2 posts tagged “vrabel”

Because I have some unexpected time on, this, the eve of the eve of a trek to Western Pennsylvania for the region's premier cycling event (and in the interest of padding those meager stats to the left), here's some recycled material about my first and only other trip three years ago.  It's not all old, though.  I've added footnotes, Klosterman style.  Okay, not exactly Klosterman style; they're in the body of the text because scrolling down would be a pain.  And they'll probably be far less clever.

Y1NZER or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Pedal Picksburgh

I had been taunting Mehaffey all week. We were traveling to western Pennsylvania for Pedal Pittsburgh. I had signed on for the sixty mile tour, which included a climb of the dreaded Mt. Oliver. Dan and Sarah were doing the fifty mile loop. Ten fewer miles and no climb: clearly, Dan was a wuss. (To be fair, the wuss in question is currently training for his second triathlon, but I digress...)  And a wuss, as you well know, is deserving of scorn.  [1] Three years later, I don't believe Dan has completed a third triathlon.  I've got six more century rides under my belt,  Who's the wuss now?  I mean, sure - he got married and bought a house, but.... uh, I don't know how to finish that. Moving on.

Pedal Pittsburgh is an annual bicycle tour of varying lengths of the landmarks and neighborhoods that make Pittsburgh unique. It is hosted by and benefits the Community Design Center. I had planned to ride last year, but bailed at the last minute to ride with the Tahoe team; I was starting to get nervous about my training. This year, I know better where I am in my training, and more importantly, I know what to expect in Nevada, so I gladly substituted sixty miles in the 'Burgh for eighty miles in Davidsonville, Maryland.  [2] This is further proof that I am a moron.  This is the longest - and best - version of the infamous "beach and pie" ride.  I can't believe I willingly passed up pie for Pedal Pittsburgh.

I was sick as a dog last week. [3]  Hmmm....  I am getting sick now.  My sinuses are really raw and I'd be congested if my nostrils weren't leaking all day.  I missed multiple days of work and still had a hacking and wheezing cough on Saturday. I mention this only because I mentioned it to Sarah and Dan about two hours into our journey west and was promptly accused of attempting to lay the groundwork for skipping my last ten miles. [4] I laid the groundwork for bailing MUCH earlier this year.  By which I mean, I signed on for the thirty-five mile ride and was completely up front about that fact.  Of course, after all I ran my mouth, there was no way I could in good conscience - no matter how much I wanted (and I'll be honest - it wouldn't be long before I really wanted) - back out of climbing that damned hill.  [5] Who am I kidding?  Seriously.  I back out of shit like this all.  the.  time. Through my boast, I had signed a contract, much like a medieval knight who vows to rescue the damsel or slay the dragon, back when such was the business of the day. This brave brave Sir Robin was not about to bravely run away. [6] See [5].

After lunch at Taco Loco, as Will and Laura [7] See also: Barracuda. were heading to the bike shop [8] The bike shop in question was owned by the father of a kid with whom I went to elementary school.  This has nothing to do with anything, but I kept in touch with absolutely nobody I knew from when I lived in Pennsylvania so I find it significant somehow. to outfit nine month old Cash with the required helmet, the rest of us did a bit of reconnaissance on the South Side Slopes. Now, I was vaguely familiar with my impending climb because Vrabel [9] See also: The Vrabel. used to live atop the dreaded Mt. Oliver. But it had been several years, at best, since I had been in that part of town. First of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so steep. Second of all, I don't recall Josephine Street being so long. It looked really bad. Dan, at one point, volunteered to join me for the ten miles provided we race. I hesitated, because the last time I was challenged to a race in Pittsburgh... well, "cheated" isn't strong enough a word [10] Long story short: Garrett cheated.  Big time., but ultimately agreed. We clocked the climb at only a mile and a half, but that particular mile and a half was relentless. It went up. And up. And up. Then it went up some more. And just when it looked as if we were about at the top, it went up a little bit for good measure. And if that weren't enough, the descent was one of the most notoriously steep and serpentine streets in the city, which so happened to be in rather rough condition, potholewise, after the winter. It is this particular street - Sycamore Street - that my father used to drive down after taking out-of-town friends and relatives up Mt. Washington, just to show off a bit. It is this particular street that Vrabel points to when he mentions his concept of urban skiing. On the way back to Lawrenceville, Dan and Sarah and [Vanna] all remarked that I was considerably more quiet and seemed to be scratching my head more than usual.

Despite the minor anxiety, I slept alright once I managed to get Nobody [11] AKA: the Buddy Cat. out of my appointed room. (Nobody is a cat.) [12] Duh. I rose at a quarter to six with a minimum of snoozing and began preparing for my ride. I ate a light breakfast, prepared my water and snacks, and herded the cats a bit before getting to the day's attire. Now, there was some fuzziness to the weather forecast so I went to great pains to pack for every conceivable condition. I ultimately decided on the short sleeve jersey with a windbreaker and no leg warmers, when.... oh, (insert expletive [13] FUCK! here).

I dressed in street clothes and went outside to sit on the stoop to wait for Sarah and Dan. As they pulled up, Sarah rolled down the window:

"What's wrong?" [14] This exact dialogue is almost certainly inaccurate.

"I forgot my bike shorts."

"What about your other shorts?"

"I don't wear other shorts." [15] It's true.  Short pants are for little boys.

(Coincidentally, it was to Dan and Sarah's wedding last month [16] Huh.  I guess Dan actually got married before the ride.  So I revoke my rescindment of my reversal on him being a wuss.  Or something.  I can't keep it straight.  The point is: what has he done lately? that I set out without a coat and tie. I realized I forgot the core outfit of the weekend when we were well south of Fredericksburg and going back for it was completely out of the question. We stopped at Hecht's just outside Richmond, but the clerk forgot to remove the security device from my new jacket, so I spent the entire wedding with my hand robotically glued to my waist so that no other guest would suspect me of acquiring a really nice jacket [17] I mentioned to Cheeseman [17.5] Quote of the weekend, from Vanna: "I'm drinking Cheeseman's wine."  that Vrabel would quote Fast Times when he heard the story and I was right. by less than ethical means. And now, once again, when packing for the weekend, I forgot the core outfit. This is all [Vanna's] fault - I know it; I simply have not yet concocted how, exactly.)

In the end, it worked out okay. Gatto Cycles [18] See [8]. had no merchandise for sale other than helmets and tubes, but I was able to reach Will and Laura before they left home, and they brought a pair of gym shorts for me to wear. I wasn't about to do sixty miles, for reasons I'd just as soon not discuss [19] Chafing., but I did ride the first eight miles with Cash before setting off on my own on a modified version of the thirty-five mile course. So yeah, ultimately, I did wuss out of climbing the dreaded Mt. Oliver, but I did ride up to Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill. (Let me repeat that last part: Troy Hill, Highland Park, and Squirrel Hill.) The most important part, though, is that I had a blast. And that Whole Foods provided burritos (of a sort) [20] If you could consider 'without a tortilla' to mean 'of a sort' then I guess this statement would be accurate. at the end. If you're within a few hours, I urge [21] Urge seems like kind of a strong word.  Especially from one who is planning to spend the evening before the ride at the Thunderbird. you to pedal Pittsburgh next year. It's a heck of a lot of fun and with five different routes, there is one for every skill level. And it is for a good cause. [22] This is where I went into my spiel about the warm feelings everyone would get from writing a check on my behalf to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  But I'll spare yinz that speech right now.  Don't worry - I'll get to it.

Vrabel and Alexis entered toward the beginning of the morning rush.  With a hint of a smile he said, "I've got some bad news.  Do you want to hear it straight or do you want me to dance around the issue a little?"

Sunday mornings were my favorite shift, despite that I was supposed to be there by five-thirty.  I almost never made it there on time, but then Andrea wasn't there to chew me out for being late either.  It didn't really matter, anyway.  Unlike the rest of the week, Sundays usually didn't get busy back then until about nine o'clock.  We had plenty of time to get everything set up before the crowd showed up, and with time to spare.  Most days we had a good ninety minutes to chew the fat.  Misha was uncharacteristically chatty on Sundays; away from the prying customers he often seemed almost human.  And my co-worker Karl had a day-job; he worked only one shift a week to make some extra cash.  It was a refreshing change to work occasionally with someone who had also graduated from college.  And he knew what he was doing, so there was no need for a third wheel mucking up the works behind the counter and cutting into our tips.  We didn't get Saturday-level tips on Sundays, but they were a far cry better than what I usually earned serving tea bags and hot water refills to the annoying crowd of non-tipping loiterers that were my usual weekday evening customers.

This particular Sunday was shaping up to be a busy day.  I had to work until two o'clock and the NFL Conference Championships took place that afternoon.  My beloved Pittsburgh Steelers were playing the Indianapolis Colts in the early game, and I planned to wash some bottles while watching the Cowboys and Packers in the second game.  We had been through a blizzard just over a week prior, and I decided to commemorate the occasion by cooking up a batch of an especially chunky imperial stout.  The amount of fermentables that had gone into this diabolical brew was almost obscene.  Within a few days, it would be ready to drag out from the dark corner behind the television and siphon into individual bottles.  Another few weeks spent carbonating in the bottle and a heavy stout would be ready for consumption by mid-February, in time to ease the long, pre-KttD late winter doldrums.

I was contemplating those bottles of dark, silky stout I'd be savoring in less than a month's time when Vrabel and Alexis walked in.  Alexis had been visiting since before New Year's and they were on the way to the airport.  It was just the beginning of the morning rush, so I had time to chat for a second when I went to the end of the counter to grind a couple pounds of '66.  I wished them a good morning and Vrabel said with a hint of a smile, "I've got some bad news.  Do you want to hear it straight or do you want me to dance around the issue a little?"

I was understandably confused.  "What are you talking about?"

"Bad news.  Do you want it straight or not?"

I turned to Alexis.  "What's he talking about?"

"Your beer blew up."

I turned back to Vrabel.  "My beer blew up?"

"Your beer blew up."

I staggered.  I reeled.  "What do you mean, my beer blew up?"

"Your beer..." Vrabel began.  Alexis finished his sentence.  "It blew up."  Vrabel continued, "Alexis was in the kitchen, eating breakfast.  I was getting ready to go.  I heard a loud crack from the middle room.  I went to to investigate only to watch five gallons of imperial stout spread across our living room.  I threw some towels down, but I didn't have time to do anything more, or else Alexis would miss her flight."

I spent the rest of my shift in a daze.  Aside from the fact that two cases of potent stout were now never to be, there was the matter of an enormous mess and - most importantly - the questionable status of our still new "entertainment center" immediately adjacent ground zero.  The VCR I had owned since June, because Garrett already had an old and barely serviceable television that he left with us when he moved out.  When I was home for the previous Thanksgiving, I upgraded our television, thanks to Sister #2's employee discount in the Electronics Department of the local Sears.  Without knowing the extent of the damage, my mind raced and I feared the worst.  I had visions of still-new circuitry fried and caked with malted hops.  And what's more, I had no idea when I might return to Ohio, so my options were either to pay a then-prohibitive full price for a new television or *shudder* do without.  Either scenario was less than ideal.

I scurried home as soon as I could, even foregoing my precious tips - opting to count them the following day.  I was greeted as I opened the door by the overwhelming aroma of malt and alcohol.  A soupçon of hops was detectable within the pungent stew.  Our baby blue carpet had been stained a seemingly permanent shade of chocolate.  A cursory examination of my now-shattered carboy revealed that the tube which released excess fermentation gases had become clogged with grain and hop particulate, resulting in pressures sufficient to crack quarter-inch-thick glass.  The Mighty Roy, who had taught me to brew, claimed I was too fussy, and that I should relax.  This was the first time I had followed his advice.  Of course, he once tried to brew a chicken beer with bullion cubes and thought if a few drops of spruce essence were good, a whole bottle would be better.  So I guess it was nobody's fault but mine.  But I still like to blame Roy.

It was almost too much to bear.  Actually, it was too much to bear. I threw a few more towels on the pile and settled into the sofa to watch the Steeler game amid olfactory overload, postponing the cleanup effort until much later.  The television and VCR were both fine.  (Still are, in fact - I have the very same television on in front of me as I type.)  We lost, though, our Atari 2600 and copies of a Charlie Chaplin movie and "Some Kind of Wonderful."  The Steelers won the game and advanced to the Super Bowl, where they lost to the Dallas Cowboys.  ESPN2 rebroadcast the 1996 AFC Championship Game this afternoon, in the absence of any real football games.  I still got a little nervous, even though the outcome was decided a dozen years ago.