that chain....there is a hill in front of you. You take a deep breath, bear down, and mash the pedals. The hill is only 20 feet tall, but it is steep, and, apparently, you are in too high of a gear. You wrench the shifter, and the bike shifts...immediately. All of your weight is on one pedal...which suddenly has no resistance. Upon picking yourself and the bike up off the ground, so realize you have learned your first lesson on how to shift PRIOR to a hill. Excellent. You climb to the top of the hill and start down. WOW! This is GREAT! There's that feeling you had as a kid! BUT....now you are an adult...and there is a tree in front of you. Instinctively, you grab a handful of brake...your front brake. This time, as you are staring at the sky, you are thinking about how much more violent this fall was than the previous one. You gradually determine that all of your parts are still in working order, and, with slightly shaken resolve, you continue. Now...depending upon your strength as a person, either physically or mentally, you finish this ride. You come back to your car...legs shaking, arms aching, at least one article of clothing looks like it has gone through a cheese grater. You are covered with sweat and dirt...and, quite possibly blood. Your bike may or may not have survived. You are experiencing major discomfort in the crotchal region. In spite of all this, against all your better judgement, you find....you actually had FUN.
The Gateway
The above routine gets repeated two or three more times, when you realize that your bike just isn't going to cut it. You have oiled the offending chain in order to silence it. You have somewhat mastered the "art" of shifting, but the bike doesn't always shift when you want it to. Your brakes leave something to be desired as the pads are dry-rotted with age. You have an appointment in the near future with your dentist to replace the fillings that have been jarred loose from the abuse of the frame's stiffness. If you are going to do this, you are going to need a new ride. So, off to the local bike shop you go. Once again, you find yourself prostrate on the ground, this time staring at the ceiling of the bike shop, while your eyes and ears slowly come back into focus and pick up on the shop rat frantically attempting to decide whether or not he is getting paid enough to administer CPR to potential customers. Yes, a decent mountain bike is expensive. A good mountain bike, more so. And an excellent mountain bike easily eclipses the "I didn't pay that much for my first car" cliche. Plus, there are so many decisions to make. Shimano or SRAM? Front suspension or full suspension? 26 inch, 29 inch, or 650b wheel size? Your head spins, your wallet comes out...and the addiction BEGINS. At this point, you have spent, say $700 on a bike. You should chuckle softly to yourself, because, as the third person omniscient author, I KNOW that in the future, you will spend that kind of money on PARTS.
The Intro
You return to the trailhead with your new ride AND the helmet you wisely purchased, and emboldened by your new acquisition, you decide to actually speak to the other riders. This is where the whole mountain biking thing really separates itself from other disciplines of cycling...the other riders not only speak with you as an equal, but invite you to ride with them. Through this experience, you determine that you have a LOT to learn, but you find that imitating what the rider in front of you is doing seems to help in developing your own skills. Then comes the REAL bonus...at the end of the ride...they offer you a BEER. What started as a slippery slope has rapidly become a rollicking downhill into the morass of mountain bike addiction.
The Abyss
It will most likely happen gradually, and you might not even notice at first, but slowly, inevitably, your life is consumed by thoughts of....dirt. You schedule some rides with your new friends, and your ability improves greatly. Those hills that caused you more pain than you care to remember on the first few rides are now dispatched with ease. During work, you start planning routes that you will be riding in the afternoon. Your significant other starts to question their importance in your life. You start speaking the language of the offroad crowd. Words like derailleur, bottom bracket, crankset, cassette, stem, saddle, and shocks are now part of your lexicon. Your friends notice you are...different. You think...maybe...just maybe...I should try a race. Now THIS is where things get serious.
The Plunge
You toe the line at your first race and, for a fleeting second, wonder how in the hell you got there. Aside from the obvious car ride, of course. You flash back to that first ride, smile to yourself, and the gun goes off. An hour or so later, you are exhausted, battered...and ready to do it again soon. Getting that first race under your belt results in an entirely new set of problems...the UPGRADES. Surely, a better fork would have resulted in better speed through that rock garden. A lighter frame would definitely cut down on fatigue as would a lighter, faster wheelset. Clipless pedals, riser bars, hydraulic disk brakes, shifter upgrades...oh my! And then <gasp>...CARBON FIBER. Its called "The Plunge" for a reason. This part happens quickly. Before you know it, you are up to your bib shorts in a kind of dirt-infused miasma.
The Acceptance
You are now a regular at the trailhead. YOU bring the beer. YOU show the new guys around. You get involved with the local trail maintenance crew, and suddenly, you find yourself going to the trails for reasons OTHER than riding. Now your friends and significant other are CERTAIN you have lost it...who volunteers their time to go dig in the dirt...for fun? But you realize the greater good. You know that without the work, there is no place to play. Your journey is complete. You actually became a mountain biker the first time you rolled a tire into the dirt, but the rest of the trip was just a product of a great environment, a great sport, and a great group of like-minded people. Enjoy. Because that is what its about.
HOW TO BECOME A MOUNTAIN BIKER.
The Decision.
Congratulations. You have made a decision that you feel will benefit your life as a whole, both physically, and mentally. You have decided that you want to be a mountain biker. The wind in your hair, the smile on your face, the bubbling laughter emanating from your epiglottis...ahh...those are the memories of your childhood on a bike. Why not bring those memories and associated wonderful feelings into your present day life? There is a forest preserve nearby with a lovely network of trails, and you still have that 1987 K-mart special "mountain bike" in the garage...and the shifters still work! Also...you have been riding the couch with an aplomb that Homer Simpson himself would find enviable, and mountain biking seems like a great way to get back in shape. Let's do this!
The First Ride
Arriving at the trailhead, you are immediately conscious of the glances the other bikers are firing off in your direction. You unload your trusty Roadmaster (we'll just say it's a Roadmaster for fun) with considerable effort...after all, it has to weigh 40 pounds...heavy gauge chromium molybdenum build strong to withstand all that offroad abuse. "Weight doesn't matter," you tell yourself. "That's why I have 18 gears." You have consulted a map and planned out a route for your initial excursion. 10 miles seems like a nice even number...how bad could that be? You swing a leg over your trusty steed, place your feet on the plastic pedals, and with a grunt, shove off into the wild. The bike comes alive under you as you leave the pavement...you tighten your grip on the bars as your front wheel dances a jig...bouncing off rocks and roots as you struggle to keep it pointed in the right direction. Your chain speaks to you loudly, saying in a high-pitched and constant chirp "You really should have oiled me, stupid!" Then, just as you are getting annoyed by the insolence of that chain....there is a hill in front of you. You take a deep breath, bear down, and mash the pedals. The hill is only 20 feet tall, but it is steep, and, apparently, you are in too high of a gear. You wrench the shifter, and the bike shifts...immediately. All of your weight is on one pedal...which suddenly has no resistance. Upon picking yourself and the bike up off the ground, so realize you have learned your first lesson on how to shift PRIOR to a hill. Excellent. You climb to the top of the hill and start down. WOW! This is GREAT! There's that feeling you had as a kid! BUT....now you are an adult...and there is a tree in front of you. Instinctively, you grab a handful of brake...your front brake. This time, as you are staring at the sky, you are thinking about how much more violent this fall was than the previous one. You gradually determine that all of your parts are still in working order, and, with slightly shaken resolve, you continue. Now...depending upon your strength as a person, either physically or mentally, you finish this ride. You come back to your car...legs shaking, arms aching, at least one article of clothing looks like it has gone through a cheese grater. You are covered with sweat and dirt...and, quite possibly blood. Your bike may or may not have survived. You are experiencing major discomfort in the crotchal region. In spite of all this, against all your better judgement, you find....you actually had FUN.
The Gateway
The above routine gets repeated two or three more times, when you realize that your bike just isn't going to cut it. You have oiled the offending chain in order to silence it. You have somewhat mastered the "art" of shifting, but the bike doesn't always shift when you want it to. Your brakes leave something to be desired as the pads are dry-rotted with age. You have an appointment in the near future with your dentist to replace the fillings that have been jarred loose from the abuse of the frame's stiffness. If you are going to do this, you are going to need a new ride. So, off to the local bike shop you go. Once again, you find yourself prostrate on the ground, this time staring at the ceiling of the bike shop, while your eyes and ears slowly come back into focus and pick up on the shop rat frantically attempting to decide whether or not he is getting paid enough to administer CPR to potential customers. Yes, a decent mountain bike is expensive. A good mountain bike, more so. And an excellent mountain bike easily eclipses the "I didn't pay that much for my first car" cliche. Plus, there are so many decisions to make. Shimano or SRAM? Front suspension or full suspension? 26 inch, 29 inch, or 650b wheel size? Your head spins, your wallet comes out...and the addiction BEGINS. At this point, you have spent, say $700 on a bike. You should chuckle softly to yourself, because, as the third person omniscient author, I KNOW that in the future, you will spend that kind of money on PARTS.
The Intro
You return to the trailhead with your new ride AND the helmet you wisely purchased, and emboldened by your new acquisition, you decide to actually speak to the other riders. This is where the whole mountain biking thing really separates itself from other disciplines of cycling...the other riders not only speak with you as an equal, but invite you to ride with them. Through this experience, you determine that you have a LOT to learn, but you find that imitating what the rider in front of you is doing seems to help in developing your own skills. Then comes the REAL bonus...at the end of the ride...they offer you a BEER. What started as a slippery slope has rapidly become a rollicking downhill into the morass of mountain bike addiction.
The Abyss
It will most likely happen gradually, and you might not even notice at first, but slowly, inevitably, your life is consumed by thoughts of....dirt. You schedule some rides with your new friends, and your ability improves greatly. Those hills that caused you more pain than you care to remember on the first few rides are now dispatched with ease. During work, you start planning routes that you will be riding in the afternoon. Your significant other starts to question their importance in your life. You start speaking the language of the offroad crowd. Words like derailleur, bottom bracket, crankset, cassette, stem, saddle, and shocks are now part of your lexicon. Your friends notice you are...different. You think...maybe...just maybe...I should try a race. Now THIS is where things get serious.
The Plunge
You toe the line at your first race and, for a fleeting second, wonder how in the hell you got there. Aside from the obvious car ride, of course. You flash back to that first ride, smile to yourself, and the gun goes off. An hour or so later, you are exhausted, battered...and ready to do it again soon. Getting that first race under your belt results in an entirely new set of problems...the UPGRADES. Surely, a better fork would have resulted in better speed through that rock garden. A lighter frame would definitely cut down on fatigue as would a lighter, faster wheelset. Clipless pedals, riser bars, hydraulic disk brakes, shifter upgrades...oh my! And then <gasp>...CARBON FIBER. Its called "The Plunge" for a reason. This part happens quickly. Before you know it, you are up to your bib shorts in a kind of dirt-infused miasma.
The Acceptance
You are now a regular at the trailhead. YOU bring the beer. YOU show the new guys around. You get involved with the local trail maintenance crew, and suddenly, you find yourself going to the trails for reasons OTHER than riding. Now your friends and significant other are CERTAIN you have lost it...who volunteers their time to go dig in the dirt...for fun? But you realize the greater good. You know that without the work, there is no place to play. Your journey is complete. You actually became a mountain biker the first time you rolled a tire into the dirt, but the rest of the trip was just a product of a great environment, a great sport, and a great group of like-minded people. Enjoy. Because that is what its about.
Monday, October 22, 2012
What about....Lance? I don't know...what about him?
I am a cyclist. And I am damn proud to BE a cyclist. Riding a bicycle is almost as cathartic as running used to be for me...before the rush I got from rapidly placing one leg in front of the other was replaced by crippling pain and the hobbling accouterments which accompany a damaged lower back. Cycling was an escape from running, and, to a large degree, pain (unless under the duress of a race situation, when that pain seemed to rear its head and whisper gently in my ear "Hey man...I'm still here. Might you consider stopping, you jag?"). I have been riding mountain bikes for 24 years now...got my first Schwinn Impact in 1988...and I have been riding road bikes for about 12 years. I've covered thousands upon thousands of miles, raced all over the Midwest, ridden in many different states, and done the very best I can to ride at least three or four days per week, maybe more. So...what is the first question people ask me when they learn that I ride? "Do you think Lance doped?"
The Interwebz are chock full of opine on this very subject, and I have been a virtual witness to some serious warfare between The Believers and The Haters on the subject of Mr. Armstrong. Reading and listening to cyclists get all tuned up is rather humorous...the mental picture I always draw is of the typical road biker furiously banging away at the keyboard of a computer he most likely has a hard time lifting (road bikers have toothpicks for arms and pistons for legs)...yet the Internet muscles on some of these dudes are Schwartzeneggerian (yeah...I just made that word up, but you can use it if you want). Its just damn funny.
So what DO I think? Well, first of all, I must disqualify myself from even the slightest hint of actual qualification of knowledge on the subject of doping. I've never seen it happen, I don't personally know anybody that I've ridden with that has doped, or has even considered doping...at least not to best of my knowledge. HOWEVER....I'm a class three NOBODY in the sport of cycling...a used-to-be racer that never really was. I'm just a guy who rides a bike and loves it. That said, it is my not-so-professional opinion that....wait for it...Lance doped. Shocking, I know. Especially in light of the events of the past two weeks, which have seen Mr. Armstrong's public opinion polls dropping faster than Felix Baumgartner.
I've held that personal belief for a while now...again...not because I actually KNOW anything...but just as a conclusion I've drawn being a somewhat casual observer of professional cycling over the years. YES, I have every one of Lance's wins on DVD. YES, I have Floyd's win on DVD. YES, I was a huge fan of Tyler Hamilton. And YES, I did believe at one time that all of them were clean. In fact, I was really shocked about Floyd...I truly believed that someone with his background would not fall prey so easily to the culture of doping...but in retrospect, it probably made him even more susceptible. Having seen so many of Lance's competitors fall to the various scandals, it just became way too difficult to believe he could be clean and still just destroying guys on the needle. And not only that...but the guys who were his domistiques were also laying waste to the top men in the peloton. Unheard of. And...unbelievable.
HOWEVER. I still believe Lance Armstrong was one of the greatest cyclists ever. He beat the best in the world...and all signs point to the fact that the best in the world were juiced to the gills as well. You can't make a race horse out of a plow mule, as the saying goes. He was great...and he was merciless in his pursuit of greatness. It turned into a classic case of hubris...with the classic result. Its a damn shame, and I'd hate to be in his shoes right now...and for the rest of his life. The real problem as I see it...is that unlike me...he can't get on a bike and ride his problems away.
The Interwebz are chock full of opine on this very subject, and I have been a virtual witness to some serious warfare between The Believers and The Haters on the subject of Mr. Armstrong. Reading and listening to cyclists get all tuned up is rather humorous...the mental picture I always draw is of the typical road biker furiously banging away at the keyboard of a computer he most likely has a hard time lifting (road bikers have toothpicks for arms and pistons for legs)...yet the Internet muscles on some of these dudes are Schwartzeneggerian (yeah...I just made that word up, but you can use it if you want). Its just damn funny.
So what DO I think? Well, first of all, I must disqualify myself from even the slightest hint of actual qualification of knowledge on the subject of doping. I've never seen it happen, I don't personally know anybody that I've ridden with that has doped, or has even considered doping...at least not to best of my knowledge. HOWEVER....I'm a class three NOBODY in the sport of cycling...a used-to-be racer that never really was. I'm just a guy who rides a bike and loves it. That said, it is my not-so-professional opinion that....wait for it...Lance doped. Shocking, I know. Especially in light of the events of the past two weeks, which have seen Mr. Armstrong's public opinion polls dropping faster than Felix Baumgartner.
I've held that personal belief for a while now...again...not because I actually KNOW anything...but just as a conclusion I've drawn being a somewhat casual observer of professional cycling over the years. YES, I have every one of Lance's wins on DVD. YES, I have Floyd's win on DVD. YES, I was a huge fan of Tyler Hamilton. And YES, I did believe at one time that all of them were clean. In fact, I was really shocked about Floyd...I truly believed that someone with his background would not fall prey so easily to the culture of doping...but in retrospect, it probably made him even more susceptible. Having seen so many of Lance's competitors fall to the various scandals, it just became way too difficult to believe he could be clean and still just destroying guys on the needle. And not only that...but the guys who were his domistiques were also laying waste to the top men in the peloton. Unheard of. And...unbelievable.
HOWEVER. I still believe Lance Armstrong was one of the greatest cyclists ever. He beat the best in the world...and all signs point to the fact that the best in the world were juiced to the gills as well. You can't make a race horse out of a plow mule, as the saying goes. He was great...and he was merciless in his pursuit of greatness. It turned into a classic case of hubris...with the classic result. Its a damn shame, and I'd hate to be in his shoes right now...and for the rest of his life. The real problem as I see it...is that unlike me...he can't get on a bike and ride his problems away.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Something I never wanted to write....My Eulogy to Brian...
To my friend, my brother...I miss you every day. We will be opening up the throttles for you today, dude.
The task of describing Brian Miller is not a difficult
one. Especially not with an audience
like this one made of people who knew him.
Even if you met him just once, you knew him. There was no “fake” Brian, what you saw and
heard was who he was…no b.s., occasionally obscene, more than sparingly
irreverent, and damn proud of himself.
To say that he was larger than life sounds so clichéd, but it just so
happens in his case to be very true. He
was, both literally and figuratively…naked to the world.
In this room, there are hundreds of stories about
Brian. Stories about crazy things he
did, stories about his dreams, stories that paint a picture…a legacy…of just
who this man was that we all loved. Many
of these tales seem to include the following line: “He was a guy who would help out
ANYONE.” There probably aren’t many
people here that can say Brian didn’t help them out at some point in some
way…he was simply one of the most giving people any of us will ever meet. Brian’s life seemed to be scheduled upon the
needs of others…often, he just left out the little niceties of life like food
and sleep because somebody he knew needed something. In today’s world, a person like that is a
rare find indeed, and a treasure that we must keep alive not only in our hearts,
but in our actions.
Brian’s untimely departure leaves a huge gap in many of our
lives. An enormous persona like his will
not be easily replaced or glossed over, nor should it. Reflecting on Brian will of course bring much
sadness. He was so full of life as to be
bursting, rarely was he without a smile and a boisterous laugh. He was a great friend. His journey was way too short. And we are all worse off without him. And it leaves us all with a great feeling of
emptiness.
But its not all bad.
Now is the time for us all to reflect on how Brian touched
our lives. In no time, those tears will
turn to smiles. We have lost a great
friend, son, and brother. But how lucky
were we to have known him. How fortunate
to have this person in our lives and now forever in our memories? Brian’s legacy will always live, so long as
we keep him in our hearts and in our minds.
Most importantly, Brian can live on in our actions. The next time we lend someone a helping hand,
and it does not matter WHO, be they friend or complete stranger, we can all
think of Brian, because that is just what he would have done. Live your lives like this, and Brian will
always be with you in spirit.
Now Brian is ahead of us all in that great race to the
horizon. You may picture him as you knew
him best, with monster horsepower in hand, under foot, or between his
legs. He is racing. And he is at peace.
Friday, October 19, 2012
Mohican 100 Race Report
For those members of CAMBR (Chicago Area Mountain Bikers), the following will be redundant, as I've already posted it on the message forum. For the remainder of the audience...this is a report I composed detailing my adventures with the Mohican 100 mile mountain bike race that I did in early June of this year. I hope you enjoy it...its a bit long...but so is a 100 mile mountain bike race...
So I've got this problem, see? I like to come up with difficult and painful ways to challenge myself athletically every year or so. Ultramarathons, triathlons, Xterras, 12 hour solo mtb races, 24 hour mtb races, multi-day road bike tours, etc...they've all come and gone and been placed on the "Been there, done that" list. As a general rule, when I set my mind to doing something stupid like this, I usually succeed. However, a couple years ago...I tried and failed, and was unable to add to my list. My failure was in a 100 mile mountain bike race, in that case, the Levis-Trow 100, and it bothered me this whole time. Sometime last fall, some ramdom symantic firing popped the words "Mohican 100" into my brain...and the subconcious part of my brain that always comes up with the difficult and painful things said "That sounds like a GREAT idea!" Now, it took the better part of the winter for the crazy brain-part to convince the rational brain-part that this was, in fact, a desireable course of action. So, at the end of January, I signed up.
Training would be time consuming....I knew this, largely due to the lack of time I had spent training forLevis
Training would be time consuming....I knew this, largely due to the lack of time I had spent training for
What did I do to train, you ask? Well...I read the race description over and over again, and when I was sufficiently frightened, I got out and RODE. "HILLY," the description said. "VERY VERY HILLY." Like SUPER hilly. Totaling approximately 11,000 feet of climbing. Yowza. This is OHIO Ohio
I rode all winter. I rode all spring. I rode my road bike, a cross bike, my singlespeed, my fatbike and my Voodoo 29er, which would be the weapon of choice on race day. I rode gravel roads, dirt roads, paved roads, gravel trails, dirt trails, and, thanks to an unusually dry spring, LOTS of Palos singletrack. I planned routes from my house and from my shop, linked multitrack with singletrack in creative manners, and basically set aside my after-work hours on Friday to extended fatbike tours, some lasting in the 5-6 hour range by mid-spring. I figured that if I could pedal that beast around, the Voodoo would be like riding on air. Finally, a little over a month before the race, I knocked out a 102 mile day at Palos with local hero Bionic Bob Anderson...that gave me some confidence. The only thing I couldn't do...was train for those hills. That took away a bit of my confidence, but I'm stupid and I LOVE to climb...so I maintained a positive mental attitude. I was as ready as I was ever gonna be.
I rode all winter. I rode all spring. I rode my road bike, a cross bike, my singlespeed, my fatbike and my Voodoo 29er, which would be the weapon of choice on race day. I rode gravel roads, dirt roads, paved roads, gravel trails, dirt trails, and, thanks to an unusually dry spring, LOTS of Palos singletrack. I planned routes from my house and from my shop, linked multitrack with singletrack in creative manners, and basically set aside my after-work hours on Friday to extended fatbike tours, some lasting in the 5-6 hour range by mid-spring. I figured that if I could pedal that beast around, the Voodoo would be like riding on air. Finally, a little over a month before the race, I knocked out a 102 mile day at Palos with local hero Bionic Bob Anderson...that gave me some confidence. The only thing I couldn't do...was train for those hills. That took away a bit of my confidence, but I'm stupid and I LOVE to climb...so I maintained a positive mental attitude. I was as ready as I was ever gonna be.
The week before the race, I learned that erstwhile speed merchant Mitch Moen would be joining me on my travels and throwing his crazy ass into the mix. Additionaly, I guess some random rambling about the race in the staging area after a winter ride was all it took to convince frequent Palos riders Mike Sealey and Felbert Edrada that the Mohican would be a good idea...so there would be four of us local boys down for the big ride.
After a warm, dry spring, Mother Nature HAD to throw the nasty card at us, and as we drove east, it was in a cold rain...the temp was 47 degrees. Not good. However, the forecast for race day seemed to get better with every hour, and thankfully, there would be no rain and temps in the upper 60s, with only a 15-20 mph wind to contend with. Just about perfect.
Loudonville , Ohio NEBRASKA
After a warm, dry spring, Mother Nature HAD to throw the nasty card at us, and as we drove east, it was in a cold rain...the temp was 47 degrees. Not good. However, the forecast for race day seemed to get better with every hour, and thankfully, there would be no rain and temps in the upper 60s, with only a 15-20 mph wind to contend with. Just about perfect.
We checked in at the Mohican Adventures campground and got our numbers and three 1-gallon Ziplock bags that we could put supplies in and have dropped at our choice of aid stations during the race. I had been planning on meeting a couple people from my favorite biking blog, Drunkcyclist.com, and lo and behold...they were the very first people we met. Judi, one of the contributors to the blog, would be doing the 100k, and was looking for some redeption in the same manner as me, as she had tried and failed at the Mohican last year. It was cool to put some faces with names, and share the goodtime mountain bike vibe that is pervasive at every offroad event.
We then made our way to our hotel, about 20 minutes out of town. How we made it, I'm not quite sure, as theMohican National Forest
Six months of training...all on the line in the morning. Yeah, I was a little nervous.
We then made our way to our hotel, about 20 minutes out of town. How we made it, I'm not quite sure, as the
Six months of training...all on the line in the morning. Yeah, I was a little nervous.
It was 49 degrees in the morning when we rolled up to the start, but it became immediately obvious that we'd be warming up REAL fast. The start went through downtown Loudonville, then STRAIGHT UP for about 1/2 mile. Yikes. Nothing like hitting the redline early on a 100 mile quest! I rolled out easy, spun up the hill, then had to wait in a conga line for 2 or 3 minutes while people funneled into the singletrack, which was pretty slick from the rain the previous day. The 100 mile and 100 k participants all started at the same time, so it was something of a cluster...but I wasn't exactly in a hurry, so I just pedaled along in line, and if the person in front of me was picking bad lines, I passed them. The singletrack was pretty technical...lots of roots and rocks, off camber turns, sharp climbs, switchbacks...the whole gamut of midwest mtb fun...and the climbs were frequent and quite steep. I wound up behind a guy from New Jersey
Even taking it easy, I was working hard. It was either that or fall over backwards and go sliding downhill. The first aid station was at mile 20, and by the time I reached it, I was thinking "My god, I hope the rest of the race isn't like this...I'll never make it." Great. I grabbed a Clif Bar and 1/2 of a banana, shoved them in my mouth, and took off with the reassurance that at least the next aid station was only 14 miles away.
Even taking it easy, I was working hard. It was either that or fall over backwards and go sliding downhill. The first aid station was at mile 20, and by the time I reached it, I was thinking "My god, I hope the rest of the race isn't like this...I'll never make it." Great. I grabbed a Clif Bar and 1/2 of a banana, shoved them in my mouth, and took off with the reassurance that at least the next aid station was only 14 miles away.
Wait...did I just say ONLY 14 miles? Because after about the first 8, which were absolutely beautiful winding singletrack through a dark pine forest, things got WAY difficult. I was having a good time, and it wasn't just because there were two fast women directly in front of me for this portion, when suddenly, I was on the brakes and going down a steep downhill, and I could see people dismounting before the uphill. Why are they stopping? Why aren't they even trying to ride? Then I got there. And one look told me that NOBODY was riding this one. We are talking straight-up pushing the bike up a steep grade for 3-4 solid minutes. It was ridiculous. I attempted levity by mentioning to the gentleman behind me that there had better be a couch and some beer at the top of this to make it worthwhile. There wasn't. Instead, there was a 4 mile or so section of horse trails, complete with two more devastating climbs and one wicked descent featuring wood water bars that were so eroded that the were sticking a foot out of the ground all the way across the tread. After getting off my bike and stepping over the first couple, I decided I could actually make a run at the rest, and bunnyhopped my way downslope and out of the equestrian section. Oh...I forgot to mention...that section was nasty muddy as well, with some 4 inch deep peanut butter sucking precious energy with every pedal stroke. Aid station 2 did not come soon enough.
I had a drop bag waiting at aid 2. It was pretty cool how they worked it...as you rolled up, a person about 200 yards away with a walkie talkie would tell the aid station your number, and a volunteer would have your bag waiting for you as you arrived. I ate my Hostess apple pie and another 1/2 banana, finished off the Gatorade in my bottle, and topped off my Camelback. Shortly before aid 2, the singletrack FINALLY relented, giving way to some rolling gravel roads. I say "rolling," but most of the rolling came on the downhills...the uphills were more along the lines of CRAWLING. I stayed conservative with my gearing once again, and actually did some passing despite not pushing very hard. It would seem the race was starting to claim its victims.
A few miles before aid 3, I had a navigational error. I turned right on a road called (I am not making this up)Big Hill Road
A few miles before aid 3, I had a navigational error. I turned right on a road called (I am not making this up)
Or would I? I flagged the next rider coming through, and asked him how much trail I'd just cut off. He was a local, familiar with the course, and he said about 1/2 mile. So, I chose to continue along to the next aid station, whereupon I would impose a penalty upon myself and wait for the guys I know were in front of me to pass before continuing. On the way, I came upon a rider and bike that were clearly in a bad way. There was a tough double root-drop, and this guy apparently had gone over the bars. Before I knew it, I was dropping the same roots...my butt was practically behind the back tire and I was jamming on the rear brake, hoping not only to not end up like the other guy, but also not to hit him! I succeeded on both counts, then put my bike into the woods and went back to the guy to help him out. He definately had broken his arm, and was in shock. I pulled his bike off the trail got him sat down, collected his water bottles, and then said I would go to the aid station and get help. I did exactly that, then sat for 3 minutes or so until a guy on a Milwaukee Bicycle Co. 29er that had been immediately in front of me passed by..then I started racing again. In my concern for the other dude and my self-imposed penalty...I pretty much forgot to take any food or drink. Slight mistake.
The course went back to alternating between tough singletrack and tough gravel roads...the hills were just nonstop...there was almost NO flat ground...and I just kept on pedaling.
The course went back to alternating between tough singletrack and tough gravel roads...the hills were just nonstop...there was almost NO flat ground...and I just kept on pedaling.
I had heard rumors of a rail-grade in the course, and was just wondering when that might come into play...when it did. I caught a gentleman named Rodney from Columbus Ohio
Aid Station 4 was at 72 miles, and I inhaled my Donut Stiks and some more Gatorade, along with a Gu, and sat with my shoes off for a couple minutes. I didn't even want to know what time it was, for fear that reality might come knocking at my door with an unhealthy dose. I started off on my own, and literally didn't see another racer for about the next 40 minutes, which was kinda cool.
There were some more KILLER hills (I hope I don't sound redundant...I'm being TRUTHFUL!) Over the course of the race, I probably had to walk 5 or 6 times because I ran out of gears on the 2 X 10...something I'm not very used to!
Aid Station 4 was at 72 miles, and I inhaled my Donut Stiks and some more Gatorade, along with a Gu, and sat with my shoes off for a couple minutes. I didn't even want to know what time it was, for fear that reality might come knocking at my door with an unhealthy dose. I started off on my own, and literally didn't see another racer for about the next 40 minutes, which was kinda cool.
There were some more KILLER hills (I hope I don't sound redundant...I'm being TRUTHFUL!) Over the course of the race, I probably had to walk 5 or 6 times because I ran out of gears on the 2 X 10...something I'm not very used to!
At about mile 78, there was a cool suspension bridge crossing, and on the other side there was a makeshift aid station manned by two dudes from a local bike shop. I was riding with a guy on a singlespeed (!!!!!) at this time, and we both stopped. I went to grab a peanut butter and jelly sammy, and when I swung my leg over the bike, my hamstring LOCKED. I screamed like a little girl...I'm sure it scared the bike shop dudes cuz they started running around saying "What can we get you? What do you need?" I scored some Ibuprofin and a glass of water, straightened my leg with considerable effort, and tried to stretch it out without pulling the muscle. The singlespeed dude asked the bike shop guys if they had a beer. They did. He chugged it. Harder man than I. Lol.
Mile 80...and I kept thinking back to theNew Jersey
By this time, I was under 20 miles, so I knew that barring catastrophy, I was going to finish. Then I ran out of water. Oops...forgot to fill the Camelback at Aid 4! I rode 4 or 5 miles on empty before hitting Aid 5, and even though there was only 5 miles of singletrack to the finish, I filled my bottle and my Camelback with the intention of getting some good hydration before all the beer I was going to drink!
Mile 80...and I kept thinking back to the
By this time, I was under 20 miles, so I knew that barring catastrophy, I was going to finish. Then I ran out of water. Oops...forgot to fill the Camelback at Aid 4! I rode 4 or 5 miles on empty before hitting Aid 5, and even though there was only 5 miles of singletrack to the finish, I filled my bottle and my Camelback with the intention of getting some good hydration before all the beer I was going to drink!
I flew through the last 5 miles...I was REALLY having fun at this point and I had done what I'd come to do. My legs still felt good, despite slight cramping, I had a lot left in the tank, which was OK, since my goal had merely been finishing, and considering the course, you just never knew when you might need those reserves. Upon crossing the finish line, I was given a huge beer jug courtesy of race sponsor Great Lakes Brewing, and told to drink all the beer I wanted. Awesome. I cleaned up first, and grabbed one of my personal beers, a New Glarus Honey Bock, to celebrate. Then I celebrated some more with Great Lake Holy Moses and Dortmonger and the Drunkcyclist crew.
Mitch ended up blazing the course in 8 hours 17 minutes...good enough for 32nd place. I was 72nd, at just under 10 hours. Mike and Felbert rode together and finished in just over 12 hours, so we were 100% on the finishes...not bad considering we are all flatlanders.
So...was it to be the last of my Mohicans? As of now, 4 days hence, I'm still thinking yes. There are new challenges and tons more stupid things for me to do in this world, but I can honestly say this was a terrific experience. I would highly recommend giving it a try.
Mitch ended up blazing the course in 8 hours 17 minutes...good enough for 32nd place. I was 72nd, at just under 10 hours. Mike and Felbert rode together and finished in just over 12 hours, so we were 100% on the finishes...not bad considering we are all flatlanders.
So...was it to be the last of my Mohicans? As of now, 4 days hence, I'm still thinking yes. There are new challenges and tons more stupid things for me to do in this world, but I can honestly say this was a terrific experience. I would highly recommend giving it a try.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
It begins.
I've thought about doing this for a long time now, but my fear of narcissism has generally eclipsed my desire to write. I am doing it now mostly because of the encouragement of others, who seem to find that my talents in the realm of the written word are slightly better than average. I don't want to write a diary...who the heck keeps a diary anymore?...but I do want to use this forum to describe my own life, with a distinct focus on the levity with which I tend to view my own muddlings through the mortal coil. Oh, and the title of the blog, though it may change in the future, is a reference to my mother's CONSTANT insistance that I write for the newspaper in high school and college. So...here it is, Mom...I'm a writer.
So, since this is my opportunity to "publish" whatever I want, I'll start off with a couple things I wrote last year, and just hope somebody out there derives some sort of entertainment from them...
I wrote this and submitted it to Dirt Rag Magazine, but they didn't like it. Its about what goes through my head on a typical workday followed by a nice bike ride in the woods...
So, since this is my opportunity to "publish" whatever I want, I'll start off with a couple things I wrote last year, and just hope somebody out there derives some sort of entertainment from them...
I wrote this and submitted it to Dirt Rag Magazine, but they didn't like it. Its about what goes through my head on a typical workday followed by a nice bike ride in the woods...
Somewhat cognitive streaming. Like telling the tale of a day when you ripped out of bed by the inside of your eyeballs when the clock radio goes off tuned in hard to Jimi...who plays that stuff at a quarter to five? Heartbeat city. The rate is jacked before the feet even hit the floor…and they hit the floor running. Time. Everything is about time. What do you have time for…after making the time to do the necessary things like punching the clock? Minutes to eat, minutes to dress, minutes to drive…how do those minutes turn to hours once the grind is at hand? Thinking freedom all day long, a mind like a rat in a trap. Consuming. Eating minutes, feasting upon hours, waiting for the body to follow suit. The endless cycle. Work-hard-to-play-hard. Nose to the stone, eyes on the prize, always dedicate a portion of the brain to the AFTER. Freeflowing mindscape that channels those deep feelings…the ones that cause your chest to burn from WANT. I will go there. I will do that. The bastards always trying to tie me down, but I choose not to be tied. Do not run out of gas. Feed the machine, the hours are on a downhill slide. The sky is bright on the outside. The madness continues, a clutching tangle of thorns ripping away at the raw skin that is DESIRE. The holy moment will come, the grail…the end. I’m down with it. So I switch into my chameleon colors, and roar for the horizon. The hours become minutes again…fleeting. Racing the golden orb as it follows its daily crescent. Dancing along the shafts of light as they play through the scene, I fill those minutes with my soul. Those moments create and resonate the very structure of being. It’s about speed. It’s about flow. It’s about a ribbon of life through the chaos of the world. Slam it back into gear, and run hard away from the reality of the darkness. It will come, but I will fight it, and I will win by embracing it. Take the trip back home to feel the hearthstone…warm and welcoming. The lingering vacuum where once there was power announces itself with every step, but it’s the best kind of pain. Burned out and ready to dream of the minutes I have lived, rather than those in which I have merely been alive.
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