It took me 50 years to find it, but I found it.
The worst athletic experience of my life happened Saturday at the Cote Dame Marie Loppet, a 30k xc ski race.
This story actually begins a week in advance of the event when I started my annual winter weight loss program. With no intention of racing on Saturday, I cut my caloric intake by a fair amount. Not an unhealthy amount, just a fair amount. Then, on Thursday, my friend, Bonnie, strong-armed me into registering for the CDML. I've been skiing pretty well this year, so I decided to do it. Unfortunately, I didn't really notice that it was a 30k event. It didn't even register in my feeble little brain.
The weekend comes. The thermometer bottoms out. It was 9 degrees on Friday as I was in my basement frantically putting on the right wax. Tomorrow's race would be held on the kind of snow that squeaks when you walk on it. The ice crystals are very sharp and unfriendly. They make a special wax for this. You just have to be on top of things and prepare yourself. You see, half of your success in ski racing comes from matching the right ski wax with the current snow temperature. The other 90% is technique. Another 147% is in strength and endurance. That adds up to 287%. According to my public school math, 287% is about right. If you choose the wrong wax, you're sunk.
I was in a hurry because, like the character in my upcoming book, I procrastinate wildly. I had just enough time to put ONE coat of wax on my skis. One very thin layer of wax for very cold ski conditions. File that info away. It'll come into play later.
It was a balmy 6 degrees with a brisk wind when I arrived at the race site. I registered, got dressed, and skied a few kilometers for a warm up. Uneventful, so far. I was properly dressed for the weather. No problem.
I arrived at the start line with plenty of time to spare: almost a full ten seconds. Yes, I was late. As such, I found myself at the back of the 120-man field. So that's 120 people who timed their warm-up correctly. And me.
Moments later, we were launched onto the trail system. Moments later, I was in deep oxygen debt. I managed to pass a few slow starters quickly. Perhaps they were frozen to the ground. It's possible.
I'm at about 1:26 into that video. I'm the guy who appears to be carrying an invisible piano.
Everything was fine for the first few miles. I was passing some skiers and getting passed by superheroes, or people dressed as superheroes. (Ski outfits are hilariously more hideous than cycling uniforms. That's quite an accomplishment.)
We reached the first big hill, and that's when my muscles informed me that they were A. underfed, and B. under-prepared.
I muscled up the hill and pressed on only to find bigger hills. That's funny; when I ski this trail any other day, it seems a lot flatter.
We would be doing two 15k loops. I would see these hills again later, and they would somehow grow and become steeper between now and then.
My world came crashing down at the 13k mark. My nutrition caught up to me, and all of my wax had been scraped off. One thin coat of wax doesn't last long when skiing on razor blades.
Good news: I still have eleven miles to go.
Moments before the race started, I sucked down a PowerGel with 2x caffeine thinking it would help me. All it really did was left me awake enough to be aware of what hell I was living.
I had the presence of mind to wear a belt pack with a water bottle filled with Gatorade. When I tried to drink from it, I discovered that it was now a worthless block of ice in the shape of a water bottle. Dead weight at this point, but I'm not going to throw away a perfectly good bottle. I'm awake enough to know better.
I also wore an iPod in this race which is now working against me. I programmed the wrong music altogether. For some reason, I had Ravel's Bolero in the mix. Those of you who know the piece will find humor in the fact that I did NOT crescendo as the piece progressed. Instead, I decrescendo'd rapidly.
One ski in front of the other, man. Ignore the music:
Beatles: I Feel Fine - bullshit. No I don't.
Coldplay: Cemeteries of London - sounds inviting.
Jean-Yves Thibaudet: Your Hands Are Cold - No shit they're cold. Every part of me is cold!
Queen: Don't Stop Me Now - Oh, please. Stop me now.
Arcade Fire: No Cars Go - great song, but I was changing the lyrics to "no skis go"
It was a slog (noun [usu. in sing. ] a spell of difficult, tiring work or traveling), and that was just the first lap.
At some point, I was passed quite quickly by a younger skier. Now I was cursing my age. this is obviously a sport for younger people. Who am I fooling? When am I going to learn?? Who in their right mind does this at age 50?? When can I retire from sport? ( Please make note of this comment. It's related to the punchline of this story. )
With no wax left on my skis, I was unable to coast or glide down the hills. Ponder that thought for a moment? I have ten more miles to go.
And then I bonked.
So that's the story of my worst athletic day. Plenty of lessons learned. Plenty of new depths discovered.
I quickly packed the car and drove away feeling old, tired, and out of shape. I drove home in a state of disgust and self-loathing. I drove home on heated leather seats which helped only slightly.
The next day, I checked the race results. Much to my surprise, I wasn't the last person to finish. In fact, I finished two places better than I was in the video above. My time wasn't far off my 15k time x2.
And here's the punchline: the winner's age is... 51.
Dammit!
I'm sucked back in.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
A Sunday Event is a Hate Crime? I've now heard it all.
This entry has nothing to do with bike racing, but as always, I'll weave cycling into it somehow.
I'm taking a side trip into the world of running this time around. We have a half-marathon taking place in my city on Sunday. As you can imagine, it'll mess up traffic for a few hours while 5000 runners have their way. As an employee of the City, I've heard from some angry residents who object to the road closures. Mostly, though, the community has come to accept and even embrace the event as our own.
One resident wrote a very ... alarming?... email to our US Senator:
Here are the highlights... (I need to say this: this is real. You may question that at times.)
<<<<<<<<<<<
Dear Senator Levin,
I'm writing this letter asking for your help in your home State of Michigan because our First Amendment Rights that guarantees ALL the Right to Religion Freedom is now being violated right here in Rochester Hills, Rochester, Auburn Hills and Oakland Township by our local government (All REPUBLICANS) who have team up with the Crim's Organization to limit our access to attend church on the First Sunday in October for the third consecutive year. The main street out of my subdivision (Tienken Road) will be closed from approximately 7:45 AM until Noon. therefore my wife and I will not even attempt to attend any of our church worship services.
How bad is it? Well if you drive down Walton Blvd in Rochester Hills, you will see the following sign at the Meadowbrooks Christian Church: "CHURCH SERVICE CANCEL OCT. 3 BECAUSE OF RACE". This is an insult to every Christian even though I realize that we're now living in what is known as the "Post Christian Era".
If you check back into the history of America, I believe, that you will find that from the VERY BEGINNING of America, we have ALWAYS had our Christian Worship services on Sunday mornings long before any marathon was held in this country.
Perhaps you could used your influence to have the FBI investigate this as a RELIGIOUS HATE CRIME against Christians. I would also like to invite you or a member of you staff to participate in our very first Christian Interfaith meeting early next year as we plan our strategy to fight back.
By the way," Sunday will be the VERY LAST time for some Christians here in our community to ever attend a worship service" - but they're being denied this final opportunity by our government right here in America. But since this is an event members of the Republican Party want, they get to do what ever they desire.
>>>>>>>>>>>
We take it for granted that quiet Sunday mornings are the best time to run an athletic event using public roads. But this response from a resident reminds us that there are some strong anti-event sentiments out there.
But the real point of this post is this:
Ready? It's pretty simple and somewhat brilliant.)
Why doesn't this Christian ride his bike or walk to church?
There. I brought it back to cycling. Not too big a stretch, really.
I'm taking a side trip into the world of running this time around. We have a half-marathon taking place in my city on Sunday. As you can imagine, it'll mess up traffic for a few hours while 5000 runners have their way. As an employee of the City, I've heard from some angry residents who object to the road closures. Mostly, though, the community has come to accept and even embrace the event as our own.
One resident wrote a very ... alarming?... email to our US Senator:
Here are the highlights... (I need to say this: this is real. You may question that at times.)
<<<<<<<<<<<
Dear Senator Levin,
I'm writing this letter asking for your help in your home State of Michigan because our First Amendment Rights that guarantees ALL the Right to Religion Freedom is now being violated right here in Rochester Hills, Rochester, Auburn Hills and Oakland Township by our local government (All REPUBLICANS) who have team up with the Crim's Organization to limit our access to attend church on the First Sunday in October for the third consecutive year. The main street out of my subdivision (Tienken Road) will be closed from approximately 7:45 AM until Noon. therefore my wife and I will not even attempt to attend any of our church worship services.
How bad is it? Well if you drive down Walton Blvd in Rochester Hills, you will see the following sign at the Meadowbrooks Christian Church: "CHURCH SERVICE CANCEL OCT. 3 BECAUSE OF RACE". This is an insult to every Christian even though I realize that we're now living in what is known as the "Post Christian Era".
If you check back into the history of America, I believe, that you will find that from the VERY BEGINNING of America, we have ALWAYS had our Christian Worship services on Sunday mornings long before any marathon was held in this country.
Perhaps you could used your influence to have the FBI investigate this as a RELIGIOUS HATE CRIME against Christians. I would also like to invite you or a member of you staff to participate in our very first Christian Interfaith meeting early next year as we plan our strategy to fight back.
By the way," Sunday will be the VERY LAST time for some Christians here in our community to ever attend a worship service" - but they're being denied this final opportunity by our government right here in America. But since this is an event members of the Republican Party want, they get to do what ever they desire.
>>>>>>>>>>>
We take it for granted that quiet Sunday mornings are the best time to run an athletic event using public roads. But this response from a resident reminds us that there are some strong anti-event sentiments out there.
But the real point of this post is this:
Ready? It's pretty simple and somewhat brilliant.)
Why doesn't this Christian ride his bike or walk to church?
There. I brought it back to cycling. Not too big a stretch, really.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Season's Over
There have been seasons in the past in which I've dreaded the final race. In 1993, I clearly remember being almost despondent at the end of the season. It was at the Michelin race in Greenville SC. As the cars loaded with bikes drove away from the corner of Main St. and Mcbee Ave., it felt like that icky feeling you get when you're leaving Disneyland. The trip home after that weekend was a sad one.
Labor Day Weekend now marks the end of road racing season here in Michigan - oh sure, there have been occasional additions in September such as the Pino Morroni races or the Tour de Leelanau (jumpin' jiminy, why did I ever let people talk me into racing that monstrosity; I had no business being on that roster). This year, I wasn't feeling much sadness.
I'm not sure what that means. I interpret it as a general acceptance of the passing of another season, and maybe a yearning for ski season. (And a thankfulness that it's still a few months away; I'm not ready.) But it's also a relief that I don't have to be a slave to the bike for the next 5 months.
A couple of observations that affected my season (not in a good way) have reduced the sadness surrounding The End:
Observation #1. Our local cycling scene has become rather predictable. I'm sure everyone experiences the same thing across the USA: Everyone knows who is fast and who isn't. Everyone knows what everyone else can do and how they do it. Everyone expects "the attack" by the strongest guy at the same point in the race. You can almost list the riders who will make the breakaway, and you can probably predict, with some degree of accuracy, the order of finish.
It's really quite stale. Yet, every weekend, we drive to a medium-sized town and go through the same routine as if on a loop. That's bike racing.
This year's final weekend was a bit different because a flock of Canadian riders came down from Toronto and brought new color to our Michigan scene. (Mainly, red and white. I mean, don't they have any other colors down there? [Canada is south of us, so it's down not up.]).
It was A LOT more fun having unknown riders mixing it up with us. Sure, they talk funny, but they race well. And instead of watching the same five riders who consistently kick my arse every weekend, I now had to watch twelve riders who could kick my arse. That's a lot more fun. (Seriously, it is.)
Observation #2: The range of tactics is quite limited at this level of racing. Very few teams have more than two tricks in their folder.
Those two tricks are:
1. "Get one of our guys in the breakaway, and shut down the field."
2. "Don't let any breakaways get away; we'll set up Leon for the field sprint." (Leon is a fictitious name that I pulled out of my book of fictitious names that authors carry around with them. Mine is leather bound.)
There are slight variations on those themes, but nothing plunging too deep into the Coors Light playbook. (Len Pettyjohn's Coors Light cycling team was, in my opinion, the epitome of smart riding. I saw them win countless races in countless diabolical ways. They are the standard by which I judge team tactics.)
Yes, that's more than a little frustrating and adds to the boring predictability of the racing here. Consequently, the end of bike racing season isn't much of a letdown this year.
There's a lesson here that I learned this week: travel more.
Next season, I'm going to take road trips to Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Rather than complain about the stale local scene (which is probably equally stale in OH, IN, and IL), I'll try to be that mysterious out-of-towner who comes in and shakes things up. I encourage you to do the same.
Except, ... um... let's not all go to the Ohio on the same weekend.
Labor Day Weekend now marks the end of road racing season here in Michigan - oh sure, there have been occasional additions in September such as the Pino Morroni races or the Tour de Leelanau (jumpin' jiminy, why did I ever let people talk me into racing that monstrosity; I had no business being on that roster). This year, I wasn't feeling much sadness.
I'm not sure what that means. I interpret it as a general acceptance of the passing of another season, and maybe a yearning for ski season. (And a thankfulness that it's still a few months away; I'm not ready.) But it's also a relief that I don't have to be a slave to the bike for the next 5 months.
A couple of observations that affected my season (not in a good way) have reduced the sadness surrounding The End:
Observation #1. Our local cycling scene has become rather predictable. I'm sure everyone experiences the same thing across the USA: Everyone knows who is fast and who isn't. Everyone knows what everyone else can do and how they do it. Everyone expects "the attack" by the strongest guy at the same point in the race. You can almost list the riders who will make the breakaway, and you can probably predict, with some degree of accuracy, the order of finish.
It's really quite stale. Yet, every weekend, we drive to a medium-sized town and go through the same routine as if on a loop. That's bike racing.
This year's final weekend was a bit different because a flock of Canadian riders came down from Toronto and brought new color to our Michigan scene. (Mainly, red and white. I mean, don't they have any other colors down there? [Canada is south of us, so it's down not up.]).
It was A LOT more fun having unknown riders mixing it up with us. Sure, they talk funny, but they race well. And instead of watching the same five riders who consistently kick my arse every weekend, I now had to watch twelve riders who could kick my arse. That's a lot more fun. (Seriously, it is.)
Observation #2: The range of tactics is quite limited at this level of racing. Very few teams have more than two tricks in their folder.
Those two tricks are:
1. "Get one of our guys in the breakaway, and shut down the field."
2. "Don't let any breakaways get away; we'll set up Leon for the field sprint." (Leon is a fictitious name that I pulled out of my book of fictitious names that authors carry around with them. Mine is leather bound.)
There are slight variations on those themes, but nothing plunging too deep into the Coors Light playbook. (Len Pettyjohn's Coors Light cycling team was, in my opinion, the epitome of smart riding. I saw them win countless races in countless diabolical ways. They are the standard by which I judge team tactics.)
Yes, that's more than a little frustrating and adds to the boring predictability of the racing here. Consequently, the end of bike racing season isn't much of a letdown this year.
There's a lesson here that I learned this week: travel more.
Next season, I'm going to take road trips to Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois. Rather than complain about the stale local scene (which is probably equally stale in OH, IN, and IL), I'll try to be that mysterious out-of-towner who comes in and shakes things up. I encourage you to do the same.
Except, ... um... let's not all go to the Ohio on the same weekend.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Blackness
I did it again. I swore I wouldn't let it happen, and I did.
A warm summer night and an invitation to meet up with friends in Lake Orion (10 miles away) was what started it. They were there for the Lake Orion Horseshoe Club's Guinness Book of Records attempt for the longest horseshoe marathon. (Don't ever again tell me that cyclists are crazy.) I pulled my 'cross bike off the hook, threw my lights on it, filled my water bottles, and hopped on the rail-trail. I was off in search of adventure.
First of all, I was so proud of myself for remembering to fill my water bottles. Believe it or not, after 40 years of riding, I still sometimes forget that part. I usually discover this about 3 miles from my house and vow to never let it happen again...until the next ride.
Night riding is a really cool experience. If you've never done it, I highly recommend it. And on warm summer nights, it's even better. With a full moon, you don't really need your own light. Tonight, however, there was no moon. But who cares! I have my super duper light mounted to my handlebars! Let the good times roll!
I'm surprised at how many other people there are on the trail after dark. I was continually covering up my light with my hand so as not to blind them. It's a pretty bright light; it'll knock out your night vision in a hurry. So as soon as I spot someone way up ahead, I try to squelch the light because I know how annoying it is to be caught in the beam of an aircraft landing light.
I made it to Lake Orion. Hung out. Watched some horseshoe pitching. And then decided it was time to ride home.
When I get 1k down the trail, the light dies. Instantly. Black. Because it's a digital light, it doesn't fade slowly like an incandescent light would. No, it just goes off without warning.
Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said "with a full moon, you don't really need your own light." Well, with no moon at all...
Now, I could have turned around and gone back to the horseshoe pits and asked for a ride. I could have called my friend to come and get me. I could have called a cab (I jest. Lake Orion has no cab service. I only wrote that for my New York friends who probably would have said, "Yo, why didn't you just call a cab?") But I didn't. I got myself into this mess...
The only source of light was the faint yellow glow in the distant sky from the lights of Rochester at the other end of the trail. But with no clouds to bounce off of, they were of no use to me. It was pitch black. I had 9.5 miles of wilderness to navigate in total darkness.
OK, let me explain that wilderness, in this case, means nothing more than deer, skunks, field mice, and an occasional muskrat. Still, I wouldn't want to hit any of them except for maybe the mice.
I waited for several minutes to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, but they never reached an acceptable level.
You know where this is going, don't you?
Yep, I did what any modern day survivalist would do; I pulled out my iPhone and opened the flashlight app. That little glow that was designed to help you find your glasses in the kitchen at night guided me all the way down the trail. It worked pretty well, actually. It pointed out the two deer. It illuminated the posts that prevent cars from driving the trail. It also marked my position for the oncoming riders without lights.
That's right: oncoming riders without lights. As much as I was cursing my own forgetfulness/stupidity all the way down the trail, there were people out there at 11:30pm who were intentionally riding the trail without lights on a moonless night. Who knew that such a recreational option existed?
And they might be onto something. I can see it now (sure, now that it's daylight): a new form of bike racing: a nighttime time trial down the trail. Two categories: lights and no lights.
It'll be epic.
Riders ready?
Go.
A warm summer night and an invitation to meet up with friends in Lake Orion (10 miles away) was what started it. They were there for the Lake Orion Horseshoe Club's Guinness Book of Records attempt for the longest horseshoe marathon. (Don't ever again tell me that cyclists are crazy.) I pulled my 'cross bike off the hook, threw my lights on it, filled my water bottles, and hopped on the rail-trail. I was off in search of adventure.
First of all, I was so proud of myself for remembering to fill my water bottles. Believe it or not, after 40 years of riding, I still sometimes forget that part. I usually discover this about 3 miles from my house and vow to never let it happen again...until the next ride.
Night riding is a really cool experience. If you've never done it, I highly recommend it. And on warm summer nights, it's even better. With a full moon, you don't really need your own light. Tonight, however, there was no moon. But who cares! I have my super duper light mounted to my handlebars! Let the good times roll!
I'm surprised at how many other people there are on the trail after dark. I was continually covering up my light with my hand so as not to blind them. It's a pretty bright light; it'll knock out your night vision in a hurry. So as soon as I spot someone way up ahead, I try to squelch the light because I know how annoying it is to be caught in the beam of an aircraft landing light.
I made it to Lake Orion. Hung out. Watched some horseshoe pitching. And then decided it was time to ride home.
When I get 1k down the trail, the light dies. Instantly. Black. Because it's a digital light, it doesn't fade slowly like an incandescent light would. No, it just goes off without warning.
Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said "with a full moon, you don't really need your own light." Well, with no moon at all...
Now, I could have turned around and gone back to the horseshoe pits and asked for a ride. I could have called my friend to come and get me. I could have called a cab (I jest. Lake Orion has no cab service. I only wrote that for my New York friends who probably would have said, "Yo, why didn't you just call a cab?") But I didn't. I got myself into this mess...
The only source of light was the faint yellow glow in the distant sky from the lights of Rochester at the other end of the trail. But with no clouds to bounce off of, they were of no use to me. It was pitch black. I had 9.5 miles of wilderness to navigate in total darkness.
OK, let me explain that wilderness, in this case, means nothing more than deer, skunks, field mice, and an occasional muskrat. Still, I wouldn't want to hit any of them except for maybe the mice.
I waited for several minutes to let my eyes adjust to the darkness, but they never reached an acceptable level.
You know where this is going, don't you?
Yep, I did what any modern day survivalist would do; I pulled out my iPhone and opened the flashlight app. That little glow that was designed to help you find your glasses in the kitchen at night guided me all the way down the trail. It worked pretty well, actually. It pointed out the two deer. It illuminated the posts that prevent cars from driving the trail. It also marked my position for the oncoming riders without lights.
That's right: oncoming riders without lights. As much as I was cursing my own forgetfulness/stupidity all the way down the trail, there were people out there at 11:30pm who were intentionally riding the trail without lights on a moonless night. Who knew that such a recreational option existed?
And they might be onto something. I can see it now (sure, now that it's daylight): a new form of bike racing: a nighttime time trial down the trail. Two categories: lights and no lights.
It'll be epic.
Riders ready?
Go.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Disaffected lout.
You know how you sometimes come up with all the funny things you SHOULD HAVE said in response to something? OK, then follow along...
I received the following email from a name that I kinda recognize as someone who I know, but I NEVER receive email from him. It's obviously a virus sending out emails to his mailing list. But I thought I'd treat it as a real email as a writing exercise.
Here's the email:
Hello,
I'm writing this with tears in my eyes,my family and I came down here to London,England for a short vacation unfortunately we were mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed,all cash,credit card and cell were all stolen from us but luckily for us we still have our passports with us.
We've been to the embassy and the Police here but they're not helping issues at all and our flight leaves in few hrs from now but we're having problems settling the hotel bills and the hotel manager won't let us leave until we settle the bills..I am so confused right now and thank God i wasn't injured because I complied immediately.
I await your response
Thanks
Dj
Now here are my responses:
#1 - focusing on the hotel rather than the predicament, and demonstrating that I didn't read the entire email:
Dj,
Glad you had fun! Which hotel did you stay in? I prefer the Royal Norfolk near Hyde Park.
Best,
Jamie
#2 - deflecting attention away from his plea for money and on to his annoying grammar:
Dude,
What is with your grammar? Did you forget how to use a comma and a coordinating conjunction? Don't rely on Microsoft to catch those mistakes!
Always looking out for ya,
Jamie
#3 - Playing along. Sort of.:
Dj,
OK, I've withdrawn every cent from my account and am ready to send it to you. Please give me a PO Box to send it to. But first, let me tell you about Amway.
Jamie
#4 - highlighting the cruelty of bad timing:
Dj,
That's crazy! I was just in London walking around Trafalgar with a satchel full of cash and several airline vouchers. Geez, your luck is in the toilet this week. Call me when you get home. Or, the way YOUR luck is running, maybe I should say "IF you get home".
Home,
James
#5 - Not wanting to be taken advantage of:
Hey, let's not forget that you still owe me $20. Don't try to weasel out of that just because of this little setback.
#6 - A shared London moment:
Hey Dj!
Mind the gap!
Best,
Jamie
#7 - Empathy and nothing more:
Dj,
That happened to a friend of mine in Monte Carlo. True story. National Cycling League President Peter O'Neill had sneaked out of town without paying the $22,000 tab. Jeff "the Rocket" Rutter and his wife got stuck in the lobby of Loews Hotel surrounded by unsympathetic gendarmes and an angry hotel manager who was insisting that Rocket pay the tab since he was the last one from the NCL party to check out.
OK, so he didn't get robbed in a nearby park; he got screwed by the NCL. And I never heard how that resolved itself, but I can certainly appreciate your predicament.
My advice. Steal something. Like a lamp or an ashtray. Come home with some memento from this ordeal.
#8 - More bad timing:
AUTO-RESPONSE
I will be out of the office until Tuesday, August 17. Contact the Mayor's staff at Mayor'sOffice@rochesterhills.org or at 248.656.4600.
I won't send any response, but it's always fun to think of all the funny ways you COULD respond should you ever wish to.
If you have a good response, leave a message...... BEEP!
I received the following email from a name that I kinda recognize as someone who I know, but I NEVER receive email from him. It's obviously a virus sending out emails to his mailing list. But I thought I'd treat it as a real email as a writing exercise.
Here's the email:
Hello,
I'm writing this with tears in my eyes,my family and I came down here to London,England for a short vacation unfortunately we were mugged at the park of the hotel where we stayed,all cash,credit card and cell were all stolen from us but luckily for us we still have our passports with us.
We've been to the embassy and the Police here but they're not helping issues at all and our flight leaves in few hrs from now but we're having problems settling the hotel bills and the hotel manager won't let us leave until we settle the bills..I am so confused right now and thank God i wasn't injured because I complied immediately.
I await your response
Thanks
Dj
Now here are my responses:
#1 - focusing on the hotel rather than the predicament, and demonstrating that I didn't read the entire email:
Dj,
Glad you had fun! Which hotel did you stay in? I prefer the Royal Norfolk near Hyde Park.
Best,
Jamie
#2 - deflecting attention away from his plea for money and on to his annoying grammar:
Dude,
What is with your grammar? Did you forget how to use a comma and a coordinating conjunction? Don't rely on Microsoft to catch those mistakes!
Always looking out for ya,
Jamie
#3 - Playing along. Sort of.:
Dj,
OK, I've withdrawn every cent from my account and am ready to send it to you. Please give me a PO Box to send it to. But first, let me tell you about Amway.
Jamie
#4 - highlighting the cruelty of bad timing:
Dj,
That's crazy! I was just in London walking around Trafalgar with a satchel full of cash and several airline vouchers. Geez, your luck is in the toilet this week. Call me when you get home. Or, the way YOUR luck is running, maybe I should say "IF you get home".
Home,
James
#5 - Not wanting to be taken advantage of:
Hey, let's not forget that you still owe me $20. Don't try to weasel out of that just because of this little setback.
#6 - A shared London moment:
Hey Dj!
Mind the gap!
Best,
Jamie
#7 - Empathy and nothing more:
Dj,
That happened to a friend of mine in Monte Carlo. True story. National Cycling League President Peter O'Neill had sneaked out of town without paying the $22,000 tab. Jeff "the Rocket" Rutter and his wife got stuck in the lobby of Loews Hotel surrounded by unsympathetic gendarmes and an angry hotel manager who was insisting that Rocket pay the tab since he was the last one from the NCL party to check out.
OK, so he didn't get robbed in a nearby park; he got screwed by the NCL. And I never heard how that resolved itself, but I can certainly appreciate your predicament.
My advice. Steal something. Like a lamp or an ashtray. Come home with some memento from this ordeal.
#8 - More bad timing:
AUTO-RESPONSE
I will be out of the office until Tuesday, August 17. Contact the Mayor's staff at Mayor'sOffice@rochesterhills.org or at 248.656.4600.
I won't send any response, but it's always fun to think of all the funny ways you COULD respond should you ever wish to.
If you have a good response, leave a message...... BEEP!
Monday, June 21, 2010
The Perfect Ride on International Surfing Day.
What’s the perfect ride?
A lot of possible answers to that question.
Here’s my list of the elements it should contain:
- Point to point. Go somewhere. Don’t just ride back to the starting point. End up in a different place.
- Long distance. More than 100 miles. Enough to drain the tanks.
- Scenic. Don’t take me through an industrial park. No subdivisions. No rail trails showing the backs of buildings. I want country roads with an occasional vista and a view of a large body of water.
- Hills. Nothing too big. C’mon, I weigh 200 pounds. (Thanks for being surprised by that fact.)
- Flatlands. Nothing too boring.
- Smooth Pavement. I know I’m dreaming in Michigan, but I would like roads free of potholes and patching and cracks. I would like roads that haven’t beaten to death by un-enforced weight limits. I want smooth roads for the ENTIRE WAY. Not just a few miles of smooth roads. I want the whole route to be perfect. (I’ll accept a few miles of cobbled roads, if I must.)
- An Apron. While I’m in dreamland, may I ask for that little slice of pavement to the right of the white line. You know, 18 inches of extra pavement? Is that too much to ask for my tax dollar?
- Tailwind. OK, this one is do-able. If I’m going point-to-point, this one isn’t out of the realm of possibility. I just have to pick the right route on the right day. But it needs to be strong. We’re chasing after perfect here, and that would be perfect.
- Towns (and convenience stores) placed at proper intervals to allow me to refill the bottles. Not as easy as you think.
- No traffic. OK I’m starting to lose it, aren’t I? I live in Detroit’s north suburbs. It’s motorist hell here. This request has the potential of putting me on the no-fly list for appearing to be unstable. But the perfect ride would have almost no cars.
- No harassment from motorists. If I ask for light traffic, it’s no guarantee that the cars that I DO see won’t be complete idiots. Heck, I’ve been harassed in my own subdivision. What are the odds of going +100 miles without hearing someone yell at me to “get off the road!”? Heck, I want them to give me the whole road. I don’t want anyone to cut it close.
How much can this guy harass me?
- Friendly waves from the locals. No, I haven’t been drinking. I really want to see people wave from the front porch, or from the passing car. I want people to be happy to see a cyclist ride by. I want people at the aforementioned convenience stores to ask about where I’m riding, and I want them to be startled at the start and end points. “You’re riding from WHERE to WHERE??”
- No mechanicals. No flats. No broken chains. No broken spokes. No snapped cables (shifting or brake). And, for the love of a pre-supposed god, no squeaky chain. (Oh wait, that’s up to me, isn’t it?)
- And waiting for me at the end of my ride, I want the following: Warm sunshine. Beautiful sandy beaches. Refreshing water temps – not too cold and not too warm. Playful waves. And friends to greet me with food and drink. And a surfboard waiting on the sand.
And some Coppertone. And a comfy ride home.
- No entry fee. I’m not describing a charity ride. I’m not asking for a SAG wagon. (Why the Screen Actor’s Guild shows up at charity rides is beyond me, but there always seems to be a truck with SAG printed on the door.) This is a solo training ride from my front door. I don’t want to have to pay money for the privilege of all the above.
Add it all up. Imagine a ride like that. Go ahead and just TRY to imagine a ride on smooth pavement with no cars. Try to imagine the tailwind that makes you feel like a million bucks.
That was my ride on Saturday, June 19th. From Rochester to Port Austin.
The clouds parted and the perfect ride came my way. I wish you would have a ride like this one for yourself soon. If you ask nicely, I’ll tell you what route to take.
Seriously, no cars. On a Saturday. Twilight Zone-esque.
And yes, that's me falling off the surfboard. I never said I was GOOD at it. I just said I like to do it.
A lot of possible answers to that question.
Here’s my list of the elements it should contain:
- Point to point. Go somewhere. Don’t just ride back to the starting point. End up in a different place.
- Long distance. More than 100 miles. Enough to drain the tanks.
- Scenic. Don’t take me through an industrial park. No subdivisions. No rail trails showing the backs of buildings. I want country roads with an occasional vista and a view of a large body of water.
- Hills. Nothing too big. C’mon, I weigh 200 pounds. (Thanks for being surprised by that fact.)
- Flatlands. Nothing too boring.
- Smooth Pavement. I know I’m dreaming in Michigan, but I would like roads free of potholes and patching and cracks. I would like roads that haven’t beaten to death by un-enforced weight limits. I want smooth roads for the ENTIRE WAY. Not just a few miles of smooth roads. I want the whole route to be perfect. (I’ll accept a few miles of cobbled roads, if I must.)
- An Apron. While I’m in dreamland, may I ask for that little slice of pavement to the right of the white line. You know, 18 inches of extra pavement? Is that too much to ask for my tax dollar?
- Tailwind. OK, this one is do-able. If I’m going point-to-point, this one isn’t out of the realm of possibility. I just have to pick the right route on the right day. But it needs to be strong. We’re chasing after perfect here, and that would be perfect.
- Towns (and convenience stores) placed at proper intervals to allow me to refill the bottles. Not as easy as you think.
- No traffic. OK I’m starting to lose it, aren’t I? I live in Detroit’s north suburbs. It’s motorist hell here. This request has the potential of putting me on the no-fly list for appearing to be unstable. But the perfect ride would have almost no cars.
- No harassment from motorists. If I ask for light traffic, it’s no guarantee that the cars that I DO see won’t be complete idiots. Heck, I’ve been harassed in my own subdivision. What are the odds of going +100 miles without hearing someone yell at me to “get off the road!”? Heck, I want them to give me the whole road. I don’t want anyone to cut it close.
How much can this guy harass me?
- Friendly waves from the locals. No, I haven’t been drinking. I really want to see people wave from the front porch, or from the passing car. I want people to be happy to see a cyclist ride by. I want people at the aforementioned convenience stores to ask about where I’m riding, and I want them to be startled at the start and end points. “You’re riding from WHERE to WHERE??”
- No mechanicals. No flats. No broken chains. No broken spokes. No snapped cables (shifting or brake). And, for the love of a pre-supposed god, no squeaky chain. (Oh wait, that’s up to me, isn’t it?)
- And waiting for me at the end of my ride, I want the following: Warm sunshine. Beautiful sandy beaches. Refreshing water temps – not too cold and not too warm. Playful waves. And friends to greet me with food and drink. And a surfboard waiting on the sand.
And some Coppertone. And a comfy ride home.- No entry fee. I’m not describing a charity ride. I’m not asking for a SAG wagon. (Why the Screen Actor’s Guild shows up at charity rides is beyond me, but there always seems to be a truck with SAG printed on the door.) This is a solo training ride from my front door. I don’t want to have to pay money for the privilege of all the above.
Add it all up. Imagine a ride like that. Go ahead and just TRY to imagine a ride on smooth pavement with no cars. Try to imagine the tailwind that makes you feel like a million bucks.
That was my ride on Saturday, June 19th. From Rochester to Port Austin.
The clouds parted and the perfect ride came my way. I wish you would have a ride like this one for yourself soon. If you ask nicely, I’ll tell you what route to take.
Seriously, no cars. On a Saturday. Twilight Zone-esque.
And yes, that's me falling off the surfboard. I never said I was GOOD at it. I just said I like to do it.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Living, Actually
I'll try to make this about cycling, but it's mostly about golf.
I played golf at Pebble Beach today. I didn't have my A-game with me (which I blame indirectly on Michigan weather which prevented me from preparing fully), but I did OK.
Playing Pebble is the golfer's equivalent to taking your bike to France to ride up l'Alpe d'Huez. You don't go there trying to match Marco Pantani's time; you go there to just do it. Believe me, the course record is safe in both instances.
It's one of those things in life that you see on TV enough times to think you have a good sense of what it would be like to actually be there, and then you go there and find that it's much grander than you ever imagined, and you instantly feel a little stupid for actually believing what you saw on TV.
Maybe the true theme of this post is this: TV is fake.
The real way to live life is to get in a plane/train/automobile and go do the things that you've only watched on TV. Surfing is a good example that pops into mind. You can watch it on TV and think you understand it, but you have to actually paddle out into a wave of saltwater that's looming 10' over your head and feel the immense power as it hurdles you toward the shore in what you hope is a controlled flowing trip.
If you watch the TV coverage of this year's U.S.Open at Pebble Beach, they'll show you snippets of what's happening, tidbits of the history, and glimpses of the course, but what you'll miss is all the nuance and color that is found around every corner. From the pressure of the first tee to the abrupt weather changes on #7 to the long march up the 18th fairway, that course was a feast.
As I said earlier, my game wasn't on fire. I made it back to the Clubhouse. (That's the phrase that my father said every time he'd come home from his Thursday night golf league and we'd ask him, "How'd you do?". Bike racers can relate to this sentiment, right? Sometimes getting back to the car in one piece is all you can ask for. But we always knew that he had done better than that. Or maybe we just hoped he had.)
The coolest thing about the experience was being there and doing it. Not watching someone else do it. Not watching it on TV. Not listening to someone else tell the story about how they walked up the 17th fairway looking at a birdy putt on a green that the commentators say is difficult to hit.
But actually living it and doing it.
And missing the putt and settling for par.
I played golf at Pebble Beach today. I didn't have my A-game with me (which I blame indirectly on Michigan weather which prevented me from preparing fully), but I did OK.
Playing Pebble is the golfer's equivalent to taking your bike to France to ride up l'Alpe d'Huez. You don't go there trying to match Marco Pantani's time; you go there to just do it. Believe me, the course record is safe in both instances.
It's one of those things in life that you see on TV enough times to think you have a good sense of what it would be like to actually be there, and then you go there and find that it's much grander than you ever imagined, and you instantly feel a little stupid for actually believing what you saw on TV.
Maybe the true theme of this post is this: TV is fake.
The real way to live life is to get in a plane/train/automobile and go do the things that you've only watched on TV. Surfing is a good example that pops into mind. You can watch it on TV and think you understand it, but you have to actually paddle out into a wave of saltwater that's looming 10' over your head and feel the immense power as it hurdles you toward the shore in what you hope is a controlled flowing trip.
If you watch the TV coverage of this year's U.S.Open at Pebble Beach, they'll show you snippets of what's happening, tidbits of the history, and glimpses of the course, but what you'll miss is all the nuance and color that is found around every corner. From the pressure of the first tee to the abrupt weather changes on #7 to the long march up the 18th fairway, that course was a feast.
As I said earlier, my game wasn't on fire. I made it back to the Clubhouse. (That's the phrase that my father said every time he'd come home from his Thursday night golf league and we'd ask him, "How'd you do?". Bike racers can relate to this sentiment, right? Sometimes getting back to the car in one piece is all you can ask for. But we always knew that he had done better than that. Or maybe we just hoped he had.)
The coolest thing about the experience was being there and doing it. Not watching someone else do it. Not watching it on TV. Not listening to someone else tell the story about how they walked up the 17th fairway looking at a birdy putt on a green that the commentators say is difficult to hit.
But actually living it and doing it.
And missing the putt and settling for par.
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