Lie High: A Few Words of Advice

             Contrary to contemporary convention (try saying that ten times fast), if you’re going to lie about your age, always lie high. If you’re thirty, don’t tell people you’re twenty-five, because they’ll either think you’re a liar, or that you don’t take good care of yourself. What you want to do is tell them you’re thirty-five. They’ll immediately respond with something like: “Wow! You look great for thirty-five!” As a thirty-three year old man, when people ask my age, I like to say forty, and I’ll be damned if they don’t think I’m the youngest looking forty year old on the planet. “What’s your secret?” they’ll often times ask. “It’s simple,” I reply with a wink of an eye. “I always lie high.”

An Accidental Trendsetter

            “So, what do you do?”

Boy, do I hate that fucking question. The answer, it seems, should be simple. Let’s see, what do I do? I wake up, I eat, I work, I train, I create, I sleep, I repeat. But that’s not the answer people are looking for. When people ask, “So, what do you do?” what they’re really asking is: “So, what do you do that earns you money?” Simply put, I don’t think that’s anybody’s business but their own, yet, every time I meet someone new, they ask, “So, what do you do?” There are two reasons people ask this question. 1) They are horrible conversationalists and have no other topics in which they can talk to strangers about. Or, 2) They have amazing professions that they really want to tell you about. Either way, it’s a horrible question to ask someone you don’t know. But since we’re on the topic, what exactly is it that we do? I suppose, more than anything, we give ourselves labels—I’m a doctor; I’m a lawyer; I’m a clockmaker…Almost always, when we label ourselves, we use our profession, the thing we do that makes us money. But I think our society needs to break away from that. I think we need to talk about our other labels, perhaps all of our labels. And I suppose, since I’m writing this—making these words nothing more than a conversation with myself—we might as well focus on me.

“So, what do I do?”

If we’re talking about money: I’m a carpenter; a construction worker; a skilled craftsman; a truck driver; a forklift operator; a welder; a laborer; an organizer; a janitor; an installer; a foreman; a helper; a painter; a hole digger; a concrete worker; a landscaper; and a writer. (Note: It’s interesting, that out of all those things, I make the least amount of money writing. That’s right all of you aspiring writers—I will make more money this week cleaning up other people’s messes than I will in writing this essay! Though, on a more positive note, I will take more pride in this one sentence than I will in all of those other things combined.)

If we’re talking about things not pertaining to money: I’m a son; a grandson; a brother; a nephew; an uncle; a friend; a boyfriend; an athlete; a runner; a cyclist; an editor; a photographer; a competitive eater; an artist; an illustrator; a trivia aficionado; a hiker; a backpacker; a camper; an outdoor lover; an adventurist; a mountaineer; a skier; a humorist; a romantic; an alcoholic; a history buff; an avid reader; a publisher; a graphic designer; a blogger; a film fanatic; a poet; a lyricist; and a writer.

And then there are all the things I used to be. I am a former baseball player; wrestler; rugby player; boy scout; dishwasher; cook; caddy; clerk; counselor; doorman; coach; captain; treasurer; drug user; drug smuggler; customer service representative; technician; salesman; hot dog vendor; cold caller; machine operator; Ph tester; auctioneer; lawn mower; snowboarder; hipster; leaf picker; farmer; inmate; and student.

I’m sure there’s a bunch more that I’m forgetting, but of all the different things I can be labeled, the one that’s probably the most surprising is trendsetter. That’s right, I’m a trendsetter, but I swear it’s only by accident. It’s just that the activities I do, the things I become interested in, and the clothes I wear, always seem to be a few years ahead of the rest of society. I’m not sure why this is, but it just is. Some examples: I was two years ahead of the bandana craze of ’98; I was wearing skinny jeans almost a decade before they became fashionable (sure, they were my mother’s old jeans that she wore in high school in the 1970’s, but still…); all through college I wore the same pair of cutoff camouflage shorts and soon as I graduated they were being sold at Abercrombie and Fitch; I listened to Americana music long before Mumford and Sons made it mainstream; I was into hiking way before Instagram ruined it; and don’t even get me started on this whole “lumbersexual” craze that’s trending as we speak.

Like I mentioned before, I’m not really sure how I became a trendsetter, or why this is happening to me. But I know what you’re thinking—so, what are the next trends going to be? Okay, I’ll let you in a few of the things I’m currently doing/wearing that will soon be popular: I quit washing my hair about two years ago—no shampoo, no conditioner, nothing—so, get ready for that to be a thing. Fanny packs will most certainly be going back into style in the near future, as well as convertible pants, woman’s sunglasses with tiger print frames, and cuffing the ends of your jeans because they’re two sizes too long. Let’s see, what else? Self-publishing, because traditional publishers won’t give you the time of day—that should be a trend soon. As well as writing blogs that completely change topic halfway through. And as far as entertainment: Jeopardy should soon be a hit among Millennials and Brandi Carlile should be the next Adele. Don’t believe me? Just wait a few years and you’ll see. After all, I am a trendsetter. So, what do you do?

The Secret Vision Board

            When Jane got home from work, she couldn’t find Marvin anywhere. Her husband wasn’t in the kitchen cooking dinner, or in the bathroom cleaning up. He wasn’t watching television in the living room, or taking a nap in their bed. She even climbed up to the third story terrace where they liked to watch the sunset. And from there, she looked down upon the back yard, but nothing. She noticed his truck in the driveway when she pulled in, and since he never went anywhere on foot, he had to be somewhere in the house. There was only one last place to look.

            Jane startled Marvin when she walked down the basement steps. He quickly covered up whatever it was he was doing, and swung his swivel chair in her direction. “Babe! You’re home? I must have lost track of time.”

            “Were you masturbating?” Jane giggled.

            Marvin’s eyes lit up. “No! No, I wasn’t…doing that.”

            “It’s okay.” Jane smiled. “In fact, I’m a bit turned on.”
            “I wasn’t masturbating.”

            “Then what are those?” Jane nodded towards a pile of magazines stacked on his nearly empty workbench.

            “Nothing.”

            “Marvin, it’s ok if you’re looking at porn.” Jane walked towards the bench. “I really don’t mind.”

            “It’s not porn.”

            “Then why are you being so secretive about it?” Jane started shuffling through the magazines—Sports Illustrated, People, Better Living, Time, National Geographic—before noticing a large sheet of cardboard laying flat in the bench. “What the hell are you doing down here?” she asked with suspicion.

            “It’s nothing. Come on, let me buy you dinner.”

            “In a minute.” Jane flipped the cardboard over to discover a collage of photographs pasted to the other side.

            “Alright, you got me.” Marvin threw his hands in the air.

            “How did I get you?” Jane was confused. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

            “It’s my vision board, okay?”

            “Vision board?”

            “Yes, a vision board. I read about it in a self-help book.”

            “Which one?”

            “You know, the one everybody’s always talking about.”

            “Oh, that one. So, tell me about your vision board. What is it exactly that you are visioning?”

            “Well, look at it.” Marvin pointed towards the board. “I’m not sure it needs much explaining.”

            “But I think it does.” Jane pointed to a photo of a locomotive. “Why is there a train on your vision board?”

            “Isn’t it obvious? I want to own a train someday.”

            “I don’t think people own trains.”

            “Vanderbilt owned trains.”

            “I think those were different times. Let’s move on.” Jane pointed to a photo of a basketball. “Do you want to be a basketball player?”

            “No.” Marvin laughed. “Get serious. I’m only five-nine. I want to own the Trail Blazers.”

            Jane laughed even harder. “The Trail Blazers? Yeah, good luck with that.” She walked away from the bench shaking her head. “The Trail Blazers?” she emphasized again, laughing even harder. “I think you have a better chance of owning a train.” She laughed all the way up the stairs.

            The following morning, as Jane was heading out to work, she noticed Marvin’s truck in the driveway. She was immediately concerned. Marvin always left for work before she woke up. Instead of scouring the house, she headed straight for the basement, where she found Marvin. He was sitting at his bench, working on his Vision Board.

            “Why aren’t you at work?” Jane asked.

            “I don’t have to go to work anymore, Babe.”

            “What do you mean you don’t have to go to work anymore?”

            “I have a vision board now.”

            “So?”

            “So, once the vision board becomes reality, I’ll never have to work again. Come look, I’ve added some things.”

            Jane walked over to find more magazine cut-outs pasted on the board. There was a picture of a stack of cash and another of a yacht and another of a cowboy riding a stallion, which was kicking its front hooves high into the air.

            “See,” Marvin assured her, “nothing to worry about.”

            “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

            “What are you talking about, Babe?”

            “How do you think a vision board works?”

            “It’s awesome, Babe. You just put things on the vision board that you really, really, really want, and eventually they come to you. You know, by visioning them.”

            “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

“How would you even know? Did you read the book?”

            “Did you read the book?”      

            “Most of it.”

            “Most of it?”

            “Well, up to the part about the vision board. You should really try it, Babe.”

            “I don’t have time for this right now. One of us has to go to work.”

            When Jane came home from work, Marvin was still in the basement, still working on his vision board. Now there were cutouts of swimsuit models all over it.

            “What the hell is that?” Jane asked.

            “Those are the girls I’m going to date someday, Babe.”

            “Excuse me?”

            “All these girls,” Marvin pointed at the numerous women, “I’m visioning that I’ll sleep with them someday.”

            “Shouldn’t you have pictures of me on there? You know—your wife.”

            “But I already sleep with you, Babe. Why would I vision that? The vision board is about visioning things you actually want.”

            Jane stormed up the stairs. She came back an hour later. “Honey,” she said, “I took your advice and made my own vision board.”

            “That’s great, Babe. Let’s see it.”

            “It’s up on the third floor terrace.”

            “The third floor terrace? Why would you make your vision board up there, Babe?”

            “Why would you make yours in the basement?”

            “Touché, Babe. Touché.”

            Marvin followed his wife up to the third floor terrace, where she showed him her vision board, which only had three photos.

            Marvin pointed at the first one. “What’s that, Babe?”

            “That’s a briefcase full of money.”

            “Great vision, Babe. You do understand how this works. And that?” he pointed at the next picture.

            “That’s an insurance policy.”

            “Ok, Babe, that’s kind of weird, but whatever, it’s your vision. And the last one?”

            “That’s a funeral procession.”

            “A funeral procession? Now, Babe, why would you ever vision a funeral process…”

            Before Marvin could finish his sentence, Jane pushed him off the terrace.

            She looked down at his broken body, and then back up, toward the most beautiful sunset she had ever seen.

The Greatest QB of All Time: An Argument for Peyton Manning

           The sheriff has hung up his holster. And football will never again be the same. At least not for me anyway. For myself—and for many fans of this generation—Peyton Manning was not only the poster child of the NFL, he was the NFL (you have to admit, without him, 2011 didn’t feel quite the same). In the past two decades, nobody exemplified the game of football quite like the man who wore number 18. And in my opinion, in the history of the sport, no quarterback has ever been as exceptional. The following is my argument why:

            Let’s begin with the basics. Let’s start with the stats. Here are just a few of Peyton’s NFL records:

·         Most career passing yards: 71,940

·         Most career touchdown passes: 539

·         Most career wins (playoffs and regular season) by a quarterback: 200

·         First and only quarterback to reach 200 career wins (playoffs and regular season)

·         Most regular season career wins as starting quarterback: 186 (shared with Brett Favre)

·         Most touchdown passes, season: 55 (2013)

·         Most seasons with at least 4,000 passing yards: 14 (1999–2004, 2006–2010, 2012–2014)

·         Most passing yards, season: 5,477 (2013)

·         Most consecutive seasons with at least 20 touchdown passes: 13 (1998–2010)

·         Most consecutive seasons with at least 25 touchdown passes: 13 (1998–2010)

·         Most games with a perfect passer rating, career: 4 (includes 1 playoff game)

And now, some awards:

·         5x NFL MVP (2003 (shared with Steve McNair), 2004, 2008, 2009, 2013)

·         2x NFL Offensive Player of the Year (2004, 2013)

·         14× Pro Bowl (1999–2000, 2002–2010, 2012–2014)

·         7× First-team All-Pro (2003–2005, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2013)

·         8× AFC Offensive Player of the Year Awards (1999, 2003–2005, 2008, 2009, 2012, 2013)

·         2005 Walter Payton Man of the Year Award

·         2005 Pro Bowl MVP

·         2007 Super Bowl MVP

·         2012 NFL Comeback Player of the Year

·         27× AFC Offensive Player Of The Week

Okay. Okay. I know what you’re thinking: What more do you need to say? Don’t the records and awards speak for themselves? If it was only that simple. Sure, the numerous records and awards should be enough to establish Peyton as the greatest QB in the history of the NFL (5x NFL MVP should alone be enough), but—here it is, that dreaded “but”—I know the argument the naysayers will make. I can hear it already: “But he only won two Super Bowls.” And that’s true. There is no disputing that fact. And the two quarterbacks who time and time again get placed ahead of Manning in many sportswriters’ rankings of the greatest QB of all time—Joe Montana and Tom Brady—have won more, twice as many in fact. But—oh, if that “but” doesn’t work both ways—if Super Bowl wins are the true indicator of greatness then is Charles Haley not the greatest football player of all time? Charles who? You’re thinking. Charles Haley is the only player to have won five Super Bowl rings. So, there goes that argument. But, for the sake of arguing, let’s talk a bit more about Montana and Brady in comparison to Manning.

            One could argue that Joe Montana is the greatest quarterback in the history of the NFL playoffs. He never lost a Super Bowl. 4-0. But if winning is how we gauge greatness, then Tim Tebow would still have a job in the NFL, because the only thing that guy ever did was win. Also, if winning in the playoffs is how we define greatness, then Eli Manning would be considered a far superior quarterback that Dan Marino, and you’d be hard pressed to find any football aficionado to back that statement. But fortunately, at least for my argument, winning is not the only factor when determining greatness. When determining greatness we must look at the supporting cast. And when discussing Joe Montana, we must factor in Jerry Rice. For the majority of his career, Montana had the greatest wide receiver in the NFL at his disposal. Not that Peyton didn’t have great receivers. He did—Marvin Harrison, Reggie Wayne, Wes Welker, to name a few—but nobody that compares to Jerry Rice. Not only was Rice the greatest receiver of his generation, but he is arguably the greatest football player who ever lived (another argument for another day). I can’t even imagine what could have occurred if Peyton had Rice on his team for a majority of his career. And if we take away post season victories, what did Montana accomplish concerning stats/records? Montana never once threw for over 4,000 yards in a season (Manning did it 14 times), and only had one season in which he threw over 30 touchdowns (Manning had 9). Montana had 2 league MVP’s to Peyton’s 5. And it could be argued, that for much of his career, Montana wasn’t even the best player on his team (Again, Jerry Rice) and that during his last few seasons with San Francisco, he wasn’t even the 49er’s best quarterback (Steve Young).

            Alright, I can already hear it: Manning and Montana played in two different eras, so comparing their stats shouldn’t determine who was better. Well then, let’s move on to Tom Brady, who did play in the same era as Manning, and who, like Montana, also won four Super Bowls. First thing first, let’s pretend that Brady isn’t a dirty, lying, cheater; that he didn’t let air out of footballs for much of his career before finally getting caught; that his coach didn’t video tape their opponents’ practices, giving them an unfair advantage. Yes, for the sake of argument, let’s imagine that Tom Brady is a respectable, upstanding athlete. In head to head play, Brady has the clear advantage, having won 11 of their 17 matchups, but in postseason play, Manning comes out ahead with 3 wins out of 5. As far as awards, Brady has 2 NFL MVPs to Peyton’s 5, while statistically, trails him in almost every category. Brady has 8 seasons throwing over 4,000 yards (Manning, 14) and has thrown over 30 touchdowns 6 times (Manning, 9). Brady’s 4 Super Bowl victories are twice that of Manning’s, but if a couple plays went the other way, say a missed field goal, or an opposing coach’s decision to run the ball instead of throw it, all of sudden Brady is 2-4 in the Super Bowl and there would be no discussion concerning who was better (though I’ll be the first to admit, if a couple miracle catches were incomplete, Brady could easily be 6-0 in the Super Bowl). But, speculations aside, let’s look at some other factors that might determine greatness. Brady had the luxury of playing under the same coach for his entire career; a coach many consider to be the greatest football mind of all time. Manning on the other hand, played under five different head coaches, taking his team to the Super Bowl under four of them. Also, Manning is the only quarterback to ever win the Super Bowl with two different franchises. We might also take into account the fact that Brady was drafted onto a team which was one of the best in the league at the time. Would his career have played out the same if he was drafted by the worst team in the league and thrown into a starter role on day one? How about Peyton Manning? Well, he was. Drafted first overall, Manning took his team from a 3-13 record his rookie season to 13-3 his second season, the greatest turnaround by any quarterback in the history of the game.

            I could go on and on, though, unfortunately, I understand that none of the arguments I made above will be considered credible to Patriots fans. So I guess it’s only fair to give Tom Brady the last word.

To me, he's the greatest of all-time.

What he's accomplished and the way that he studies, the way he prepares. He's really got a killer instinct too. I've been fortunate to be around him on a lot of occasions and we always hit it off; we have a great relationship and he's a friend of mine and someone that I always watch and admire because he always wants to improve, he always wants to get better and he doesn't settle for anything less than the best.

                                                                         -Tom Brady on Peyton Manning, 2011

     

            

American Heroine

Sacagawea, sometimes written as Sacajawea or Sakakawea, was only twelve years old when she was kidnapped from her Shoshone tribe and brought to a Hidatsa village on the Missouri River. It was shortly thereafter that she married a French fur trapper named Charbonneau, who either purchased her, or won her in a bet. By the time Lewis and Clark headed west in the spring of 1805 she was 14 years old and carrying a newborn baby, Jean Baptiste. The young mother would end up being the saving grace of the entire expedition.

            The name Sacagawea is often misinterpreted as “bird woman,” when its true meaning is “one who travels by boat.” It has been documented that the young native woman never complained during the arduous trip and simply accepted life as it was. When the men were becoming malnourished due to an all meat diet, it was Sacagawea who balanced their meals by finding vegetables in the wild. When one of their boats capsized as they headed up the Missouri River, it was Sacagawea who recovered the most important items, including the men’s journals. But it was neither of these acts that made Sacagawea such a vital component to the Corps of Discovery—it was her mere presence.

            Imagine you’re a Native American man, wandering with a hunting party, when you stumble upon a large group of men with strangely colored skin and mysterious weapons. Your first instinct is to kill them all, to protect your land and loved ones from these outsiders. But wait. What’s that? It’s a young Native American girl carrying a newborn baby. Surely no woman would be traveling with a war party; they must be a peaceful expedition. So instead of killing them, you converse with them. And that’s the very reason Sacagawea was so valuable. Now, there’s no way to prove that the expedition would have failed if not for her presence, but I’d be willing to bet that if she wasn’t there, Lewis and Clark would be remembered as the men who left St. Louis in 1804 and mysteriously disappeared somewhere in Indian territory.

           Even though she is remembered as not only one of the most important women in American history, but one of the most important people, we unfortunately know little information concerning Sacagawea’s life after Lewis and Clark. It is widely assumed that she died in 1812, at the age of 24, of an unknown illness, though a Native American legend tells of her leaving Charbonneau and living among a Comanche tribe until her death in 1884. She would have been 96-years old. We do know that Captain William Clark adopted young Jean Baptiste in 1813, and cared for the boy as his own.

To find out more about Sacagawea 

and other historical figures,

please purchase 

The Road and the River: An American Adventure

Now available on Amazon

Springsteen in ’16: An Argument for The Boss

           

           As Americans, is it not our duty to do what we believe is best for the future of this nation? Even if that means running for President of the United States? If you truly believe that you are the best person for the job; that you will be a better leader than anyone else currently running; don’t you have a responsibility as a citizen to campaign for the position? So, I ask, Bruce Springsteen, why haven’t you declared your candidacy yet?

            Listen, Bruce, I think we can all agree, that at this point, you are a better choice than anyone else in the race. Let’s begin with your credentials. You are a celebrity! A much more popular celebrity that Donald Trump and look how good he’s doing. And not only are you a celebrity, but you are a celebrity who’s been outspoken about political issues in the past. When Reagan name dropped you in his 1984 reelection bid, you didn’t hesitate to speak out against him. You were on the forefront of charity songs when you performed on “We are the World.” In the 1990’s, you fought for gay marriage long before it was popular to do so. And you campaigned for Barack Obama, our country’s first African American President, in both 2008 and 2012. Isn’t it time to start campaigning for yourself?

            Who else can sing about the plight of blue collar workers while selling out stadiums whose cheapest seats are $93? These are the same kind of supporters you’ll need when raising taxes is inevitable. Who else can sing about “Girls in their Summer Clothes” as a man in his late fifties and not sound creepy? If anything, you made it sound sincere, even romantic. Who else can perform in front of millions of people at the halftime of the Super Bowl and not rely on dancing, props, or sex to sell it? Think about it Bruce—nobody doesn’t like you. Sure, people might say things like, “I don’t care for his music.” But nobody has ever uttered the words: “I hate Bruce Springsteen.”

            And for Christ’s sake, your nickname is “The Boss.” The Boss! What better nickname for the President of the United States? And you have countless songs at your disposal to use for your campaign. “Born in the USA,” anyone? Hell, when you’re debating these other clowns on national TV, just break out your acoustic and dive into something off of Nebraska. You’ll instantly win over half of America with a stunt like that.

            And I know what you’re thinking: It’s too late to run for president this year. Why not wait until 2020. Three words: Springsteen in ’16! This is the only year that works. The only year your name rhymes perfectly with. Never again will you have a better motto. Say it again: “SPRINGSTEEN in ’16!” Awesome! The best political slogan since “All the Way with LBJ,” way back in 1964.

            So, Bruce, what do you say? We need you. For lack of better words, you were “Born to Run!”

The Grind

           The slick steel groove in the railroad crossing snags Jim’s front wheel like a predator snagging its prey—instantaneously and without warning. The outcome of the ill-fated incident is the same as always—the bicycle stops abruptly and the rider hits the pavement hard. Watching it happen in front of me, I immediately slam on my brakes and make sure that my friend is not injured. But even before that, my body makes an involuntary movement. I cringe. I cringe because I know the feeling. I cringe because I’ve been there before.

            There’s not much that I haven’t done on a bicycle. The time I was taken down by a set of railroad tracks, I was actually in a much worse situation than Jim. My friend Blaine was following directly behind me, right on my wheel, so when I went down, he went over, leaving a pile of bikes and bodies in the middle of a major thoroughfare. We were lucky that the cars behind us slammed on their brakes. Another time I was bombing down a hill, pedaling as fast as I could around a turn, when my left pedal clipped the asphalt, throwing me clear over my handlebars, ripping open my upper lip, knocking out my two front teeth and leaving me with hefty medical bills. Another time I took so much skin off my left arm that I could barely bend at the elbow for over a week. Another time I rode down a mountain in such extreme cold that my hands went completely numb and refused to work correctly for the next several months. I thought for sure that I had permanent nerve damage. And then there are all the little things, like the chipped kneecap and the bruised tailbone and the countless bumps, bruises, scrapes, and scabs. And I consider myself one of the lucky ones. I know so many people who’ve had it so much worse. When it comes down to it, if you’re going to ride a lot of bikes, there’s eventually going to be some pain. No doubt about it. I know, because I’ve ridden a lot of bikes. At one point, you could have almost called me obsessed.

            I’ve always ridden bicycles, since I can remember, but didn’t get seriously into the two-wheeled machines until I moved out west in 2008. And like I oftentimes do, I went absolutely gung-ho. I started with cyclocross and that quickly evolved into cross-country and short track mountain biking. On the road, I’ve done criterions and circuits. I’ve raced fixed-gear and single speed. I’ve done 24-hour solo road and mountain bike races. I’ve ridden tall bikes and swing bikes. I’ve bombed little kids bikes down mountains. I’ve battled homemade chariots with urban gladiators. I’ve ridden nude with 10,000 other naked cyclists. I’ve biked across the United States twice. And then, in 2014, I really got into it. I bought some top of the line equipment. I hired a coach. I quit my job and started training full time. I competed in 52 races—one for each week of the year. And by the time I won the award for the Best All Around Single Speed Rider in Oregon, I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted to ride a bike again, let alone race one. As it turned out, sometimes there really can be too much of a good thing.

            I decided to take some time off, limiting my races to a select few, but even those I didn’t really enjoy. And then I injured my back and could barely ride for about six months, but I still didn’t miss it. But then I rehabbed my back and made it strong again and decided to go for my first long ride in a long time. And now I watch as Jim’s front wheel abruptly stops. I watch as his body hits the pavement like a sack of concrete.

            We are riding in the Salem Gravel Grinder, a yearly event that takes place each February. Of all the cycling activities I’ve done throughout my life, this is—somehow—my first gravel grinder. The weather is crap, causing rain to sting my eyes, and the wheel in front of me to spray grit into my mouth. The gravel causes my bike to slog, making each mile feel twice as long, each foot of elevation more like ten. I’m cold, wet, and hungry. Yet I can’t remember being much happier on a bike. Because it’s not a race. It’s just a ride. Like they all used to be. I’m reminded of before 2008, when I rode bikes for the simple enjoyment of it. There were no races or competitions or bragging rights. It was just me and my two wheels, exploring the outskirts of Buffalo, NY, and before that, commuting to class in Potsdam, and before that, circling the block in my hometown of Elma, and before that, circumnavigating Redhouse Lake, and before that, learning to balance in my parent’s dirt driveway.

            As Jim pulls himself off the pavement and hops back on his bike, he’s in good spirits, and says something that immediately strikes a nerve with me. “I’m glad I crashed,” he says. “It reminds me that I’m human. It reminds me that I’m alive.” And I can’t agree more. For the first time in a long time, I’m glad to be back on the bike. Even though I’m cold and wet and hungry. The rain, it stings my eyes. The gravel, it sprays into my mouth. And never has it tasted so good.