Nice Town

My mantra has always been that every bike ride is an adventure.  I set out to prove that thought exponentially this weekend   

 I travelled up to Peninsula, Ohio on Saturday to take part in the “Stomp Ride” which is located between Akron and Cleveland.  Jeff and I met Ken there to go through North Eastern Ohio on the things that we travel best on, our bikes.   

So we need to cover some things in order to fill in some details in the story.  Up to Saturday, it has been in the 80′s and 90′s as far as heat.  Warm, dry, calm wind from the South, most of the time.  Sunshine aplenty.   

The ride was also a quick, impromptu get together as far as the riders goes.  All it took was a few text messages and emails to find out that we could get together for the ride.  So it all came together as a quick, “Let’s get together, knock out some miles and have a few laughs while we do it.”, kind of ride.  It will not be so bad, 65 miles, a few hills, still in good biking form, cooler weather, piece of cake!   

Bwa-ha-ha-ha   

Isn’t it funny when the biking muses get involved in your biking plans?    

I took it for granted.  I was over confident.  I thought it was going to be easy.   

Bwa-ha-ha-ha   

I took things for granted because I forgot rule number one.  I did not take care of my number one priority.  Sue Ann, my bike, my stead, my only mode of transport.  I failed to notice that my chain was in bad shape.    

I had been running, biking and working out harder than before TOSRV, so I was ready.  I also had been riding all summer with no major mishaps, mechanically, on the bike.   

This proves the fact that I have been merely lucky so far and bad luck is never to far away.   

When Jeff and I left for Cleveland, the temperature outside was 48 degrees.  The wind was howling from the South at 20 miles an hour.  Rain was spitting and misting all at the same time.  And we had left at the ungodly hour of 5:30 am.  There is never enough coffee for that time of day!   

Fortunately, we knew about the weather and dressed appropriately, but it was still a shock to the system.  I had not ridden in these kind of conditions in quite a few months.  One day, riding or running in 90 degree weather, which is what I always prefer, to 5o degrees overnight, yes, a very hard shock to the system.   

The trip up was fine and Jeff and I talked through the two hour trip and met Ken very near the starting point for the ride.  I should have known it was going to be a long day when I noticed the sign that gave directions to the local ski resort.  Just to remind you, nobody skies in a flat country.  They need hills.  And they were everywhere.  As we had saddled up and was ready to ride, ken was almost apologetic about the upcoming hills.  He knows how much I adore the hills.  But we were here for a ride and hills or no hills, it was time to go.   

And Ken was not kidding at all.  There indeed were hills.  I would like to call them mountains.  And as I was huffing and puffing up the first couple of these eye poppers, I was wondering to myself why there were so many hills in this area.  As I crossed the top of what Ken called “The Highest Point In North East Ohio” (there is even a road sign, marking the spot), it occurred to me why the hills were  there.  The glaciers that had formed Lake Erie had to put the dirt somewhere, so why not here.  Knowing the possible answer did not help the fact that  I was climbing said glacier dirt deposits.   

It was about this time that I began to notice that something was wrong with my chain, as in the chain on the bike.  I was slipping gears and when it came to climbing up the big hills, the chain started to come off, which for those of you who do not cycle, that is a bad thing.  After some close inspection, I found that a link in the chain was twisted.  I also noticed that my chain had become very rusted and that I had neglected proper bike maintenance and that is why I found myself in the present predicament.   

So we pulled off the road and called the bike support for the ride, know as “SAG” which stand for “support and gear”  That turns out to be very handy when one finds themselves with a broken bike, hours from anywhere.  

SAG helping another rider.

However, in this case, SAG was just a couple of Park Rangers that had volunteered for the event.  However nice these gentlemen are, and they were very nice guys, they were not bike mechanics.  And that is what I needed at that moment.  The only advice that they could offer was to put my bike on the back of the truck and they would give me a ride back to the park, thus ending that day’s ride.   

If you have not noticed in my ramblings about cycling, bikers can be a bit off balanced in the mental aspect of life.  In other word’s, crazier than a Democrat at a Tea Party Rally.  I am a biker, therefore, belonging in that “crazy” category.  There was no way that I was going to abandon this ride.  I had gotten up in the middle of the night, rode in a car for over two hours and had already experienced rain, hills and cold.  I was going to finish this ride.  The two Park Rangers looked at me like I wasn’t wearing any clothes when I announced my intentions.  

Finally, one of the Rangers pulled out a pair of pliers from his tool box.  “AH HA”,  I exclaimed, took the pliers from him and attacked the chain like I had been given a new life.  After some serious twisting, pinching, pulling and pleading, I was able to get my bike chain into some form that resembled a normal chain.  I took the bike for a few circles, testing out the chain and boldly announced that I was ready to go.  

I then asked the Rangers if I could keep the pliers, you know, just in case I hadn’t really fixed the chain.  They just shook their heads at me and gave me their consent and again looked at me like I had just escaped from a loony farm.  As I slipped the pair of pliers into my jersey pocket, they told me that they would be in the area and if anything happened, they would be just a few moments away.  What they really wanted to say is, “Look, when that chain snaps, we will still give you a ride back to the park, you crazy idiot!”  

I gave my heart felt thanks to them and my riding companions and I resumed our biking adventure.  And although it was not a proper fix, it still allowed me to bike onwards.  I could not put too much torque on the chain and had to go up the hills even more slowly than I normally did, but up the hills I did go!  

About ten miles or so after leaving the Rangers, they pulled up next to me in their truck as I was still riding.  They gave their surprise that I was still mobile and then handed me a slip of paper with their number on it, “Just in case…”  They also asked me to return the pair of pliers to the Ranger tent at the end of the ride, which I, of course, agreed to do.  It was at this time that I felt like I was riding a bike race and my team car had just pulled up beside me.  I had witnessed that scene so many time during the telecast of the Tour De France. I had no idea how true that really was.   

The Rangers sped out of sight and left us to our ride.  I did not have any more major mishaps on our way in.  I did have to work on the chain a few more times, but the borrowed pliers were more than enough to get the job done.  However, the hills did not let up.  But I am proud to say that I did not walk my bike over any of the hills and I made it safely and upright to the finish.  

As I rode up to the Rangers tent to return the trusty pair of pliers, both of the elderly Rangers were there to greet me.  They gave my back a pat and said that were glad to see that I had made it.  They then let me in on a joke that they had been sharing.  They both had bet the other on when they were going to have to pick me up.  The also informed me that they had followed us all the way in and was rooting for me to finish.  They said they were very happy that neither of then had won their little wager.  

I shook both of their hands and felt very grateful indeed to them for their “SAG” support.  We parted with shared memories.  You really can not ask too much more than that from life.  

As this adventure ended, I was happy to put this experience to rest. We had made another ride and learned a new experience.  

And I met two of my guardian angels.   

What a great ride!

Just kidding!

This is always the big weekend for fantasy football drafts and drinking and such.  And, of course, I threw in the bike ride through the mountains of Eastern Cleveland.  I have the write up on that almost done so look for that soon.

It was also Labor Day, so it just wouldn’t make since to, well, you know, work.  So to make a long excuse shorter, I took the weekend off from the nets.

Fear not, I am back!  Just when you thought it was safe to go back in the water!

Half of the 6-pack will be there with Jeff, Ken and myself.  Looking forward to the ride as it will be only 65 miles, but yet challenging with hills, or so I have been told. 

Yay…hills….just what I need.

No worries.  At least there are new roads and new challenges!

These two monkeys on the right sure are cute.  Awww…. 

I know, how can anyone resist them at all!

Now for the bad part.  A few weeks ago I got the email that started out with the phrase, “Aren’t monkeys so cute!”  The email went on to explain that since monkeys are indeed so cute, the are almost impossible for marketing agencies to ignore them, so they put them out in advertising, greeting cards and just about everything that you could think of that involves everyday life.

This email goes on to predicate that monkeys are so ingrained in our modern culture, that we see a monkey picture every single day.  It can be animated or like the picture.  It can be a gorilla or a chimp or a orangutan, doesn’t matter.  An ape is an ape. 

I have to admit, that since I recieved that particular email, I have seen a monkey everyday.  Of course I am looking for them, but, now, so are you.  You can thank me anytime.

So let me know if a day goes by without you seeing a monkey.  Today’s picture counts for today only.  Just so you know.  Other than that, anything goes!

Your welcome!

Always Learning...

Say it isn’t so.  My little girl will be a freshman in high school tomorrow.  It was just yesterday she was painting at the counter, wasn’t it?  I swear it was.

It was just yesterday she had chicken pox, wasn’t it?  I’m sure it was.

It was just yesterday she lost her first tooth, wasn’t it?  I’m positive it was.

It was just yesterday that I was putting her on the bus for 1st grade, wasn’t it?  I bet it was!

It was just yesterday that I was getting up with her to put her on the bus to junior high, wasn’t it?  I am almost certain it was.

And now, high school?  I am not sure about this. 

Good luck, my little darling.  Just know that I am still here when you need it!  (I will not cry, I will not cry!!!!)

Chef Jim Taylor Awards Me The Presidents Award

As promised, I have a major announcement and as you can see, I was awarded a very amazing honor last night.  I was honored and very humbled to be recognized by the American Culinary Federation with the Presidents Award.  It is the second highest award that the ACF awards annually (behind the Chef Of The Year award).

The award is like an Oscar in the ACF community and it validates my career as a chef.  There is nothing more flattering or more humbling than to be given an award by your peers.  I was also honored to be given the award in the presence of some of the finest chefs in the area.   All of them were very gracious and complimentary.  I know, unusual for chefs!

The award ceremony also included a very nice banquet and wine and all of the trappings.  You know it had to be good if it was a banquet for chefs!  Also, as you can see in the photo, I had to wear a suit.  So you know how important the night was.  The good thing is that I did not have to give a speech. Going into the evening I thought I was going to have to, but fortunately for me, I was not required to do so.  I think chefs know that speech making is not our forte.

So there you have it, Toph does good for once.  There is nothing to worry about concerning me getting a big head.  When I told a member of my staff last week that I was to receive this award, she merely grunted and replied, “Well, as you notice, it isn’t the boss of the year award!”

Well said, well said.  I think I am going to fire her tomorrow…

How is that for suspense!

Yes, I know I am evil!  (evil laugh fading…)

Almost ten years ago, I was able to score tickets to a baseball game in Cincinnati.  It just happened to coincide with my brother coming into town.  I do not remember why he was in town.  He must have just been passing through, or something.  Doesn’t matter, he was passing through and I had tickets  to a Reds’ baseball game.  Let’s go!

So we did.  The Reds were playing the Mariners that night.  It was in the middle of inter-league play and Seattle was in town.  It was a high profile game at the time.  If you do not follow baseball, please disregard the next few sentences.  If you follow baseball, then you will understand the nest few stanza’s.

Seattle had just let Ken Griffey Jr. go to free agency.  Jr. was the best player in the game 10 years ago.  (He just retired this year.)  He was the one that was going to break all of the home run records, not Barry Bonds.  And as far as anyone can tell, he did not do the roids that bogged the game down so much.  The Reds signed Griffey to a contract to play for them for, like, a gazillion dollars and the Reds were were going to win every World Series for the next decade.  Just so you know, didn’t happen.

Meanwhile, Seattle signed this guy from Japan named Ichiro Suzaki.  He was a speedy outfielder who ruled the Japan Leagues for years.  He became an instant star in the US as well.  He is still playing today.  Japan went crazy over this guy because he was playing in the Major Leagues and he, more than likely, was making, like, a gazillion yen, if not more and a few million dollars as well. 

So now that the scene has been set, my brother and I set out for Cincinnati, primed to watch the game and enjoy the surroundings and all of the trappings that go along with a Major League Baseball game.  We happened to have seats that were just past first base and favoured more right field than the infield.  Ichiro played right field.

What more could you ask for.  Seats right where the next MLB phenom was playing.  Very Cool.  The problem with the seats, as we came to realize, is that every Japanese person in the metro area was attending the game and wanted to be next to their country’s biggest star.  That meant that my brother and I were the lone Americans in a sea of Japanese. 

I can not say that bothered us at all.  I can not even say we noticed for the first couple of innings.  We were involved in our own conversations, experiences and sights and sounds to notice who we were sitting in a crowd with.  That and we may have been enjoying an adult beverage or two.  And it was just cool hanging out and watching the game.

Somewhere around the third inning or so.  Wait, to be more specific, the bottom of the third inning, we started to become more aware of our surroundings.  Every time Seattle took the field to begin an inning, we realized that we were hearing a chant.  It was almost cult like.  I do not remember the chant to begin the game.  But as the game went on, we began to hear the chant and has the innings progressed, the chant became louder and louder, at least in our thoughts.

“Ichiro…Ichiro…Ichiro.”  The chant went.  It became incessant.  “Ichiro…Ichiro…Ichiro.” 

I remember looking up and around about this time.  I then smacked my brother on the arm, hard.  I did that just because I wanted to, but after I did that, he looked at me and said, “Why did you do that, Asshole?”

“Look around you and listen!”

He did.  And I did.  Damn!  We were surrounded by Japs and they were chanting “Ichiro..Ichiro…Ichiro!”

I have to admit that at this time, we were not that familiar with Ichiro, but since neither my brother or I were all that bashful, we began to ask the Asian crowd around us, just who was Ichiro?  Okay, it really did not take a rocket scientist or an English speaking japanese  person to point Ichro out to us.  We just had to look out into right field to understand.  And we did get it.

Neither my brother or I are Reds fans.  So it only took an inning or two before we were joining in with our new best Japanese friends and chanting along with just as much gusto as they were, “Ichiro…Ichiro…Ichiro!”  Soon, we were in the midst of one of the best baseball parties that I have ever been involved with.  We cheered with them.  We slapped each other on the backs and smiled and grinned and grunted with our Japanese friends.  And we did not understand a single word they said nor did they understand (or so I think) a word we spoke to them, except, of course, the one one universal word that we all shared that night.

“Ichiro…Ichiro…Ichiro!”

And we sang those words with all of the gusto we could manage and it was fun times all around as the Mariners defeated the Reds that night.  As the game ended, we shook hands with all of our new Asian friends and smiled and bowed and sang out, “Ichiro!”  a few more hundred times and then parted company, knowing that we would never see them again, or for that matter, knowing that we would not  be able to tell them apart or pick them out from a lineup, but damn, didn’t we enjoy the game.

As we started to leave the stadium, my brother and I needed to make a restroom stop because it was a long trip home after all.  As we waited our turn in the lines for the urinals, we noticed that most of our new friends were in line as well.  We exchanged a few back slaps and “Ichiros!”  Ha Ha’s!  More fun times.

Well, it turned out that our party did not last for long because directly in front of me, standing at the urinal that I was waiting in line for, was a local man.  Now when I say local, I’ll guess,  a Kentucky native, just because Cincinnati is more Kentucky than it is Ohio.  Well as they Ichiro party continued, he looked to his right.  Nothing but Asian men.  He then looked to his left, even more Asian men.  He then, at the top of his voice announced, “Hey!!!  I said HEY!!!”

Everyone stopped.  I just just stopped saying “Ichiro”, but most of the Asian men stopped urinated as well.  And they all looked at the local guy.  Noticing that he had the  attention of all around him, he took a brief second, zipped up his fly, turned around to the nearest Japanese guy and stated in a loud, drunk, Kentucky voice, (please add twang here),  “Hey, Ichiro asshole fans, We all kicked your asses in World War II!”

He turned, finished zipping up and staggered, however smugly, out of the bathroom. 

Very nicely put, for a drunk, Kentucky, redneck. 

I have to admit, I broke out in laughter.  I could not help it.  I  had a hard time stopping and even began to double over.  And before this moment, I had never experienced a double-over-with-laughter-moment.  My Japanese friends also broke out with laughter.  I do not think they understood a single word he said, but when I started laughing, they understood it was funny.  It was in this one person’s hate and despair, that became an international bridge, a coming together of culture.

I think we all understand that an asshole is an asshole, no matter the nationality.

So even today, when I yell out in the company of my brother, “Ichiro!!!”, we both begin the crazy giggle.  And we laugh, because it was damned funny!

So my puppet friend here is going to tell you all what is what!   Because, well, he just says it best.

AND YOU BETTER LISTEN!

sorry, honey!

So you kids have some fun tonight and let me know if you have any big money making tips for me!

Update: 

I broke even for the night which for me is something of an achievement!  That, and we all had a good time!  Let’s just hope they survive another year.  Not that I frequent the place, but it is a fun place to go!