The winds of October are tinged with the subtle essence of impending mortality. Leaves lose their green, shortly followed by a wafting fade into lifelessness and a return home to the cooling ground. The birds have long lost their song, and nature begins its descent into the quiet solemnity that is winter. The world is still alive, and waning days of sunshine reflect a brilliant myriad of colors that other months cannot possibly duplicate. A last desperate throw of color in a world soon fading to grey.
It was on this day, October 15, some 17 years ago, that one of the brightest leaves in my life fell into darkness. Seventeen years is a long time, but the impression this man made in my life is fossilized in my memory. He was the source of endless childhood fascination. He was the one who awakened my curiosity about the world. He was the man who taught me how to fish. He was truly the lynchpin of my family, and to this day, his memory is celebrated every time that family gathers. To others that surrounded, he was known simply as Whitey, or Uncle Whitey (due to his shock of white hair). To me...he was grandpa.
Lawrence Raymond Graf, Sr. is probably at the very top of my list of people I'd love to sit around and have a drink with. When I was a kid, he told us that he rode the Oregon Trail as a cowboy. Who was I to doubt that? It was my GRANDPA. I lived to wake up and go fishing with him at our cottage in Iola, WI. The fact that he usually overslept somehow didn't matter. Time in the boat with him was damn special...and he used to let me drive, so long as I could pull start the motor.
As I got older, junior high and high school, annual trips downtown to Grandpa's with my two older cousins Tony and Phil were my initial forays into becoming the person I wished to be...outside the boundary of my immediate family...I was amongst peers. When my oldest cousin Tony went off to college, Grandpa took Phil and I to visit. Mission Missouri was the first time I drove on the highway, and the first time I attended an off-campus party, come to think of it. My cousins and I were young dreamers, and our Grandpa encouraged those dreams. Its so strange now to look back and put a finger on the exact time when I first felt like something other than a kid...because I was treated like an adult.
My Grandpa followed his own dreams as well. He travelled the world in his later years, going behind the Iron Curtain more than once, even going so far as to smuggle Levi's into the U.S.S.R. at one point. He had friends EVERYWHERE, but it was always family that was the most important thing to him. That was his legacy, and that lives on in his descendants to this day.
That October day may have been bright with sunshine, and brilliant in color, but I felt nothing but the cold wind of sorrow...and loss. The man who gave me so much to dream about, who I was so proud to tell of my accomplishments in school or sport, the man who's gregarious nature used to embarrass me in a restaurant when he'd invariably flirt with the waitress...was gone. It hurt my heart, and still does to this day.
Likening his death to a day in October is one thing, but, there is no stopping the march of time. The period of mourning, the long, monotonous grey, had to be endured in order to appreciate what had been given to me. The rest of my life lay before me...like The Oregon Trail.
To my Grandpa...Cent'Anni.
The Miker
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
Boating FUN (?)
Almost 100% of the pictures of people on boats contain smiles. There is generally sunshine, blue waters, beaches, refreshing drinks, lovely tanned skin...and smiles on everyone's face. This would lead the moderately intelligent person to easily conclude that boating is FUN, and might even persuade the weaker-willed persona to think "Hmmm...maybe I should get a boat." Well dear reader, you might take a few moments to peruse the following recollections from the past 11 years of my boating career, and see if you might establish a new perspective. Nonboaters will likely consider this a warning...boaters will likely just nod and smile knowingly.
Our first boat treated us pretty well, and most of the paranoia and problems associated with it were created in my own fertile mind. I am always considering the "worst case scenario," but, fortunately, never really had to deal with it...until we bought our Fountain. Michelle dubbed the "The Big Red Meanie" on the first weekend we owned it, and it lived up to its moniker over and over again, leaving me scarred physically and mentally...but also as a FAR more capable boater. After picking her up from Raymond's Fountain at Lake of the Ozarks, we immediately had what we now consider to be...an ADVENTURE. In Mike and Michelle parlance, ADVENTURE is usually used with the slightest of negative connotation...for good reason. Here's
STORY #1:
Well...I towed the Fountain away from Raymonds, whilst trying to ignore the tears in my wife's eyes from the "loss" of her beloved Powerquest, and headed for the boat launch on the west side of the lake that was right next to the resort we were staying. On the way, we stopped for lunch...and the sky opened up in a manner that I have seldom seen outside of the Ozark region. It freakin' POURED. But, by the time we finished eating, the sun was shining again. However, the road was now wet, I was towing a larger boat AND it turned out that the brakes on the trailer did not work. Oh...and then there was the road. I mentioned the wetness...but the hilliness and curviness were such that Michelle actually laughed out loud at how absurd this particular segment of pavement was. By the time I hit the Shawnee Bend launch ramp, there were impressions from my fingers in the metal of the steering wheel.
After a 5 minute timeout to lower my heartrate, it was time to launch. No problem. Michelle backed the truck and trailer up and dropped me in, then parked the rig and I did a touch-and-go to pick her up...as there are no piers at this ramp. We idled out of the small bay onto the main channel and got on plane...by this time, even Michelle was smiling. Suddenly, the sky turned...ugly. It was the Black Wall of Death...and it was on us NOW. The deluge was instant...we were completely soaked and desparately scanning the shoreline for our resort. We slowed to an idle, and finally caught sight of the resort and...COVERED BOAT SLIPS! I pulled into the nearest slip as far as I could and we tied off...the rain was thundering off the aluminum roof so hard we could barely talk to eachother. Looking to the stern of the boat, I saw the bilge pumps working furiously...which was cause for instant concern. What if a hose came off? What if the plug fell out? OH MY GOD THE BOAT IS GONNA SINK. Also, we had pulled into a 30-foot slip with a 35 foot boat...so not only was it still raining on our split engine hatches, but all the water that was hitting the roof and running down was pouring onto that same area. CRAP. I fired it up and executed my very first back-in dock....and the bilges kept on pumping...there was a TON of water in the engine compartment...I made the decision that we needed to get back on the trailer....NOW. Panic was setting in....even my normally composed wife was freaking out. We grabbed the lines, jumped in the boat, and went back out into the deluge. On the way to the ramp, I tried to get up on plane, and the boat seemed so full of water it would not come over. I was blinded by the rain and could BARELY see the bow of the boat...I'm sure the guy driving the pontoon boat that I missed by 20 feet was NOT happy, but I didn't care. We got back to the cove, I gave Michelle the keys to the truck, dropped her off, and she flawlessly backed the trailer down. I put the bow up, tied it off, and collapsed to the ground...just as the rain quit. The bilge pumps ran for 20 minutes as the boat sat on the trailer.
Fun, right? We had owned the boat for about 2 hours, and, while hindsight would reveal that we probably would have been just fine...we were still pretty certain that we were going to sink! The next day, our first full one as owners of the red hot sommer, we entered a poker run, and were having a GREAT time...until this happened:
STORY #2
We went to Big Dick's. Ate lunch. Did the requisite Minnow Shot. And started back up lake. We were 11 miles from our condo...and I lost the starboard motor. Just quit. At 50 mph or so. I came to a stop and tried to restart it. With futility. As we idled the 11 miles back, I called Raymonds and told them the problem and fumed to the point where Michelle wanted to jump out and just swim back rather than be near me. There are no pictures of this time.
We got back, put the boat back on the trailer Saturday night, and took it to Raymonds, clinging to the promise that the mechanics would look at it as soon as they got in on Sunday (which meant...after church).
For the record, being boatless at LOTO SUCKS A$$. Don't do it. We killed the day by going over to Ha Ha Tonka, the burned out mansion on the lake, and then, while we were eating lunch at Shooters, we got the call that the boat was done. An ignition module had burned out. Come and get it.
We picked up our baby and took it over to Shady Gators for a cocktail or seven, then, as the sun was starting to set, I dropped Michelle back at Raymond's to drive the truck and trailer back to the condo while I took the boat. It was a PERFECT evening, and I was in my own private heaven as I was driving back. I had purchased a map of the Lake, and because everything looks the same down there, I had it out on the dash for consulting purposes. A blast up to 70mph blew the map to the floor, I slowed up, and bent down to get it...just as the boat hit a wave. The throttles hit me right in the eye. I had been punched in the face by my boat. When I returned to the dock, Michelle was waiting for me and I had to explain why my eye was swollen.
And that's how it got the name BIG RED MEANIE. Natch.
Oh...and we are just getting started...some more fun on the water...
STORY #3
I was SO proud to bring the red boat home, and after an extremely thorough cleaning, she was looking GOOD, and we took her out to her berth in Hammond Marina. The T-dock crew quickly took notice of our new toy, and everybody dug it...I was a proud man. The project for the day, however, was to set up the Hydrohoist to accomodate the new and bigger hull. This meant adjusting the bunks to the ascribed places, not dropping the hardware OR the tools in the lake, and even moving the hoist back with regard to its position on the dock to keep the beak from sticking out over the main walkway...it was a 35 foot slip and a 35 foot boat, so I had to be right on.
A couple of hours in the hot sun, and the hoist was positioned correctly, the bunks aligned, and we were ready to test it. I pulled the boat around the dock and into my slip, and raised it out of the water. SUCCESS! I congratulated myself on a job well done, for everything looked great...with the exception of the fact that the bow was still pointed at the sky a bit, something that would be rectified by moving the boat forward and balancing out the weight on the pontoons. At that moment, my mother-in-law showed up and asked if we'd like to come by their boat for some lunch, so we dropped our tools and went a couple docks over to their Sea Ray.
About an hour later, my phone rings, and its the Candyman...Dan Vasta...saying "Hey...that thing looks great...let's take it for a ride!" So, we roll back over to our dock, I drop the boat back down in the water, and raise the hatches to give it the pre-run check. What do I see, but a bunch of water in the bilge. Crap. Granted...it's not a TON of water, but there's definately water in there that wasn't there before. So, I climb in the bilge to see if I've got a split hose or something. I then notice the water has a rainbow sheen to it...dip my finger in...and give it a sniff....
Well...what I thought was water was much, much worse. It was gas. Fresh gas. Probably 5 gallons worth. Yikes. I shut the batteries off and started throwing buckets of water in the bilge to dilute it...and this is where my story has a lucky moment...the automatic bilge pumps kicked on and I did not blow up. Whew. I called Dan and told him I had a HUGE problem, and after I explained, he rallied the troops from T-dock and they came to the rescue. We towed the boat with a dinghy over to the launch ramp (a tail-between-the-legs moment if I've ever had one!), and I ran to get my truck and trailer. In order to keep the bow high and prevent the gas from moving forward, I inverted the 6-inch drop on my trailer hitch, GENTLY put the boat on the trailer, and pulled it out...all the way to the back of the huge parking lot in Hammond. At this point, the hero of the day stepped in. Mike Lucina took charge and almost instantly found the problem...someone had removed/replaced the sending units on top of the gas tanks and stripped out one of the threaded holes on top of the port tank...replacing the machine screw with a tin screw, which didn't provide enough torque to seal the gasket on top of the tank. Add to that the fact that I had just filled the boat to the brim before putting it in the water AND the fact that it had just spent an hour sitting at a protracted angle to the stern...it was puking gas all over. We "discreetly" pulled the drain plug and let the gas pour into the lot...SHHHHHH!!!!....then Mike rigged up a new setup involving an inverted screw and washer...and it was done. I left the boat on the trailer that night with the hatches up and cleaned the HELL out of it the next day to get rid of any gas smell.
I had owned the boat for two weeks and had almost sunk it and almost blown it up. Awesome.
That's it for the time being...but there's MUCH more fun to tell...trust me!
Our first boat treated us pretty well, and most of the paranoia and problems associated with it were created in my own fertile mind. I am always considering the "worst case scenario," but, fortunately, never really had to deal with it...until we bought our Fountain. Michelle dubbed the "The Big Red Meanie" on the first weekend we owned it, and it lived up to its moniker over and over again, leaving me scarred physically and mentally...but also as a FAR more capable boater. After picking her up from Raymond's Fountain at Lake of the Ozarks, we immediately had what we now consider to be...an ADVENTURE. In Mike and Michelle parlance, ADVENTURE is usually used with the slightest of negative connotation...for good reason. Here's
STORY #1:
Well...I towed the Fountain away from Raymonds, whilst trying to ignore the tears in my wife's eyes from the "loss" of her beloved Powerquest, and headed for the boat launch on the west side of the lake that was right next to the resort we were staying. On the way, we stopped for lunch...and the sky opened up in a manner that I have seldom seen outside of the Ozark region. It freakin' POURED. But, by the time we finished eating, the sun was shining again. However, the road was now wet, I was towing a larger boat AND it turned out that the brakes on the trailer did not work. Oh...and then there was the road. I mentioned the wetness...but the hilliness and curviness were such that Michelle actually laughed out loud at how absurd this particular segment of pavement was. By the time I hit the Shawnee Bend launch ramp, there were impressions from my fingers in the metal of the steering wheel.
After a 5 minute timeout to lower my heartrate, it was time to launch. No problem. Michelle backed the truck and trailer up and dropped me in, then parked the rig and I did a touch-and-go to pick her up...as there are no piers at this ramp. We idled out of the small bay onto the main channel and got on plane...by this time, even Michelle was smiling. Suddenly, the sky turned...ugly. It was the Black Wall of Death...and it was on us NOW. The deluge was instant...we were completely soaked and desparately scanning the shoreline for our resort. We slowed to an idle, and finally caught sight of the resort and...COVERED BOAT SLIPS! I pulled into the nearest slip as far as I could and we tied off...the rain was thundering off the aluminum roof so hard we could barely talk to eachother. Looking to the stern of the boat, I saw the bilge pumps working furiously...which was cause for instant concern. What if a hose came off? What if the plug fell out? OH MY GOD THE BOAT IS GONNA SINK. Also, we had pulled into a 30-foot slip with a 35 foot boat...so not only was it still raining on our split engine hatches, but all the water that was hitting the roof and running down was pouring onto that same area. CRAP. I fired it up and executed my very first back-in dock....and the bilges kept on pumping...there was a TON of water in the engine compartment...I made the decision that we needed to get back on the trailer....NOW. Panic was setting in....even my normally composed wife was freaking out. We grabbed the lines, jumped in the boat, and went back out into the deluge. On the way to the ramp, I tried to get up on plane, and the boat seemed so full of water it would not come over. I was blinded by the rain and could BARELY see the bow of the boat...I'm sure the guy driving the pontoon boat that I missed by 20 feet was NOT happy, but I didn't care. We got back to the cove, I gave Michelle the keys to the truck, dropped her off, and she flawlessly backed the trailer down. I put the bow up, tied it off, and collapsed to the ground...just as the rain quit. The bilge pumps ran for 20 minutes as the boat sat on the trailer.
Fun, right? We had owned the boat for about 2 hours, and, while hindsight would reveal that we probably would have been just fine...we were still pretty certain that we were going to sink! The next day, our first full one as owners of the red hot sommer, we entered a poker run, and were having a GREAT time...until this happened:
STORY #2
We went to Big Dick's. Ate lunch. Did the requisite Minnow Shot. And started back up lake. We were 11 miles from our condo...and I lost the starboard motor. Just quit. At 50 mph or so. I came to a stop and tried to restart it. With futility. As we idled the 11 miles back, I called Raymonds and told them the problem and fumed to the point where Michelle wanted to jump out and just swim back rather than be near me. There are no pictures of this time.
We got back, put the boat back on the trailer Saturday night, and took it to Raymonds, clinging to the promise that the mechanics would look at it as soon as they got in on Sunday (which meant...after church).
For the record, being boatless at LOTO SUCKS A$$. Don't do it. We killed the day by going over to Ha Ha Tonka, the burned out mansion on the lake, and then, while we were eating lunch at Shooters, we got the call that the boat was done. An ignition module had burned out. Come and get it.
We picked up our baby and took it over to Shady Gators for a cocktail or seven, then, as the sun was starting to set, I dropped Michelle back at Raymond's to drive the truck and trailer back to the condo while I took the boat. It was a PERFECT evening, and I was in my own private heaven as I was driving back. I had purchased a map of the Lake, and because everything looks the same down there, I had it out on the dash for consulting purposes. A blast up to 70mph blew the map to the floor, I slowed up, and bent down to get it...just as the boat hit a wave. The throttles hit me right in the eye. I had been punched in the face by my boat. When I returned to the dock, Michelle was waiting for me and I had to explain why my eye was swollen.
And that's how it got the name BIG RED MEANIE. Natch.
Oh...and we are just getting started...some more fun on the water...
STORY #3
I was SO proud to bring the red boat home, and after an extremely thorough cleaning, she was looking GOOD, and we took her out to her berth in Hammond Marina. The T-dock crew quickly took notice of our new toy, and everybody dug it...I was a proud man. The project for the day, however, was to set up the Hydrohoist to accomodate the new and bigger hull. This meant adjusting the bunks to the ascribed places, not dropping the hardware OR the tools in the lake, and even moving the hoist back with regard to its position on the dock to keep the beak from sticking out over the main walkway...it was a 35 foot slip and a 35 foot boat, so I had to be right on.
A couple of hours in the hot sun, and the hoist was positioned correctly, the bunks aligned, and we were ready to test it. I pulled the boat around the dock and into my slip, and raised it out of the water. SUCCESS! I congratulated myself on a job well done, for everything looked great...with the exception of the fact that the bow was still pointed at the sky a bit, something that would be rectified by moving the boat forward and balancing out the weight on the pontoons. At that moment, my mother-in-law showed up and asked if we'd like to come by their boat for some lunch, so we dropped our tools and went a couple docks over to their Sea Ray.
About an hour later, my phone rings, and its the Candyman...Dan Vasta...saying "Hey...that thing looks great...let's take it for a ride!" So, we roll back over to our dock, I drop the boat back down in the water, and raise the hatches to give it the pre-run check. What do I see, but a bunch of water in the bilge. Crap. Granted...it's not a TON of water, but there's definately water in there that wasn't there before. So, I climb in the bilge to see if I've got a split hose or something. I then notice the water has a rainbow sheen to it...dip my finger in...and give it a sniff....
Well...what I thought was water was much, much worse. It was gas. Fresh gas. Probably 5 gallons worth. Yikes. I shut the batteries off and started throwing buckets of water in the bilge to dilute it...and this is where my story has a lucky moment...the automatic bilge pumps kicked on and I did not blow up. Whew. I called Dan and told him I had a HUGE problem, and after I explained, he rallied the troops from T-dock and they came to the rescue. We towed the boat with a dinghy over to the launch ramp (a tail-between-the-legs moment if I've ever had one!), and I ran to get my truck and trailer. In order to keep the bow high and prevent the gas from moving forward, I inverted the 6-inch drop on my trailer hitch, GENTLY put the boat on the trailer, and pulled it out...all the way to the back of the huge parking lot in Hammond. At this point, the hero of the day stepped in. Mike Lucina took charge and almost instantly found the problem...someone had removed/replaced the sending units on top of the gas tanks and stripped out one of the threaded holes on top of the port tank...replacing the machine screw with a tin screw, which didn't provide enough torque to seal the gasket on top of the tank. Add to that the fact that I had just filled the boat to the brim before putting it in the water AND the fact that it had just spent an hour sitting at a protracted angle to the stern...it was puking gas all over. We "discreetly" pulled the drain plug and let the gas pour into the lot...SHHHHHH!!!!....then Mike rigged up a new setup involving an inverted screw and washer...and it was done. I left the boat on the trailer that night with the hatches up and cleaned the HELL out of it the next day to get rid of any gas smell.
I had owned the boat for two weeks and had almost sunk it and almost blown it up. Awesome.
That's it for the time being...but there's MUCH more fun to tell...trust me!
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Two thousand seven hundred miles.
Just how far will you go for fun? We seem to be increasing the mileage with every experience, and this particular adventure took us from Chicago to Pompano Beach, Florida and points south via highway and waterway. This is the story of a dream fulfilled, and another bunch of ticks off the bucket list.
We rolled out of town immediately after work/school on Thursday night before Easter with the goal of Paducah, KY as our destination for the night. Our trusty Dodge truck had taken us to Wyoming and Quebec in the past nine months, among other trips, and now it would be faced with its biggest challenge, towing an empty 40 foot trailer down to Florida, and a trailer full of 10,000 lbs of boat back from Florida. Excitement was in the air, and the drive blew by. Before we knew it, we were 5-1/2 hours south and stopping for the night. Hindsight being 20-20, we probably should have put a few more hours on since we were feeling awake...
Friday morning, we were up and rolling by 7:30, and had a beautiful drive through Kentucky, into Tennessee, and finally into Georgia. We stopped for lunch about 60 miles north of Atlanta, GA, and upon resumption of our trek, promptly ran into massive amounts of traffic. Traffic is a pain in the butt, but if there's a reason for it...say...bad weather, construction, or a wreck...it is slightly more tolerable. Traffic just for the sake of traffic is damn near unbearable...and that's what we dealt with ALL day. I had been warned about how horrible Atlanta would be, but, in a great irony, the actual city of Atlanta was a breeze. In fact, we rolled right through downtown...didn't even take the bypass...discovering later on that anything over six wheels was illegal on said thoroughfare (we had 10 wheels...d'oh!). South of ATL, we got nailed again...and again....and again. Its not very easy to maneuver in traffic with 40 feet of trailer behind you, so we just had to suck it up and suffer. What was supposed to be a 13 hour day in the truck turned into a 16 hour day...we finally stopped in Fort Pierce, Florida at around midnight...with 1-1/2 hours to go to get to Pompano and a 7:30 am appointment at Active Thunder (keep in mind, this was Eastern Time...so it was an hour ahead for us. This was not a happy time for Michelle.) We slept for 5 hours and started driving again.
Saturday, the sun rose as I piloted our rig even further south. The anticipation and nervousness that I'd been putting off in lieu of concentrating on the task at hand began to grow in my gut, and my mind was racing with questions I had to remember to ask Pat at Active Thunder and trying to mentally catalog all of the things I would have to pack on the boat so I didn't forget anything, as we would be on the water for 5 days. We pulled up to AT to find the boat and Pat waiting for us, and were greeted with the happy news that we would not have to be dipping our new trailer in salt water at all, as we would just use the trailer the boat was currently on to take it to the ramp and pull it out later in the week. We spent the next 45 minutes or so loading our provisions into the boat, trying to ignore Pat's eyerolls when we loaded our road bikes...not exactly a commonplace practice in the world of offshore boating! Then, with a quick handshake and directions to the ramp, we were off to get wet.
I took my sweet time at the ramp, walking over to survey the ramp itself as well as the parking area, so I had my entire route planned out before execution...the smart thing to do with 40 feet of boat and trailer behind you. Also...its best to not look like an absolute idiot if you can avoid it. Well, I was successful on all counts...backed the trailer in, floated the boat, and tied it off on the wall, then went up and parked the truck and trailer (although, admittedly, it took me a while to line the rig up so I was only using one parking spot). So...I was feeling pretty good about myself when I jumped in the boat to fire it up and take off. I turned the keys and the motors roared to life, and, without hesitation, I put it in gear and we pushed off the wall. Well...task number one was to turn the boat around 180 degrees and head for the Intercoastal, so I put the port motor to forward, and the starboard motor in reverse. I was fighting a wind and a slight current, but suddenly, everything started feeling...wrong. A quick glance at the dashboard told me that the starboard motor had died. I was not prepared for this in the LEAST...especially considering the motors were fuel-injected and should NEVER die! So, I was faced with fighting a wind and current and turning a large (and unfamiliar) boat with one motor...and, no power steering (that pump is on the starboard motor, apparently). Yup. Full-on panic. Turned the wheel as hard as I could while trying to restart the motor, and it wouldn't fire. I had to reverse-lock the wheel and put the boat in reverse to get the bow to come around, and by this time, all I wanted to do was get the boat back on the wall. Michelle jumped on the bow, and managed to get on land, and I was able to get the boat close enough that she could pull me in. We tied it off, and I was immediately on the phone to Pat in a panic. Repeated attempts to start the motor would result in a sputter, but it wouldn't catch. Pat finally answered and came quickly over, and, after the quickest glance and turn of the key, proclaimed "You had me come over here for THIS?" Well...I felt relieved and stupid at the same time...and that degenerated to just feeling stupid when he pumped the throttle a couple times and the motor instantly lit. Turns out, you CAN flood an EFI engine if you do not let it warm up properly. Oops. Learn something new every day. Pat kicked us off the dock, and down the Intercoastal we went to the Sands Harbor Marina, where I successfully docked the boat. We then got some help from the locals tying off to compensate for the tides, and hit the accompanying hotel's restaurant, pool and BAR. Pina Coladas for me and Rum Runners for Michelle, replete with Bacardi 151 floaters. A walk across the street to a terrific restaurant for dinner capped an exciting day, and we went to bed EARLY.
I woke up early on Easter Sunday and went for a run on the beach, and upon my return, joined Michelle for a bike ride up Ocean Avenue to Deerfield Beach and back. We then loaded everything up, secured the bikes, and cast off for parts unknown. We decided to head south towards Ft Lauderdale, and, it being the weekend, the entire Intercoastal was a no wake zone. We were in no hurry, and there was PLENTY to look at in the form of massive houses and yachts for the 45 minute trip down. The only bit of excitement was getting pulled over by the Florida DNR because we didn't have numbers on the boat yet. I showed them my paperwork and they sent us on our way. We motored through Ft. Lauderdale in awe of the multitude of 100+ foot yachts...truly amazing.
We had decided that Miami Beach would be our destination for the evening, and, given that we had idled for nearly an hour and were getting a little restless, we decided to head out to open ocean. The wind had been blowing pretty good for the past couple days, and I knew the waves were going to be pretty big, but last November's trip in 8+ footers gave me the confidence that the boat would handle it with aplomb. As for myself....well...nothing like a challenge to get the ol' heart rate pumping. I told Michelle to grab a couple life jackets from below, and hooked the lanyard up to my shorts (kills the motors in case I go overboard). She said that this didn't exactly instill confidence. I said better safe than sorry, after all, this would be my first time really driving in the ocean, as Pat had handled the rough-water duties on our trip to Key West. Past the cruise ships and towards the ocean we went, and the waves began to grow. Our bow stabbed one and we got a nice face full of water...fortunately at low speed. As I progressed, and the wave height did the same, I noticed a rather large yacht bearing down on us from the open waters. When he was about 1/4 mile off our bow, it became apparent to me that he would NOT be slowing down. The yacht was every bit of 60 or 70 feet, and running 30 knots plus...you don't have to do the math to realize the size of the wake this thing was going to be tossing. I nailed the throttles in order to get on plane before we hit, and succeeded...barely. He roared by without a sideways glance, and we pounded through the 10 foot wake before turning our bow straight out to the ocean...and we began to launch. I throttled out right away, as I wanted to make sure the bikes weren't bashing against each other OR the upholstery. When Michelle confirmed that they were ok, I got back on plane and parallelled the shoreline, which meant the waves were hitting me broadside. I just drove in the troughs and rolled up and over the breaks, but in order to keep the boat from flying, I could only run 35-40 mph. It seemed like it took forever, but Government Cut finally appeared, signifying the end of our journey. We wrapped around the south end of Miami Beach, and into the Miami Beach Marina, where we grabbed our slip for the evening and tied off.
After a VERY busy morning, we decided it was time for a nice relaxing nap on the sunpad of the boat, which was rocking and rolling pretty good due to the winds and tide. I had just fallen asleep in the peaceful warm sun, when I heard a group of people walking down the dock. There were expressions of admiration for our boat, then an exclamation: "Hey....can I have a ride on your boat if I give you a ride on mine?" I picked my head up to see a group of 6 people, and said "Which boat is yours?" "The one on the end of the dock," replied a young-looking guy wearing a hat that said "Clubbing Isn't A Crime." "Come on over and have a drink!" My eyes bugged out with the realization that I was just invited to go on a 100+ foot boat. I looked at Michelle and said let's go. She declined, saying she'd rather take a nap. Oh well. I jumped below, grabbed a shirt, and went over to the big boat. Sean, the owner, was in his mid-40s. He told me he'd purchased the boat last fall in Europe and had it sailed over...and that he'd already been kicked out of this marina twice because he parties were too loud. He spoke with the voice and demeanor of a person that quite possibly had not slept in a few days...and was not about to slow down. He tossed me a beer, and I went to the aft lounge where the others were relaxing on the couches in the sun. Sean went off in search of music...from him and his friends, I learned that EVERYTHING in Miami Beach was about music. You had to have BEATS at all times. I asked what he did for a living and received the answer "Nothing." Must be nice! Sean reappeared, and beats were produced. It was like 2 or 3 in the afternoon on Easter Sunday in a marina...and the club music was bumpin. I began to feel...old. Lol. Suddenly...Sean was in my face. "DUDE! I am going to CHANGE YOUR LIFE!," he said. I was chilling on a couch with a beer, and replied that I kinda liked my life just the way it was. He laughed and said he had just gotten a text from a friend of his that was having a party at his house, and that it would be EPIC if we pulled up to the party in my boat. And...oh yeah...his friend was a BILLIONAIRE, with 5 100+ foot yachts, including a 200+footer he had just bought a couple weeks ago. "All this guy does," said Sean, "is party with topless 22-year-old models." He then whipped out his I-phone and produced pictures of just that....a row of topless chicks across the rear deck of a megayacht. My mind was begging for traction at this point...apparently I had just entered some parallel dimension where nothing matters but the PARTY...and I was definitely running in the slow lane. Was it time to shift gears? I looked down at my boat and saw Michelle sleeping in the sun and thought...how the HELL am I going to break this question to her? Well...I did...it went something like "Hey honey, we've just been invited to bring a millionaire playboy and his friends over to a party at a billionaire's house....wanna go?" Fortunately (or perhaps not?), our rational minds quickly took over and figured that this looked WAAAAAY too much like the opening scenes of a "Hangover" movie, and we begged out of the adventure. Thus ended our brush with the Miami Beach party scene. And we were ok with it. Lol. Instead, we walked over to the local bar, Monty's, and had an appetizer and a couple drinks, before coming back to the boat and realizing that it was still rocking and rolling like crazy...not exactly conducive to a nice night's sleep. Michelle jumped on Trip Advisor and booked us a room in Miami Beach for like $80. We drank a couple rum'n'cokes and took a nice walk, then loaded up a change of clothes and some more rum in a backpack, and took a drunken ride downtown Miami Beach to our hotel, where we partook in said rum, showered up, and walked the famous Lincoln Avenue mall, which, despite it being Easter Sunday....was JAMMED with people and really cool. After a long day, it was very nice to crash in a stable, air-conditioned room.
Monday morning, we got up and biked back to the marina to make sure the boat was alright, then headed back down to the Art Deco district for breakfast at one of the hotels. While we ate, a woman walked up the street with a large bag of volleyballs, and proceeded to one of the courts nearby. When we finished eating, we walked over to the beach, passing by the volleyball court. My jaw dropped when I realized who the woman was....Olympic gold medalist Keri Walsh! Nobody else seemed to even notice, but Michelle and I sat and watched her practice for a while, then went to the beach for a bit, and returned to watch her practice some more. Definitely a cool experience. Back at the boat, we decided to head over to our next destination, Coconut Grove. We would be navigating by sight and Iphone, as the screen on our GPS chartplotter seemed to be broken (no backlight, no matter what we tried), and, moving with extreme caution, we managed to successfully find the channel we were shooting for. Slightly before this, however, I had noticed the sky taking an ugly turn, and as we were idling into the marina area, raindrops began to fall. I aimed for the nearest empty dock...in this case, it was a fuel dock...and got tied up and began to cover the boat just as the heavier rain began to fall. Well...for the next two hours, it POURED. I was so glad we were not boating in it, the severe lightning, gusting winds, and pounding rain would have quickly eliminated our meager navigational skills. Anyway...we were dry, and we had cold beer, so we just had a couple brews and relaxed under the cover. When the storm broke, we called the municipal marina next door and got a slip, motored over, and then walked over to a beach bar/restaurant called Scotty's for some dinner. The place was kind of a dive, the food was just OK, but we later found out that its a musical hotspot, and that a few months before, Sir Paul McCartney had sat in with the band there! The rainstorm killed the wind that had been blowing since we arrived in the south, and we had a nice relaxing evening on the boat.
Tuesday, we decided to explore Coconut Grove via bike path, which was an adventure in itself, as the "bike path" had me wishing like crazy that I was on a mountain bike. It was CRAZY rough, and riding in the road was decidedly not an option, with ZERO shoulder and copious amounts of traffic. We survived a 20 or so mile ride regardless, and then packed the bikes into the boat once again for the journey to our next destination. We decided to attempt to run down to Key Largo to a bar called Gilberts, where we had stopped for lunch on our way down to Key West. It was to be a 50 or so mile run, and without the GPS, we'd be pretty much groping our way down the length of Biscayne Bay. The depth of Biscayne Bay is only about 10-12 feet, so, despite its enormity, things could go bad pretty quickly at high speed. We used the charts on our Iphones to the best of our ability, but in the middle of the Bay, we lost service. Somehow, we found the channel, and with it, the major navigational hazard between us and Gilberts...The Featherbeds, a section of coral reefs that you HAD to take the channel through, or else run aground. Our success was short-lived, however, as once we passed the Featherbeds, we could not locate the next channel marker! Rather than get lost somewhere in unfamiliar waters, we decided to just give up on the Gilberts endeavor, and head over to Key Biscayne and Crandon Marina. After another 1/2 hour or so of cruising, we found our way into the Marina and grabbed our slip for the night. As we were tying up, Michelle yelled "Oh my god, there's a dead manatee in the next slip!" I secured the boat and ran over...and sure enough, there was a HUGE manatee behind the boat next to us...only...it wasn't dead. It was enjoying the cool fresh water provided by the hose that somebody had left turned on and dangling in the water. We took a bunch of pictures, and named him Bill Zimmerman. Then it was off to a little private beach to enjoy some cool rum'n'cokes and wade in the beautiful blue waters...a nice way to spend an afternoon for certain. The marina only had "beach showers," which kinda meant showering with only three walls, but we took turns guarding the area and had no issues, lol. Dinner that night was to be at The Rusty Pelican, a short bike ride away on Virginia Key overlooking the Miami skyline at sunset. Michelle called and requested the best seat in the house, telling the staff it was important as it was our anniversary. The little ruse worked perfectly, and we had a spectacular view to compliment our spectacular dinner.
Wednesday was to be our last day on the water, and we were going to be running all the way back up to Pompano Beach on the ocean, which had calmed down over the last couple days, thankfully. In the morning, we jumped on the bikes and rode down the length of Key Biscayne to the state park, and checked out the lighthouse area that had been there since 1825, and had once been raided and burned by Seminole Indians. We then rode through an abandoned zoo teeming with peacocks and other wild birds, before turning north, riding across Virginia Key, and then up and over the massive causeway to the mainland, before turning around and heading back to the marina. From there, it was over to the gas dock to splash some go-go juice in as a precaution (didn't really know how far I had to go, or how many miles per gallon the new ride got!). In my haste, I dropped one of the gas caps into the water. Now...I REALLY don't like salt water, and I REALLY don't like swimming in the ocean (I am somewhat terrified of sharks and other bitey creatures that live there)...but, I manned-up, grabbed a mask, and dove down for the recovery. Seriously brave move there....Michelle was shocked. Lol. We fired up the motors and headed back north. The seas were pretty sloppy, about 1-3 foot with an occasional bigger set, and I ran the boat at 45-50 mph all the way back to the Hillsboro Inlet north of Pompano, where we ducked into the Intercoastal and idled back to the Sands Marina and the same slip we had last Saturday. Another afternoon of cocktails in the pool was followed by a short trip up the ICW to Two Georges restaurant in Deerfield Beach...its pretty cool going out to dinner by boat.
Thursday morning, we had an early appointment with the ramp, as I was going to need to get the boat over to Active Thunder to get it fitted on the new trailer. We had decided to spend that night at the Sands Hotel, so we lugged our gear up to our room on the 8th floor, then untied the boat and idled away. I had parked the truck and trailer last Saturday, and used the automated paybox to purchase 5 days of parking at $5 per day. I did this at 8:48am on Saturday, and here it was, 8:55 on Thursday as we came idling up to the ramp. Sure enough, there's a meter maid writing me a ticket! I tied up on the wall and ran across to her to plead my case...I was less than 10 minutes late after 5 days! Useless. Stupid cop. Oh well. We put the boat on the trailer with Pat's help, then Michelle rode back to spend some time on the beach as I straightened things up on the boat and in the truck, then Pat and his trusty sidekick Kenny used a gantry to pick the boat up off the old trailer, and slid the new one underneath. We reset the position of the bow stop, made sure it was sitting level, and it was done. I drove off to the Sands to chill out for a bit, Michelle came up from the beach, and we assumed our now customary rum'n'coke position down in the pool for the afternoon. By late afternoon, a HUGE storm was bearing down on us, which made for a pretty spectacular experience up on the 8th floor...I was VERY thankful the boat was safely tucked away inside the building at Active Thunder. We then met up with Jason Mozden, and old high school friend we hadn't seen in 20 years who lived down in the area, at a cool restaurant in Fort Lauderdale By the Sea. It was great catching up with him, and a perfect way to wrap up the Florida portion of our vacation.
We hit the road on Friday morning with the big boat behind us, looking to get up to Atlanta if possible. It was pretty nerve-wracking for the first 1/2 hour or so, getting used to how huge this boat was compared to our Fountain, but eventually, I got used to it, and really came to enjoy the increased braking power provided by electric-over-hydraulic disc brakes on every wheel. It towed like a dream. We made it as far as 60 miles south of Atlanta when traffic came to a halt, and we decided to call it a day.
Saturday, we blazed through Atlanta, and were making great time towards our intended destination of Franklin, TN to visit our friends Brian and Cindy Miller in their new home, when a 10 mile backup right at the border of Georgia and Tennessee tacked another hour onto the trip. I had been extremely nervous about the pass over the mountains at Monteagle, but my truck handled both the up and down with ease...I barely had to touch the brakes on the way down as the transmission and exhaust brake took all the hard work out of it. We were just getting to the point of REALLY being sick of being in the truck when we arrived in Franklin. It was absolutely awesome seeing the recently retired Mr. Miller and his lovely bride, and their hospitality was much appreciated. Brian even woke up early and reset the bow stop that had moved on some bigger bumps in the road (allowing the boat to move 3 inches forward on the trailer...yikes). After some sightseeing in Franklin and a wonderful lasagna dinner, it was off to bed.
ONE MORE DAY in the truck. Lol. Michelle had been talking before we left Pompano about how she couldn't wait to come back someday...all that was an afterthought by now....we just wanted to be home. Traffic around Louisville and just north of Indianapolis were the only things that slowed us down, and we arrived home safe and sound after another 8 hours of hauling. I don't even want to SEE the inside of that truck for a week!
So...there you have it. A detailed recap of the great adventure that was our spring break 2013. Hope you enjoyed the show in even the slightest, as we certainly enjoyed the experience. Every mile of it.
We rolled out of town immediately after work/school on Thursday night before Easter with the goal of Paducah, KY as our destination for the night. Our trusty Dodge truck had taken us to Wyoming and Quebec in the past nine months, among other trips, and now it would be faced with its biggest challenge, towing an empty 40 foot trailer down to Florida, and a trailer full of 10,000 lbs of boat back from Florida. Excitement was in the air, and the drive blew by. Before we knew it, we were 5-1/2 hours south and stopping for the night. Hindsight being 20-20, we probably should have put a few more hours on since we were feeling awake...
Friday morning, we were up and rolling by 7:30, and had a beautiful drive through Kentucky, into Tennessee, and finally into Georgia. We stopped for lunch about 60 miles north of Atlanta, GA, and upon resumption of our trek, promptly ran into massive amounts of traffic. Traffic is a pain in the butt, but if there's a reason for it...say...bad weather, construction, or a wreck...it is slightly more tolerable. Traffic just for the sake of traffic is damn near unbearable...and that's what we dealt with ALL day. I had been warned about how horrible Atlanta would be, but, in a great irony, the actual city of Atlanta was a breeze. In fact, we rolled right through downtown...didn't even take the bypass...discovering later on that anything over six wheels was illegal on said thoroughfare (we had 10 wheels...d'oh!). South of ATL, we got nailed again...and again....and again. Its not very easy to maneuver in traffic with 40 feet of trailer behind you, so we just had to suck it up and suffer. What was supposed to be a 13 hour day in the truck turned into a 16 hour day...we finally stopped in Fort Pierce, Florida at around midnight...with 1-1/2 hours to go to get to Pompano and a 7:30 am appointment at Active Thunder (keep in mind, this was Eastern Time...so it was an hour ahead for us. This was not a happy time for Michelle.) We slept for 5 hours and started driving again.
Saturday, the sun rose as I piloted our rig even further south. The anticipation and nervousness that I'd been putting off in lieu of concentrating on the task at hand began to grow in my gut, and my mind was racing with questions I had to remember to ask Pat at Active Thunder and trying to mentally catalog all of the things I would have to pack on the boat so I didn't forget anything, as we would be on the water for 5 days. We pulled up to AT to find the boat and Pat waiting for us, and were greeted with the happy news that we would not have to be dipping our new trailer in salt water at all, as we would just use the trailer the boat was currently on to take it to the ramp and pull it out later in the week. We spent the next 45 minutes or so loading our provisions into the boat, trying to ignore Pat's eyerolls when we loaded our road bikes...not exactly a commonplace practice in the world of offshore boating! Then, with a quick handshake and directions to the ramp, we were off to get wet.
I took my sweet time at the ramp, walking over to survey the ramp itself as well as the parking area, so I had my entire route planned out before execution...the smart thing to do with 40 feet of boat and trailer behind you. Also...its best to not look like an absolute idiot if you can avoid it. Well, I was successful on all counts...backed the trailer in, floated the boat, and tied it off on the wall, then went up and parked the truck and trailer (although, admittedly, it took me a while to line the rig up so I was only using one parking spot). So...I was feeling pretty good about myself when I jumped in the boat to fire it up and take off. I turned the keys and the motors roared to life, and, without hesitation, I put it in gear and we pushed off the wall. Well...task number one was to turn the boat around 180 degrees and head for the Intercoastal, so I put the port motor to forward, and the starboard motor in reverse. I was fighting a wind and a slight current, but suddenly, everything started feeling...wrong. A quick glance at the dashboard told me that the starboard motor had died. I was not prepared for this in the LEAST...especially considering the motors were fuel-injected and should NEVER die! So, I was faced with fighting a wind and current and turning a large (and unfamiliar) boat with one motor...and, no power steering (that pump is on the starboard motor, apparently). Yup. Full-on panic. Turned the wheel as hard as I could while trying to restart the motor, and it wouldn't fire. I had to reverse-lock the wheel and put the boat in reverse to get the bow to come around, and by this time, all I wanted to do was get the boat back on the wall. Michelle jumped on the bow, and managed to get on land, and I was able to get the boat close enough that she could pull me in. We tied it off, and I was immediately on the phone to Pat in a panic. Repeated attempts to start the motor would result in a sputter, but it wouldn't catch. Pat finally answered and came quickly over, and, after the quickest glance and turn of the key, proclaimed "You had me come over here for THIS?" Well...I felt relieved and stupid at the same time...and that degenerated to just feeling stupid when he pumped the throttle a couple times and the motor instantly lit. Turns out, you CAN flood an EFI engine if you do not let it warm up properly. Oops. Learn something new every day. Pat kicked us off the dock, and down the Intercoastal we went to the Sands Harbor Marina, where I successfully docked the boat. We then got some help from the locals tying off to compensate for the tides, and hit the accompanying hotel's restaurant, pool and BAR. Pina Coladas for me and Rum Runners for Michelle, replete with Bacardi 151 floaters. A walk across the street to a terrific restaurant for dinner capped an exciting day, and we went to bed EARLY.
I woke up early on Easter Sunday and went for a run on the beach, and upon my return, joined Michelle for a bike ride up Ocean Avenue to Deerfield Beach and back. We then loaded everything up, secured the bikes, and cast off for parts unknown. We decided to head south towards Ft Lauderdale, and, it being the weekend, the entire Intercoastal was a no wake zone. We were in no hurry, and there was PLENTY to look at in the form of massive houses and yachts for the 45 minute trip down. The only bit of excitement was getting pulled over by the Florida DNR because we didn't have numbers on the boat yet. I showed them my paperwork and they sent us on our way. We motored through Ft. Lauderdale in awe of the multitude of 100+ foot yachts...truly amazing.
We had decided that Miami Beach would be our destination for the evening, and, given that we had idled for nearly an hour and were getting a little restless, we decided to head out to open ocean. The wind had been blowing pretty good for the past couple days, and I knew the waves were going to be pretty big, but last November's trip in 8+ footers gave me the confidence that the boat would handle it with aplomb. As for myself....well...nothing like a challenge to get the ol' heart rate pumping. I told Michelle to grab a couple life jackets from below, and hooked the lanyard up to my shorts (kills the motors in case I go overboard). She said that this didn't exactly instill confidence. I said better safe than sorry, after all, this would be my first time really driving in the ocean, as Pat had handled the rough-water duties on our trip to Key West. Past the cruise ships and towards the ocean we went, and the waves began to grow. Our bow stabbed one and we got a nice face full of water...fortunately at low speed. As I progressed, and the wave height did the same, I noticed a rather large yacht bearing down on us from the open waters. When he was about 1/4 mile off our bow, it became apparent to me that he would NOT be slowing down. The yacht was every bit of 60 or 70 feet, and running 30 knots plus...you don't have to do the math to realize the size of the wake this thing was going to be tossing. I nailed the throttles in order to get on plane before we hit, and succeeded...barely. He roared by without a sideways glance, and we pounded through the 10 foot wake before turning our bow straight out to the ocean...and we began to launch. I throttled out right away, as I wanted to make sure the bikes weren't bashing against each other OR the upholstery. When Michelle confirmed that they were ok, I got back on plane and parallelled the shoreline, which meant the waves were hitting me broadside. I just drove in the troughs and rolled up and over the breaks, but in order to keep the boat from flying, I could only run 35-40 mph. It seemed like it took forever, but Government Cut finally appeared, signifying the end of our journey. We wrapped around the south end of Miami Beach, and into the Miami Beach Marina, where we grabbed our slip for the evening and tied off.
After a VERY busy morning, we decided it was time for a nice relaxing nap on the sunpad of the boat, which was rocking and rolling pretty good due to the winds and tide. I had just fallen asleep in the peaceful warm sun, when I heard a group of people walking down the dock. There were expressions of admiration for our boat, then an exclamation: "Hey....can I have a ride on your boat if I give you a ride on mine?" I picked my head up to see a group of 6 people, and said "Which boat is yours?" "The one on the end of the dock," replied a young-looking guy wearing a hat that said "Clubbing Isn't A Crime." "Come on over and have a drink!" My eyes bugged out with the realization that I was just invited to go on a 100+ foot boat. I looked at Michelle and said let's go. She declined, saying she'd rather take a nap. Oh well. I jumped below, grabbed a shirt, and went over to the big boat. Sean, the owner, was in his mid-40s. He told me he'd purchased the boat last fall in Europe and had it sailed over...and that he'd already been kicked out of this marina twice because he parties were too loud. He spoke with the voice and demeanor of a person that quite possibly had not slept in a few days...and was not about to slow down. He tossed me a beer, and I went to the aft lounge where the others were relaxing on the couches in the sun. Sean went off in search of music...from him and his friends, I learned that EVERYTHING in Miami Beach was about music. You had to have BEATS at all times. I asked what he did for a living and received the answer "Nothing." Must be nice! Sean reappeared, and beats were produced. It was like 2 or 3 in the afternoon on Easter Sunday in a marina...and the club music was bumpin. I began to feel...old. Lol. Suddenly...Sean was in my face. "DUDE! I am going to CHANGE YOUR LIFE!," he said. I was chilling on a couch with a beer, and replied that I kinda liked my life just the way it was. He laughed and said he had just gotten a text from a friend of his that was having a party at his house, and that it would be EPIC if we pulled up to the party in my boat. And...oh yeah...his friend was a BILLIONAIRE, with 5 100+ foot yachts, including a 200+footer he had just bought a couple weeks ago. "All this guy does," said Sean, "is party with topless 22-year-old models." He then whipped out his I-phone and produced pictures of just that....a row of topless chicks across the rear deck of a megayacht. My mind was begging for traction at this point...apparently I had just entered some parallel dimension where nothing matters but the PARTY...and I was definitely running in the slow lane. Was it time to shift gears? I looked down at my boat and saw Michelle sleeping in the sun and thought...how the HELL am I going to break this question to her? Well...I did...it went something like "Hey honey, we've just been invited to bring a millionaire playboy and his friends over to a party at a billionaire's house....wanna go?" Fortunately (or perhaps not?), our rational minds quickly took over and figured that this looked WAAAAAY too much like the opening scenes of a "Hangover" movie, and we begged out of the adventure. Thus ended our brush with the Miami Beach party scene. And we were ok with it. Lol. Instead, we walked over to the local bar, Monty's, and had an appetizer and a couple drinks, before coming back to the boat and realizing that it was still rocking and rolling like crazy...not exactly conducive to a nice night's sleep. Michelle jumped on Trip Advisor and booked us a room in Miami Beach for like $80. We drank a couple rum'n'cokes and took a nice walk, then loaded up a change of clothes and some more rum in a backpack, and took a drunken ride downtown Miami Beach to our hotel, where we partook in said rum, showered up, and walked the famous Lincoln Avenue mall, which, despite it being Easter Sunday....was JAMMED with people and really cool. After a long day, it was very nice to crash in a stable, air-conditioned room.
Monday morning, we got up and biked back to the marina to make sure the boat was alright, then headed back down to the Art Deco district for breakfast at one of the hotels. While we ate, a woman walked up the street with a large bag of volleyballs, and proceeded to one of the courts nearby. When we finished eating, we walked over to the beach, passing by the volleyball court. My jaw dropped when I realized who the woman was....Olympic gold medalist Keri Walsh! Nobody else seemed to even notice, but Michelle and I sat and watched her practice for a while, then went to the beach for a bit, and returned to watch her practice some more. Definitely a cool experience. Back at the boat, we decided to head over to our next destination, Coconut Grove. We would be navigating by sight and Iphone, as the screen on our GPS chartplotter seemed to be broken (no backlight, no matter what we tried), and, moving with extreme caution, we managed to successfully find the channel we were shooting for. Slightly before this, however, I had noticed the sky taking an ugly turn, and as we were idling into the marina area, raindrops began to fall. I aimed for the nearest empty dock...in this case, it was a fuel dock...and got tied up and began to cover the boat just as the heavier rain began to fall. Well...for the next two hours, it POURED. I was so glad we were not boating in it, the severe lightning, gusting winds, and pounding rain would have quickly eliminated our meager navigational skills. Anyway...we were dry, and we had cold beer, so we just had a couple brews and relaxed under the cover. When the storm broke, we called the municipal marina next door and got a slip, motored over, and then walked over to a beach bar/restaurant called Scotty's for some dinner. The place was kind of a dive, the food was just OK, but we later found out that its a musical hotspot, and that a few months before, Sir Paul McCartney had sat in with the band there! The rainstorm killed the wind that had been blowing since we arrived in the south, and we had a nice relaxing evening on the boat.
Tuesday, we decided to explore Coconut Grove via bike path, which was an adventure in itself, as the "bike path" had me wishing like crazy that I was on a mountain bike. It was CRAZY rough, and riding in the road was decidedly not an option, with ZERO shoulder and copious amounts of traffic. We survived a 20 or so mile ride regardless, and then packed the bikes into the boat once again for the journey to our next destination. We decided to attempt to run down to Key Largo to a bar called Gilberts, where we had stopped for lunch on our way down to Key West. It was to be a 50 or so mile run, and without the GPS, we'd be pretty much groping our way down the length of Biscayne Bay. The depth of Biscayne Bay is only about 10-12 feet, so, despite its enormity, things could go bad pretty quickly at high speed. We used the charts on our Iphones to the best of our ability, but in the middle of the Bay, we lost service. Somehow, we found the channel, and with it, the major navigational hazard between us and Gilberts...The Featherbeds, a section of coral reefs that you HAD to take the channel through, or else run aground. Our success was short-lived, however, as once we passed the Featherbeds, we could not locate the next channel marker! Rather than get lost somewhere in unfamiliar waters, we decided to just give up on the Gilberts endeavor, and head over to Key Biscayne and Crandon Marina. After another 1/2 hour or so of cruising, we found our way into the Marina and grabbed our slip for the night. As we were tying up, Michelle yelled "Oh my god, there's a dead manatee in the next slip!" I secured the boat and ran over...and sure enough, there was a HUGE manatee behind the boat next to us...only...it wasn't dead. It was enjoying the cool fresh water provided by the hose that somebody had left turned on and dangling in the water. We took a bunch of pictures, and named him Bill Zimmerman. Then it was off to a little private beach to enjoy some cool rum'n'cokes and wade in the beautiful blue waters...a nice way to spend an afternoon for certain. The marina only had "beach showers," which kinda meant showering with only three walls, but we took turns guarding the area and had no issues, lol. Dinner that night was to be at The Rusty Pelican, a short bike ride away on Virginia Key overlooking the Miami skyline at sunset. Michelle called and requested the best seat in the house, telling the staff it was important as it was our anniversary. The little ruse worked perfectly, and we had a spectacular view to compliment our spectacular dinner.
Wednesday was to be our last day on the water, and we were going to be running all the way back up to Pompano Beach on the ocean, which had calmed down over the last couple days, thankfully. In the morning, we jumped on the bikes and rode down the length of Key Biscayne to the state park, and checked out the lighthouse area that had been there since 1825, and had once been raided and burned by Seminole Indians. We then rode through an abandoned zoo teeming with peacocks and other wild birds, before turning north, riding across Virginia Key, and then up and over the massive causeway to the mainland, before turning around and heading back to the marina. From there, it was over to the gas dock to splash some go-go juice in as a precaution (didn't really know how far I had to go, or how many miles per gallon the new ride got!). In my haste, I dropped one of the gas caps into the water. Now...I REALLY don't like salt water, and I REALLY don't like swimming in the ocean (I am somewhat terrified of sharks and other bitey creatures that live there)...but, I manned-up, grabbed a mask, and dove down for the recovery. Seriously brave move there....Michelle was shocked. Lol. We fired up the motors and headed back north. The seas were pretty sloppy, about 1-3 foot with an occasional bigger set, and I ran the boat at 45-50 mph all the way back to the Hillsboro Inlet north of Pompano, where we ducked into the Intercoastal and idled back to the Sands Marina and the same slip we had last Saturday. Another afternoon of cocktails in the pool was followed by a short trip up the ICW to Two Georges restaurant in Deerfield Beach...its pretty cool going out to dinner by boat.
Thursday morning, we had an early appointment with the ramp, as I was going to need to get the boat over to Active Thunder to get it fitted on the new trailer. We had decided to spend that night at the Sands Hotel, so we lugged our gear up to our room on the 8th floor, then untied the boat and idled away. I had parked the truck and trailer last Saturday, and used the automated paybox to purchase 5 days of parking at $5 per day. I did this at 8:48am on Saturday, and here it was, 8:55 on Thursday as we came idling up to the ramp. Sure enough, there's a meter maid writing me a ticket! I tied up on the wall and ran across to her to plead my case...I was less than 10 minutes late after 5 days! Useless. Stupid cop. Oh well. We put the boat on the trailer with Pat's help, then Michelle rode back to spend some time on the beach as I straightened things up on the boat and in the truck, then Pat and his trusty sidekick Kenny used a gantry to pick the boat up off the old trailer, and slid the new one underneath. We reset the position of the bow stop, made sure it was sitting level, and it was done. I drove off to the Sands to chill out for a bit, Michelle came up from the beach, and we assumed our now customary rum'n'coke position down in the pool for the afternoon. By late afternoon, a HUGE storm was bearing down on us, which made for a pretty spectacular experience up on the 8th floor...I was VERY thankful the boat was safely tucked away inside the building at Active Thunder. We then met up with Jason Mozden, and old high school friend we hadn't seen in 20 years who lived down in the area, at a cool restaurant in Fort Lauderdale By the Sea. It was great catching up with him, and a perfect way to wrap up the Florida portion of our vacation.
We hit the road on Friday morning with the big boat behind us, looking to get up to Atlanta if possible. It was pretty nerve-wracking for the first 1/2 hour or so, getting used to how huge this boat was compared to our Fountain, but eventually, I got used to it, and really came to enjoy the increased braking power provided by electric-over-hydraulic disc brakes on every wheel. It towed like a dream. We made it as far as 60 miles south of Atlanta when traffic came to a halt, and we decided to call it a day.
Saturday, we blazed through Atlanta, and were making great time towards our intended destination of Franklin, TN to visit our friends Brian and Cindy Miller in their new home, when a 10 mile backup right at the border of Georgia and Tennessee tacked another hour onto the trip. I had been extremely nervous about the pass over the mountains at Monteagle, but my truck handled both the up and down with ease...I barely had to touch the brakes on the way down as the transmission and exhaust brake took all the hard work out of it. We were just getting to the point of REALLY being sick of being in the truck when we arrived in Franklin. It was absolutely awesome seeing the recently retired Mr. Miller and his lovely bride, and their hospitality was much appreciated. Brian even woke up early and reset the bow stop that had moved on some bigger bumps in the road (allowing the boat to move 3 inches forward on the trailer...yikes). After some sightseeing in Franklin and a wonderful lasagna dinner, it was off to bed.
ONE MORE DAY in the truck. Lol. Michelle had been talking before we left Pompano about how she couldn't wait to come back someday...all that was an afterthought by now....we just wanted to be home. Traffic around Louisville and just north of Indianapolis were the only things that slowed us down, and we arrived home safe and sound after another 8 hours of hauling. I don't even want to SEE the inside of that truck for a week!
So...there you have it. A detailed recap of the great adventure that was our spring break 2013. Hope you enjoyed the show in even the slightest, as we certainly enjoyed the experience. Every mile of it.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Like Grilled Shitake.
In my life, I have had the privilege to be afforded with athletic ability. I like to think I have used this ability to my fullest potential, but there is always a lingering doubt about "what could have been" had I not been injured, or had my mentality regarding competition been stronger. These days, I suppose I continue to use that gift, albeit in far less serious and, consequently, far more enjoyable circumstances. This is not to say that I didn't enjoy fine-tuning my body into a veritable mileage monster. I truly loved to run, and, deep down, I still do. The sacrifices I made in my life physically are both a point of pride and a point of consternation to this day...and I would not change were I offered the chance to do it again. Now all I have are the memories and the residual pain of many years wear-and-tear on my body...which tends to keep the memories pretty sharp! So, I figured I might as well attempt to convey what it felt like...to be a runner.
Cross country was, and is, my favorite running discipline. I love to run off the road. I find it mentally easier to break up a long run into a series of segments, and concentrate on where I'm stepping and where the next turn or hill is rather than how fast I am going. Of course, in college, I was pretty much made to be concerned about ALL of these things...speed being the obvious goal. Racing cross country at the Division I level wasn't a big deal in and of itself, but that's as far as I ever got in terms of exclusivity in the running world, so I remain proud of that accomplishment. I figure at one time, I was knocking out miles in greater quantity and higher speed than a good portion of the general public, so there's my justification for this blogular iteration.
Getting to the Starting Line
Miles. Miles by the thousands. Miles of pavement, miles of gravel, miles of dirt. That's what it took to get to the starting line. In high school, I had somehow parlayed workouts totalling approximately 25 miles per week into an extremely successful career, culminating with a victory and course record at the Amateur Athletic Union Junior Olympics. In college, it became immediately clear that there was NO WAY that was going to happen. My freshman year, weekly mileage immediately averaged 75 and above per week. And that meant running 7 days per week. Sure, NCAA regulations maintain that an athlete may only practice 6 days in a week...but the caveat lay in the wording...only six days of SUPERVISED practice were allowed. If you wanted to be successful, you ran the "suggested" 14 miles on Sunday, without the coach...and usually with a hangover.
At any rate, with my mileage tripled, and even quadrupled by the end of the season, it was quite an adjustment to my body. Eventually, the miles won, leaving me to end the season with a stress fracture in my femur. Yes, it hurt. No, I did not stop running. I had worked hard, and wanted badly to compete in the biggest races of the season. Plus, the doctors gave me a 90% chance that the leg would not break completely during the race. There's a sneak-peek into my mentality...and the reason I wanted to write this out...
I ran through multiple twisted ankles, countless bouts with shin splints, patellar tendinitis, pulled hamstrings, pulled calf muscles, pulled hip flexors, the aforementioned cracked femur, a bunion that, according to my podiatrist, could have been from an 80-year-old, and, the bane of my career, a stress-fractured 4th lumbar vertebrae. Looking back, its a wonder I had any healthy days in those four years.
Workouts
Our program was rigorously structured, and, in some cases, even individualized, with each athlete shooting for goals ascribed by our meglomanical and ever-present coach, Christopher Buhler. The man was an AMAZING athlete who ran nearly every work out with us, and despite spotting us 15+ years in the age category, he consistently beat about half the team in some workouts. I could go on for days about this man, but, for the purpose of this story, a small vignette is all I will need to get the idea of what it was like to run for Coach Buhler. Prior to a track meet at Purdue University, he handed each of us a slip of paper in our individual scheduled meetings with events and times written on it. He handed me a paper that said "800 meters - 1:59 1600 meter - 4:00." Keeping in mind I was a DISTANCE athlete (5000m and 10,000m were my track events), this would not exactly be a cakewalk. He looked at me in the eye, and said "You WILL run these times." I ran exactly 4:00 for the 1500, puked my guts out, and came back with a 2:00 for the 800...both were the fastest I had ever, and would ever, run in those events. Myself and my teammates, would do just about anything we could physically to meet the expectations of this man. That is the sign of a great coach. The title of this post is a phrase Coach Buhler liked to use with impunity...I never quite understood why...
My all-time favorite workout in college was on Mondays in mid-cross country season. We would get in a van and drive 12 miles off-campus, out into the farm fields surrounding lovely Muncie, Indiana. After a cursory stretch, we would jog out another mile and then back as a warmup, and then begin our 12 mile return trip. The goal would be to increase our pace every mile. We started at a leisurely 7:30 pace, and by the time we hit campus, we were knocking on the door of 4:30 miles. We would be FLYING through campus, dodging vehicles and pedestrians...it was exhilarating.
College cross country races are 8000 meters (8 kilometers) during the regular season, and 10,000 for NCAA Regionals, so the kilometer was a vital instrument in training. A 3:05 minute kilometer was equivalent to a 5:00 mile....we would regularly knock out 1k intervals in 2:45 with minimal rest between. On a good day, it was an amazingly effortless endeavor...on a bad day, it was a death march. We ran a 10k loop regularly in the low 30 minute range...as a TEAM. It was really fun ripping off 4:50 miles with a group of your best friends...and your coach.
The Start Box
Race day was usually accompanied with a bundle of nerves. We had a strict regimen prepared by Coach Buhler, replete with uniform specifications. Black Nike running pants and a grey t-shirt with a sublimated "Ball State Distance" on the front...all go, no show. The idea was to hit the line with a layer of sweat...that way you knew you were warm. We stretched, did a few pull-outs to simulate the start, and, eventually, warmups came off and we were ready to toe the line. Cross country meets start in a HUGE line perpendicular to the course, with each team contained in a "Start Box." You could usually fit four guys across the front of your box, and the final three on the team just behind. Sometimes, you'd be looking down a line of guys 200 strong. Starting fast was imperative.
I always hated the start. There was always an instant red-line...going as fast as you can and putting yourself in oxygen debt isn't very appealing when you have 5 or 6 hilly miles to go. The most important thing was the ability to come out of that gutted feeling and find your rhythm. The absolute key to all distance running is finding rhythm...if you are out of rhythm, say, due to injury or just lack of mental focus, you are pretty much toast. You will find yourself in pain, and the pain will eventually consume you. I have always been a fast starter in spite of myself. Prior to every race, I would tell myself to take it easy off the line, settle in, and make my move later in the race. Inevitably, I would find myself at the front of the race, sometimes that was a good thing, but many times it simply meant I would be getting passed for the remainder of the race! I came out of the gate at a race my freshman year and found myself in the top five after the first kilometer. I looked at those in front of me, and was horrified to see that Bob Kennedy (a future Olympian running for Indiana University) was not there, even though I knew he was at the race. I was palpably relieved when somebody else asked "Where's Bob?," and another Indiana runner assured us that he would be by...he was simply using this race as a training exercise. Sure enough, before we hit the second kilometer, he passed us like we were going backwards. I was happy to finish in the top twenty.
Cross country can be a lot more brutal than it would appear from an outside perspective. There are flying elbows at the start looking to connect with a chest or a face, sharp metal spikes on the bottom of shoes that shred shins readily (I still have a TON of scars), and there's the infamous turn-flag grab and rebound. I was the victim of the latter by one of my own teammates in a race...the flag sprang back and nailed me between the eyes. All of this, plus the battle against what could occasionally be some seriously difficult terrain. I tended to prefer the more difficult courses....lots of hills and turns were advantageous to a short guy like me. Most races were held on golf courses, which could range from desktop flat at University of Illinois, to extremely "rolling" like Southern Indiana University. Indiana University had its own dedicated cross country course, which was really nice, and quite challenging. Oh...and then there was the weather. We trained in all conditions (my personal record extremes are a head index of 114 and a wind chill of -63), so we would be prepared to race in all conditions. From blistering heat and choking dust to freezing rain and sloppy mud, we did it all. And somehow, we did it with speed.
Pain
At some point in the race, ALMOST without exception, you would begin to feel pain. Sure, there are a couple races I can remember when it all felt so easy...like I was floating...but the vast majority were spent in a constant mental battle against physical limits. I had been trained to embrace the pain and use it to gauge my performance. I knew the pain level that was actually GOOD to be at, and I knew all to well when that pain began to be debilitating. I could tell what my pace was usually within 5 seconds per mile, just by how I was feeling. The delicate balance between pushing yourself and pacing yourself was a constant game of chess contested between body and mind. From the outside, running doesn't seem very cerebral. Inside the mind of a distance athlete is a constant brain battle. Checking breathing. Checking stride. Adjusting for terrain. Looking for teammates. Pass this guy or draft off him for a while? Power up a hill. Stride out on a downhill. Attack a turn. And that nagging thought that never, ever goes away...will I have enough left in the tank to finish strong?
When I was physically well, I was a strong mental runner. I found it easy to convince my legs and lungs to perform at a high level. I was always breaking down a race flag by flag...running from corner to corner and attacking turns like I would have in my days as a soccer player. I made it fun. I talked to my competitors, both to relax myself, and as a psychological weapon against them (How can that guy be talking when I can't even breathe?) I waved to my parents if they were at a race, I looked forward to hills, and when the finish came, although I didn't have the strongest kick in the world, I would generally push myself WELL into the red zone...feeling the pain burning my lungs and crushing my legs...and making the eventual stop at the finish line feel so very good. At those times, pain was my friend.
Then there were the bad times. The times when the pain literally overwhelmed me. My particular cross to bear was my fractured vertebrae. The pain in my lower back would literally leave me crumpled on the ground. It would be as if someone had stuck a corkscrew in my back and was just winding it tighter and tighter...it would prevent me from even breathing normally. It was as if all of energy would be sucked into the spasming muscles around my sacroiliac joint, and eventually, I could not even stand upright, much less push myself to run sub-5 minute pace. The physical pain would bring about a rapid and unforgiving flood of mental pain, and that would generally spell the end for me. It was too much. I met my limits time and time again...like an engine hitting a rev limiter, and it left me as a ragged husk of myself repeatedly. Perseverance faded to struggle. Struggle gave way to frustration. Frustration rapidly ate away at confidence. I was left with nothing. Pain had won.
The Finish Line
By the time I had finished my senior year cross country season, I was mentally burned out. Constantly dealing with my back issues (which remain with me to this day) had broken me down to questioning what had previously been unassailable....my love for the sport. I needed to take a step away from the competitive drive that had left me raw and bloody for want of my prior physical state. I was hurt, and after well over a year of trying everything, I knew my career as a competitive athlete was over. This realization, painful though it was, also happened to contribute to an epiphany of sorts: I didn't HAVE to do this. Call it maturation, call it coming to my senses, call it a sudden onset of sanity...but I made peace with the finish line and came away from years of pain (both good and bad) with an indefatigable source of pride in what I had accomplished.
Running has helped me grow as a person in innumerable and immeasurable ways, and putting the thoughts of that process down has been somewhat cathartic. Of late, I have strayed from putting one foot in front of the other in favor of cranking out miles on two wheels, but always the drive and purity of athleticism that is running flows through my veins....probably why I enjoy the singlespeed mountain bike so much.
So...I started to run again. I'm not fast, nor do I portend to be fast. I run to enjoy myself. I run to BE myself.
Cross country was, and is, my favorite running discipline. I love to run off the road. I find it mentally easier to break up a long run into a series of segments, and concentrate on where I'm stepping and where the next turn or hill is rather than how fast I am going. Of course, in college, I was pretty much made to be concerned about ALL of these things...speed being the obvious goal. Racing cross country at the Division I level wasn't a big deal in and of itself, but that's as far as I ever got in terms of exclusivity in the running world, so I remain proud of that accomplishment. I figure at one time, I was knocking out miles in greater quantity and higher speed than a good portion of the general public, so there's my justification for this blogular iteration.
Getting to the Starting Line
Miles. Miles by the thousands. Miles of pavement, miles of gravel, miles of dirt. That's what it took to get to the starting line. In high school, I had somehow parlayed workouts totalling approximately 25 miles per week into an extremely successful career, culminating with a victory and course record at the Amateur Athletic Union Junior Olympics. In college, it became immediately clear that there was NO WAY that was going to happen. My freshman year, weekly mileage immediately averaged 75 and above per week. And that meant running 7 days per week. Sure, NCAA regulations maintain that an athlete may only practice 6 days in a week...but the caveat lay in the wording...only six days of SUPERVISED practice were allowed. If you wanted to be successful, you ran the "suggested" 14 miles on Sunday, without the coach...and usually with a hangover.
At any rate, with my mileage tripled, and even quadrupled by the end of the season, it was quite an adjustment to my body. Eventually, the miles won, leaving me to end the season with a stress fracture in my femur. Yes, it hurt. No, I did not stop running. I had worked hard, and wanted badly to compete in the biggest races of the season. Plus, the doctors gave me a 90% chance that the leg would not break completely during the race. There's a sneak-peek into my mentality...and the reason I wanted to write this out...
I ran through multiple twisted ankles, countless bouts with shin splints, patellar tendinitis, pulled hamstrings, pulled calf muscles, pulled hip flexors, the aforementioned cracked femur, a bunion that, according to my podiatrist, could have been from an 80-year-old, and, the bane of my career, a stress-fractured 4th lumbar vertebrae. Looking back, its a wonder I had any healthy days in those four years.
Workouts
Our program was rigorously structured, and, in some cases, even individualized, with each athlete shooting for goals ascribed by our meglomanical and ever-present coach, Christopher Buhler. The man was an AMAZING athlete who ran nearly every work out with us, and despite spotting us 15+ years in the age category, he consistently beat about half the team in some workouts. I could go on for days about this man, but, for the purpose of this story, a small vignette is all I will need to get the idea of what it was like to run for Coach Buhler. Prior to a track meet at Purdue University, he handed each of us a slip of paper in our individual scheduled meetings with events and times written on it. He handed me a paper that said "800 meters - 1:59 1600 meter - 4:00." Keeping in mind I was a DISTANCE athlete (5000m and 10,000m were my track events), this would not exactly be a cakewalk. He looked at me in the eye, and said "You WILL run these times." I ran exactly 4:00 for the 1500, puked my guts out, and came back with a 2:00 for the 800...both were the fastest I had ever, and would ever, run in those events. Myself and my teammates, would do just about anything we could physically to meet the expectations of this man. That is the sign of a great coach. The title of this post is a phrase Coach Buhler liked to use with impunity...I never quite understood why...
My all-time favorite workout in college was on Mondays in mid-cross country season. We would get in a van and drive 12 miles off-campus, out into the farm fields surrounding lovely Muncie, Indiana. After a cursory stretch, we would jog out another mile and then back as a warmup, and then begin our 12 mile return trip. The goal would be to increase our pace every mile. We started at a leisurely 7:30 pace, and by the time we hit campus, we were knocking on the door of 4:30 miles. We would be FLYING through campus, dodging vehicles and pedestrians...it was exhilarating.
College cross country races are 8000 meters (8 kilometers) during the regular season, and 10,000 for NCAA Regionals, so the kilometer was a vital instrument in training. A 3:05 minute kilometer was equivalent to a 5:00 mile....we would regularly knock out 1k intervals in 2:45 with minimal rest between. On a good day, it was an amazingly effortless endeavor...on a bad day, it was a death march. We ran a 10k loop regularly in the low 30 minute range...as a TEAM. It was really fun ripping off 4:50 miles with a group of your best friends...and your coach.
The Start Box
Race day was usually accompanied with a bundle of nerves. We had a strict regimen prepared by Coach Buhler, replete with uniform specifications. Black Nike running pants and a grey t-shirt with a sublimated "Ball State Distance" on the front...all go, no show. The idea was to hit the line with a layer of sweat...that way you knew you were warm. We stretched, did a few pull-outs to simulate the start, and, eventually, warmups came off and we were ready to toe the line. Cross country meets start in a HUGE line perpendicular to the course, with each team contained in a "Start Box." You could usually fit four guys across the front of your box, and the final three on the team just behind. Sometimes, you'd be looking down a line of guys 200 strong. Starting fast was imperative.
I always hated the start. There was always an instant red-line...going as fast as you can and putting yourself in oxygen debt isn't very appealing when you have 5 or 6 hilly miles to go. The most important thing was the ability to come out of that gutted feeling and find your rhythm. The absolute key to all distance running is finding rhythm...if you are out of rhythm, say, due to injury or just lack of mental focus, you are pretty much toast. You will find yourself in pain, and the pain will eventually consume you. I have always been a fast starter in spite of myself. Prior to every race, I would tell myself to take it easy off the line, settle in, and make my move later in the race. Inevitably, I would find myself at the front of the race, sometimes that was a good thing, but many times it simply meant I would be getting passed for the remainder of the race! I came out of the gate at a race my freshman year and found myself in the top five after the first kilometer. I looked at those in front of me, and was horrified to see that Bob Kennedy (a future Olympian running for Indiana University) was not there, even though I knew he was at the race. I was palpably relieved when somebody else asked "Where's Bob?," and another Indiana runner assured us that he would be by...he was simply using this race as a training exercise. Sure enough, before we hit the second kilometer, he passed us like we were going backwards. I was happy to finish in the top twenty.
Cross country can be a lot more brutal than it would appear from an outside perspective. There are flying elbows at the start looking to connect with a chest or a face, sharp metal spikes on the bottom of shoes that shred shins readily (I still have a TON of scars), and there's the infamous turn-flag grab and rebound. I was the victim of the latter by one of my own teammates in a race...the flag sprang back and nailed me between the eyes. All of this, plus the battle against what could occasionally be some seriously difficult terrain. I tended to prefer the more difficult courses....lots of hills and turns were advantageous to a short guy like me. Most races were held on golf courses, which could range from desktop flat at University of Illinois, to extremely "rolling" like Southern Indiana University. Indiana University had its own dedicated cross country course, which was really nice, and quite challenging. Oh...and then there was the weather. We trained in all conditions (my personal record extremes are a head index of 114 and a wind chill of -63), so we would be prepared to race in all conditions. From blistering heat and choking dust to freezing rain and sloppy mud, we did it all. And somehow, we did it with speed.
Pain
At some point in the race, ALMOST without exception, you would begin to feel pain. Sure, there are a couple races I can remember when it all felt so easy...like I was floating...but the vast majority were spent in a constant mental battle against physical limits. I had been trained to embrace the pain and use it to gauge my performance. I knew the pain level that was actually GOOD to be at, and I knew all to well when that pain began to be debilitating. I could tell what my pace was usually within 5 seconds per mile, just by how I was feeling. The delicate balance between pushing yourself and pacing yourself was a constant game of chess contested between body and mind. From the outside, running doesn't seem very cerebral. Inside the mind of a distance athlete is a constant brain battle. Checking breathing. Checking stride. Adjusting for terrain. Looking for teammates. Pass this guy or draft off him for a while? Power up a hill. Stride out on a downhill. Attack a turn. And that nagging thought that never, ever goes away...will I have enough left in the tank to finish strong?
When I was physically well, I was a strong mental runner. I found it easy to convince my legs and lungs to perform at a high level. I was always breaking down a race flag by flag...running from corner to corner and attacking turns like I would have in my days as a soccer player. I made it fun. I talked to my competitors, both to relax myself, and as a psychological weapon against them (How can that guy be talking when I can't even breathe?) I waved to my parents if they were at a race, I looked forward to hills, and when the finish came, although I didn't have the strongest kick in the world, I would generally push myself WELL into the red zone...feeling the pain burning my lungs and crushing my legs...and making the eventual stop at the finish line feel so very good. At those times, pain was my friend.
Then there were the bad times. The times when the pain literally overwhelmed me. My particular cross to bear was my fractured vertebrae. The pain in my lower back would literally leave me crumpled on the ground. It would be as if someone had stuck a corkscrew in my back and was just winding it tighter and tighter...it would prevent me from even breathing normally. It was as if all of energy would be sucked into the spasming muscles around my sacroiliac joint, and eventually, I could not even stand upright, much less push myself to run sub-5 minute pace. The physical pain would bring about a rapid and unforgiving flood of mental pain, and that would generally spell the end for me. It was too much. I met my limits time and time again...like an engine hitting a rev limiter, and it left me as a ragged husk of myself repeatedly. Perseverance faded to struggle. Struggle gave way to frustration. Frustration rapidly ate away at confidence. I was left with nothing. Pain had won.
The Finish Line
By the time I had finished my senior year cross country season, I was mentally burned out. Constantly dealing with my back issues (which remain with me to this day) had broken me down to questioning what had previously been unassailable....my love for the sport. I needed to take a step away from the competitive drive that had left me raw and bloody for want of my prior physical state. I was hurt, and after well over a year of trying everything, I knew my career as a competitive athlete was over. This realization, painful though it was, also happened to contribute to an epiphany of sorts: I didn't HAVE to do this. Call it maturation, call it coming to my senses, call it a sudden onset of sanity...but I made peace with the finish line and came away from years of pain (both good and bad) with an indefatigable source of pride in what I had accomplished.
Running has helped me grow as a person in innumerable and immeasurable ways, and putting the thoughts of that process down has been somewhat cathartic. Of late, I have strayed from putting one foot in front of the other in favor of cranking out miles on two wheels, but always the drive and purity of athleticism that is running flows through my veins....probably why I enjoy the singlespeed mountain bike so much.
So...I started to run again. I'm not fast, nor do I portend to be fast. I run to enjoy myself. I run to BE myself.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Snapshot
I don't want to say I have a photographic memory, but I tend to have the ability to pull random specificity from poignant moments in my life. Sometimes it acts on a trigger...usually a song that was playing at the time. It happened to me today, thanks to the 1980s Alternative playlist on Pandora. Here's the story:
It was the fall of 1992, and I was fully enveloped in the chaos and utter unpredictability of life away from home, on my own, on a college campus. Trauma is usually used with a negative connotation, but any situation, be it differently good or differently bad, can certainly cause mental trauma. I was really trying to get my feet under me after being presented with the traumatic situation that pretty much involved creating a persona that would be, ostensibly, the New me. It happens to everyone that either goes away to school, moves to a new neighborhood, changes jobs, starts a relationship, etc...you find that you suddenly have an opportunity to be something slightly different than you were in the past. I am sure some people who undergo a complete reinvention that is far away from who they really are tend to have some difficulty, but I'd like to think I stuck close to the tenets that had defined myself for my 18 years. But I digress.
The single most negatively traumatic situation I was dealing with was the separation from my girlfriend. Even though my rational mind would intervene with the proverbial "cold water" interpretation of my feelings as mere youthful infatuation, I was fairly convinced that I was in love with her. Even though that did in fact happen to be the case (considering over 20 years later I'm still in this situation), I was not in a position to really call it love...not at that age. One of the things that defined me was the aching pain of separation from the girl I had dated for a year and three months. I found that the telephone was not only an inadequate source of relief from this pain...but it created even more pain...in the wallet. I blew through my allotted $100 in phone bill in the first two weeks...learning the cruelty that was the toll call. We were in the same area code, so a long distance plan would not work...it was not until after we graduated that this would change, most likely a change that was conceived and propagated by someone whose paycheck was greatly supplemented by a love-sick teenaged me. I wanted/needed to see her.
Three weeks of school went by...and the day came that she was coming to visit. She had hooked a ride from a friend at Purdue that was visiting Ball State for the weekend. It was a Friday night. I was literally a nervous wreck all day. I had given her directions to my dorm, and she had told me she was to arrive around 6 pm. After eating dinner, I could do nothing but wait. After secluding myself in my dorm room for as long as I could stand, I emerged into the common area of the dorm. A group of my friends were hanging around there, and, as I recall, all of them asked me when my girlfriend was coming. I most likely responded with a countdown to the very minute. 6 came and went, and I began to worry. I began to pace at 6:15. I could no longer converse by 6:30...I felt ready to explode. I needed to get away from everyone that seemed to be staring at me...wondering where my girlfriend was. It was a case of anticipation like I've rarely experienced, hence the reason its so burned into my memory.
7 pm found me sitting in front of the dorm on a bench, fervently searching every car door that opened for the sign of her head. I was comforted at one point by a girl I'd met the week before...I guess my anguish was pretty apparent? When 7:30 came, I was beside myself. I remember no longer being able to sit still. I alternated between scanning the road in front of the dorm and the ground between my feet. There was nothing else.
Then, the door to the dorm opened behind me. I turned to see who it was...and it was her. She was accompanied by one of my friends, having accidentally used the back door of the building, and that friend knew exactly who she was and where I was. I levitated off the bench. Here's where the memory part comes in. Her long brown/blonde tresses fell in waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a black and white striped top and a pair of black jean shorts. Past that point, everything is pretty blurry. I introduced her to a bunch of my new friends, there were smiles all around, and I took her back to my room. Then, clarity. And the reason behind this diatribe.
We were together, and my heart felt like it would burst. We hugged. We kissed. And then I (as I had previously planned), I asked her to dance. The song was Close To Me by The Cure. I held her tight, and when I looked into her eyes, she was crying. I didn't know it was possible for a person to miss another more than I had missed her, but, apparently she had missed me as well.
Hearing the song again today made me think how well I have done in keeping her Close To Me ever since.
It was the fall of 1992, and I was fully enveloped in the chaos and utter unpredictability of life away from home, on my own, on a college campus. Trauma is usually used with a negative connotation, but any situation, be it differently good or differently bad, can certainly cause mental trauma. I was really trying to get my feet under me after being presented with the traumatic situation that pretty much involved creating a persona that would be, ostensibly, the New me. It happens to everyone that either goes away to school, moves to a new neighborhood, changes jobs, starts a relationship, etc...you find that you suddenly have an opportunity to be something slightly different than you were in the past. I am sure some people who undergo a complete reinvention that is far away from who they really are tend to have some difficulty, but I'd like to think I stuck close to the tenets that had defined myself for my 18 years. But I digress.
The single most negatively traumatic situation I was dealing with was the separation from my girlfriend. Even though my rational mind would intervene with the proverbial "cold water" interpretation of my feelings as mere youthful infatuation, I was fairly convinced that I was in love with her. Even though that did in fact happen to be the case (considering over 20 years later I'm still in this situation), I was not in a position to really call it love...not at that age. One of the things that defined me was the aching pain of separation from the girl I had dated for a year and three months. I found that the telephone was not only an inadequate source of relief from this pain...but it created even more pain...in the wallet. I blew through my allotted $100 in phone bill in the first two weeks...learning the cruelty that was the toll call. We were in the same area code, so a long distance plan would not work...it was not until after we graduated that this would change, most likely a change that was conceived and propagated by someone whose paycheck was greatly supplemented by a love-sick teenaged me. I wanted/needed to see her.
Three weeks of school went by...and the day came that she was coming to visit. She had hooked a ride from a friend at Purdue that was visiting Ball State for the weekend. It was a Friday night. I was literally a nervous wreck all day. I had given her directions to my dorm, and she had told me she was to arrive around 6 pm. After eating dinner, I could do nothing but wait. After secluding myself in my dorm room for as long as I could stand, I emerged into the common area of the dorm. A group of my friends were hanging around there, and, as I recall, all of them asked me when my girlfriend was coming. I most likely responded with a countdown to the very minute. 6 came and went, and I began to worry. I began to pace at 6:15. I could no longer converse by 6:30...I felt ready to explode. I needed to get away from everyone that seemed to be staring at me...wondering where my girlfriend was. It was a case of anticipation like I've rarely experienced, hence the reason its so burned into my memory.
7 pm found me sitting in front of the dorm on a bench, fervently searching every car door that opened for the sign of her head. I was comforted at one point by a girl I'd met the week before...I guess my anguish was pretty apparent? When 7:30 came, I was beside myself. I remember no longer being able to sit still. I alternated between scanning the road in front of the dorm and the ground between my feet. There was nothing else.
Then, the door to the dorm opened behind me. I turned to see who it was...and it was her. She was accompanied by one of my friends, having accidentally used the back door of the building, and that friend knew exactly who she was and where I was. I levitated off the bench. Here's where the memory part comes in. Her long brown/blonde tresses fell in waves over her shoulders. She was wearing a black and white striped top and a pair of black jean shorts. Past that point, everything is pretty blurry. I introduced her to a bunch of my new friends, there were smiles all around, and I took her back to my room. Then, clarity. And the reason behind this diatribe.
We were together, and my heart felt like it would burst. We hugged. We kissed. And then I (as I had previously planned), I asked her to dance. The song was Close To Me by The Cure. I held her tight, and when I looked into her eyes, she was crying. I didn't know it was possible for a person to miss another more than I had missed her, but, apparently she had missed me as well.
Hearing the song again today made me think how well I have done in keeping her Close To Me ever since.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sommer Winter trip...
When you have the last name Sommer, it can be difficult to define or explain exactly why my love for most things winter is so pervasive. It wasn't always that way...there were a few years between my last snowmobiling experience with my dad and his friends and my first trip downhill on a snowboard when I literally had NOTHING to do during the winter. It really screwed with me mentally....so much so that Michelle used to refer to it as Winter Depression. As previously referenced, snowboarding changed all of that, and became all-consuming for a long while, until Michelle decided she wanted to try snowmobiling. Her enthusiasm for that particular endeavor has led to the rekindling of my own desire to ride, and in the 5 or so years since we started sledding, we have owned seven snowmobiles.
We Sommers have a problem with winter...we tend to enjoy it a lot. Mother Nature was very kind to us in our initial years as snowmobilers...plenty of white stuff to go around even before Christmas, and plenty of options as to where to ride each weekend. That has NOT been the case recently, when we have been forced to chase the snow and alter our schedules to take advantage of the white gold between meltdowns. This year, we were chomping at the bit to get our annual Christmas - New Year's trip planned and carried out without dealing with a fickle Ma Nature....so early December found us planning a trip to Baraga, Michigan to meet with our friends Bill and Lisa from Pennsylvania for a couple days, then finishing off the week on Lake Gogebic, MI with our boating friends for an awesome New Year celebration. Unfortunately, Old Man Winter is apparently asleep at the wheel once again, and da Yoop had NO snow for us to play on...we were left with a dilemma similar to that of the previous year (one which had a similar scenario). Last year, we packed up the truck and headed west to Colorado...but this year, the snow situation out there wasn't looking very good either. Our Pennsylvania friends made the definitive move to cancel on Michigan and head to their old stomping grounds, St. Zenon, Quebec, Canada. In a move calculated largely upon desperation, and fueled in a lesser capacity by desire to try something new....I took the plunge and decided we would commit to going with them. Instead of driving 16 hours west, we would be driving 15 hours east. No problem.
After a hectic couple of days leading up to Christmas filled with the usual familial holiday cheer, we were ready to roll. The truck was packed and in the driveway as we departed to our final family functions on Christmas day. Our desire to get rolling early was stoked by the approaching winter storm that was going to be following us to the north and east. One thing about travelling to winter activities....you always want the winter to be there WHEN you arrive, and to leave you alone in the TO and FROM stages of the trip! Well, we got home at about 10:30 Christmas night, and I set my alarm for 3:15am. I was not wanting to roll into a foreign country in a blizzard for multiple hours, and getting up that early was an easy sacrifice to make. We were rolling by 4am, and by shortly after 8, we had made it to Detroit. The border crossing was not difficult, although the female officer was less than friendly. I will admit to telling her I had one case of beer when in actuality, it was two cases of beer, a gallon of rum, two bottles of wine, a bottle of Rum Chata, and some Baileys. We were taking NO chances with our thirst after a day of hard riding.
We continued to the east, an ominous line of dark clouds to our south, and a telephonic data blackout due to the lack of an international package meaning we had to rely on the merits of the AM radio dial to tell us what we were in for weather wise. We made Toronto in about seven hours, and the radio was telling us that the Winter Storm Warning would kick in at about 4 pm ( 4pm eastern, we left at 5am eastern). That gave us about a 3 hour cushion...a bit too close for comfort yet. While passing through Toronto, we came upon the Canadian National Holiday of Boxing Day. Apparently, it is a day of shopping, much like the day after our Thanksgiving, and there was LITERALLY a 5 mile backup in both directions of the off-ramp for a major local mall. It was CRAZY. Fortunately, it didn't affect the fast lane, and we kept going.
A stiff 30 mph headwind kept our gas mileage at around 11, so stops for fuel were a bit more frequent than I would have liked. Still, we were ahead of the weather and things were looking good, so we pushed our second tank of fuel all the way into Quebec, where we suddenly found ourselves in the lingual minority...big time. I had known that Quebec was a French-speaking area of Canada with a serious bent towards independence, but I guess I didn't really figure on English being almost entirely absent. Yet...here we were, looking at a menu in a fast food restaurant at a truck stop...deciding what to eat by looking at pictures and feeling very thankful that the girl behind the counter spoke decent English...our knowledge of French being exactly NIL. Also...I found out that Capital One will cut you off if your card starts reeling up charges in another country...a quick phone call from my parents established that fact and the card was usable again shortly afterwards. Merci.
The third large city we encountered was Montreal, and we successfully navigated the French road signs until we found ourselves headed north for the final leg of the trip. It was right around then, 10+ hours into the drive, that we first encountered what would be considered ridable snow. That amount rapidly increased as we continued north, and by the time we were off the highway and into the area around St. Zenon, the snow was COPIOUS. As in...there were FEET of it. The roads were mercifully clear as we climbed and twisted into the low mountains of the area, and the picturesque cottages along the route looked like they had been plucked out of a snow globe. It was surreal.
FINALLY, 15 hours after the inception of the drive, we pulled into our destination. Le Auberge de Cabanon is a rustic lodge and restaurant that is only arrived at with a 5 mile drive down what I am sure is a dirt road in the summer, and was dressed as a icy washboard for the winter. We checked in, met our PA friends, and they helped Michelle unload the truck and bring our stuff to the room as I unloaded the sleds and got them into the locked corral where they would spend each evening. Theft was a concern in the past, so La Cabanon not only locks the sleds away in the evening, but also the parking lot where the trailers and tow rigs were situated. Very smart. I had to park about 4 rows back, the lot being almost entirely full of two and four-place sled trailers. Clearly, we had come to the right place.
The next day dawned with a grey menace in the sky, but with a fiery hot desire to RIDE in our bellies. Our group consisted of 10 people, our friend's Bill and Lisa, Michelle and I, two newlywed couples Josh and Maree and Will and Amy, and hardcore sledders Justin and Steve. Snow was already falling as we hit the trail (this was the storm I had been outrunning, it was a bit slower than forecast), and it continued all day long. Visibility was an issue, as the falling snow and snow dust kicked up by the riders in front kept one searching for a clear line of sight, but that didn't slow the group down by much. We were running 60-70 mph on the straights and having a GREAT time. The trails were spectacular...rolling, twisting, smooth ribbons cutting a path through an endless array of pine and birch trees. Everything I saw flashing past my goggles was amazing...we had hit snowmobile paydirt. Right away, I knew it was worth the drive.
The subsequent days were much the same, with the temps getting gradually colder and the snow tapering off after adding another 6 to 8 inches of white fluffiness to the area. Day two saw the roughest trails of the trip, most likely as the result of the fresh snow and the large amount of traffic...which was entirely relative...a large amount of traffic in Quebec is still empty trails compared to what we are used to. We rode across a hydroelectric dam, alongside a beautiful river, up and down scores of mountains, through picturesque villages, over a one-lane suspension bridge, and across a somewhat questionably frozen lake (we were assured it was solid...the slushy parts said otherwise!). The towns of St. Donay and St. Michelle felt like they were transplanted from the French Alps. Justin and Steve took turns getting stuck in the powder of an abandoned ski hill. We raced through a national park, and had fun doing husband v. wife grudge match drag races on the lake back at La Cabanon. We ate at La Glaciere, Le Pub, Repos and Hector's...the latter being named after the owners 2 year old son who was present for our meal and waved goodbye to us as we rode away. The people we encounterd were VERY friendly, and very patient with a bunch of non-French speakers...repetition was the key to our understanding! We only got lost once, and that was due to poorly marked trails, but it did result in a bit of consternation, as being lost in an area where you don't speak the native tongue at night in the freezing cold with less than 1/2 tank of gas can be...well...bothersome. The hot tub and some cocktails welcomed us back each night, and by the end of the five days, my body was actually feeling pretty good.
We racked up just shy of 850 miles, with about 75 of them in the "bumpy" category. The rest was borderline heavenly. Our sleds all ran flawlessly, and, as a group, we moved very well together...nobody lagged behind, and, more importantly, nobody got lost! Our skill in speaking French did not progress nearly as well, especially with regard to Michelle saying goodbye. She could not get her mouth to properly say "Au revoir," which was a source of much hilarity. "Adieu" seemed to suit her much better.
Our final night was New Year's Eve, but after a 160 mile day, we gave ourselves a pass an had our own countdown at like 10 pm...another contributing factor being that the PA folks were rolling for home at 5am, with us following by 7 (6 our time). We bade our friends "adieu," packed for our early morning departure, and went to sleep. The next morning we chased the sun across the sky heading west for 15 more hours of driving, awake, but dreaming of the wonders we had just experienced.
We Sommers have a problem with winter...we tend to enjoy it a lot. Mother Nature was very kind to us in our initial years as snowmobilers...plenty of white stuff to go around even before Christmas, and plenty of options as to where to ride each weekend. That has NOT been the case recently, when we have been forced to chase the snow and alter our schedules to take advantage of the white gold between meltdowns. This year, we were chomping at the bit to get our annual Christmas - New Year's trip planned and carried out without dealing with a fickle Ma Nature....so early December found us planning a trip to Baraga, Michigan to meet with our friends Bill and Lisa from Pennsylvania for a couple days, then finishing off the week on Lake Gogebic, MI with our boating friends for an awesome New Year celebration. Unfortunately, Old Man Winter is apparently asleep at the wheel once again, and da Yoop had NO snow for us to play on...we were left with a dilemma similar to that of the previous year (one which had a similar scenario). Last year, we packed up the truck and headed west to Colorado...but this year, the snow situation out there wasn't looking very good either. Our Pennsylvania friends made the definitive move to cancel on Michigan and head to their old stomping grounds, St. Zenon, Quebec, Canada. In a move calculated largely upon desperation, and fueled in a lesser capacity by desire to try something new....I took the plunge and decided we would commit to going with them. Instead of driving 16 hours west, we would be driving 15 hours east. No problem.
After a hectic couple of days leading up to Christmas filled with the usual familial holiday cheer, we were ready to roll. The truck was packed and in the driveway as we departed to our final family functions on Christmas day. Our desire to get rolling early was stoked by the approaching winter storm that was going to be following us to the north and east. One thing about travelling to winter activities....you always want the winter to be there WHEN you arrive, and to leave you alone in the TO and FROM stages of the trip! Well, we got home at about 10:30 Christmas night, and I set my alarm for 3:15am. I was not wanting to roll into a foreign country in a blizzard for multiple hours, and getting up that early was an easy sacrifice to make. We were rolling by 4am, and by shortly after 8, we had made it to Detroit. The border crossing was not difficult, although the female officer was less than friendly. I will admit to telling her I had one case of beer when in actuality, it was two cases of beer, a gallon of rum, two bottles of wine, a bottle of Rum Chata, and some Baileys. We were taking NO chances with our thirst after a day of hard riding.
We continued to the east, an ominous line of dark clouds to our south, and a telephonic data blackout due to the lack of an international package meaning we had to rely on the merits of the AM radio dial to tell us what we were in for weather wise. We made Toronto in about seven hours, and the radio was telling us that the Winter Storm Warning would kick in at about 4 pm ( 4pm eastern, we left at 5am eastern). That gave us about a 3 hour cushion...a bit too close for comfort yet. While passing through Toronto, we came upon the Canadian National Holiday of Boxing Day. Apparently, it is a day of shopping, much like the day after our Thanksgiving, and there was LITERALLY a 5 mile backup in both directions of the off-ramp for a major local mall. It was CRAZY. Fortunately, it didn't affect the fast lane, and we kept going.
A stiff 30 mph headwind kept our gas mileage at around 11, so stops for fuel were a bit more frequent than I would have liked. Still, we were ahead of the weather and things were looking good, so we pushed our second tank of fuel all the way into Quebec, where we suddenly found ourselves in the lingual minority...big time. I had known that Quebec was a French-speaking area of Canada with a serious bent towards independence, but I guess I didn't really figure on English being almost entirely absent. Yet...here we were, looking at a menu in a fast food restaurant at a truck stop...deciding what to eat by looking at pictures and feeling very thankful that the girl behind the counter spoke decent English...our knowledge of French being exactly NIL. Also...I found out that Capital One will cut you off if your card starts reeling up charges in another country...a quick phone call from my parents established that fact and the card was usable again shortly afterwards. Merci.
The third large city we encountered was Montreal, and we successfully navigated the French road signs until we found ourselves headed north for the final leg of the trip. It was right around then, 10+ hours into the drive, that we first encountered what would be considered ridable snow. That amount rapidly increased as we continued north, and by the time we were off the highway and into the area around St. Zenon, the snow was COPIOUS. As in...there were FEET of it. The roads were mercifully clear as we climbed and twisted into the low mountains of the area, and the picturesque cottages along the route looked like they had been plucked out of a snow globe. It was surreal.
FINALLY, 15 hours after the inception of the drive, we pulled into our destination. Le Auberge de Cabanon is a rustic lodge and restaurant that is only arrived at with a 5 mile drive down what I am sure is a dirt road in the summer, and was dressed as a icy washboard for the winter. We checked in, met our PA friends, and they helped Michelle unload the truck and bring our stuff to the room as I unloaded the sleds and got them into the locked corral where they would spend each evening. Theft was a concern in the past, so La Cabanon not only locks the sleds away in the evening, but also the parking lot where the trailers and tow rigs were situated. Very smart. I had to park about 4 rows back, the lot being almost entirely full of two and four-place sled trailers. Clearly, we had come to the right place.
The next day dawned with a grey menace in the sky, but with a fiery hot desire to RIDE in our bellies. Our group consisted of 10 people, our friend's Bill and Lisa, Michelle and I, two newlywed couples Josh and Maree and Will and Amy, and hardcore sledders Justin and Steve. Snow was already falling as we hit the trail (this was the storm I had been outrunning, it was a bit slower than forecast), and it continued all day long. Visibility was an issue, as the falling snow and snow dust kicked up by the riders in front kept one searching for a clear line of sight, but that didn't slow the group down by much. We were running 60-70 mph on the straights and having a GREAT time. The trails were spectacular...rolling, twisting, smooth ribbons cutting a path through an endless array of pine and birch trees. Everything I saw flashing past my goggles was amazing...we had hit snowmobile paydirt. Right away, I knew it was worth the drive.
The subsequent days were much the same, with the temps getting gradually colder and the snow tapering off after adding another 6 to 8 inches of white fluffiness to the area. Day two saw the roughest trails of the trip, most likely as the result of the fresh snow and the large amount of traffic...which was entirely relative...a large amount of traffic in Quebec is still empty trails compared to what we are used to. We rode across a hydroelectric dam, alongside a beautiful river, up and down scores of mountains, through picturesque villages, over a one-lane suspension bridge, and across a somewhat questionably frozen lake (we were assured it was solid...the slushy parts said otherwise!). The towns of St. Donay and St. Michelle felt like they were transplanted from the French Alps. Justin and Steve took turns getting stuck in the powder of an abandoned ski hill. We raced through a national park, and had fun doing husband v. wife grudge match drag races on the lake back at La Cabanon. We ate at La Glaciere, Le Pub, Repos and Hector's...the latter being named after the owners 2 year old son who was present for our meal and waved goodbye to us as we rode away. The people we encounterd were VERY friendly, and very patient with a bunch of non-French speakers...repetition was the key to our understanding! We only got lost once, and that was due to poorly marked trails, but it did result in a bit of consternation, as being lost in an area where you don't speak the native tongue at night in the freezing cold with less than 1/2 tank of gas can be...well...bothersome. The hot tub and some cocktails welcomed us back each night, and by the end of the five days, my body was actually feeling pretty good.
We racked up just shy of 850 miles, with about 75 of them in the "bumpy" category. The rest was borderline heavenly. Our sleds all ran flawlessly, and, as a group, we moved very well together...nobody lagged behind, and, more importantly, nobody got lost! Our skill in speaking French did not progress nearly as well, especially with regard to Michelle saying goodbye. She could not get her mouth to properly say "Au revoir," which was a source of much hilarity. "Adieu" seemed to suit her much better.
Our final night was New Year's Eve, but after a 160 mile day, we gave ourselves a pass an had our own countdown at like 10 pm...another contributing factor being that the PA folks were rolling for home at 5am, with us following by 7 (6 our time). We bade our friends "adieu," packed for our early morning departure, and went to sleep. The next morning we chased the sun across the sky heading west for 15 more hours of driving, awake, but dreaming of the wonders we had just experienced.
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