Back to the Drawing Board

The 5 Hour Energy LiveBlog

2011-08-30T20:58:00.007-04:00

Don't get me wrong - I'm as accomplished a coffee drinker as anyone. But for the last several months, I've been trying to wean myself off of the stuff, the idea being that the less I consume, the greater the impact it will have when I do drink it.

Today I had my first 5 Hour Energy. I chose Pomegranate. What could go wrong?

4:06 p.m. Examining the bottle of 5 Hour Energy. Trying to decide if I really want to do this. Claims to be like coffee, but quicker. Comes with a warning label. Coffee doesn't come with a warning label, except when it's hot.

4:07 p.m. Reading about Niacin flush, a "natural warming sensation" that occurs when your body processes necessary minerals of which it was previously deficient. That's the 5 Hour Energy way of trying to convince you that the way you're about to feel is healthy.

4:08 p.m. What could go wrong? I love pomegranates.

4:09 p.m. Oh, gross.

4:13 p.m. Head upstairs feeling normal. Time to get to work and pound out some projects.

4:16 p.m. Notice a delightful jump in my typing WPM. That's if you count "pnusctuality" as a word. Unclear if this is due to 5 Hour Energy.

4:19 p.m. Niacin flush.

4:21 p.m. Toilet flush.

4:36 p.m. Working on a parent letter. You know how sometimes when you say a word too many times, it starts to sound funny? Every word is that word right now.

4:45 p.m. I literally cannot stop thinking about bridges - how they're made, who designs them. How do we really know they're safe? I can't focus on this letter right now. All I can think about is bridges.

4:47 p.m. Reading about bridges on Wikipedia.

4:50 p.m. Force myself to focus on the parent letter. Just spelled the word "contact" with a semicolon. And an umlaut.

4:57 p.m. Looking for Rick Keller's phone number. He's a structural engineer and I've got a lot of questions about bridges.

5:00 p.m. Saved from a very awkward conversation by the fact that I don't actually have his phone number.

5:10 p.m. Go downstairs to help with dinner. Hold the baby. Bounce the baby. I am not intentionally bouncing the baby.

5:15 p.m. I am literally yelling at a pot of green beans for what I suspect to be blatant malfeasance.

5:28 p.m. Drink a glass of water as an attempt to flush the 5 Hour Energy from my system.

5:29 p.m. I feel like I drank that glass of water awfully fast.

5:30 p.m. My shirt is soaking wet and there are ice cubes on the floor. Can't figure out why.

5:45 p.m. Eating dinner. Trying to hold it together.

6:00 p.m. Offer to clean up after dinner. Ask Lindsay to "time me." She declines.

6:02 p.m. Done. Wish she would have timed me.

6:05 p.m. Back to work. So excited AND so scared.

6:12 p.m. Just realized I'm not wearing a shirt. Not sure how long this has been.

6:44 p.m. Drooling. Thanks 5 Hour Energy.

7:00 p.m. 25 emails in 2 minutes. All to the same guy.

7:16 p.m. Less concerned about bridges than I am about asteroids all of a sudden.

7:40 p.m. Watching the 5 Hour Energy commercials online. That guy seems so happy at the office, but trust me, he's using every ounce of his willpower not to go outside, strangle a bunny, and eat it raw.

7:55 p.m. Well, this is the third time I've gone to the bathroom "just to be sure." And for what it's worth, I'm 0-for-3.

8:02 p.m. I'm Batman.

8:17 p.m. Parent letter finished nearly four hours after it started. Thanks 5 Hour Energy.

8:34 p.m. I wrote down "Great idea for sitcom." Post 5 Hour Energy, I have no idea what it was.

8:39 p.m. When did I take my pants off? I may have eaten dinner in my underwear.

8:45 p.m. What is the stuff made of? Chihuahua concentrate?

9:00 p.m. Is five hours over yet?

9:14 p.m. Struck by inexplicable urge to blog again.

9:16 p.m. Really just excited by all of the labels I get to use again.

Amos Barton

2010-02-22T16:52:00.005-05:00

I recently finished my eighth book of 2010, The Sad Fortunes of the Reverend Amos Barton by George Eliot. Someone recommended Eliot's slightly more noteworthy novel, Silas Marner, but when I couldn't find it, I settled for Barton. Hey, it was right there.

The book is about a pastor who is mediocre in every way, although he himself doesn't think that. He is generally not well liked by his constituents. The one thing he has going for him is that everyone thinks his wife is fantastic. He reminds me of someone I know, but then his wife gets sick and dies.

Because of the pessimistic nature of the narrative, I'll concentrate instead on something else of the novel that was of interest, and that is this: George Eliot was a woman.

This seems like something that someone probably tried to teach me, but that I failed to retain.

Eliot's real name is Mary Anne Evans, and her story starts most notably with a harsh critique of female authors - Silly Novels by Lady Novelists which appeared in The Westminster Review. The screed tears apart the idea that a woman could ever write a novel. This is fun because Evans' own criticism is a part of the reason she had to use a pen name.

Throughout Barton, the narrator goes out of her way to make the kinds of remarks you would expect from a chauvinist, almost as if Evans felt a need to defend her pen name beyond its obvious masculinity.

But of particular interest to you, dear reader*, is this. In her lifetime Evans was reviled by literary society and people in general for her public affair with author George Henry Lewes, which shows that TMZ has been around longer than anyone thinks.

* This is the kind of technique Eliot utilized frequently, the narrator's address to the audience.

However, as the dust jacket of my library book informs me, Eliot's legacy did not end with the shunning she and her partner endured, and after a number of years she was remembered not at all for that, but for instead for being one of the most gifted and beloved writers of her era.

That's great news for Tiger Woods.

What the Dog Saw

2010-02-08T07:28:00.003-05:00

Today I finished my seventh book of 2010, Malcolm Gladwell's What the Dog Saw. This was one of those books that required a two-month wait at the library. Uber-bestseller Gladwell has the remarkable ability to make uninteresting things seem positively intriguing, and writes at the kind of pace that causes you not to realize that you've been reading about the history of ketchup for forty minutes straight.

This is what makes Gladwell so unique. I wouldn't expect that you could pay me enough money to read about the Ronco guy, but there I was, riveted as I followed the life arc of the same guy who peddled the Veg-O-Matic, the Showtime Rotisserie grill, and the Ronco Flavor Injector.

For example, did you know that Ron Popeil's mom once paid a hitman to kill his dad? Furthermore, did you know that's the reason they divorced?* And did you know that a year later, they got back together again?

* If you knew the first part, I suppose you could have guessed at the second.

Still, there's something a bit dissatisfying about this latest bestseller. Dog is a compilation of Gladwell's favorite articles that he's written for the New Yorker for more than a decade. It's not such a bad gig to make a few million dollars again, merely by reposting the stuff that made you a million dollars to begin with. And while it might be detestable for us to think about, it's not so detestable that I wouldn't consider doing it myself.

I've already worked on several drafts for what my book would look like, and thanks to blogger's ubiquitous labels tool, it's easier than ever for bloggers to compile articles into ready-to-print book forms:

September 29, 2013

2010-02-03T15:58:00.005-05:00

A few things happened this week that made me ponder my thirtieth birthday. Chief among these is a message I gave on Sunday about the way we end phases of our lives. Secondarily, there's the fact that Lindsay's got a special birthday coming up this weekend. She has no idea how excited she should be about this. I've got big plans. Good thing she doesn't read this blog.

The sun rose again. This is not notable. The sun always rises, or at least that's what I've been led to believe. Anyway, it's there when I wake up, and reliable sources have informed me that it's because its risen from the horizon. That's good enough for me.

Today is different. Today is different because the sun isn't hanging above the earth waiting for me to rise, but because I'm waiting for it. Actually that's not right either, because as my shoes rebound from the pavement underfoot, I run west along the side of the road. I'm not waiting for the sun. I'm chasing it.

Left foot, right foot, and again. Sweat drops from my jaw, and the sweatshirt that looked like a good idea earlier would probably look a lot better hanging from that guy's fence. I'm through the first three miles in 23 minutes which doesn't seem like much except when you realize that despite a good deal of training, I'm still a lousy runner.

I've come to realize that there's no way to dry off quickly after a shower, but that there is a way to do it poorly, and so that's what I do. My shirt sticks to my back when I pull it over my head.

I sip coffee while I pull on the rest of my clothes, and it tastes how Hawaii feels. The smell of the stuff dragged me out of bed, and the taste made me want to lay down in a hammock. The coffee jolt has been numbed to a flick, and I move at roughly the same pace before I swallowed the juice.

A quick breakfast and four quick goodbye kisses escort me through the threshold and into the car. It's not much of a vehicle, but I own it and it's generally faster than the bus. The garage door opens behind me and I roll down the driveway and down the drive, mostly alone, early on this Sunday morning.

I always park in the back of the parking lot. It's selfish of me because the doctor says that it's a great trick to lose weight, and I guess I don't have much weight to lose. But it is nice to peek out of the windows and realize that just about every spot nearer the building is filled.

I started parking in the back long before the lot filled up because it was a good way to trick myself into realizing the potential of progress instead of the stench of success. Success is a funny thing because dwelling on it is the surest way to prevent it.

Work is good. We have developed a solid routine, but try to do a good job of making sure no one else does. We unlock the building at the same time every week, but then transform it into a different thing altogether, and that's a good thing. People have developed high expectations even if they're not sure what to expect.

I'd tell you what we did on September 29, 2013, but I'd hate to ruin the surprise.

I love this grill. I don't mean that I love it and want to marry it, but I do mean that I wouldn't rule that out as a possibility.

It's my birthday, and the birthday boy gets to make the rules. This year, the birthday boy is making his own steak. The secret ingredient is the rub, and it's nearly as tightly guarded as my sermon plans for this morning. We'd spent all morning yesterday finding the right cuts of meat, because I'm only going to turn 30 once, and I prefer New York Strip.

After I flip the steaks, I descend into the yard and pick up a football. Five sets of legs emerge from the house to play, even though only one of them can throw a football more than two feet and only three of them have thumbs. The game ends the way these games always do. I lose.

The first book is done, so I sit down to write another. The house is quiet. I am eating another cupcake. Lindsay kisses me on the head and tells me she's going to bed. Of course I'm going to follow her.

I sleep well, waking only four times to pee and once because it's going to rain and I can feel it in my knees. Let's face it - I'm thirty.

The 17 Indisputable Laws of Teamwork

2010-01-25T20:43:00.003-05:00

Tonight, I finished my sixth book of 2010, The 17 Indisputable Laws of Teamwork, another work from famed leadership guru John Maxwell. I'm not entirely sure how one becomes a guru, although I do know that it doesn't sound like a bad gig. Maxwell talks continually about life in Atlanta, which sounds like a warm place. It's worth noting that before he attained his guru status, Maxwell was in ministry in Indiana, and it doesn't take a guru to figure out that the gentler climes of Atlanta might make for a better home.

17 Laws, like any business book, is full of valuable advice, but can easily be dated by the twists and turns of the particular businesses it chooses to study. In Good to Great, Jim Collins refers to Circuit City as one of his great companies only 24 months before it shuddered doors across the country. And in 17 Laws, Maxwell espouses the praises of one company that holds tightly to a rigid moral compass, and that company is, as you would have guessed, Enron.*

* Later, we're treated to the rhetorical question: What kind of people chose to go into leadership at Enron?

Anyway, all of this talk of the laws of teamwork made me think real hard about some of the best teams I've ever had the fortune to be a part of.

1. The HAKK Team: It's a church leadership team featuring Herb, Aaron, Karen, and Kim. We joined a dodgeball league this spring and finished 4-2 with a disappointing finish in the semi-finals against the staff of Barnes & Noble.

2. Aunt Jane's Pickles: My little league team in the 4th grade. I played first base and batted sixth. We were a good team because our two best pitchers had to shave.

3. This one time, Paul and I got on the same team at Ultimate Frisbee: He's fast, and no one realized that when we were choosing teams. I'm tall, and apparently, no one realized that when we were picking teams either.

4. 2002 Cory Bretz Flag Football: We finished 9-1 in the regular season and lost in the championship game, but we smoked the cigars anyway.

5. 1909 Chicago Cubs: Talk about being a day late and a dollar short.

Have a Little Faith

2010-01-19T17:02:00.005-05:00

Earlier this year, I asked for book recommendations on the condition that if someone recommended a book, I had to read it. So today, I finished my fifth book of 2010, Mitch Albom's Have a Little Faith. I've never been a big fan of Albom*, because a lot of what he says is a little too syrupy for my taste. This isn't to say that he doesn't relay quality stories with quality insights, just that he does so with a little too much sugar.

* And who listens to Alboms anymore!?**

** Pun.

The book centers around Albom's wrestle with faith and religious co-existence as he works to write his beloved rabbi's eulogy. He also dives into the economic downturn of Detroit, by getting involved with a rundown church that's doubling as a homeless shelter. But mostly its about his waning Jewishness* and how he comes to reclaim pieces of that as he gets reacquainted with the old rabbi.

* That's a quality band name if I've ever seen one.

It is also about Albom's refusal to use quotation marks when he, himself, is a part of the dialogue; a tool that has become a trademark style, and a little annoying at the same time.

This makes me think that maybe what I need to differentiate myself as a writer is a trademark style to call my own, which is why, for the remainder of this post, I will end each sentence with two periods instead of one and capitalize the letter P every time I use it.. Albom's blatant disresPect for grammar made him a bestseller, after all..

Faith made me wonder about Pieces of my own eulogy, and who I might ask to deliver it when the time comes.. Ricky Gervais handled the Golden Globes alright, and I think he'd do a fine job at my funeral.. But I'd be awfully disaPPointed* if I didn't outlive that guy..

I suPPose it doesn't matter too much who gives the sPeech, just as long as he or she hits on the high Points of my life so far: My first chest hair, for examPle, or the first time I ate entire Pizza by myself.. This Person will need to know about these events, and in the case that my eulogy is transcribed for a literary audience, as it was in Faith, this Person needs to ProPerly use syntax, grammar, and Punctuation, because - darn it Mitch! - this stuff is hard to read..

A Million Miles in a Thousand Years

2010-01-18T18:05:00.006-05:00

Today, I finished my fourth book of 2010, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by Donald Miller, the same affable fellow who wrote the bestseller Blue Like Jazz. He claims that the book is about his efforts to try to turn Jazz into a movie, and what he learned about his life while he was editing it for a screenplay.

Of course, that's really not the case at all. The book is, like Jazz, a collection of personal stories, all tied together through the common thread that is Miller's unmistakable style and trademark humor.

I'm also struck by Miller's strange habit of naming the book after a single memorable phrase* that happened to be contained in its pages, even if the phrase has little to do with the crux of the book.

* I suppose it would be like me naming my book A Moment of Restrained Euphoria. It's a random phrase from a random post, and I'll give a dollar to the first person who can identify it.

It also has a picture of a bicycle on the front, so I had to read it.

Thousand Years reminds me a lot of what my blog might be if I turned it into a book and found creative ways to tie together stories about riding bikes, hitchhiking, adventures in coffee shops, and a series of stories in which I wasn't wearing pants. Come to think of it, this book is my blog, were I a better writer and in poorer shape.*

* This would be Miller's concession, not mine.

It was a good book, but it was a frustrating book. In short, it was the book I should have written over the course of the last three or four years. In fact, it's the book I always intended to write over the course of the last three or four years. And of course, now that Miller's written it, I can't.

I would feel sad about it, but instead I'll try to find ways to differentiate my own writings from those of Donald Miller, and I've got at least one thing going for me that he doesn't*:

* And I swear to Mohamed, if Donald Miller's next book is about ferrets in sweaters, I'm suing him for identity theft.

The Omnivore's Dilemma

2010-01-17T19:18:00.007-05:00

I finished my third book of 2010, The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. He tells the story of how four very different meals arrive on our dinner tables. He explains the life of a McDonald's value meal and the life of an environmentally friendly* organic meal. He goes on to explain how at least one local farm works, then proceeds to exegete the history of an entirely locally-grown meal. Finally, he creates a meal out of food that he either grew, killed, or foraged for himself.

* And actually, this might not be true. In order to eat organic asparagus in November, the veggies have to be flown express from Argentina. Maybe not the environment-friendly scenario we've been led to believe.

I learned all sorts of interesting things. 97% of the calories in your McDonald's sack come directly from corn, and that might not be a good thing. Argentinians eat far more red meat than we do, but theirs being entirely grass-fed, the population suffers almost no heart disease.* Their only trade-off is that they are forced to eat a tastier beef, one that tastes like beef was intended to taste.

* Don't cry for beef, Argentina?

I learned about the highly secretive underground culture of mushroom collectors, and I can understand it. Pollan attaches himself to a group that pulls in more than 60 pounds of morels, and sells them to restaurateurs at $20/pound. Do the math.

Most interesting though was the ecological web of the small local farm. Poop is collected and used meticulously for the benefit of the farm, the animals, and the end-consumers. The texture of the eggs is different. The color of the yolks is different. In short, eggs, the way they are meant to be, are not the same thing as the eggs we eat today.* Of course, all of this makes me want to own chickens and collect poop. Lindsay is not too keen on this.

* If you are what you eat, then it makes sense. Mass-produced farm animals always eat things other than what they're supposed to eat and it changes them.

It's one of those books that you read and then have your greatest epiphanies afterward. You mean, 60 pounds of mushrooms could get me a used car?

Writing without Fruit

2010-01-13T13:34:00.005-05:00

Every now and again, I'll pull up Blogger, sit down to write a sentence much like the one you're reading right now, and then I'll begin to realize that I don't have a clue where I'm going with it. I am intent on writing something - because I want to write - something, but I just don't have anything to say. I suppose it's sort of like wandering onto a grassy field with a football helmet, a baseball bat, and a basketball, then saying: "I want to be good at sports." Sure, you've got a pile of equipment, but you really look like an idiot.

And in this grand metaphor, I suppose it means that I look like the idiot right now. But due to the wonders of the Internet, if I complete this stream-of-consciousness blathering and I don't like it, I won't post it, and you'll never know how stupid I really am.*

* Unless of course I'm stupid enough to hit "Publish Post" anyway. I guess you'll be the judge.

As we were watching American Idol last night, I mentioned to Lindsay my disbelief at some of the poorer singers that try out for the show. For my part, I think that at least half of them are aware of their suckitude, but play it off well so that they can win a bar bet and enjoy their 15 minutes of fame.

But I'm sure that there are at least some of these people who actually believe that they can sing. In and of itself, this isn't what throws me. I can fully understand how a poor singer can delude himself into believing he's a decent singer.* I can understand how a mediocre singer might believe himself to be good. But for the life of me, I cannot understand how a poor singer might believe himself to be one of the 24 best undiscovered talents in the entire nation.

* If I couldn't do it, I wouldn't sing. I'm the expert here.

One guy said he couldn't believe he didn't make it, even though he "hit the really loud notes." This is clearly a guy with zero training, because musicians wouldn't convince themselves that volume is what makes a good singer great. If this was the case, my neighbors would have won multiple Grammies.

Of course, almost all of these people claim that their friends always tell them how great they are, which has to lead you to believe that either these people aren't really friends or that compliments lead to delusion far more frequently than illumination.

Someone who I didn't know once approached me and told me she enjoyed my blog. Another person told me that if I didn't write for the rest of my life, then I'd be missing my calling. Another told me she'd laughed so hard she cried, and another told me my prose was touching enough to bring her to tears. I suppose it takes a certain degree of talent to cause humorous and serious tears at the same time. I suppose it takes even more to do that with a blog that's standby material involves a ferret wearing a sweater or inappropriate jokes about meeting Scientologists in my underwear.

Then I remember, that when I was 24-years-old, someone told me I should try out for American Idol. There might be something there too, but I know that I can't hit the loud notes.

Times When Headphones are Important

2010-01-09T14:23:00.003-05:00

Scene: Barnes & Noble cafe. Quiet section, filled with readers and people diligently typing away (or more likely screwing around on Facebook) on their laptops. Yuppie crowd is full of people wearing thick-rimmed glasses, indoor scarves, and fitted t-shirts.

I walked into Barnes & Noble, immersed myself fully into the pretension of my environs, and proceeded to read The House of Morgan, a book about the meteoric rise of the Morgan banks.* It was interesting stuff.

* Nine-year-old Aaron wants to give me the beatdown for getting into stuff like this and calling it interesting. But if we got into a fight, I'd definitely win. At 9, I weighed 60 pounds. Seriously, it wouldn't even be close.

Just then, a confused-looking man walks in, sits at a table, and immediately loads YouTube onto his MacBook. After fielding a few phone calls and completely spoiling the plot of the new Sherlock Holmes movie for me,* he proceeded to begin loading videos for his enjoyment.

*His quote: "I liked the movie, thought Robert Downey was great, but I knew that the ******** was the villain the whole time." Thanks man. Seriously.

He watched videos - at full volume - for about three minutes, much to the chagrin of a group of timid yuppies who needed a hero. It was my time.

I let fly a couple of stifled coughs and gave some dirty looks, but apparently this fellow was oblivious to subverted social cues.

So I did what I had to do. I walked up behind the guy and watched the video over his shoulder, chuckling at appropriate moments. It took him a shockingly long time to realize what I was doing, but then he responded as expected: "What do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. If you don't want us all to watch your videos, then maybe you shouldn't make all of us listen to them."

Scene: As Aaron returns to his seat, a bald 22-year-old with thick rimmed glasses and scarf, reading Kurt Vonnegut and a book about veganism, places his hands together, bows and issues a mock applause. The day saved, Aaron does what any superhero would do. He sits down and reads about early 20th-Century bank deregulation and its affect on the global commodities market.*

* Just like the Punisher would have done.

Traffic

2010-01-05T10:34:00.005-05:00

I just finished my second book of 2010 - Traffic: Why We Drive the Way We Do (And What It Says About Us) by Tom Vanderbilt. Aside from the over-punctuated and heavily-worded title, it was an interesting glimpse into the genesis of traffic jams, the danger involved with driving a car, and what we can all do about it.

What makes all of this so perplexing is that cities have employed traffic specialists since the 1800s (to manage all the horses, not even to speak of their poo), and no one can nail down anything close to an accurate answer to explain much of our traffic woes.

Traffic engineers have gone to miraculous lengths to make safer, more forgiving roads only to learn later that these roads encourage drivers to try even riskier high-speed maneuvers. Some more dangerous roads actually operate more safely because drivers concentrate on driving safely. Vanderbilt interviews traffic experts (more than you would have ever thought existed) and even speaks to "one of the leading experts" in queue formation.

But there are answers.

To put it simply, the easiest way to alleviate traffic is for you to get off of the road and get out of my way so I can get to work on time.* Of course, it doesn't work, because what's good for society (or for gridlock) certainly isn't good for the individuals most affected. It's why listening to the traffic report works best when you're the only one listening to it. When the radioman says that an alternate route in Chicago is faster, it's not surprising that 30,000 people sprint to clog up the alternate route.

* From the Onion: 98% of People Favor Public Transportation for Others.

Similar is the concept of night driving. One of Vanderbilt's most ostentatious claims is that in order for night driving to be as safe as day driving, we'd all have to move at 20 mph. Of course, if you move along at that kind of a speed (or lack thereof) on a highway, you are in significantly more danger because not everyone is going to heed that advice.

Smaller, lighter cars are safer - but only if everyone drives one. If you're the only one, then your car is significantly more dangerous, at least to yourself.

This book made me think, and mostly it made me think about this: I wonder what it would take to become an expert in queue formation.

Can't the Washer Just Do It for Me?

2010-01-03T22:17:00.006-05:00

If I had any idea how to apply for a patent, I'd do this myself. But I don't, so my great ideas are merely a call for you to invent it, give me one, and make the world a better place.

Washing machines should automatically default to the cold/cold setting after every single load.

Think about it.

No one ever gets too upset about accidentally washing their whites in cold water, but no one's thrilled when they pull a stack of color-bled doll clothes out of a washing machine that's a little bit warmer than it was supposed to be. We've all done it at least once - washed something improperly and turned it into the kind of garment only a rodent would wear.*

* Strictly so I could use this:

Here's what I want to do. I will turn the dial to hot for the whites, and the washing machine will turn it back to cold again when the load is finished.

I would guess that most families, at least in this country, don't go through enough white clothes* to justify doing more than one load of whites anyway. There's very little reason for a washer to remain on the hot setting for consecutive loads.

* I know what you're thinking: Klan members. But you're wrong. Klan members don't wash their clothes. Ever.

So my great idea is a washing machine that defaults to its safest setting. It just makes sense.

And no, this post is does not owe it's birth to anything stupid that I've done.*

* At least not recently.

The Man Who Loved Books Too Much

2010-01-02T11:18:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I completed (and started, not coincidentally) my first book of 2010, The Man Who Loved Books Too Much by Allison Hoover Bartlett. It's the true story about the rise and fall of John Gilkey, a sad and obsessive man who stole an estimated $200,000 in rare books.

Many rare book thieves have found that it is far easier to pilfer and resell a rare book than say, a Tiffany necklace, and therefore make a profit. But Gilkey's motives were not financial. Instead, he appears to have stolen because of his obsession with books, and his ambitions to have the kind of library John D. Rockefeller would have had.

But perhaps most fascinating is the glimpse that Bartlett provides into the occasionally seedy world of rare book collectors, dealers, and mediators. Most of these people will never read the books they collect* and instead merely want them for display or merely to experience the satisfaction of knowing that they are one of only three people who owns the First Edition of the Cat in the Hat.

* The rarest books are frequently the most controversial ones. When book-bannings and book-burnings happen, they create a lower supply; and so these books are the most heavily sought. One man described a book he had just purchased for more than $100,000 as "pure filth" and that he would never allow himself to read such garbage. Imagine your priest purchasing a Farrah Fawcett autographed Playboy simply because he liked rare things, and there you are.

Gilkey himself, is a haunting character. Harmless, but convinced he hadn't done anything wrong (just making things fair, he would explain), Gilkey doesn't believe he's committed any moral transgressions, and seems likely to do it again. He explains that if you want something, but don't have the money to purchase it, than what other possible recourse would you have?

I read the book in its entirety will sitting in Barnes & Noble. I selected it when I arrived and reshelved it on my way out. I wonder if that makes me a different kind of book thief, but I don't really feel guilty about it.

I Am Jack's Self-Deprecation

2010-01-01T22:35:00.007-05:00

At the prodding of my wife, my mother, my grandmother, my cousins, and strangely enough, the fifth-grade teacher at Dawson's school, I have an announcement to make.

I've returned to the Drawing Board.

Blessing or curse, you decide.

I should mention that many times, I've fully intended to return - to come back to the drawing board. It's just that I would sit down to write a post, knock out a dozen empty meaningless words that never drew toward a point, and realize I had nothing to say.*

* In fairness, that never stopped me before.

But, I think I've finally realized why the writer's block existed in the first place. I think it's because it's far more difficult for me to pretend convincingly to be the person I used to pretend to be.

I wrote this blog primarily from the standpoint of an aloof bachelor. Nearly all of my best jokes had their genesis in a degree of self-deprecation that is almost never mirrored in my reality. So if you can fully grasp this - in the online fantasy world that I created for myself, I made myself significantly more lame than I actually thought I was.

I made bank when I threw around labels like: "I am an idiot," and "Reasons I will Always be Single," and "Stories Where I'm Not Wearing Pants," and the list goes on.

So while Lindsay would argue that there are maybe some good reasons that I was single for so long,* the difficulty in managing an overhumble alter-ego is that it's incredibly difficult to be convincingly self-deprecating when your wife is a 10.

* Flatulence, primarily.

Of course, marrying a beautiful woman doesn't preclude me from being an idiot, and it certainly doesn't mean that I wear pants more. I learned that when I watched Everybody Loves Raymond, King of Queens, Still Standing, and According to Jim.

It just means there's something redeeming about all of that, right?

Devil's Lake, ND

2009-03-17T09:01:00.003-04:00

Last summer, I rode a bicycle from Chicago, IL to Devil's Lake, ND. Since I've never written about the adventure, and since it was a long December as far as temperatures went, I thought January might be a good time to talk about summer 2008. January is Bike Month at the Drawing Board.

The howling wind woke us earlier than we would have wanted, but there we were. We had to dismantle the tent immediately, as the thing would have blown to Canada without our combined body weight to hold it down.

We snacked on the remainder of our food, hoping desperately to find a town large enough to restock our virtually depleted supply. Devil's Lake loomed just about 80 miles away, a long ride considering the whipping wind, and Paul's further diminished health. If any day of our trip was going to kill us, it was this one.

We rolled out looking for food, and as Paul announced, a doctor. Our first sign of civilization was a town called Petersburg, which was disturbingly empty. Everything was closed down, shut down, and boarded up. A man gave us a heads-up on a doctor, miles away in a town caled Michigan.

We rode out again as we had so many times before, rolling west. The wind ravaged our bodies and bikes and made everything very difficult. Bridges posed a very real risk - we were literally in danger of being blown off of any one of them.

A man pulled off in a truck, delivering a warning. Storms and tornadoes were ahead; also chasing us from behind. We had an hour, maybe two, to get ourselves safe; and at the rate we were moving, Devil's Lake was another nine hours away. This was North Dakota.

We found Michigan and rolled into a town that was little more than a strip with a few buildings on it. One of these was a doctor's office. It had to be our first stop.

The place turned us away, saying they didn't have the technology to diagnose a sick person. This was not the best kind of news, but left us wondering what sorts of technology they had to treat a sick person could they have identified them.

Continuing to Devil's Lake at this rate was foolhardy; setting up camp in the tornadoes along the way would have been even moreso. I'm not sure how we got to this point, but hitch hiking quickly became our best option. We tooled over for a gas station breakfast and hoped for the best.

Jim was the kind of nice guy who liked to curse at cyclists who'd managed to get themselves into a mess like this. His advice: Get well and get the hell out of North Dakota. After a few more well-meaning barbs, we wound up at an emergency room in Devil's Lake, ND.

The doctor spent several hours with Paul, while I spent several hours with All My Children. The people at the hospital were extraordinarily kind, lending whatever aid they could. Eventually the diagnosis was extreme dehydration - Paul was in worse shape than either of us imagined. The doctor advised us to halt our journey as immediately as was possible. The hospital shuttled us over to a hotel in a van, just as soon as Paul had taken his sixth bag of IV fluid.

Paul decided that Chinese food sounded good. The check-in attendant at the hotel loaned us her car - another bit of unexpected kindness - so that we could get into town. The Chinese buffet was just about what you'd expect from a Chinese buffet in a town like this. It was gross, and it wasn't quite what the doctor would have ordered for my sick compatriot.

Our bike trip ended there as much of it had already been. We laid in a foreign bed and watched our nation lead the charge in another medal round in a place around the globe.

Within 36 hours I was home in South Bend; strangely tanned, oddly lean, and somehow different than I'd been before. My life became a new thing and an old thing altogether; soon enough I'd find employment and engagement and all of those other things.

Then, within a day or two, it was as if it hadn't happened. Only the memories and pictures, and even now; a few lingering tan lines remain.

Niagara, ND

2009-03-10T08:41:00.004-04:00

Getting out of Grand Forks was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. Here was a large, sprawling city with beautiful greenways, theaters, hospitals, a university. Then we rode west for twenty minutes and it was all gone as if it had never existed. I've never experienced such a sharp line between the decivilization that was the townless parts of North Dakota - which was most of it.

We rode for a few hours before stopping for a quick lunch at an air force base somewhere in North Dakota. Suffice it to say, we didn't exactly fit with the regular clientele.

And so we rolled out again. North Dakota is the kind of state where you can celebrate individual trees. In Indiana, uncivilized land is farmed or forested or claimed - truthfully, none of it is reallt uncivilized. But in North Dakota, the roads cut through a kind of landscape that's remained untouched since Native Americans passed through a few hundred years ago.

It's in this context that the trees stand alone, fighting a losing battle against a furious wind.

And it's the same way that we rode west on US-2; alone in North Dakota, fighting a wind that was battering us violently from the south. I suppose we were cutoff from most of the news of the world, but I had heard something about a hurricane in Florida. I dismissed it, thinking that such a thing would hardly affect me while I was in a state like North Dakota.

I received news the day before that windy weather was ahead; a result of the hurricane. To quote a local, "There ain't a single tree between here and Florida to block that wind."

Beyond belief, that toothless man was right. We rode with a crosswind from the left that was as vicious a thing as I've experienced. I worried about literally blowing off of every bridge we traversed. We rolled along at 11 to 12 miles an hour, stopping briefly at a rest stop so Paul could nap. Meanwhile, I commiserated with motorists who had to stop to take a break from the wind. This kind of riding was not fun.

After 40 miles of this kind of slow torture, we settled on finding the first town we could and rolled into the town of Niagara, North Dakota.

People in North Dakota use the word town pretty liberally, we learned. It was the first sign of development we'd seen all day, and the place didn't have a gas station, a store, a restaurant. It also featured no paved roads. It did have a post office, which offered little in the way of assistance at 6:00 in the evening.

We spent the next hour looking for someone in the town that could offer some advice; perhaps a sandwich. Woefully, we discovered only a few dogs who looked angry to see us. We wandered, hoping for something that might be called dinner.

A local pastor was the first person to spot us, probably because we were trying to break into to his church. He introduced himself, explained that no, there was no food for miles, and offered us a frozen pizza for dinner. It went down easier than it was returned.

We set up camp under brutal wind conditions and prepared for bed. A five-year-old boy arrived, announced that he was hiding from his grandmother and proceeded to remove his pants so that he could show off his Spiderman underwear.* I'd heard about this kind of stuff. Fearing a sting operation from Dateline, we ran from the kid as if he was a movie monster, and when we returned, he was gone.

I don't think either of us knew it would be our last night in that tent.

Grand Forks, ND

2009-02-26T14:47:00.005-05:00

We'd been riding bikes through Minnesota for 12 days now, and pretty soon we'd be leaving it all behind. The people here had been beyond friendly, offering their food, their homes, their hot tubs, their beer, and their companionship.

Still, there was a sense that we'd been in Minnesota too long; we'd had enough of the mosquitoes and the accents didn't sound so weird anymore. In fact, I'd started to pick one up myself.

We continued from Erskine along Highway 2, unperturbed by the anti-Christ, and rolling into an increasing wind. Paul was recovering slowly, but recovering. We moved modestly into Crookston, Minnesota and stopped for a coffee break at a small bookstore. We were out of there almost as quickly as we had arrived. We made a pit stop at a gas station and we fell further and further into the de-civilized world.

Then, like a Jack-in-box, the town of Grand Forks appeared. The metropolitan area is shared between Minnesota and North Dakota; their border celebrated unceremoniously by a bridge over the Red River. We rolled through the beautiful city and into North Dakota where we did the thing we did best. We found a coffee shop.

Quickly, one of the baristas offered up her own apartment for our showers. The place was huge and fully furnished and was reminiscent of a loft you might find in the suburbs of New York. I was left with one impression - baristas in Grand Forks, ND make an absolute truckload of money.

Of course, it's possible that baristas were paid so well because the place was absolutely haunted by a small girl who spoke at roughly 430 words a minute. She played chess with Paul and gave him other orders too. Finally she explained the inner workings of the coffee shop, told us where she lived, and exegeted the annals of Roman history. It was an exhausting process that I observed from a safe and hilarious distance.

Later, we found a bike shop on the other side of town, ate dinner at a Perkins,* and did the thing we do where we try to talk someone in to inviting us to their home for the night. It never happened.

* Perkins? Perkins? Seriously? A Perkins?

Paul was still on the upswing and so we decided another good night might be for him what he needed. Another night in a crappy hotel was absolutely called for and that meant there was a zero percent chance we'd be on the road before 11:30 the next morning. Also, I would be eating a dozen bagels for breakfast.

Erskine, MN

2009-02-26T14:08:00.003-05:00

I want you to know that I just spent 40 minutes on Google Maps trying to figure out which town we stayed in next. This was the part of the trip that really just started to run together; days in nowhere began to blend together like oatmeal that's been cooked with too much water.

And yes, all of this is an attempt to finish off bike month in less than 60 days.

Good gravy, what is there to say about Erskine? Not much that I can tell, so let's start about 60 miles away. We left Bemidji as late as our hotel would allow check out. I spilled coffee on my very favorite shirt, threw the thing away, and like that, I was out of casual clothes that didn't zip up.

We rode west along US 2, through farmlands and small town USA. Each town gave us an opportunity to stop for a minute to pick up a drink and each town offered roughly the same amenities. We'd become all-too accustomed to lounging in the gas station the way we would a Starbucks; this was amplified when the place featured a Subway.

Our breaks are the only thing I can remember. The roads were flat and easy and the winds hadn't picked up the way they would in a few days. Our last stop came in the town of Erskine, MN. We searched desperately for a little bit of help. The churches were locked up and the town was too quiet to provide any assistance. We ate dinner at one of those places that aspires to be a crappy diner but falls woefully short. That's where things start to get interesting.

We were approached by a woman who had noticed our unique matching jerseys. Bright orange, they were emblazoned with the words BIKERS FOR JESUS, a leftover gift from our friends back home. Anyway, she saw the things and wanted to talk to us.

She told us her life story - how she'd come here from California. She told us of her struggles and her victories over drugs. But most of all, she told us that the town of Erskine was infested with demons. She told us that the town of Erskine was the home of the anti-Christ. She told us the story of a local pornographer who claimed to be the devil incarnate. He could control minds through the television. In fact, he would probably be coming for us; that night. Her advice was to ride out and to ride fast.

But we were tired and brave so we thre up our tent and hung our jerseys like flags in the wind. The night passed without incident. The devil was scared.

Bemidji, MN

2009-02-26T13:27:00.003-05:00

Bemidji, Minnesota is perhaps most notable for being the fictitious home of legendary axe-man Paul Bunyan. It's also the home of the United States Curling Team, and a lovely downtown area that sits on the tamer parts of the Mississippi River.

I have no idea how we got into Bemidji, although I can guess our ride in was just boring enough that I can't remember it even a little bit. I believe we went to Target for a little bit, but that might be a fabrication. At some point we probably went to a laundromat, but I can neither confirm nor deny that.

We ate pasta and lounged on the river and made our way to a coffeeshop. I ate a muffin and drank coffee and enjoyed the free internet they offered. It was one of the greatest coffeeshops I've enjoyed, and that was before the owner of the place offered us a bed for the evening. She had a camper in her backyard and it had a TV and showers and everything and we were welcome to use it.

We spent the afternoon in bookstores and at pubs and finally we made our way back to the home. Our host was more than hospitable and handed us over to the camper. We made beds and switched on the Olympics and got ready to take showers. Paul hopped in first while I did everything in my power to not touch anything with my more stinky parts.*

* Which was basically all of me.

Then, it was my turn. I got in and I soaped myself up real good and that's about when the water ran out. In one of my more desparate moments, I completed the rinsing process with a few bottles of refrigerated Aquafina. Still, I was soon dry and warm, so no harm; no foul.

More alarming was the fact that there was no water running into the toilet. This would become an issue later.

I slept as soundly as I had in weeks. The same could not be said for Paul. I woke up to find that he had spent the night with GI problems; the worst second-hand illness I'd ever experienced. The kind lady delivered an exquisite breakfast of coffee, oatmeal, and peaches; oblivious to the destruction that Paul had earlier wrought. I hope she never asks herself where that wastebasket wound up, and I hope even more that she never finds it.

We left the place with boisterous thank-yous and silent apologies. We wouldn't be leaving Bemidji today. It was time for a rest.

Blackduck, MN

2009-02-26T12:47:00.004-05:00

Even before we'd gone to bed on Thursday, we knew that Friday was going to be a rough day. Our map showed very little between Ranier and Bemidji, a city that was more than a hundred miles away. We knew we'd have to roll through Big Falls all over again, a corner of uncivilization I'd be happy to never ever see again. So we dreaded Friday, and that was before I woke up with a case of the Backside Blues.*

* Diarrhea.

We packed up our tent and wandered down to a restaurant called Grandma's Pantry for breakfast. Some of the more profane locals called by a similar sounding and far less appetizing name.* We ate wild rice pancakes that could have deliciously substituted as a footprint for our tent. We drank coffee. This amplified my GI problems. Then we rolled out.

* You're going to have to figure that out on your own.

We rolled back through International Falls, said goodbye to Smokey the Bear, and quickly found ourselves, once again, somewhere between a pair of nowheres. Along the way, I discovered proof of a loving God in a bottle of Pepto, and I took a nap on a picnic table in hell. By that I mean, I slept for an hour in Big Falls, Minnesota. We ate a lunch of peanut butter crackers. It was the best we could do.

We rode for the next six hours at a non-stop clip, stopping only for a mid-afternoon gas station snack. We had decided we were ready to be done for the night, and so we asked the gas station attendant where we might find a meal and quit. She recommended the town of Blackduck. They served pizza from the bowling alley and we could probably camp there too. Trouble was, Blackduck was still 25 miles away, but not to worry; she told us it was all downhill.

The gas station lady was a liar. We rode up and up and up, fighting each stroke; although the scenery was improving drastically. We skirted rich farmland on a firm shoulder, and everyone was feeling better about the day. We arrived as scheduled in Blackduck; which is to say we never had a schedule and neither did Blackduck, apparently.

We tracked down the first pedestrian we could find and enjoyed the following exchange.

ME: Is there any good place to eat in Blackduck?

HER: There's a little place right over there. I ate lunch there today.

ME: Is it any good?

HER: Depends who's cooking.

ME: Who's cooking?

HER: Well, there's no where else to go.

And so a one-armed chef, who may or may not have been the preferable purveyor, made us fried chicken while an overwhelmed waitress continuously refilled our shot glasses that were filled with water.

We moved from there to a bar, where we hoped to watch the Olympics. Instead, we were treated to a mediocre beer and a jukebox that was stuck on repeat, and of course, it was stuck on Discovery Channel* by the Bloodhound Gang. After the fifth iteration of the tune, we'd decided to vacate the place.

* "You and me baby ain't nothing but mammals..."

That's when the bartender approached us carrying a cordless phone.

HIM: Phone call for you.

US: That seems unlikely.

HIM: Nope, it's for you.

US: That's actually impossible.

HIM: Are you the guys riding bikes from Canada to New Mexico?

US: Lucky guess.

Our interest was piqued and so Paul took the phone. Some dudes were camped out a softball diamond and wanted us to bring them beer. Even now it doesn't make much sense. Instead, we snuck into a mosquito-infested campground and left early the next morning without paying the required fee. In our defense, we weren't caught.

Ranier, MN

2009-02-20T12:12:00.007-05:00

I am not nearly writer enough to describe the way our morning in Big Falls went. After just about two weeks of consistent riding, our muscles were taut and stiff like an old rubber band. We'd slept directly on top of the concrete while overnight temperatures dipped again into the 40s. Standing up again became less an action; more a process.

This was the part of the day when we stretched, dressed ourselves, stretched again, brushed teeth, and finally stretched before hauling into town for breakfast. I ate an omelette. Paul ate a cinnamon bun that was roughly the size of our tent.

We were kind of in a rough place in deciding our route for the day. We were 40 miles from International Falls*, which was supposed to function only as a turnaround point. Like a schoolyard race, we just had to touch Canada and come back. Trouble was, we'd have to come back through Big Falls. If we just rode to I-Falls and returned, we'd hit Big Falls at just about mile 80; we'd be done for the day, and we'd be stuck in this awful place for another night.

* It's worth mentioning that there were no falls here either. Minnesota is kind of a big liar when it comes to naming its settlements.

We rode north along low-travelled roads, intending not to stop until we hit civilization again, a thing that we'd missed far more than expected for the past 48 hours. There was a gas station that lived in a log cabin and a right turn and a few more cars and then there was a K-Mart. I'd never expected I would appreciate the glory of a K-Mart, but there I was. There were gas stations and trashy salons and Chinese buffets run by Mexican immigrants. After the previous night, it was like heaven.

We meandered into town and found a coffeeshop for lunch. We ate sandwiches and sipped coffee and agreed to spend the rest of our day doing very little. It was the prettiest day we'd seen all week. We fixed a flat tire and visited a bike shop. We spent a few hours at the library. We didn't nearly find ourselves a place to stay.

And so at about four-in-the-afternoon, we left. We weren't sure where we were going; still we left.

We rode east a few miles; north just a little bit too. After waiting on the longest train I'd ever seen, we stumbled into the tiny town of Ranier, Minnesota; four or five square blocks completely overwhelmed with people. There was music and there were tents and we must have looked like tourists because we were immediately greeted by a lady named Tara, who ran the town's bed-and-breakfast. She offered up her free showers and plenty of snacks.

As fate would have it, we arrived on the eve of the town's bicentennial celebration. They were celebrating with music from a Johnny Cash tribute artist, and a big party featuring free food. This is where we would spend our time tonight.

Tara offered up her yard for our tent, so we made camp and took tour of the town. We watched the sunset over Canada, I believe Paul got himself into a paddleboat, and we ate ice cream on a bench. Then we watched the Olympics at Woody's Pub before stumbling back into the tent for another night.

I Am Very Happy

2009-02-14T22:47:00.002-05:00

I've never had a Valentine before, and now I have this:

mint.com

2009-02-05T19:42:00.004-05:00

My online banking used to round account totals to the nearest dollar. They recently added decimal points. I was unaware of this. Every time, I check my balance, I immediately think I have tens of thousands more dollars than I do.

It's a shame, because checking my balance was already a pretty significant letdown.

Big Falls, MN

2009-02-04T17:42:00.004-05:00

Kimbra the Bartender had to be to work at the country club by 7:00 in the morning. That meant that we had to leave her home by 6:45. Again, this was a shame, as I'm fairly certain I could have slept until Inauguration Day. The morning temperatures were flirting with the 40s, and so we moved as quickly as we could into town to wait for warmth. Again, we found a coffeeshop and enjoyed the free internet they offered. I believe I ate a peach muffin.

We left town earlier than we'd been accustomed; definitely before 9:00. It was a big day to our destination, and there was hardly a town* between us and Big Falls. We'd spend the entire day on one road, riding north, further away from what normal people called civilization.

* Screw that. There was barely a mailbox between us and Big Falls.

We left with a sun that disappeared almost immediately. We acclimated to the cold and rode headlong through a rainy mist that never stopped, but never got too bad either. We stopped at a shack for lunch. It was a shack with a bar and crappy sandwiches. I won't say that the sandwiches tasted any good, but they were definitely the best crappy sandwiches I've ever eaten.

We stopped only once to take cover from the rain, an ill-advised move. Once stopped, the mosquitoes were thicker than any kind of precipitation. The little bloodsuckers ravaged my body and we were quickly gone again.

It got colder and rainier. There wasn't a thing to see. We peed at an intersection. A wolf chased us. We rode bikes for about six hours without stopping, never seeing a home, a mailbox, a person, or a car. Eventually we arrived in Big Falls, MN. We were cold, wet, exhausted, and most of all hungry.

That's when we started to learn a little bit about Big Falls. The first thing we learned was that it was not big. Secondly, it did not have falls. A better name for the town might have been Some Rocks. This was as big and fally as it got.

More importantly, we learned that no place in town served food after about 2:00. It was the most depressing visit to a gas station that anyone has ever made. We found a post office and a liquor store and a closed down restaurant. We found a motel that was constructed by connecting trailers. And we found a bar that didn't have beer on tap, but would sell us a frozen pizza for the low, low cost of $10. What choice did we have?

We took showers at a campground, naked and surrounded by hungry mosquitoes. We ate bratwursts with some potheads on a kayak trip. We fell asleep on a concrete pad as early as our bodies would allow. The next morning, we got out of there just as quick as we could.

Grand Rapids, MN

2009-02-03T08:35:00.003-05:00

Bryan was a retired high school music teacher whose post-work life included a lot of cooking, reading, and church involvement. We woke up just a little bit before 6:00, which was only a shame because I could have slept in that bed until November. We dressed ourselves and moved upstairs and enjoyed the fruits of Bryan's restlessness - eggs, bacon, toast, juice, assorted jams.

He drove us over to his church so that we could sit in on a midweek Bible study. We enjoyed an hour with a dozen gruff Minnesota men who each stopped their own lives for a few moments to share themselves. They all agreed that we were nuts, and their second consensus was that we ought to hop a train across North Dakota because North Dakota sucks.* It's hard to say why I disagreed preemptively, but I was genuinely excited to get out there in a week or so.

* North Dakota sucks.

By this point, it was nearing eight, and the sun was yet to show itself. The clouds blanketed the sky completely, threatening a rain that would never materialize. Still, it was too cold to be comfortable, so again, we found a coffee shop for an hour or two.

Eventually the sun appeared to heat the earth and we rolled happily north toward Grand Rapids, Minnesota. It was only about 50 miles away; then we'd had a late start, and the next town north of Grand Rapids appeared to be in Canada. We were looking for a homeless shelter we'd heard about, thinking it would provide our lodging for the night.

Grand Rapids is situated right on US Highway 2, which just happens to be the road of choice for trans-continental cyclists. We saw a number of cyclists loaded down with the luxuries we'd given up, riding from places like Maryland to other places like Oregon. They carried things like pots and pans and air mattresses and fishing poles. They shaved on a regular basis and wore gel in their hair.

Unable to locate the homeless shelter, we were left to find another place to stay. We mulled over the possibility of sleeping in a dugout on a college campus, but decided it was probably too close to the road to make for comfortable arrangements. We wound up touring the town looking for a pocket of trees that could conceal us, only to discover that not only was the carnival coming to town in a couple days, the carnies had already arrived to prepare the thing. We would be sharing a sleeping space with the carnies.

Still, with time to kill, we rode our bikes back into town. We ate rodeo cheeseburgers at a Burger King and continued to delay our return to fairgrounds. Understandably, we were in no hurry to get back there. So we moved on to the River Swine Bar, a place that was actually probably called the Rivers Wine Bar. It was almost certainly the most exquisite restaurant in town, and there we were, a pair of sweaty, dirty, cylco-carnies; sitting at the bar, drinking beer that had been produced a month earlier in Michigan.

Our bartender was either interested in our trip or overly confused about it. I say this because she asked a lot of questions. So we sat, trying to explain why we do the things we do. Still, as the sun was setting, we began to realize that we needed to get back to the fairgrounds quickly. The carnies were waiting.

Then a remarkable thing happened. Kimbra the bartender offered her basement for our lodging. We could sleep on the couch and watch the Olympics and use blankets, and also she had a hot tub, and we could enjoy a soak. Furthermore, the beers were on her.

Sold.

Aitkin, MN

2009-02-02T11:36:00.004-05:00

This day was going to be different. For nine days now, we'd known every morning roughly where we'd end up in the evening. When we fell asleep behind the steakhouse, we set no alarm, we had no agenda. We had a tent and we had some bikes. We were at the whimsy of the wind.

It was the first night we'd slept on the ground, and I was taken aback by just how chilly August could be. Early morning temperatures were in the low 50's; so we made the executive decision to wait out the bite in the first coffee shop we saw. This would become a theme.

I can't remember too much about the place. It appeared to be an old, converted diner. I drank coffee and ate some sort of pastry and spent some time with my nose buried in a newspaper. I wrote a letter to the girl I was going to marry. I moved with no sense of rush since there was nothing to rush me.

We rode out and headed north along state highway 169. The road was wide and clean and virtually devoid of traffic. It was the kind of road that went nowhere and wasn't even the fastest way to get there. We held the shoulder at a quick but calm pace.

We coasted through the town of Milaca, and chose not to stop for the town play, a musical about how Paul Bunyan met Babe the Blue Ox.* I only wish I was making this stuff up. The whole state seemed to be obsessed with Paul Bunyan.

* Paul Bunyan: Holy crap! You're a big ox!

Babe the Ox: Holy crap! You're a big guy!

Paul Bunyan: Holy crap! You can talk!

So we paced through Milaca, regrettably without a second thought. In Indiana, no matter where you are, you can count on being within 20 miles of a town. That means that if you decide not to stop for lunch in one town, you'll almost certainly have another opportunity in an hour or so.

That's how we arrived in a town called Onamia about an hour after we'd decided we were famished. It's tough to say what makes a town a town; in this case, it was a food court on the side of the road. Also, they sold sweatshirts that featured a phoenetic pronunciation of the town's name. You know, in case you want a souvenir from a town that's greatest feature is that it's difficult to pronounce.

* oh-name-ee-uh

Just after lunch, we discovered Mille Lacs Lake. Of the state's ten-thousand lakes, it's the second largest one that's held entirely within Minnesota. On the map, it was the size of my thumb and from one shore, I couldn't see to the other.

It's the home to several posh fishing communities, extravagant summer homes, and a particularly poor-looking Indian Reservation. The road runs along the curvature of the river and so every hundred feet provided a vista of wealth or destitution, seemingly at random intervals.

It's tough to say what we were looking for as we wandered through Minnesota. A campground? A cool restaurant? A coffeeshop? At some point, we were going to see something that made us want to stop for the night, and if we didn't, nightfall would.

That's when we saw a sign that said in big letters:

FREE SPAGHETTI DINNER TONIGHT

That was pretty much it. I nearly wrecked myself following the arrow that pointed to the east. We found a Lutheran church and we had a lot of questions. Is it really free? Is it really dinner? Is it really spaghetti? Is it really tonight? Can we take showers?

All of our questions were answered affirmatively, so we locked up our bikes, showered in a renovated part of the building and toured the town for an hour while we waited for dinnertime. We found a natural foods' store and a bootery* and an internet cafe and everything a person might want from a town that was a 12 hour stayover.

* They love putting the suffix -ery on the ends of words of there. More to come.

We ate spaghetti and then got some more and then even offered to clean up the church. This piqued the interest of a man named Bryan Johnson who asked us about our quest, our homes, and whether or not we'd seen much of the Olympics. Would we like to go to his house tonight to watch the Olympics and sleep in beds in guest room in the basement?

Um, yes.

So we went back to his house and watched the Olympics and ate brownies and slept in beds and we learned that the chance that you might be abducted by a serial killer is sometimes worth the risk. Besides, he seemed like a really nice guy, and he was.

Somewhere, half a world away, the U.S. was sticking it to the French in a swimming pool, and it's amazing the power that has to unite people. I slept like a rock instead of on top of one.

Princeton, MN

2009-01-30T22:38:00.006-05:00

The ride out of St. Paul was tough. We spent the morning fixing flats and trying to figure out just how we were going to replace a van that had been, until that point, highly underrated. In all, we carried a tent, two sleeping bags, two tarps, two changes of clothes, a notebook, various tools, and a pile of energy foods that wouldn't last the week.

We attended a church service, and this was the only thing that reminded me that days still had names and roles. My excitement to leave was eclipsed by the growing knowledge that too soon, I'd be rolling one way, and Lindsay would be rolling another. It was August 10. I'd see her again in October. That seemed even further away than the other side of the country did.

Our target was Mexico, but in order to make a complete circuit, we'd have to ride north for several days until we got to Canada. We started that way with Hans, a friend I'd met on a mission trip only two weeks earlier. He'd built a route out of the twin cities and agreed to spend the day with us.

The cities featured as many bike trails as I've ever seen, each playing around the Mississippi and around the hundred bridges that traversed it. Quickly, we longed for the companionship of our dozen friends from just two days ago. When Paul and I spotted a man in a brightly colored bike jersey our spirits were lifted for the few moments that we believed it was Glen. Turns out, Glen's not the only cyclist who occasionally dresses like a fruit.*

* Another dude wearing the Sesame Street bike jersey? What are the odds of that?

We rode north, into Minneapolis, around downtown, quickly through the red light district. We moved through poorer neighborhoods and followed the same road into the wealthy suburbs. It's impossible to say when the sprawl of the city ceased, but soon we were headlong into the country, free of traffic, free of most everything.

We climbed hills that were just tall enough to conceal the horizon, each mound of concrete giving way to a new and different vista. I climbed strong, eager to see the other side; then slowed as I was blown away by the stark scenery I beheld. I'd never win a race like this. I wanted each moment to last forever, and racing only makes it a blur.

It was in the middle of this kind of visual poetry that my stomach reminded me that, no, I hadn't eaten lunch. It's impossible to say why, but we still never stopped beyond a potty break.

August in Minnesota is a lot like January in Minnesota. It's colder there than it is in Indiana. As the day wound down, I started to feel it. The chill always preceded the setting of the sun and served as a warning that it was nearly time to call it a night.

That's just about the moment we realized we were hopelessly lost. Fortunately, a man on a mountain bike was there to help. Uri* wore camo pants and a hat and spoke with the thick accent of a Minnesotan the way I'd imagined all Minnesotans did. He directed us several miles into town for dinner, then offered his own yard for our lodging.

* Urii? Uree? Ureigh? Uriieiieiey?

We destroyed that steakhouse. We were three sweaty, dirty bikers, now unashamed of the fact that we were wearing only the spandex that our bodies had moistened. We ate and ate and I don't remember that I even washed my hands first, although I do remember that they were nasty. Paul and I agreed to never skip lunch again.

The trouble with dining indoors is that it's tough to notice the decline of the sun when it's concealed behind window and shade. This wasn't the time to panic, but it was the time to hurry. Yuree lived five miles back, and light was fading. At that point, neither of us desired to ride a bike ever again. Besides, he wore camo pants, lived in the middle of nowhere, and was far too eager to welcome strangers.* His home wasn't ideal.

* At first it was creepy when a dude was eager to welcome stinky strangers. We got over that fast. Like, by the next day.

A bit of quick research and a bit of flirting on Paul's end yielded a lead. The owner of the restaurant would let us camp out behind the parking lot. She promised traffic would be light, and also said she'd leave the bathrooms open for us. This kind of spirit became a trend in the state. She even wrote us a note in case the cops came sniffing around.

The cops didn't show up, but Uerei did. He found us pretty easy, and seemed genuinely disappointed that we'd elected not to stay with him. We explained that as we lost the sun, it didn't seem best to double back his way. He rolled home, saddened, and we went to sleep without taking a shower. It would be one of only two nights we roughed it so viciously.

St. Paul, MN

2009-01-29T16:11:00.006-05:00

Most of the morning was a blur. Our friends would be leaving after lunch, and Paul and I would be on our own. We'd carry our own gear now, on our backs and not in a van. We didn't have turn-by-turn directions or predriven routes. We had a couple of bikes and about 40 pounds of luggage.

I was excited because a certain girlfriend of mine had made me lunch reservations at a swank sushi joint in downtown St. Paul. It was the first nice meal I'd had in weeks and would be the last one for even longer. I was excited for a break between what had become in indecipherable string of Italian meals.

First we raced into town to find a homeless shelter with nationally-recognized award-winning gardens. It was an odd combination, but there we were, on our hands and knees, picking weeds, surrounded by topiaries and beds of colored impatients. We got lost in the gardens, buried by a mountain of flowers, and for a moment we'd forget where we were. But we were right there, surrounded by manicured beauty surrounded again by poverty.

We left after our work was done and found our way quickly to the place. We walked in, wandered aimlessly and then I heard a tiny whisper. I don't like to wax poetic, so I won't. But Lindsay was there, and my excitement, coupled with the ridiculousness of my bike shoes meant that I nearly toppled a table of innocent and terrified teenage girls.

I learned quickly that St. Paul was the home of Charles Shultz. The downtown is decorated thoroughly with statues of the Peanuts characters, and it's one town that enamored me almost immediately.* I flatted out on a city street, drank a beer downtown, and we all found our way to friends in Woodbury.

* That having been said, I would not want to be there right now. Yikes.

It might have been the best day of my life.

Cottage Grove, MN

2009-01-27T08:53:00.007-05:00

We rolled out into the bluffs of northern Wisconsin. We fought massive hills, then rolled happily and furiously down the other side. The heat of the day led me to lower my jersey's zipper in order to get some airflow. The airflow led my zipper to beat against my chest, and all of that led to a very small and very specific black and green bruise right at the crux of my sternum.

We spent the day skirting the river and paying attention as the accents shifted in the locals; their O's growing longer and longer by the mile.

I don't remember much aside from the constant up and down of the hills. We were passed by a group of strong older women. They reached the top of the hill, came back down, and passed us again. We stopped for pie at a pie shop in Prescott, WI; just shy of the state line.

There we were; 18 cyclists on the porch of an old-fashioned bakery. We ate pie and drank coffee and sang Aerosmith at the top of our lungs, much to the delight* of the people that had gathered for an afternoon respite.

* Chagrin, actually.

We finished up, rode forward another mile, crossed into Minnesota and then wound up unexpectedly on the interstate. The shoulder was rough and impossible, and the semi-truck behind was coming fast.

The horn on the thing was enough to move me around the road, but there was really nowhere else for me to go. There was real potential there for me to really and actually die. Spoiler Alert: I didn't, but I'm still not sure how.

We arrived at a small church in Cottage Grove, Minnesota. We stole showers at various homes, then rolled back to the church that would be our home for the night. My muscles were tired and worn and I sat in a bench with no illusion that I would ever move again. Then a ten-year-old showed up and asked if I wanted to play soccer.

It was time to move again.

Pepin, WI

2009-01-20T12:03:00.006-05:00

The town of Pepin received its name from the lake on which it dwells. The lake received its name from a pair of French brothers who traded furs on its shores. And the thing that makes all of this notable is that in August, I slept on orange shag carpeting that covered the basement of the town's Methodist church.

We found the town on a Friday night* a few hours after it had shut down for the day. There wasn't much to see at that time; then, there wasn't much to see when the place was at its most lively. We showered and ate pulled pork and enjoyed an evening on the rocks overlooking the magnificent lake. It was the kind of evening that seemed to linger forever, and at the same time, not nearly long enough.

* That's just a guess. I never actually knew what day it was.

The pastor of the church stirred us early for breakfast, filled us up well, then gathered us for what he called an announcement. It may have been better called a warning, or instead, a proclamation straight from the book of Revelation.

Reverend Chicken Little warned us that tens of miles of climbing, incredibly steep grades, the monster from Lost, and indeed, the iron will of an angry God would certainly prevent us from reaching our destination before the dangers of nightfall arrived. Also, it might rain. Our survival hinged on our leaving immediately in order to avoid the pitfalls that would certainly behest our evening.

Paul and I decided to get a cup of coffee.

More Fun With Google Analytics

2009-01-19T14:43:00.005-05:00

In the 15 months that the drawing board has been around, about 900 different people have come here from search engines using 300 different search terms. Turns out there's a bunch of roads that lead here.* Here are the most popular ones.**

* Highway to Helman? Anyone?

** Jeff Lynne was the lead singer for ELO and also a member of the Travelling Wilburys. This will be important later.

1. Aaron Helman

Something like 250 people have Googled my name. It'd be an honor if it wasn't so creepy.

3. Gladiator Names

Another 90 people wound up here because they were looking for information about American Gladiators. This is the most traffic-inducing post I've ever written. Yikes.

5. Ferret in a Sweater

Just so I can show a picture.

10. Bono d-bag

Turns out there are a lot who don't love U2. All of this because of a comment Tony left here last December.

32. Aaron Helman needs to die

I've been ignoring this one since last November...

37. I love Aaron Helman

...and focusing on this one instead.

61. Beautiful Church Sign

Someone searched for that and Google mislead them. Horribly.

78. Are dogs fast?

Yes they are.

112. Can the Cubs actually kill me prematurely?

113. Why do the Cubs do this to me every freaking year?

114. This all Jeff Lynne's fault.

These are all right in a row. I like to imagine they're related.

151. Drew Carey sucks

Affirmative.

188. Aaron ate pancakes

Yes. Yes I did.

210. Someone stop Wisconsin from hiring snipers

I'm not sure I'm the man for the job.

270. now, i'm going to do something i like to call the 'compliment sandwhich" where i say something good, talk about where you need improvement, and then end with something good

Why?

300. Remember when Mr. Gamble flipped out?

Yes. Yes I do.

Alma, WI

2009-01-19T13:20:00.007-05:00

I grew up along the St. Joseph River.* As far as rivers go, it's okay. It's a little dirty, and a little gross, and it's little. But as a kid, the St. Joseph River became my context for rivers. The river meanders for a little more than 200 miles and is about 400 feet at it's widest, but at the access near my house I could have easily thrown a baseball to the other side.

* Yep. I was a real Huck Finn.

Then in August, we rolled out of La Crosse and spent the rest of the day riding a bicycle within spitting distance* of the Mississippi River. At the first moment we saw the river, we were near Lake Onalaska. There, the river is 4 miles across. The bank on the other side was a golf course away and the horizon consisted of distant, blurry browns and greens. With limited perspecitive, it could look like a lake. It was big in the way Wrigley Field dwarfed my Little League, forever expanding my definition of the word river.

* An actual measurement.

The river was close and cool, leaving our bodies comfortable despite an off-shore forecast well into the 90s. It also provided a near-impossible visual distraction. Miles could disappear almost unnoticed while the river distracted our minds from our legs.

Ten-thousand towns must have sprung up following the industrialization of the Mississippi, which to 19th Century financiers seemed only like a God-given shipping lane. Towns proliferated every ten miles or so, hoping to capitalize on the travelling money that seemed a certainty. Maybe at one point, each of these towns were thriving, but that didn't appear to be the case anymore. The barges became grander and dirtier and far more occasional. A few of the towns got lucky and became summer communities for the wealthy. Others, like Minneapolis became hubs of culture and economy. The rest became the kind of river towns that seem like they're stuck fifty years behind the rest of the world.

Places like Buffalo City feature four different places that'll fix your lawnmower for you and none that'll sell you groceries. Then there's a town like Fountain City, established in 1839 so that ferry boats could take on extra firewood. Now it resides beautifully along the Mississippi, full of charm, but seemingly without purpose.

The roads along the river were thankfully flat and meandered around bends as randomly as the body of water it skirted. Each new curve yielded a new vista, a new surprise, and usually a new iteration of a carbon copied river town. But the last curve brought something vastly different altogether.

Alma, Wisconsin is home to less than a thousand people. In about two hours, we met a tenth of them, each one more charming than the person before. Originally a Swiss settlement, little has changed in the 150 years that have aged the community. The original village is a historical landmark, and it appeared that each of the buildings was home to some kind of bohemian endeavor. We sampled artisan ice creams in a replica topiary garden, tasted espresso from a handmade European press, and purchased African art from a fair trade dealer. It was that kind of explorable town because it was captivating beyond time and small enough to be known entirely.

Our rocket pace had seemed foolish earlier in the afternoon, but now we were almost two hours ahead of the pack and so we took in every charm we could discover. Still, our destination was an hour away, and the days were becoming exponentially shorter. It was time to move on.

La Crosse, WI

2009-01-18T15:54:00.005-05:00

Several decades ago, before the advent of gigantic semi trucks and airborne shipping, railroads ruled the world. Trains canvassed the country delivering goods, news, and people. Tracks were laid throughout the nation, predominantly in the midwest.

The land adjacent to the tracks was considered virtually unusable; too loud, too stinky, too dangerous. So, when the urban sprawl attacked, the lands surrounding train tracks was left virtually unmolested. Ecosystems all over the country have been modified and destroyed, but even after the tracks were unused and abandoned, the biological profile remained unperturbed.

In 1986, the Rails to Trails organization began taking back this unused land, paving over the old tracks with biking trails, hiking trails, and cross country skiing trails. We spent the ride into La Crosse predominantly on these trails. It looked like the Shire.

It was a strange ride. We would coast along seemingly disconnected from anything industrial; coasting through the forest, cutting through hills and rock walls. Then, after several minutes we'd roll into the absolutely depressing sight of a long shutdown shipping depot, overgrown with weeds and coyote poop.*

* Yep.

The best part of the ride were the tunnels. Railroads weren't built for sharp turns and steep climbs, and so when railroaders had that to deal with, they just cut through the earth instead. For cyclists, this meant three unlit tunnels, the longest checking in at just over a mile long. From the center of the cavern, the only light visible was the the light we provided ourselves. We called them the Mines of Moria.

We stopped later at a bike shop in some town called Elroy,* then rolled out again. This was probably a mistake.

* Yeah, like the kid from the Jetsons.

Within minutes it started to rain. Within a few more, it started to pour. My crew sought refuge under a bridge, leaving as soon as the storm slowed. Then it was time to roll out again. This was our second mistake.

Only a mile or two later, the winds turned and strengthened; the rains became enough to keep us off the trail. We rode off into the street and found a hospitable warehouse. We camped out in the loading dock and played euchre* on the dirty floor. It was way past time to worry about that.

* It was euchre and we were in Wisconsin. The game was as alien to the people as jai alai would have been. Thankfully, the rain stopped soon.

Thankfully, the rain stopped. We rolled out again, staying on the streets instead of the now muddy trail. This was our third mistake.

Somehow we wound up rolling along a surface highway in La Crosse, Wisconsin. Wikipedia tells me that La Crosse is home to 120,000 people;* and we met each and every one of those people while they were in their cars alongside. The roads were flooded, muddied, and dirty. The shoulders were unserviceable, and the rush hour traffic was impatient. In a matter of hours, the most beautiful day of our trip became the most harrowing. Cars splashed us spitefully, but we arrived at our destination safe and messy. We ate too much spaghetti and spent the next several hours repairing the damage that nature had dealt.

* When you roll through a town on a bicycle, it sure seems a lot smaller than it is. I would have never guessed.

We were to the Mississippi now, which meant we were further west than I'd ever been. It had been that way for a week now, and I could make the same claim every day for the next three weeks. I slept on a beanbag chair and I slept well.

Reedsburg, WI - Part II

2009-01-14T20:25:00.007-05:00

The next day was a scheduled day of rest and a needed one at that; the storms and crashes of the previous day left us in need of serious maintenance. We fixed flat tires and cleaned and lubed chains. We slept in. Then we went to relieve the flood relief.

I'm not really sure how all of this works. There had been some kind of serious flood in the area months earlier which led to an outpouring of entirely unfocused and uncoordinated compassion. One church had designated itself to be some kind of relief station and so people did what people do. They showed up in droves to drop off clothes, pots and pans, books, movies, anything. Trouble was, they hadn't relieved suffering; they'd merely created a messy pile in a church's basement.

People who needed help might show up, then become frustrated because it would take literally hours to find a single item in the fray. Finally, they sought their help elsewhere; and so now the church had a basement full of second-hand items.

It was our job to sort all of this, box it up, and then to take it somewhere else. I can't be at all certain how any of this was beneficiary, but I do know that cogs don't ask questions, and so I didn't. We worked flood relief, and I can only hope someone was relieved.

Reedsburg, WI

2009-01-14T19:42:00.009-05:00

I woke up early that morning in Sun Prairie, and wandered into the kitchen toward the smell of coffee. I poured myself a cup and began socializing with the church ladies who had gathered to assemble our breakfast. I was initially gracious and thankful before asking the money question: "What are we having?"

She explained that she'd assembled fruit plates and yogurt and oatmeal for everyone. I told her that sounded great. Then she explained that some other lady named Agnes wanted to make biscuits and gravy and eggs and bacon.

"But I explained to her that you guys were healthy bike riders," she said. "You guys wouldn't want to eat stuff like that. So I got the fruit plate."

It was a fun day on bikes. I may have wrecked myself in the morning, or maybe that was a different day. Either way, I'm okay now.

At some point we crossed a river via ferry, which was a fantastic experience. We sang "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" the whole way, much to the ~~delight~~ chagrin of the commuters in their cars. The curses they hurled our way were soon realized, and the weather began to turn.

Rain gave way to storms which gave way to baby hail in the middle of nowhere. We made for shelter in the nearest garage we could find. The place belonged to a quite delightful and eccentric man who was a bartender by night, and a woodworker by day. His particular trade was exquisite and glamorous doghouses. His own pets stayed in a tri-level doggy mansion.

This is where things started to get difficult.

We left the home and got back on the road. After stopping later to regroup, Paul blew a tire that needed some fixing. Turns out, we didn't have the alacrity of a NASCAR pit crew. The entire process took far longer than it ought. We dashed off again, thirty minutes behind the group.

We were moving along well until we hit the hills. It was here that we discovered the true cost of my earlier wreck. The skin off my back was a minor inconvenience compared to the fact that we were climbing a cartoon mountain and I couldn't change gears. We got that problem fixed as well; then rolled off again. It's possible we also visited the world's lamest zoo.*

* Their most exotic animal: The Racoon.

At some point we arrived at our destination and snuck off to some hotel with a pool to take our showers. I knew fully well that a hotel often has a lounge and so I did just a little more sneaking. It was fantastic. This is what Reedsburg looked like.

Sun Prairie, WI

2009-01-12T17:12:00.010-05:00

We rolled out of Elm Grove and happily pedaled toward a town called Sun Prairie. It was the kind of suburb that gives itself an adventurous name to mask the monotony that it contains. That's probably a harsh review of the town, and the people there were more than gracious; running the taxi service back and forth to an overgrown health center* so that we could grab a quick shower.

* The place featured all of the amenities of a gym AND a water park. It's the only place I've ever seen where an adult could lose sight of his New Year's Resolution due to the impossible temptation of a splashtacular run down the tube slide.

That aside, I can say that the town wasn't terribly interesting, because Paul and I surveyed every inch of it as we hunted unscrupulously* for the church our map had intended to lead us toward. We saw just about everything the town had to offer, but we didn't get a chance to meet up with Jimmy the Groundhog; the world's second-most famous groundhog.

* Without scruples. Duh.

It was that kind of town. Nearly everyone there sells insurance, and those who don't, work for the company that delivers the mail-order "Cheese of the Month" club. You know it's true because neither I nor Wikipedia could make that kind of stuff up. Sun Prairie is also where we took this picture:

It is the home of the masterful artist Georgia O'Keefe, as well as the home of Paige Davis from Trading Spaces, who is, I guess, a different kind of artist. We didn't see any of that, so that means that the best part was the getting there. We rolled out ahead of the group and found our way into a pretty fantastic community called Waukesha. I say that solely because:

It probably had a college.
It had a place called the House of Guiness.
The House of Guiness hosted Free Pint Night.*
It may have also featured a bicycle shop with an open bar. Or that might have been a different town. Either way, it's worth noting.

* The answer to your question is no. It was ten in the morning.

Please Enjoy the Music While Your Party Is Reached...

2009-01-07T17:14:00.003-05:00

No I will not.

This seems like it would be a neat idea.* It really does. Instead of listening to a phone ring, all of your friends can listen to some top 40 song while they wait for you to answer your phone. It's an idea that the Verizon dude with the glasses came up with when he wasn't stalking some chick with 800 of his friends. The dude overhead in the helicopter is a co-conspirator.

* False.

First off, I don't like that song. No one does. I promise.

Secondly, and less forgiveable, the sound quality is just atrocious. It sounds like someone took a shower radio, put it in the shower, ran the shower, activated the shower radio, then absconded some sort of crappy tape recorder, circa 1992; placed it under the sink, (ran the sink), and hit record. Once recording was finished, they dropped the tape in the toilet, recovered it, then sold it to Verizon.

Verizon then played the tape back in one of those real old MACs with a cassette drive, plugged one speaker into the audio port and the other into the printer port, placed the computer and speakers in a post office box near the airport, placed earmuffs on a microphone, then held that microphone up to the window of the plane as they rolled past the post office box.

Then they made it play in my ear.

I'll stick with texting.

Elm Grove, WI

2009-01-05T11:26:00.009-05:00

We rolled happily into Wisconsin down a number of cute little bike trails. Trouble was, the crushed gravel trails were never designed to accomodate my skinny little road bike. Paul and I dashed off down the streets, hopeful to meet the rest of the group in just a little bit. Later, we found the place that our paths intersected and waited for the group to catch up. We stopped for a quick sit and I checked my voicemail quickly enough to learn that my house had sold.*

* It wasn't until several weeks later that I learned I'd been Punk'd; a cruel joke that still haunts me today. Freakin' house. New roof and everything.

We coasted through Racine, which was a particularly beautiful little town and is most notably the home of Tony Romo.* The place gave me the opportunity to watch a drawbridge do what a drawbridge does. I'm certain my eyes held the wonder of a child. Then I almost killed myself trying to cross the thing, so it was kind of a win-lose.

* Wikipedia also tells me it's the birthplace of a man who goes by the name "Max Hardcore." He makes, um, movies.

Later on, we took a detour to visit the Bohner Botanical Gardens. They'd been recommended by our sweatshop boss back at the fan factory in Zion. We stopped to visit and nearly crashed a wedding. Instead, we snuck in the back and took pictures of a tree. It was the only thing that obscured us from the ceremony.

We were woefully off-track from our destination of Elm Grove, but in fairness, our map was off-track from the destination as well. Eventually we found the place - the story is more frustrating than interesting - and grabbed showers at the community pool. Then it was time to eat too much spaghetti,* play ping-pong, and curl up for the night.

* Another fantastic dish. Here's the recipe:

1.) Too much noodles.

2.) Too much sauce.

3.) Too much meat.

4.) Too much powdered parmesan cheese.

It was this night that I discovered the magic of a cold-prevention product called Airborne, which is as potent, effective, and quick-acting as a med kit in a Duke Nukem* video game.

* Remember that? Yeah, me neither. Yikes.

Elm Grove was a suburb of Milwaukee, sprawling and well-maintained and entirely forgettable. It's the kind of place where neighborhoods hire snipers to take care of the deer that might occasionally peek in the windows. There were some nice trees, plenty of nice people, and far fewer cows than Wisconsin would have you expect. I fell asleep thinking the morning couldn't come soon enough, and then there it was, way too early, like it almost always is.

The a.m. brought the greatest discovery of all, however. I found some kid's Sunday School project hanging from the wall:

Zion, Illinois

2009-01-02T16:38:00.008-05:00

The whole thing started in a town called Zion, Illinois. We rode in a van out of Lafayette, past acres of wind farms, picked up a vagabond* outside of a Crate & Barrel in Chicago, and an hour later, we were at a small church in a place caleld Zion.

* Not really. It was Paul.

Zion was one of those Christian-planned communities. The streets were all named after Biblical figures, and our trek included rides down Samuel, Ezekiel, and Isaiah streets. The signs on the outskirts of town pointed toward Chicago and Milwaukee, but read, "SODOM and GOMORRAH."*

* Of course that's not true. The place wasn't that uptight. They had liquor stores and everything.

A decade ago, the town was a hub of industry, incorporating a state of the art nuclear energy plant that brought prosperity, money, and most importantly jobs. At some point, nuclear energy got itself a bad name, the place shut down, and took hundreds of jobs with it. Zion, Illinois was far more like the Zion of The Matrix than the Zion of the Bible.

The town itself wasn't even distantly reminiscent of the pearly gates legends have come to suggest. Still, for that night it was home. We ate too much pizza*, slept on the floor, and woke early to help the church make 5000 paper fans for distribution at Zion's next parade. The arthritis of that morning** would affect me far longer than the miles on my legs.

* Too much pizza is one of my new favorite dishes.

** Again, not true. And like so many of my stories, the moral is this - they're only good stories when I make up the endings.

We rode out that morning and said goodbye to that town as so many already had. We found Lake Michigan, took some couple pictures, and soon, we were free of Illinois altogether. I'd never been to Wisconsin before.

New Year's Resolutions

2008-12-31T09:17:00.002-05:00

Every year, I make five or six New Year's Resolutions, and every year, I manage to keep two or three of them. It's the kind of shotgun approach to life on the whole that makes it so you're never entirely depressed with yourself, but it's tough to be all too proud. Let's roll.

Put in more miles on a bike than I do in a car

This is one of those multi-purpose goals. I love to ride bikes, and I am way over the mileage on my lease with just over a year to get it back in line. If I crack down hard on the driving, I can keep it under 5000 miles. If I don't, then I'd better buy a couple of extra tubes. Because I live in Indiana, the exercise bike counts, even though I hate it. You can meet me next New Year's Eve at the gym at noon as I scurrilously try to knock out 210 miles while I watch the ball drop.

Pay off my Perkins Loan

Mr. Perkins seemed like a nice guy when he gave me that money, but now he's being kind of a buttbag. I'd better get it back to him.

Read 50 books

That's a shade under one a week. Totally doable.

Write 150 blog posts

Last February I wrote a post for every day, but since September, I've written four. Somewhere, there's a compromise. I must become a blogger again.

Record a hole-in-one at disc golf

This is ridiculous, I'm aware. I can no more resolve this than I can resolve to hit all the green lights on my way home from work today.

Get married

Stay tuned.

A Year in Review

2008-12-30T12:51:00.003-05:00

I know I've been a poor blogger for the better part of six months now. It's just that I've been so busy not writing blog posts, that I haven't had any time to produce new material. Anyway, check back tomorrow and I'll share my New Year's Resolutions, and I promise, one of them will be to blog more in 2009.

For now, I think it's best that we take a step back and enjoy the year that was. I think you'll agree that 2008 was the best year in Drawing Board history. You enjoyed* 119 posts this year. Here's the best of them.

* You probably didn't enjoy them. You probably didn't even read all of them. Indulge me.

A Homage to a Great Man

2008-12-06T18:59:00.004-05:00

A couple of weeks ago, I had the opportunity to volunteer at the Catalyst One Day event when it came to South Bend. Essentially, it featured a couple of famous pastors speaking about church strategy. The fantastic thing about things like this is that famous pastors are almost never famous by any real standard of fame,* although a number of people seem to mistake them for rock stars.

*As far as actually famous pastors go, I came up with this list: Joel Osteen, Rick Warren (maybe), Billy Graham, and then Jim Jones. So, it's really a toss-up about whether that's even a good thing to be.

Anyway, this post isn't about that, and it's certainly not a homage to Craig Groeschel or Andy Stanley.

Every once in a while, a man gets to live the dream. A few weeks ago, I had that opportunity. Unfortunately, it was someone else's dream.

I was given a special task. I had to go to Krispy Kreme at like 6:45 in the morning to pick up the conference order - 47 boxes of glazed donuts. I wish you could understand the aroma that they left in my car for about a week-and-a-half. I'm serious. The air in the car had the caloric content of a half-gallon of whole milk.

And so I come to the Drawing Board today to pay tribute* to the man whose dream I lived, while he merely dreams of living. May you be so fortunate one day, my friend.

* Check the labels, dude.

I've always wondered* how a person might be perceived as he was ordering such a quantity of donuts. How would people look at me? What would they think? Would I be judged? Would I be revered?

*Not really.

But most of all, I wondered what exactly the cashier would say to me. Then she said it.

"Can I get you anything else today?"

47 dozen donuts? That ought to do it.

I wish I would have had the foresight to have asked for about four gallons of milk, 12 rolls of toilet paper, an hour-and-a-half in the corner, and an insulin enema.

Back from the Dead

2008-11-06T11:39:00.003-05:00

I swear to you that I have fully intended to write on this blog just about everyday for the past six weeks. I've also intended to pay off my student loans, train for a half-marathon, reduce my carbon footprint, learn how to polka, and adopt a three-legged goat. You know what they say about good intentions.

I don't think I'm unique, and while I wouldn't say that I've got a lack of a motivation, I would have to admit that my motivation is lacking. And so, for the past six weeks, the post that remained at the top of this page concluded with an especially crude joke that no one got except my mom.

I'm so proud of her.

I think sometimes we just need a little prod. Some of us need a big prod. This morning, my cousin Dan tapped me on the shoulder from Kentucky to make a post called iPod tag. It's a simple concept, you put your iPod or mp3 player on shuffle, and you MUST post, for the world to see, the first 15 songs it plays. It's a neat idea.

Here we go...

La-Di-Da by Farryl Purkiss

The Fjords of Oslo by Bela Fleck & The Flecktones

Champagne Supernova by Oasis

A Love Supreme by John Coltrane

Lady Madonna by Paul McCartney

This Side by Nickel Creek

Cannonball by Damien Rice

Best of What's Around by The Dave Matthews Band

Satisfaction by Otis Redding *

Come Downstairs and Say Hello by Guster

All the way Up to Heaven by Guster

Menuett I-II by Bela Fleck & Edgar Meyer

When the Saints Go Marching In by Louis Armstrong

Dream On by Kelly Sweet **

The Luckiest by Ben Folds

* He covered the Rolling Stones; I like the original better.

** She covered Aerosmith; I like her version better.

In other news, it's good to be back.* See you soon.

* And that makes it sentimental crap.

Braving the Downpour

2008-09-17T13:14:00.005-04:00

As many of you may be aware, I am relocated to my hometown of South Bend, Indiana. I've been here since the trip ran afoul, and I'm planning on staying.* South Bend seemed glad to have me back, as I was greeted with record rains that closed roads, destroyed yards, and left the entire westside under a boil order. That means that if I brush my teeth with the regular sink water, I may contract dyptheria.

* All I need is a job. And a place to live. And my car. And some clothes. Other than that, I'm home.

The rains were merely remnants of Hurricane Ike, the storm that tore through Galveston, demolished parts of Houston, and merely soaked the midwest. It's not nearly the first hurricane complication I've dealt with this year. When Fay rolled through Florida, winds in North Dakota escalated to 40 mph; right across my left side as I attempted to keep my bicycle from blowing off the side of a bridge. These are the things you never plan for.

I eavesdropped on a couple of older gentleman at a Starbucks, arguing about just how much rain we'd received over the weekend. The first man pointed out that his rain gauge showed 11 inches. The second man pointed out that his rain gauge showed 12.5 inches. Back and forth it went; each man trying to prove to the other that either he or his rain gauge was an incompetent fool.

I believe one of the men even had a rain gauge notebook - a tome that he had on his person and was able to produce during the conversation - which he had used to track rainfall since the late 90s.

See, I've never had that argument with one of my friends, namely because none of my friends are old enough to actually own a rain gauge. See, a rain gauge isn't a thing a person buys to help him make a decision. No one says, "I was going to see the new Will Ferrell movie, but my rain gauge showed 4 inches and I knew there was no way." This is because the new Will Ferrell movies are horrible and no one ever wants to see them.

No, a rain gauge is purchased as a conversation piece. Without rain gauges, the two old men would have been reduced to this conversation:

Old Man 1: It rained last night.

Old Man 2: Yes it did.

And that is why I don't own a rain gauge. I hope my life is interesting enough to stand on its own without my needing to mention how many inches I got last night.

There's No Subject That Could Possibly Serve This

2008-09-11T23:46:00.007-04:00

I've been in ministry for more than six years now, and after six years, it's tempting to think that, perhaps, I've seen it all. It's tempting to think that I've seen the absolute best and worst the church has to offer. Let's say that that's half-true. Your job is to figure out which half. Sonseed here is like the Partridge Family without the rough edges:

This melodious cacophony features a too-many-singers-background-section and the kind of lyrics you would expect from - well I don't even know how to end that sentence. Try on this section:

Once I tried to run

I tried to run and hide

But Jesus came and found me

And he touched me down inside

Please be aware that it gets worse. Way worse:

He is like a mountie*

He always gets his man

And he'll zap** you any way he can

zap

* Really, a mountie? I'm supposed to believe that Jesus is the Way, the Truth, the Light, the Lion and the Lamb, and that he is also - coincidentally - traditional, horse-mounted Canadian law enforcement?

** This is not sound theology.

Lastly, I'd like to state that I am 80% sure that that's Kip on lead guitar.

Updated: I added the "Bad Church Sign" label because I am certain that this church has a real doozy in the front lawn. I guarantee it.

Back to the Drawing Board

2008-09-10T23:47:00.003-04:00

I thought I had laid down for a nap. Then I went and slept through August. Sorry about that.

No, that's not what happened. Of course not. That's ridiculous. I actually rode my bicycle about 1300 miles, made a detour to the emergency room*, then rode a very long and uncomfortable train back to Indiana.

* To allay the fears of those of you who know me, but mostly to frustrate those of you who hate me, I would like to state that the emergency room visit was not on my behalf. I waited in the other room and watched soap operas with the doctors while they were busy not treating anyone.

We stopped at some sort of clinic in a lovely town called Michigan, North Dakota. This doctor apparently had less technology than a Pygmy witch doctor, so we were advised to move along. We ended up hitch hiking with a man who was possibly named Jim, although I wouldn't bet my own $20 dollars on it.* He took us the remaining 40 miles to a town called Devil's Lake, which, as the name implies, might not be the ideal town to make a hospital stop.

* I'd be willing to be your $20 on it though.

We asked the-man-possibly-named-Jim if there was anything to do in Devil's Lake, ND. His advice: "Yeah. Get better and get the hell out of North Dakota." I liked that guy, and on second thought, I believe he may have introduced himself to us using only his last name. I'm also pretty sure his last name wasn't Jim.*

* You just lost $20. Sorry about that.

Anyway, an uneventful respite at the hospital led us to a hotel room that featured a lot of flies and not a lot of towels. It was time to find a way back to Indiana. We spent the next day riding in a red 15-passenger van that the driver insisted on calling a bus. He also insisted that Drew Carey was the funniest man alive. His name may have been Jim.

From there, we rode an Amtrak that failed to provide ample leg room for sleeping; also not for the bathroom. Over the course of several weeks, it can become easy to forget how far you've come. Fortunately, a 20-hour train ride provides a most sober reminder that, yes, you were very, very far from home.

A few days back at home might make you wonder why you ever endeavored to leave. A few more might bring about the itch again. The next adventure might seem soon, but for now, it can wait. I've got more important things to attend to.

I've got a blog.

No more sleeping through August at the Drawing Board. I promise.

Cussing Up a Storm

2008-07-27T16:23:00.004-04:00

I'm not a big fan of the F-bomb, the A-bomb, or a bunch of other very similar, equally naughty words. I think it's the fastest way to convince another person that your vocabulary is very limited. Want a new way to make some more great than great? Make it effin' great and make sure everyone knows that you can't spell awesome.

That having been said, there are times when a curse word might actually be appropriate.* These are few and far between, but they do exist. For example, if a friend just lost his job, you wouldn't want to respond with this: "Gosh darn, friend. That situation is certainly unsavory."

* I got cursed at by the most delightful little old lady last Monday. We hung a screen porch for Miss Barbara and she was displeased with our work, describing it with a certain profane synonym for poopy.** She was; however, pleased with the fact that I fixed her Nissan and fully winterized a birdhouse.

** It was a fair assessment.

I once met a man who used the F-word as an adverb. I'm fairly certain he was entirely unaware that an adverb was a thing. It was that kind of cursing - every sentence kind of cursing - that communicates very little. The word had lost its shock value and instead just made him look unintelligent. If you asked this guy what television show he was watching, he might say: "American *&$%ing Gladiators." It was terribly unfortunate and horribly inappropriate.

I mention all of that because I want to show you what happened to my house while I was on a mission trip:

Damn.

Mountain T.O.P.

2008-07-19T11:16:00.004-04:00

Most people wouldn't decide to move across the country on a bicycle. Most people wouldn't decide to move across the country on a bicycle a mere three days after they're going to be on a mission trip for a week, leaving them only two days to figure out all of the crucial details surrounding a trip across the country on a bicycle. I have never been accused of being most people.*

*I've also never been accused of murder or arson or most felonies. I was accused of stealing a mouse ball when I was a junior in high school. I was told I would have to serve detention, but refused to go since I had not stolen the mouse ball. It went back and forth, me and the assistant principal and the people in the Attendance Office - them giving me more detention for not going to detention, me not going to those detentions. One day, in the middle of the whole ordeal, I was named a National Merit Semi-Finalist and that was all the ammo I needed to just tell the guy to shove it.

I'm ready for the New Mexico trip, and am prepared to live for two months on only what will fit on a bicycle. So, when I packed for this eight-day mission trip, I packed light. I figure I will only need 13% of what I will need in August. This makes packing easier.

I packed deodorant, a toothbrush, some old clothes, a bar of soap, and a wretchedly uncomfortable (but miraculously light!) sleeping bag. On the list of things I didn't pack: a razor, shaving cream, hair product, shampoo, SPF, face wash, etc... This can only mean one thing. Look for to the patented "Aaron Helman Resembles a Boy Band Member but Only if that Boy Band Member Was some Sort of Hobo"* look to begin before the bike trip is even nearly planned.

*All Rights Reserved. (c) 2008.

See you in a week.

Pain at the Pump*

2008-07-16T18:10:00.003-04:00

*Yes, that's a corny title. No, I don't have any qualms about doing the asterisk thing in the beginning of a post.

I whined a little bit yesterday about how sad I was to be nursing a sore hamstring. I get antsy and bored and a little bit sad and maybe just the tiniest bit gassy, but lost in the minutiae of my low-grade, injury-related depression is this sobering fact: Until I pulled the hammy, I hadn't driven my car since June 2.

Between May 15 and July 10, I put a total of 22 miles on my car. It was great. I never once had to fill up with gas.* A precariously overthrown Frisbee and an elongated tendon later, that streak has come to an end. Yesterday, for the first time in months, I had to put gas in my car.

*The no-driving, no-gas streak saved me way more money than that crazy tuna tracker ever did.

Now I'm not sure if you've heard about this or not, but gas has gotten really expensive. I mean really, really expensive. Like $4.20 expensive. For the cost of two gallons of gasoline, I can get a really good* meal at the sushi place in Brownsburg. For the cost of a full tank, I could purchase a really nice pair of slacks. And for the cost of just one month's worth of gas, I could purchase either a decent guitar or a decent bike.

*Seriously. Really, really, really good. This is my official plug for the Tegry Bistro's lunch menu.

Or I could purchase the bike, ride around the next month and then buy the guitar. It's known as the cost of convenience, and it's getting higher.*

*I'm aware that this post wasn't funny. I need to get well so I can get back on my bike so I can go get hit by a truck again. You people eat that up.

Stir Crazy

2008-07-15T15:13:00.003-04:00

It's been awhile since I've contributed to this blog. That's because I haven't done anything interesting lately. This is because, after I survived being hit by a truck, I injured myself trying to catch a Frisbee. So for the past five days, I've done little but try to rehab a pulled hamstring. Ice and heat and elevation and Icy Hot* and a bunch of other not-so-medical things that make for a boring blog post.

*There was one fiasco with the Icy Hot. It wasn't terribly interesting, but it will garner the "I am an idiot" label. Just remember, after you apply the Icy Hot, wash your hands before touching your eyes.

Anyway, I can't run or jog or bike or do anything fun, and it's worth noting that these are the only things that I actually do. Couple that with the fact that my job is winding down slowly, and there's not too much for me to do for another couple of weeks. I've been watching SNL reruns and sleeping in and keeping my house obsessively clean.*

*Like, I cleaned the baseboards clean. Not kidding. It's really a good-looking place. Did I mention it was for sale?

The real trouble is this: In the past two months, I've cleaned out my library, gotten rid of some movies; I've basically begun to dematerialize my life; looking ahead to the New Mexico adventure. After all, I'll only stow what I can carry on a bicycle.* So while I'm on the DL, there's not a book or movie to keep me company. I know what happens usually in these circumstances: I rush my recovery and hurt myself worse. I cannot afford that this time, so I'm being beyond intentional about being boring.

*Really not much at all.

And I hate it.

Riding with the Wind

2008-07-10T16:03:00.003-04:00

Let's get this right out of the way. This post is going to be flowery and poetic, and I'm going to label it Sentimental Crap. You are more than welcome to listen to Jim Gaffigan talk about pie instead. I won't be offended. You have been warned.

Every now and again, I stumble unwittingly into a moment of restrained euphoria. It's a wave that comes unexpectedly and disappears just as quickly. There's nothing a person can do to create the feeling, and in fact; attempting to manufacture it always assures it won't arrive. It's the moment John Mayer sang about in Clarity.* It's the fleeting moment when everything seems perfect, the world seems good, and everything - everything - makes sense. It's nice.

*Seriously. Dude nailed it: "By the time I recognize this moment / This moment will be gone."

That's exactly the trouble with the whole thing. It washes over you, and by the time you realize what it is, it's gone. Maybe if a person could be content to experience the thing rather than analyze it, it might linger. But it doesn't happen. It never happens.

--

The wind does weird things to a cyclist. It's a relentless foe. It's indefatigable. It's not like boxing. In boxing, if you hit the other guy hard enough, he'll stop hitting you. You can ride at the wind all you want, and it is never, ever going to let up because your effort has somehow overwhelmed it. No, you're just more tired than you were a few moments ago. You will always be at the whims of the wind, and the wind is nothing if it's not whimsical.

Occasionally, the wind is less a tireless foe and more a flaky ally. Sure, it may help you along, but you can never ever rely on it. One moment, it can blow fiercely at your back; the next it can turn and blow in your face. If it does that, it means that there might be a tornado coming. This, suffice it to say, is the meanest thing the wind can do.* Get off the road.

*Also, the wind could be in your face as you ride to work. Then, while you are in the office, it can change directions simply so it can blow against you on the way home. You might be thinking that the opposite could happen; that it could blow at your back both ways. You'd be wrong. That has never happened to anyone ever.

Then there's the matter of roads. Most roads are laid out on east-west, north-south grids. It's a clever system. Unfortunately, the wind hasn't bought into it. The wind almost never blows strictly in cardinal directions. That means that you'll never have the full strength of the wind behind you, and you'll inevitably end up fighting some minutiae of crosswind.

Wind can also be loud. In your face, it catches the sails that are your big ears* and it fills them with a rustling that hides traffic noises. Blowing across, it's like listening to a stereo recording with one headphone; nothing ever sounds right.

*My big ears. I have big ears.

There is one exceptional quality to all of this. When the wind is at your back - and I mean, really and truly at your back, 100% - it makes no sound whatsoever. And for as long as the wind's whims remain unchanged, you'll pedal on air with nary a sound in your ear.* In that moment, everything seems idyllic, there are no worries, restrained euphoria takes charge, and life makes sense.

*What a sappy sentence. It kind of makes me want to puke.

Of course it can't last. Your awareness of the moment will ruin it. The wind will change only a bit and that might ruin it.

Or, as you are enjoying you biannual moment of Zen; you might get hit by a truck. Again.

Seriously, people. I'm right there. On the shoulder. I know you can see me. Please stop hitting me with your trucks. And if you do feel, for whatever reason, that you must hit me with your truck, why in the name of nirvana do you have to do it right in that very moment? And yes, I'm okay,* but would it have killed you to have stopped (or slowed down, or maintained your constant speed, or done anything besides sped up) to make sure?

*Mom, I really am okay. I was more of a man about it this time. I didn't fall, I didn't come loose of the bike, and I even maintained the wherewithal to slam my fist against the dude's bed as he came by. I hurt my hand doing that. My hand hurts.**

**Remember that episode of Full House where Joey "let go" and Michelle rode her bike right into the bushes and scraped up her knee? I remember watching that as a seven-year-old and thinking, "Seriously? Bushes are thing that's going to make her scared of bikes? Bushes?" After two of these truck-hittings,*** I would like to say that I am vindicated. Michelle Tanner is a grade-A wuss.

***That entire episode takes on a different meaning if Michelle gets hit by a truck, doesn't it? Man, I would watch that.

I Got Interrogated

2008-07-08T12:22:00.000-04:00

“Aaron, get up and put some pants on, the police are here.”

“What?”

“Put your pants on, the police are here.”

That is how I was woken up on August 20, 2006 at about one-in-the-morning. Paul and I were living in a tent behind the church for forty days and forty nights, and the cops were woefully unaware of this fact.* They saw our cars in the parking lot, and somehow, without a guide, they were able to track us down, interrogate us, and later, they let us go back to bed.

*They really should have known. See below.

And that is precisely the fashion that the soundest sleep I’d experienced in 22 nights was broken up prematurely – “Put your pants on, the police are here.”

I Got Warned

2008-07-08T12:18:00.002-04:00

Only a week earlier, Paul and I were headed back to the forest when I received a call from Drew Shepherd.* He was concerned because he had just driven by the church and had seen several police cars on the property. We hauled back there every second as fast as we could to see what was going on. By the time we arrived, most of the “several” cruisers had departed; still we were greeted by a policeman and a conservation officer.

*Drew throws a Frisbee more precisely than any human I've ever met. Just thought it was worth mentioning.

I approached cautiously, and asked what was going on. I explained that we actually lived back in the forest, and then we were told that maybe it wouldn’t be a real good idea to go back there at that point. Apparently, the police were on a manhunt, and they were hunting a man who had escaped into the woods!

That’s my home!

Neither of the officers had reason to expect that the man was at all armed or dangerous. That was before I informed them that a pair of axes, a machete, and my throwing hatchet were at the campground. That seemed to pique their interest.

Regardless, they set back toward camp to hunt this fugitive from justice. Paul and I were instructed to wait at our cars. Then we had the thought together – what if this dude comes out of the forest while the two cops are inside of it? No time for words to be spoken; sandals and jeans came off. Running shoes and shorts went on. We were going to have to catch this guy ourselves.

It never happened. We didn’t see anything or anyone. About an hour later, the officers came back, reported essentially that they hadn’t caught the guy yet, but that they were leaving for the night. We could do what we wanted.

We stayed in the tent, me, clutching a throwing hatchet.*

*I am actually really good at throwing hatchets. Unfortunately, this has never worked as a pickup line. Yes, I've tried.

I Got Cased

2008-07-08T12:14:00.002-04:00

Last week, Ben Hallett was visiting for the night. He was in town for a couple days and we spent some time together. We watched Ocean's 13.* We played football in the dark. We talked about lights. It was pleasant.

*I liked Ocean's 13. I also liked Ocean's 11. I like to pretend that Ocean's 12 never happened.

Then the bright lights started. I caught the glare of some sort of industrial flashlight through my window. After my retinas thawed,* I peered back out the window and saw a guy seriously casing my home. Dude was peering in windows, looking for God-knows-what. This was a source of some consternation.

*I actually used to have a label called "Molten Retinas." I deleted it because I thought, "I'll never use that one again." Who knew?

As my vision slowly returned, I noticed a police car in the driveway. So, it was a cop. This provided a lesser level of consternation; though I was still fairly consternated.

The cop banged on my door and asked me if I lived here. I said yes, and he explained that they had received a call that drifters had inhabited this empty house. I said, "Nope, I've got furniture and everything."

He said it was good enough for him, and said he hoped he hadn't inconvenienced me.

Let's visit that again. It was 3:00 a.m. I was standing at the front door - in my underwear - and the policeman said, "I hope this wasn't an inconvenience." Now let me get this out of the way: I respect law enforcement, and the guy did the right thing. But to pretend that it somehow wasn't an inconvenience? I'd say we're past that.

I Got Clocked

2008-07-08T11:40:00.004-04:00

I got pulled over. I got pulled over on my way to work. I got pulled over on my way to work this morning. I got pulled over on my way to work this morning on a bicycle.*

*Secretly, and very publicly, I've always wanted to be pulled over for speeding on a bicycle. I saw the cop, I saw the hill, and I thought, let's see what happens. It happened.

I was killing 36 out of Danville when it happened. The cop pulled up next to me and told me to meet him up at the next light. I did. The two cops were just sort of chuckling when I arrived.

Me: "What's up?"

Cop 1: "Just wanted to let you know we clocked you doing 38 in a 35."

Cop 2: "Niiiiiice."*

*He said it just like Kevin from The Office. Also, he sort of looked like Kevin in The Office.

My Overgrown Sense of Adventure

2008-07-01T14:45:00.003-04:00

I'm starting to think that maybe some people don't know me very well. I tell them* about my upcoming bike trip** and they react as though this entire thing is somehow out of character for me. Really, it isn't out of character at all. This is me. It's always been me, and I think I always expected something big like this was coming. I only occasionally thought it would come now.

*Them includes my friends, family, acquaintances, and anybody unfortunate enough to make eye contact and smile at me at a coffee shop. They all get to hear the whole story because I love to tell it. You know who you are.

**Holy crap. I'm moving to New Mexico on a bicycle in four weeks!

When I was about 11-years-old, a Meijer supermarket opened about a mile from my home. I begged and begged my mom to let me walk down there to buy a frozen Coke.* I don't even like frozen Cokes. But when you're 11, a mile can be a world away, and I wanted to explore it. When she allowed me to make the trek, it was like she had just commissioned my own Nina, Pinta, and Santa Maria.

*One time I ordered a frozen Coke at this restaurant called Amy's. My grandmother wondered if they thing was really frozen - like solid frozen, so she tipped it over to find out. Frozen Coke was everywhere. This was probably 16 years ago. She still hasn't heard the end of it.

When I got my driver's license I came home from church - about 7 miles away - by way of middle Michigan. I decided to get home using only roads I'd never traveled. As it turned out, I'd been on a lot of roads. I really had to go out of my way before I was even nearly lost. It took hours. I never told my parents. Yes, they do read this blog.

In summer 2004, I got into a car with a friend. We drove three hours to Indianapolis, but since we were each living there, it didn't seem like an adventure. We ended up sleeping at a rest stop in Dayton. Taking only roads we didn't know, we wound up at the Cincinnati Zoo.

In spring 2005, I met a friend for coffee in the late evening. I was bored, so we went for a walk. At 11:00 p.m., 13 miles later,* we were back at the coffee shop.

*Entirely in flip-flops. Bad decision.

In August & September of 2006, I lived in a tent for forty days and forty nights.

So no, this isn't that strange of a thing. At least not for me.

Bicycle Friendly Communities

2008-06-26T12:39:00.002-04:00

I've often wondered if there is any sort of governing board that determines what makes a community bicycle friendly. Every time I see the signs - "Welcome to Carmel - A Bicycle Friendly Community" - I have to wonder: What qualifies a bicycle friendly community?

Most likely, it seems that a town planner would just have to sink a few hundred bucks to place signs at the town limits. But really, that isn't fair. For example, Brownsburg is absolutely not friendly to cyclists, and slapping a few signs up isn't going to change that.

A bicycle friendly community should have shoulders on its roads that are relatively free of debris. It should contain a number of bike paths and marked trails. It should absolutely not have signs pointing out bike paths that lead only down scarred, potholed country roads. Its retailers should not be stingy with water.* It should contain at least one bike shop.

*I stopped a Dairy Queen on my way back from Warsaw on Tuesday. It was hot, I was thirsty, and I just needed my bottles filled. The young woman behind the counter informed me that she was not allowed to provide water to anyone who did not order more than $2 worth of food. Trouble is, the place is a Dairy Queen. A hot dog is 99 cents. An ice cream cone is a-buck-fifty. I was going to have to order two of something or order the pail-sized portion of chocolate malt. Or hit the sink in the bathroom. I chose the sink in the bathroom. Elwood, Indiana? Not a bicycle friendly community.

I mention all of this, because when I was in South Bend, a man was shot off of his bicycle* by men who wanted to steal the bike. (He's okay, now, I think.) This is the type of behavior that has no place in a bicycle friendly community. In fact, if South Bend has these signs, I think they need to be taken down immediately. This is also the kind of behavior that makes my mom a little nervous.

*I wondered what I would do if a man came after me with a gun and wanted to steal my bike. I'd let him have it, I think. He, not having the necessary shoes to pedal the thing, would have a significant amount of trouble getting away. I, wearing the shoes, which are in no way designed for running, would give a ridiculous pursuit. Eventually the police would show up, right? Or, I would say something like: "That's a pretty nice gun. I'll trade you the bike for the gun, straight up." It's worth a shot (pun), and let's be honest, you've heard of dumber criminal stories.

The roads and shoulders in South Bend aren't the best either, but there are a few trails, some mountain biking, and a number of cycling retailers. Still, there's the matter of that dude getting shot. South Bend, Indiana is welcome to reapply after a full calendar year of not shooting their cyclists.

The Kindness of Strangers

2008-06-20T23:12:00.008-04:00

I wrote a few days ago about my uncanny ability to make friends out of strangers. It's a good skill to have in that moment of the transformation. After all; most people leave a place and have only a fleeting familiarity with a few faces. I like to know the names and stories behind the faces. That's because most people are interesting if you give them a chance to be interesting.

But there's something else great about my social prowess.* It means that if I spend enough time in one area, I'm bound to start knowing the people around me. I don't see as many strangers waiting to become friends. I start seeing friends who were once - only briefly - strangers.

*It feels weird to call it social prowess. Prowess sounds like the word prowl, and that sounds like a thing creepy dudes do. I'm not a creepy dude, am I? (I might be.)

Tonight, I cruised into downtown South Bend and stopped for a Mocha Dark at the South Bend Chocolate Cafe.* I locked up the bike, popped in the headphones, and strolled around the city, imagining myself to be more of a stud than I am. It was a perfect night for the thing, and seemed like an appropriate way to celebrate the Cubs' ninth inning win over the White Sox. (Yes, I did have to squeeze that in somehow.)

*Fact: South Bend does the best chocolate in the United States. I'm leaving for New Mexico in something like six weeks and I can say that I will miss South Bend Chocolate and Traders Point Creamery very much. I wonder if either would sponsor a cyclist.

While I was at the cafe, I recognized a man that I met once. My friend Cory got married in June 2005. I was his best man, and his uncle was one of the groomsmen. The primary thrust of this paragraph is that I recognized Cory's uncle. We spoke for a minute; then I got ready to go on my way.

--

I was fifteen feet away from my bike when it happened. The tire exploded with a kind of -BOOM!- then a slow and depressing -sssssss- sound. It was locked up on the fence that surrounded the outdoor cafe and I am certain that each of the patrons heard the thing go. If they didn't notice the sound, they certainly heard my droning cry of "Ohhh no!"

People reacted with an uncommon level of concern, offering whatever help they could. But in the end, it was Cory's uncle - a man I'd met once - who came to the rescue. He offered me a ride home, which I accepted readily. He, his wife, and his son* helped me load up my bike and drove me to safety. It's the kind of thing that Paul and I will almost require of those around us as we travel to Minnesota and then to New Mexico.

*Cute wedding story, and I hate cute wedding stories. During Cory & Beth's wedding, the flower girl stubbornly refused to sprinkle the flowers as she walked the aisle. Cory's nephew - who was the ringbearer - confronted her later; asking, "Why didn't you do your job?" Her response? "Oh. I didn't want to make a mess."

The moral of the story is this. Most people are good people, as long as you give them the opportunity to be. But get to know a person, even just a little bit; and they become a little bit gooder.

--

You may have noticed that I didn't mention Cory's uncle by name. That's because I'm horrible with names. I am good at meeting people and remembering every circumstance surrounding the time we met, then I crap on their name. So no, I didn't remember his name.

However, I did leave him with the address of this blog, so there's a real good chance that he's reading this right now, realizing that I never had an idea of his name. This ruins any chance I had of faking it for the rest of my life.

I did do some research. Dean & Donna. The name of their son? No idea.

Thanks Dean, Donna, and son. It's people like you that make my adventures possible.

--
Updated: Their son's name is Benjamin. Thanks again to the three of you!

How to Make Friends with Anyone

2008-06-18T22:10:00.007-04:00

W.B. Yeats* once said that "There are no strangers; only friends you haven't yet met." This quote runs in stark contrast to something my parents told me, which was "Never talk to strangers." This is because, sometimes, strangers can be creepy.

*I've never met Yeats, so I don't know if he lived by the principle or not. Truthfully, I had to look him up on Wikipedia to learn anything about him. More truthfully, I didn't even look him up on Wikipedia. I just Googled the quote.

I ride bicycles a lot and I wear bicycle clothes. This is usually all the icebreaker I need to kickstart a conversation. So I stopped at a place called the Fiddler's Hearth and I did what I do.

--

I met a guy named Tony in Mishawaka. Tony's in the Army and rides bikes to stay in shape in between tours. He's getting ready for a sort-of-big ride into Michigan. Dude was blown away by my 125-mile ride. He has fought in wars, but I was the hero. Cool guy. He should quit smoking though. (His words, not mine.) (Also, my words.)

--

I met a girl named Sam who dropped out of college a few years ago after three-and-a-half semesters. That's like quitting a race when you're only a couple hundred yards from winning the Triple Crown. (Bad example. Also, topical.) I told her to go back to school. She said she would. I have no way of holding her to it.

--

I met the team of people that organized Michiana* Bike-to-Work Week. One guy owns a bike shop in town, another just finished a Habitat for Humanity project in Las Cruces, New Mexico. Eight weeks ago I knew one person in that town. Now I know a few dozen. This seems like a good sign.

*Michiana is the term used to describe the greater South Bend area, extended into Michigan. It includes, Niles, Dowagaic, and a number of other fairly inconsequential towns. People from South Bend hate the term Michiana. The Michiganders don't mind it so much.

--

I met a guy named John who's a painter by trade, but his life's passion is hot sauce. He's been making, bottling, and distributing his own line of hot sauces since 1991, and I met him in downtown South Bend today. He had samples. I tried the samples. They were incredible. I think I will buy some. He told me it's all under-the-radar, and that he doesn't claim his revenue on his taxes and that this makes the hot sauce some sort of illegal contraband kind of hot sauce. Let's be honest; that makes you want it.

John got into hot sauce because he was always going to a jazz festival in New Orleans. He had wanted to be some kind of musician, but didn't have the drive or innate talent. But, he could hold on to the tastes he'd experienced and so he created a new hot sauce. Hot sauce enthusiasts are beyond excited about New Mexico.

He wished me luck and God speed. I'm not sure what that phrase means, but I'd be good with 18.5 miles per hour.

The Story about the Mean Lady

2008-06-14T23:22:00.007-04:00

I'm on vacation this week, and so far, I've spent it clearing 202 miles in 30 hours on a bicycle. It's been intense. My legs are a little sore, and my tan lines are far more evident than they've ever been.* I rode from Danville to Brownsburg to West Lafayette on Friday and then from West Lafayette to South Bend today (which is Saturday). The second leg of that trip came in at 125 miles, and was only disheartening because I didn't see another cyclist the entire way.**

*I've always had the classic farmer's tan on the arms. I've come to expect the bike shorts tan line and the glow-in-the-dark white feet. I've got a number of lines on my hands. But the worst is the line that runs along my neck, following the path of my helmet strap. Most of the rest of the tan lines are concealable. This frames my now-burnt face perfectly. I need a killer name for this phenomenon. Get on it in the comments.

**I did see a few kids on bikes, but this is my rule of thumb: If you're not going more than a block-and-a-half, and you're not smart enough to wear a helmet in the street, then you're probably not a cyclist.

As I was cruising into Lafayette on Friday, I was confronted by someone. Someone was a middle-aged woman driving a great big Ford Expedition. I include a picture here because I want you to see the car and keep it in your mind.

This lady was behind me and she made it clear that she was not happy about it. She laid on the horn, and not in the way that is intended simply to let me know that she was there.* No, I mean, she laid on the thing, yelled at me to get out of the road, and cursed a bit. I suppose I can understand her frustration, except that, at that point, I had little recourse to please her. I was already in the road, and there was no way to get out of it.

*A lot of dudes do the thing where the tap the horn to "let you know they're there." I suppose it's a pleasantry, but here's the thing: I'm exposed, you're driving a truck, and your muffler is clearly broken. You're there. I already got that.

The lady refused to pass me, even though she had all the room in the world to do so. I gestured that she could get into the other lane - actually, she could have gone to the other side of the road if she desired - but she just laid back, festering. Finally, I came to a stoplight, she rolled up next to me and rolled down her window.

Me: Hey.
Her: Don't "hey" me. I'm old enough to be your mother.*

*I did not point out that she had at least a decade of life experience on my mother. Restraint.

What followed next was a diatribe that is unlike any in the annals of the cursers' history. She insulted me, my bicycle, my lineage, and my entire way of life. I can't remember all of what she said; suffice it to say, I couldn't reprint it in this space if I wanted to. It ended succinctly with this comment:

Her: ...you're a no-good, slow moving son-of-a-bitch.

Me: So, what kind of gas mileage does that thing get?

Hate Poetry

2008-06-10T13:58:00.006-04:00

I remember reading a lot of poetry in high school. Poetry units were good because poems are usually short. However, discussions usually centered around a group of teenagers pretending they had some clue from whence the specter didst come.

Obviously, if you wanted the girls to like you, you had to pose like some sort of deep thinker; pondering the deeper meaning of Emily Dickinson's darkness. I always pretended like I got poetry*, but even as a good student of language, I didn't get poetry too much beyond dirty limericks.

*Except haikus. No one got haikus and no one even pretended to. It's my personal feeling that art shouldn't include a person sitting at his desk, flicking his fingers to count syllables. Everyone who has ever written a haiku is a finger-flicker. Don't even pretend like that's not true.

Anyway, in my days, I've seen a lot of poetry, most of it considered by others to be good poetry. I've never been a good judge of what makes great poetry. I think it's all pretty good and I'm fine with it; unless it's really, really bad, in which case I notice and make a point about it. I'm like the Paula Abdul of poetry judging.

Like most people, I've written poetry, even love poetry; although I would never tell anyone that.

--

Today, as I was riding through intermittent rain on the way to work, I noticed a series of signs along the side of the road. They were yellow, and from a distance, I was keenly aware that they had words on them. As I got closer, I realized that each of the four signs contained one phrase from some sort of hate poem.

Before I dive further into the content, I should mention that I commute via the same country roads every single day; six days a week. I almost never see cars, I never see cyclists, I do see a few horses. So far as I can tell, I am the only human person who ever utilizes these roads. That's why, if a person writes hate poetry directed at a cyclist; and posts these poems publicly - on the side of this road! - they are probably directed at me.

I'm not quite sure what I've done to infuriate some fellow (or fellowette) to the point where he felt the need to pay actual money to have signs printed and displayed along the side of the road. I'm less certain about what I've done to inspire this kind of poetry:

A man who rides
A bike in the open
Isn't thinking
He's just hopin'

Goo. This is bad. Real bad. Like the kind of poetry Walt Whitman's guinea pig might compose, if only the guinea pig had thumbs and was also dumber than most guinea pigs. It seemed as rough as poetry could be, but then I noticed there was more of this metered verse.

Althouh insured,
Remember kiddo
They dont pay you
They pay you're wido

In case you were wondering, [sic], [sic], [sic], and [sic].* In four lines, this guy (or guyette) made four vicious, evil typos. And not just regular typos; but typos that he paid real, actual money to have printed for public consumption on roadside signs. These things tend to happen when anti-cycling activists consider themselves to be a poet and a copy editor. Euripedes is just one example of a guy who wrote cleaner English poetry than this, and Euripedes predates the English language.

*I always hate it when people throw a couple of [sic]'s in the middle of a paragraph. It really ruins the flow of whatever the writer was intending; although in this case there wasn't much in the way of flow. Or actual words.

--

Bad poetry aside, I'm wondering what this dude's (or dudette's) motive is. Is he advocating safety? Does he hate cyclists because he was raised by oppressive cyclists? Did Lance Armstrong steal his girlfriend?

I thought maybe I'd respond with a poem of my own:

When I ride my bike for a while
I decrease our demand for gas
I lower the price by two cents every mile
Please don't bother to check on my facts

Go Ahead, Talk to Tucker

2008-06-09T15:40:00.003-04:00

I'm starting a new thing now. I'm selling my first house. When I moved in, the place was cute, rustic living, and in need of a little TLC. What that actually means is: small, mostly damaged, and no running water.*

*That's entirely true by the way. I lived in a tent for 40 days in 2006, then moved in to this house only to discover that my new, more luxurious environs were still lacking in plumbing. We dug up the entire yard, ran a new supply line and worked the plumbing indoors. On September 29, 2006 - my birthday! - I took my first real shower since July. It was the greatest present a guy could ask for. Anyway, here's what makes all of this so poetic: In 2006, I moved from a tent into a house. Now, I'm moving from a house back into a tent; albeit, a different tent.

I always intended to flip the thing, but the schedule for sale quickened with the discovery of my new plans. Over the past year-and-a-half, I've managed to install a working plumbing system, discover two new bedrooms and another half-a-bath (!), and make the place quite presentable. Or, presentable as it is defined by a 24-year-old life-bachelor.*

*Good grief. Go back and count the number of hyphens in that paragraph. Then deal with it.

I met with my Realtor, and we've got the property listed (quite generously) at $79,900. There's a sign in the yard and a tricky sort of locked box on the door. This means that people are, maybe right now, waltzing through my house, marveling at the archways and cozy rooms. Then they're saying things like, "What a steal!" and "I could raise a family here!" and "This guy sure owns a lot of Cubs merchandise!"

My neighbors will probably be glad to get rid of me. I'm a 20-something male, I'm quiet, I don't have too many visitors, I work strange and erratic hours, I'm often gone late at nights, and occasionally, I'm gone for days at a time. I'm certain they believe that I operate a meth lab.

But, potential home-buyers, please be aware that I do not operate a meth lab out of my house. Really, I don't. The place is adorable, roomy, quiet, and at your desire, it can be as wet as you want it to be.

--
I added the "Stories Where I'm Not Wearing Pants" label because it's my house and I almost never wear pants there.

A Rumination on God's Creation

2008-06-08T15:51:00.004-04:00

I'm closer to 25 than I am to 24 at this point. That means I'm almost closer to 30 than I am 20. And if you count time since conception, I'm practically middle-aged. (I heard you add nine years. Or something like that.)

I mention all of that because of this unremarkable fact: Of my quarter century of existence, the sun has risen every morning. I assume that to be true - anyway, it's there somehow when I get out of bed. Furthermore, the sun has set every night. I can vouch for that.

Here's what makes all of this blogworthy. As I was tooling around Broad Ripple on Friday night, the sun began to set. After being around for just about 9000 sunsets, you'd think the event might become commonplace. Far from it. Here it was, 25 years after it started (for me, anyway) and God sets the sun in a color that I had never, ever seen before.

I also just got a new camera and look for excuses to take pictures. By the way, that photo looks like crap. Promise me you'll click on it to see it in full screen. Thanks.

The Comments Ombudsman Returns

2008-06-01T15:56:00.004-04:00

I wanted to repost a comment I received in response to A Letter to My Church. It's encouragement from someone I might never meet:

Aaron Helman, I don't know who you are, but I was moved by your thoughts.

I had a "little" free time and was going through google to find the "Helman" name.

Aaron Clifford Helman was my father and grandfathers name. The name Aaron has also been carried on through my son, his daughter(Erin), and another grandson, Aaron Jacob.

After I got past the "Aaron" I was intrigued by your message.

My prayers will be with you as you enter a new chapter of your life.

So many times we forget to listen to hear what God has to say. We get caught-up in our day-to-day lives and what we want to do or THINK God wants us to do when all along He has our lives planned.

Sometimes, the hardest message is to let go and let God.

May God always be your guide . . .

I Beg of You to Repeat That

2008-06-01T15:51:00.002-04:00

I sat at home Saturday night, ordered Chinese, and watched the Scripps-Howard National Spelling Bee. Yes, your gut is right. This is a "Reason I Will Always Be Single."

The Century

2008-06-01T15:02:00.004-04:00

In cyclist lingo, The Century is a 100-mile ride. The truth is that anyone in decent shape with a day and a bicycle could probably knock out a hundred miles. But, and this is key, the vast majority don't.

This is an account from last Thursday.

--

When I left the church at 1:00 for West Lafayette, I was already 34 miles into the biggest day of my cycling career. I had also just eaten a big, greasy chicken sandwich. Both of these things would work against me.

Immediately after my departure, I noticed that lunch was sitting heavy in my stomach like a beer-battered cannonball. I had sat just long enough at the restaurant for my legs to tighten up again. This was mile 35, and I was convinced that it would be the worst mile of the entire trip. This was later disproved.

Highway 136 West was calm. My body didn't feel great about things, but slowly; the sun loosened my muscles, and my intestines went to work on an evil chicken sandwich. By mile 44, I was turned onto Highway 39 and I felt fresh again. I started to go to town on my water bottles and found little ways to relieve the pressure that had built up in the previous hour. (Infer what you must.)

The road was quiet, peaceful, and clean. The wind blew softly; always at my back. I remained on the shoulder through Lebanon. I was forced to a longer-than-expected stop by a number of emergency vehicles squealing the other direction. I covered my ears in the fashion of a small child.

Lebanon came and went, and after a Clif Bar, I found myself turning onto US-52, a little used four-lane highway. Through Boone County the road was rough; the shoulder not even serviceable. Cars stayed away; after all, there was more than enough room for all of us. Still, potholes and cracks were unavoidable. I worried once that I had blown a tire. Moments later, a still-smooth ride helped to assuage my fears.

52 left Boone County into Clinton, and the road underwent a radical transformation. Rough and cracked concrete was replaced by smooth, seamless stretches of road. The ride had become ideal. Straightforward, holding at 18; I climbed tiny hills and coasted through tinier valleys. Miles 68-97 were barely noteworthy.

Then something changed. Mile 97 sucked. As an Indiana boy, I am aware that my next statement has little meaning to anyone from anywhere else in the world: Mile 97 was the most intense climb of my life -- It would have been a challenge at mile 4. I watched cyclists - who certainly appeared to be in better shape than myself - dismount to walk this hill. And as far as ratification of the Century goes, walking is cheating.

I did not walk. I climbed the hill hard, then slower; finally dropping to nine miles-per-hour before achieving the summit. Now, I was close, and thank God for that.

I rolled into my destination at 99.2 miles, explained to my friends that I would be riding around the block now, and tore off with a vigor that I did not entirely expect. I returned a moment later, triumphant; The Century complete.

I rushed into a shower so brief that I hadn't finished sweating by the time it was over. Then it was on with the day. After all, the most impressive accomplishments are the ones that cease to be a big deal and instead become commonplace.

Soon, this will be just another day.

Reason #44 I'm Glad I'm a Dude

2008-06-01T14:41:00.010-04:00

I think I would be more worried about hitchhiking if I was a girl.

--

Last night, I blew a tire in the middle of absolutely nowhere. I was left with no recourse but to walk my flattened bike the remaining seven miles. That is what I began to do. I flagged down passing motorists to no avail. They all had excuses. Most of these were legitimate.

As darkness set, I flipped on the lights and continued my trek, albeit slowly. Then, something happened. I hitched a ride.

At 9:40; I flagged down a driver, loaded up my bicycle, and got into a Yukon that was absolutely filled with probably illegal immigrants. The driver was the only one that spoke English. I sat on a guy. I'd ridden a bike 65 miles in the heat - and I smelled like it - and I sat on a guy. This was apparently not a bother to him.

Danville was not on their way to Westfield, by any means. But, in fairness, they were lost when they found me; so where they were going was not on their way to Westfield.

Seriously; thanks guys.

I Stole This Church Sign From Someone Else

2008-05-29T10:16:00.004-04:00

I'm aware that when I post once a week, it looks a little lazy. I am also aware that when these posts are merely stolen from other blogs, it looks lazier. All the same:

Do I need to RSVP? Because I will be there.

A Letter to My Church

2008-05-27T11:16:00.006-04:00

This may come as a surprise to some of you, but yesterday we announced my resignation at Calvary, effective at the end of July. I'm going to let you know all of the details surrounding my new journey over the course of the next couple of weeks. For now, here's the letter that I wrote to my church. It will be included in the June newsletter.

--

Sometimes, when God wants to communicate something to us, He gives us a great, big sign that we could never miss. Or at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. It’s never happened that way in my own life.

See, when God needs something from me, I tend to get it from a hundred different small things that all add up to be so much more than a chain of coincidences. That’s been happening lately.

At the end of July, I will end four years of ministry at Calvary. Like a palm tree in Vermont, God planted a seed that had no business growing, but we know that God can make these things happen. He spoke to me through dozens of seemingly unrelated, otherwise innocuous Bible verses. He spoke to me through the unexpected direction of several human conversations. He even directed me through the advice of strangers.

He made it barely clear – so many times – that I absolutely know what He’s after. It’s time for me to go.

In August, I’m going to ride my bike across the country. I’m going to take the time to finish writing the book I was supposed to finish three years ago. And then I’m going to settle down in New Mexico and lead campus ministry until God calls me elsewhere.

I want to share so much more with you, but this note in a stapled booklet doesn’t seem like the best way to do it. Drop by my office. (Bring me a cup of coffee.) Let’s have a conversation about what God’s doing in my life; and most importantly, what He’s doing in yours.

For My Cousin Dan...

2008-05-15T17:12:00.004-04:00

...and my parents and grandma and sister. The rest of you don't really care about the Cubs. But this is pretty awesome:

Happy Bike-to-Work Week!

2008-05-13T15:54:00.005-04:00

It's a little known fact that May 12-16 is National Bike-to-Work Week. In fact, I didn't even realize this until after I'd biked here today. I'll do my duty as a cycling evangelist and encourage everyone with a manageable commute to get out the old bike just once this week. Good for you, good for traffic, good for the environment.

--

My shoe broke this morning. Most people don't realize that I have special cycling shoes that clip in to and attach to the special pedals. They make me go a little faster and keep me under control. Also, they make it very difficult to disengage from the bicycle after you get hit by a truck. It's a small price to pay for an extra mile-an-hour.

The cleats attach to the shoe by three adjustable screws. Maintenance isn't much; you've just got to check the screws occasionally to make sure they don't loosen or fall out. I apparently don't do that as much as I should. So today, about four miles in to my fourteen mile commute, I noticed that I was having all sorts of trouble clipping into the pedals.

I pulled off to investigate and found that my left cleat was dangling there - the screws were barely intact. Pedaling clipped pedals without the cleats is disastrously impossible; then again, I was in no-man's land; and was strangely without my Allen wrenches. I have no idea why I took them out of my bag, but this post will be given the "I am an idiot" label.

I had to try something new. I rode the last ten miles of the trip basically with one foot - this is possible if you're clipped into the pedals. However, the one-footed method makes it tough to maintain a speed, use a high gear, or move with any sort of urgency. Still, I had to one-leg it through farmland, in traffic, and down a very familiar section of road.

That's where the German Shepherd appeared. It was like he sensed that this was my moment of weakness; today he would get me. I gave everything I had with my right leg; my left leg was left dangling in the wind like a sort of doggy treat. He could practically taste it.

He was going to catch me; that much was inevitable. Then something unexpected happen. He barked a few times and then maintained an angry dog jog right alongside me. Never bit, never snarled; really, all he wanted to do was run with me.

In the chaos of everything that were these moments, I realized something: I'm not scared anymore.

I'd like to see that truck try to hit me now. I'm hitting back.

Riding in the Rain

2008-05-12T21:10:00.002-04:00

I'm aware that this blog is starting to take on a more serious tone. Don't worry, it won't last.

On Thursday, I ended up riding in the middle of nowhere through the rain. This was mostly due to the fact that the weatherman is a dirty liar. Whatever the reason, Mr. Ben Hallett and I wound up in the pouring rain on a wooden bridge some 14 miles from my home. At that point, there's not really much of a choice. We certainly couldn't set up camp under a bridge and wait for the rain to pass. This is because neither of us is a troll.

We had to ride back. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal. A couple years ago I did fifty miles through a tornado watch. (My dad will remember that one well.) It was one of the best days of my life.

But all of that was before I got hit by the truck.

--

So on Thursday, something very weird happened. I became very, very tentative. Ask anyone who knows me: tentative is not my style. I miss all my jumpshots long. I sing frequently incorrect notes, but my entrances are always punctuated and aggressive. I don't stand for a long time over my putts. I'm going to overthrow you long before I bounce one in the dirt.

But there I was, wet and flanking a school bus; feeling legitimately frightened for the first time in probably six years. I watched my comrade speed on ahead, unfazed by the traffic. It's worth noting that his was actually the safer riding style.

There's only one thing to do now. I'm going to go fight a bear.

Five Things I Want My Kids to Know

2008-05-06T13:10:00.007-04:00

Almost a month ago, my cousins Dan & Nancy tagged me. It took me awhile to write this post because I spent a lot of time really thinking about it (read: I am lazy).

I'm supposed to be writing about the five things that I want my kids to know. Of course, I don't have any kids (as far as you know), so I'm going to have to live a little vicariously through others.

1. I want my kids to know how to create their own happy life. I could do everything for Aaron Jr. until he turns 18, but I won't.

2. I want my kids to know what I believe about the Judeo-Christian God. Then I want them to be smart and open to choose for themselves. It'll be my job to be an example of what Christianity is.

3. I want my kids to know more than I do. However, I don't want them to realize this.

4. I want my kids to know that I'll always be there, and that old dad won't act off the cuff or overreact to any situation.

5. I want my kids to know that the Chicago Cubs are the only baseball team worth rooting for. I also want them to know a world where the Cubs win stuff.

Today on My Bicycle

2008-05-05T14:04:00.002-04:00

Same dog. Same place. Same result.

There are three dogs that give chase every time I commute to work. One is a little Yorkshire Terrier; cute as a button, can't keep up for 20 yards. Another one is a mutt of some sort; the first time he chased me, he had a dead bird in his mouth. He tires easily.

But this German Shepherd - he's the real deal. I think he and I would be friends, seriously. We'd race for a while. I think I'd wear him out eventually, and then we'd stop and get a pizza. But he's stuck behind that invisible fence. Poor guy.

The Church Sign that Made Me Cry

2008-05-05T12:36:00.004-04:00

I drove up to South Bend this weekend to celebrate my parents' 25th Wedding Anniversary. (Kudos, both of you.) While on some piddling road between Lafayette and Rochester, I was almost knocked off the road by this travesty.

Yes, it's a mixed metaphor. Yes, it's the kind of rhetoric that an unchurched person wouldn't take the time to understand. But most of all, this is absolutely the worst kind of wrong.

Thinking I had certainly misread the sign, I pulled off and circled back. Yeah, this is what it said. I didn't actually cry; but it was plenty to make me upset. This theology is just heart-breaking.

I did something I've never done before.

I left a note.

--
Updated: The note was hastily and poorly written. I wrote, "This theology is just heart-breaking." Unfortunately, I didn't allude to the sign at all, so I'm sure they have no idea what I'm talking about. I will refrain from adding the "I am an idiot" label.

Now, I Am REALLY Disillusioned

2008-05-02T21:38:00.002-04:00

This is a post about the Chicago Cubs. You don't have to read it.

I grew up watching the Chicago Cubs on WGN. I grew up with Harry Caray and Steve Stone. Sometime after he stopped making sense to people, Harry died. WGN replaced him with his grandson - Chip Caray. So for the first 20 years of my life, there was one constant - Steve Stone would provide color commentary for Cubs games. No matter what happened, I could count on that. Except on Jewish holidays. Steve took Jewish holidays off.

Some things happened a few years ago, and now Mr. Stone is the radio announcer for the Chicago White Sox. I heard him today, encouraging people to join the official White Sox fan club.

I would have been less mortified if Big Bird told me to smoke crack.