Swan Song

Everyone has at least a few items they maintain as keepsakes beyond college to remind them of the experience. A piece of a goal post from a tense football game, a textbook from your favorite class, or perhaps, a pair of women’s underwear from a particularly tremendous party. Whatever your keepsake may be, it serves as a reminder of your youth, when things were simpler and responsibility was minimal. A reminder of a time when the best way to settle a dispute between roommates was by an extremely competitive and often exceedingly dangerous drinking game – of which there are hundreds of different types. The most commonly used in my circles, not just for decisions, but to prove general superiority in all things – strength, intelligence, sexual prowess, and most importantly, alcohol tolerance – was beer pong.

It was so important, in fact, that two of my roommates, in the summer of 2006, built a beer pong table that could float on water. The architects, at the time two engineering majors, built what would later become The Drinktanic. A piece of plywood secured to 2x4s with eleven 2-liter bottles of soda filled with air was all it took. It was the unsinkable (we tried) testimony to our ability to adapt our drinking to any environment, as inhospitable as it may be. She set on her maiden voyage the weekend after construction with many, many cases of beer. For the next several years, she would be available to us. When she was not afloat in the pool of our condo – Grantwood Village – she was dry docked in the garage on saw horses, always vigilant for the next drinking game. Always ready to sail on the waters of the Grantwood pool at a moment’s notice. To put it simply I need to paraphrase Nelson Mandela (I’m sure this is what he meant to say):

She was the captain of our drinking, we were the masters of that summer.

She registered hours of Beer Pong, Land Mines, and Circle of Death both dry docked and afloat. It only took twenty-two liters of air to keep many summers of partying alive. My fondest memory of the Drinktanic came one summer day in which a large game of Landmines turned into “King of the Drinktanic”. That day we not only discovered that the Drinktanic was unsinkable, but she could also leave large splinters in our chests. I distinctly remember the following morning. I didn’t just wake up with a  severe hangover and a second degree sun burn, I also enjoyed the sensation of having an entire Lowe’s lumber department imbedded in my chest, stomach, and hands.

I, like many others, harbor fond memories of Columbia summers, poolside at Grantwood Village. That’s why, with a heavy heart, I'm passing the message that the Drinktanic has made her final voyage and has been dismantled. It will be used to build shelving in the house of the people that have dry docked it for so long. Some of the people that used her the most. I awoke to this e-mail this morning:

“Drinktanic is ‘sailing into the dry dock’… Aka, she is being dismantled. If anyone would like to come over tonight and hug it, kiss it, whatever you would like, please feel free to do so. I will be having beer during the ceremony, don’t you all worry (and by ceremony I mean a grim reeper moment with a  Dewalt saw). At least she is being taken down by a top tool.”

You see, eventually everything matures. Everything grows up, becomes more productive, carries more responsibility. Engineering majors become engineers. Best friends become Groom’s Men. Girlfriends become Wives. College students become college graduates, and graduates become professionals. As we grow and adapt to new lives, so does the Drinktanic. We first built the Drinktanic to “adapt our drinking to any environment,” and she continues to adapt to our environment. Parts of her have become shelving in the house of former roommates. She, like us (most of us, anyway) has matured and adapted to her surroundings. I take solace in the fact that the Drinktanic will never truly leave us, as a friend put so eloquently:

“I for one am proud to say, that all of us probably still carry small pieces of the Drinktanic with us every day. Not only in our minds, but also imbedded in our chests. Let’s face it, some of that lumber is never coming out.”

While I'm not quite ready to raise a glass to my youth and my foolishness and wish it farewell. I will raise a glass to the Drinktanic.
To growing up. Cheers.

The Triumphant Return of Because: Music That Matters

Like the McRib, the word because makes an annual return in this blog. Unlike the McRib, however, you know what the word because is made of and why it's back. It's made of letters and syllables and it's back because it's time to share some of my favorite music with you. Get your Spotify account logged in, your torrent programs turned on, or your iTunes gift cards handy, this is a good one.

Mogwai - Because everyone has heard of Explosions In The Sky and these guys are better.

Grouplove - Because they're Arcade Fire-y, and damn catchy.

Raphael Saadiq - Because he's been around since the 80s Because he backed Mick Jagger in the 2011 Grammy Awards. Because he has throw back style.  Because he's been nominated for more Grammys than I have fingers and it's time people started taking notice.

The Head and The Heart - Because you can only listen to Mumford & Sons so many times, right?

Middle Brother - See above. Insert The Avett Brothers for Mumford & Sons.

Revolution One - Because they changed their name from Autovein, but still rock just as hard. Because of Sidebar.

Le Tigre - Because lo fi electronics and eclectic pop is cool. Because, thanks to them, I'll never forget my metrocard.

Radiohead - Because.

Deer Tick - Because I'm almost positive "The Bump" was written for me.

thenewno2 - Because Dhani Harrison jams with Pearl Jam. Because spaces are overrated.

Drake - Because his latest record, Take Care, changed the way I think about hip hop.

Charles Bradley - Because soul music isn't dead.

Jamaica - Because they will be your favorite band. Beause it's equal parts guitar riffs and spine-jarring bass. Because they're form Paris. PARIS.

Hayes Carll - Because occasionally country music gives me a gem. Because of Stomp and Hollar.

Yuck - Because the wall of noise is back. It is back.

Alexander - Because they were a related artist to Deer Tick on Spotify and I thoroughly enjoyed them.

Union Tree Review - Because they sincerely love St. Louis. Because they believe in the people, they believe in the community. Because they're starting a musical movement in the city and we need to be a part of it.

Bo and the Locomotive - Because their album release show was one of the most energetic shows I've ever been to. Ever.

The Belle Brigade - Because The White Stripes are gone and I need a brother sister duo to listen to. Because Losers makes me feel better about myself when I stay in on Fridays.

Noel Gallagher's High Flying Birds - Because I've missed Oasis so much. Because a world without Noel Gallagher's voice is not a world worth living in.

Michael Kiwanuka - Because by this time next year, you'll be sick of hearing his name.

Girls - Because just when you thought you've heard the tripiest song ever, you hear Vomit. Because it's hauntingly beautiful.

Yacht - Because it just might be able to make you dance, even if you think you're too tired to do it.

Ryan Adams - Because he completely redeemed himself with his latest record, Fire & Ashes.

Gomez - Because he has the same name as a kid I ran cross country with. Because his music reminds me when things were simpler. Because there's not enough music like that.

Crooked Fingers - Because they remind me of Cary Brothers, and that's a good thing.

The Joy Formidable - Because of her accent in the interviews. Because she's more than an accent, she can sing, too.

Scala & Kolacny Brothers - Specifically, their cover of Metallica's Nothing Else Matters. Because they're a Belgium all girls choir. Because that is blowing your mind right now. Because you're already searching for a video on YouTube.

Brett Dennen - Because gingers don't need souls to sing! Who knew?

That's 29 artists and 48 instances of because. Go.

Sea Shells and Bubble Gum Hair

There have been exactly four times in my life when I've truly thought anything was possible.

The first time was in 1997. My family lived in Carlisle, a small town in southern Pennsylvania. I was 12 years old and school had just started. I was in seventh grade. I was sitting in my room and listening to Third Eye Blind's self-titled debut album on a Sanyo CD player hooked up to a boombox. Naturally, I was listening to song number three, Semi-Charmed Life. My bedroom was on the second floor of our house, at the end of the hallway. As the lyrics blasted through my paper-coned speakers, I was fiddling with seashells that I took from my bookcase. I wondered if I could hear the ocean in them. I put them up to my ear and listened. I swear I heard waves roll in. I was also thinking about a girl, Eva. I had a huge, seventh grade sized crush on her. She told me earlier that day, by checking a box on a note, that she liked me too. Because of that note, in that moment, on my bedroom floor with Third Eye Blind, I could do anything. I was invincible.

The second time was in April of 2007. I attended a Jack's Mannequin show at UMSL with Sean. We were fortunate enough to get on the bus after the show and we met a girl. I didn't know it at the time, but after that night, neither of our lives would really be the same. Her name was Amanda Heins. She was beautiful. Her laugh was contagious, her sense of humor spectacular. The first thing I noticed, almost instantly, was her smile. I extended my arm to shake her hand. The corners of her mouth quirked upward revealing a sincere happiness on her face. She didn't go for the handshake and went straight for a hug.

"I"m Amanda."

Later that night, on the tour bus, she would tell us her story over a few shots of Jaeger. She got to know Andrew McMahon (vocals/piano for Jack's Mannequin) because she had been diagnosed with the same kind of leukemia as him. Acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Fortunately, they had both beat the disease. Her story was incredible. A courageous story of survival and perseverance. Because of both of their battles, Sean and I were on that bus, meeting one of our favorite musicians and Amanda - who would become one of our favorite people. The odds of four people converging on that bus, at that point in time, with the obstacles that two of them had to overcome, are astronomical at best.

The third time was when Amanda's leukemia came back. I didn't think anything was possible because the disease was back. I didn't think anything was possible because lightning struck the same place twice. It was because Amanda was unphased. In her mind, ever the optimist, this was just an obstacle for her to overcome. I was more scared than she was. Amanda, being Amanda, comforted me. It was time, as she said, to "sound the battle horn." One night, Sean, Laura, Amanda and I met at Mosaic so we could "plump her up" before her chemo. She smiled the entire time. Before going into the hospital she colored her hair Bubble Gum Pink and had a photo shoot.

Still smiling.

The strength she showed was nothing short of inspirational. If Amanda, with her bubble gum hair, can smile on her way into a hospital to fight leukemia, anything is possible.

The fourth time was at her funeral, in Illinois. The service had ended and we were at her church eating. I talked to her mother while we were in line.

"It was a beautiful day, wasn't it?" she asked me. It really was a perfect day. The sun was out and the temperature was comfortable. "It absolutely was. Amanda must've been smiling." It seemed cheesy, but I meant it. I clenched and unclenched my hands, nervously. I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to vocalize or not, but I meant it. Amanda's mother looked at me and said "Yep, she must have been smiling." She grabbed my hand, smiled, and then gave me a big hug, just like Amanda did the first time I met her.

That's when I felt like anything was possible. That Amanda can still make me feel better, even then. The way her mother smiled reminded me of seeing Amanda smile with her pink hair, and that night on the tour bus. It took me back to the floor of my house in Carlisle, where I was invincible, listening to Third Eye Blind and fiddling with a sea shell and if I held that shell up to my ear, I'd swear I could hear the ocean. I'm still living the fourth time. I still believe anything is possible. I have Amanda to thank for that.

Light the Night is this weekend in Forest Park. Light the Night is Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's evening walk and fundraiser. It is the nation's night to pay tribute and bring hope to thousands of people battling blood cancers and to commemorate loved ones lost. If you'd like to donate, please visit Amanda's CaringBridge for a list of teams.

B-Minor

"I have a hard time playing B-minor. So, if the music stops, you can bet it's a B-minor that I just messed up."

With that, Nick opened a notebook, grabbed his guitar and started playing. I watched the smoke rise from the bonfire, up past the top of the tents, beyond the height of the trees, and into the stars. I brought my vision back down to the fire. The light of the flames danced across the faces of everyone sitting around the fire pit. Some singing along, some talking to their neighbor, some with beer, some with liquor, but everyone was happy. To my left was Leah. To my right was Matt. In that moment, at that campsite in the Huzzah Valley, there wasn't anywhere in the world I would rather be. It was a perfect night. The right combination of weather and friends and drinks and music. There wasn't any where I would rather be than right between Matt and Leah, with a beer in my hand, singing along to Tom Petty and every country song I swear I hated the day before.

The guitar twanged like a bullet ricocheting off of a wall. The music stopped.

"Fucking B-minor.." Nick grumbled.

He found his fingering and we continued singing about a dance with Mary Jane until the fire went out and the drinks went dry. Another summer night for the books.

The Best Advice I Ever Received

Write what you know. As a writer, that's usually the first piece of advice you receive from a teacher or a literary magazine. Unfortunately, sometimes "what you know" is hard to let go of. There are certain things that are difficult to put "out there" for everyone to see. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, everyone has demons to face. This is a story about one of mine. It all took place about a year ago during a trip home to Omaha. It was almost cathartic putting this on paper. I hope you like it.

***

I awoke to the abrasive beeping of my cell phone's alarm.  It was 4:50 in the morning.  I slowly sat up and took in my surroundings.  I was in my living room, I fell asleep on the couch again.  I'm awake but still covered with a thick layer of exhaustion.  I stumble through my dark loft, following the beeps of my cell phone and silence the alarm.  Rubbing my eyes, I walk to the bathroom and get in the shower.  Hot water usually has a way of waking me up and rinsing off the layer of exhaustion that coats me in the morning.  Not this morning.  It's too early and too close to fall for that to work.  I throw on a vintage Mizzou t-shirt, a pair of jeans and my trusty Chuck Taylors.  I debate shaving, so my parents don't think I'm spinning the drain of non-functioning.  I decide to pass, I like the four day beard look.  On the way out the door from my loft, I grab my bag - two pairs of jeans, two t-shirts, Hank Paulson's book, and "When Genius Failed."  I've been trying to finish the latter for a month.  Despite my interest in finance, I can't bring myself to finish it in one sitting.  Maybe the plane rides will help.  I lock up and head to the elevator, through the lobby and outside. 

It still smells like summer.  It's dark, roughly 5:15 in the morning and chilly.  I'm running a little late so I don't have time to take it all in.  A slight tinge of panic washes over me.  The street lights are on.  They give a faint warm glow to a deserted city street and direct me down Washington Avenue to 8th where I break off and walk toward Pine.  I start to walk a little faster, I don't want to miss the 5:30 Metro, if I do that I'll miss my flight.  It feels like years since I've been home, I don't want to delay it any longer.  As I walk down the stairs of the 8th and Pine Metro Station, I can hear the train approaching.  Shit.  I quickly buy a ticket and validate.  The $35 summons you receive for riding without a ticket is easily avoided by paying $2.50 for a one way ticket.  The automated announcer informs me the next west bound train will be here in thirty seconds.  Right on time.  The Metro comes to a loud stop and the doors whine open in front of me.

I step on to the Metro and take a seat.  I throw my bag in the spot next to me so no one will take the seat.  There are few things more uncomfortable than sitting next to some one you don't know on the Metrolink.  You secretly hope they get off at every stop.  The Metro ride was unusually uneventful.  There's almost always at least one unstable person on the train, talking to themselves or laughing at thin air.  Not this time.  This time the only worry I have is whether I am going to make my flight or not.  I check my boarding pass again.  Departure time is 6:35 AM.  It's currently 5:35.  It's going to be close.  The Metro  slices through the cold morning air quickly, making stops every two minutes.  I watch Busch stadium fly by my window, then Forest Park, the Central West End, and UMSL. 

6:12.

Jesus Christ, hurry!  I wish the operator would blow through the stops as if I was the only passenger on the train that mattered. 

"Lambert Airport, Terminal 2.  Exit on my right." 

Finally.  I've been waiting for the operator to say that since I boarded.  I step in front of the doors.  It seems like hours before they slowly start to open, like the operator knew I was in a rush and wanted to mess with me.  As soon as the doors are open enough for me to squeeze through them, I jump out.  I start sprinting to the doors at the end of the station leading to the airport.  Once inside I run to the airport ticketing kiosks.  6:18.  Shit, shit, shit!  I find the Delta kiosk and go to the automatic check-in machine near the desk.

"How are you this morning?" the Delta attendant asks me.

"I'm great, thanks."  I don't even look at her, I'm in such a rush to check-in for my flight and get to the gate to board.  I swipe my credit card so the machine can pull up my ticket information from the flight manifest.

The machine prompt reads: "It is too late to register for this flight.  Please see a ticket specialist to choose a new flight."

The adrenaline from my rush to get here evaporates out of my body, and I feel like it's 4:50 again.  I wish it was 4:50, in fact.  The thick layer of exhaustion finds its way back around my shoulders, and I slump them as I bare its weight.

"I missed my flight."  I tell the attendant I had previously ignored.

"When was it?"

"It's at 6:35."

"Oh yea, you can't make that.  You'll never get through security in time.  It's already 6:20."

"Ma'am, it's Saint Louis, not Leguardia.  If you let me check-in, I'll make my flight."

"No, no.  You'll never make it, you'll sit in security for an hour and a half.  You have to be here at least 30 minutes before your flight to check in."  The math doesn't make sense in my head, but I let her have her moment.

"Okay, thanks."

"Just go on up to the counter and they can put you on a new flight."

"Thanks."

She continues to talk about how security would take a while and I should plan ahead.  I ignore her lecture.  I am thoroughly irritated that I missed my flight.  I'm able to get another flight that leaves at 7:40, takes me to Minneapolis where I have an hour layover and then flies me to Omaha.  I'll land at 2:12.  Fly north to go west.  Makes sense.  So does the $50 transfer fee.  I feel like I rarely have good things to say about Delta Airlines.  I walk through security.  Shoes off, belt off, bag in x-ray machine, walk through metal detector, done.  It took me 12 minutes.  I can't see how she might think it would take an hour and a half, but I digress.

I pick up a copy of Esquire from an airport news stand, sit at my gate and begin reading it.  I'm convinced Esquire is one of the finest publications available.  Every page is either funny, inspiring, or informative.  It's a rare magazine that's 90% writing and 10% advertising, not vice versa.

Boarding time comes and I get on my plane.  Everything goes fine until...

"We're expecting some light turbulance in the flight today, there are some storms in our flight path."

Great. Thanks, Captain.  The last time I was told there would be mild turbulence, I almost died.  It was on a Delta flight coming back from Vegas.  I was so hungover I was almost wishing it would've taken the plane down, but everyone else on the flight was sufficiently terrified.  Mild turbulence, my ass.  Needless to say, the plane hit some chop over Iowa.  It rattled and shook for the entire flight.  People were scared.  I was a little uneasy.  Shaking, rolling, rattling - I can't see anything out the window, it's completely fogged with cloud coverage.  Dark, nasty clouds.  We clear the storm after about an hour.  The hum of the landing gear dropping fills the plane and we touch down, right on time.  It is 42 degrees when I land in Minneapolis.  42 degrees!!  It feels like winter.  It even smells like winter in the jetway.  The cold northern air stings my lungs, which are still used to an extended and humid Missouri summer. 

My gate from Minneapolis to Omaha changed three times as I waited.  I load on the plane and everything is great until...

"We're expecting some light turbulance in the flight today, there are some storms in our flight path."

It's probably the same storm I just came through to get to Minneapolis.  Now, I get to fly through it again to go to Omaha.  God, I hate Iowa.  We hit the "mild" turbulance again.  This time I knew what to expect.  I landed in Omaha 15 minutes early.  I step into the jetway, let my mother know I've landed and walk toward baggage claim to wait for my parents to pick me up.  They pick me up in my Dad's brand new 2011 Jeep Grand Cherokee.  It's a beautiful piece of automotive engineering.  The only thing it doesn't do is make you dinner, which I remind my father of every chance I get.

We arrive at my parents' house and I walk inside. It feels like it should. It feels like home. Fresh, comforting, familiar.  My mother does what she always does when I first get home.  She feeds me.  This time, it's taco salad soup.  We take in a movie, do some shopping in Omaha, watch a little college football and head home for the night.  We had a few drinks on the new patio in the backyard.  I stick to my guns with Jameson and ginger ale.  My mom goes with wine and my Dad stays true to his vodka tonic.  One Jameson drink is a perfect night cap.  I sip on it and watch the gas powered fire dance in the cold Nebraska air.  My parents and I talk about careers, family and girls.

"What do you want in a girl?"  My Dad asks me.  I think about it for a minute.  I'm not sure that I've ever really thought about what I want.  I tend to run blindly at something I like and hope for the best.  It's like getting on a roller coaster and buckling in after the first loop.

"I don't know what I want, but I have a pretty good idea of what I don't want.  All of those things I don't want are starting to form an outline of what kind of girl I see myself with."

It gets a little too cold and we retreat to the basement and start a movie.  I fall asleep on the couch.  It's been months since I've slept in a bed.  Weird habit, I know.

I came home this weekend to drive my Dad's old vehicle back to St. Louis so I can use it.  There's a little bit of a backstory here.  I've had a 1996 Mitsubishi Eclipse since 2003.  She's a fighter and she's been through more than she should've survived through, but she kept on getting me to where I needed to go.  She finally quit on me.  Exhausted form years of me driving her thousands of miles, learning to drive a manual, and forcing her to go 70 mph in fourth gear for the last few years thanks to a nasty transmission problem.  I was shuttling my friend to lunch before his rock show in late July when she finally gave in.  He had sound check at 4:30.  We ate at Sidebar and when I attempted to start my car, she wouldn't turn over.  She wouldn't even try.  Luckily, my friend Jessica was with us.  She drove him to the venue and my car still sits in that same parking spot in my parking garage on 13th and St. Charles in downtown St. Louis, covered with a thin layer of dust.

I was able to get rides from Sean until his engine overheated while I was driving home from work about two weeks ago (at the time of this writing).  He needs a new radiator.  That left me carless and rideless for my first day of work at Bank of America.  My parents flew me to Omaha do I could pick up the VUE and drive it back on Sunday to get to work the following Monday.  This takes us to the beginning of the story.

I woke up the next morning, still on the leather couch.  My mother, doing what she always does when I come home, makes breakfast.  Scrambled eggs, sausage, and toast.  After breakfast, my dad gets me familiar with the VUE.  Where which knob is and what button does what.  I pack my things into the trunk of the VUE, say my goodbyes to my mom and dad, and hit the road.  I've got about 440 miles in front of me and, for once, I don't have to worry about my car breaking down on me.   

Being alone on a long drive is always underwhelming.  It leads to a lot of introspection and a lot of thinking too much.  There isn't an auxiliary jack in the VUE, so I can't sync my iPod to it.  I'm at the mercy of eastern Nebraska, northwest Missouri, central Missouri, and eastern Missouri radio stations.  Surprisingly, some good music came on.  Dated, but good.  "Lightning Crashes" by Live came on.  That takes me back.  I used to listen to that song before cross country skiing meets in Minnesota.  When we moved to Missouri, I would listen to it on the bus (in a CD player, no less) when we traveled to cross country and track meets.  It's also the first song that my dad and I both agreed was a good song.  "Father of Mine" by Everclear also came on.  I first heard that song when my family had just moved to Kansas from Pennsylvania.  I must've listened to that song a million times, on repeat, every day.  I honestly forgot that the record had other songs on it.  As it turns out, they were pretty good too.  Ace of Bass came on.  I'm not afraid to admit it, when I was in fifth grade, I had a crush on a girl named Stephany Findley.  I would come home from school, do my homework and listen to Ace of Bass all night because it reminded me of her. Cheesy, I know.   

The plains of Nebraska gave way to the rolling hills of northwest Missouri and the nostalgia continued.  All of those songs and all of the memories they took me back to made me think of times before I "grew up".  A point in my history when "I didn't know" was still a valid excuse for getting out of trouble, when high school problems seemed tough, and my biggest worry was a track meet at the end of the week or a college exam on a Monday.  Because, honestly, who schedules an exam after a weekend?!  I still haven't forgiven my Calculus professor for that.  A time before bills, rent, mortgages, insurance, opinions on politics, all that grown up stuff.

As I reminisced the memories of my past, I realized something.  I absolutely have regrets. I didn't used to have regrets. That was before I made any major mistakes. I can't help but think about how differently I would do things if I could start over from about 2003 on.  I couldn't tell you a single good decision I made from 2003 until 2008.  I was stumbling through a fog of partying, booze, and girls. I remembered what my Dad has always told me. There are only three things in this world that are truly yours, everything else is borrowed or bought. Those three things are the love of your family, your name and your credit score. I fucked up my life. I fucked up my credit.  Worst of all, I fucked up my name. Instead of sprinting out of the gates after college and beginning my life as a young professional, I limped out of the gates and into a harsh recession where jobs were difficult to come by as it was. I replayed when I hit rock bottom.

***

"Your mother and I think you should come home. Figure yourself out. We can help." We were standing in the living room of my college apartment. None of my roommates were home. I had just come clean to my parents about everything that had been going on that semester. It was difficult. One of the most difficult days I've ever had. I couldn't imagine how it was for them. I looked at both of my parents, under a heavy burden of emotion and mixed feelings. I felt like a disappointment.

"Take me home. Just, take me home." It was hard to say, but it was a relief.

"Why do you want to come home?"

I wasn't quite ready for the question. So many reasons really. The question caught me on my back foot, though. Only one thing stuck out in my head. It fit perfectly. It was a lyric.

"Because some times the hardest thing and the right thing are the same."

My parents looked at me and we all started crying. It was a strange feeling of giving up while simultaneously doing the right thing. Making the right move. My parents were there to support me. I know my friends would too.

***

I think about that day a lot. You never forget when you hit rock bottom. Everyone gets there. Some lower than others. There's a trick to hitting bottom, though. Here's the thing about regrets: you can't let them define you. You can't let them overwhelm you and pull you under. You have to focus on what you do have. You have to focus on the horizon. You have to focus on the good. There's another thing my Dad has always told me. Keep your chin up. Don't ever give up. You're a Liebherr, God damn it. During college I may have messed up my credit. I may have damaged my name. I did not, however, lose the love of my family. I did not lose my friends. I may not have graduated with honors, but I did graduate. I may not have landed the perfect job, but I did land a job. At that time, 10% of the population couldn't say that.

Keep your chin up, Rob. At first it was used when I was young and missed a ground ball in little league. Then, after the sting of a bad cross country race. Now, although he didn't say it, he had taught me enough to realize this is one of those times that you fight. You fight like hell. I didn't end up going home that semester. I cleaned up my act. I got my head on straight and set my priorities right. I didn't give up. I didn't let the regrets and the mistakes of my past define me. I kept my chin up. I faced my demons.      

Before I knew it,  I was in St. Louis, pulling into my garage.  I snapped back to the present and parked the VUE next to my now defunct Eclipse.  The old meets the new.  The stories I have with that car, if only she could talk.  I walk down the stairs and out of my garage.  I cross St. Charles Avenue.  It's cold outside.  Fall is finally here.  It smells like fall.  I take a deep breath.  A chilly breeze blows by.  I breathe the crisp air in through my nose. I let it fill my lungs and exhale.  I walk up the steps and into my building, with my chin up.  

The seasons have changed. I feel changed. Somehow evolved. Somehow different. 

28:25:24 - Of Trails and Applebee's

Above the music in my headphones, I can hear my feet hitting the gravel below me. The rhythm of the trail. The pulse of the run. I looked ahead, and there appeared to be something covering the trail. I couldn't tell what it was. I squinted, wiping sweat from my brow. Still couldn't tell. I ran on, approaching the object.

Oh God, you're kidding me. That's exactly what I thought when I came upon the obstacle.

A large tree had fallen from the right side of the trail and had covered the course completely. It was huge. This wasn't a tree you could crawl under or jump over. There was only one way to get by. I had to run through the tree. I channeled my inner Bear Grylls and threw myself into the foliage. I stepped over branches, ducked under limbs. I snapped a few twigs and came out on the other side with a few leaves on my shirt. The runners before me had beaten a little bit of a path through it. When I emerged on the other side, legs tired and feet pounding, I walked for a few steps to get my rhythm back. Finding your rhythm after bushwacking through a downed tree six miles into a race takes a second. After I locked it in, I ran on. Two miles later I emerged from the woods to a small parking lot for a local park. I spotted Leah in the exchange, handed her the bracelet, and jumped off of the trail. 66 minutes after I started.

Endorphins started flowing instantly. "That was so awesome," I proclaimed to my teammates at the exchange. "Now, I need water, sugar, and I want to sit in the Pain Cave." The Pain Cave is what we called the back seat of the van. Whoever had just finished running had the entire back seat to themselves to recover. We walked back to the van, and I took my rightful spot. I ate several cookies and drank a bottle of water. Leah was in the middle of her run, so we drove to exchange eleven. At this point, my teammates inform me that a tick is loose in the van. To put it lightly, I'm absolutely terrified of ticks. I always have been, those blood-sucking-unsquishable bastards have scared me my whole life. I never knew, however, that my brother was scared of them as well. After they told me a tick was loose, they proceeded to show me a video of my brother.

He's in the middle of changing socks and he looks straight at the camera.

"You saw a what?"
"A tick."
"A tick? Where?"
"I dunno. I lost it."
"You lost it?!" At this point he picks his feet off the floor and proceeds to stand on the seat in the pain cave.
"Find the tick."

They never found it. It's running loose in our van. With me. I'm too tired to really worry, though.

We continued driving. My brother navigated to the next exchange while Matt drove. When we arrived at the exchange, to our surprise, the other half of our team was there. They took some time during their inactivity to come hang out. I was still on an endorphin high, which is like being drunk, but better. So, I proceeded to make several phone calls. Endorphin dials. I called my parents and told them Jon and I are great, we just got done running, and we're having a blast. I called a few friends from home. I fired off a few texts and, of course, some tweets, too. Leah came in to cheers and handed off the bracelet to Dani, she started her run. We said our good byes to van 1. They headed to the next major exchange and we drove to meet Dani at exchange eleven.

Jon navigated and Matt drove again. As a general rule, we did not let the "on deck" runner or the "just done" runner drive or navigate the van. This rule completely went to hell as we got farther into the race. While Jon and Matt drove us, I tried to make room for myself in the backseat among the slowly growing piles of trash.

The van is a haven in Ragnar. It's the only consistent shelter we had. There were rumors of hot showers at certain exchanges, but we never found one. To clean up, we used a bathroom at a major exchange and the toiletries we traveled to Madison with - that we kept in the van. There are PBJ stations at certain exchanges, but I never ate one - we had coolers in our van, full of food and water. Each runner is on the course, depending on the distance, for about three hours. For the rest of the 28 hours, you're in the van or near the van. So, you see, the van is just as much a character in this story as the runners are.

The van got us to the next exchange, Dani got in and our anchor, Seth, got out and ran his first leg. This is the exchange where our battle call was born. My brother, out of no where, screamed "RAAAAAAAGE!" as Seth ran by. It caught me completely off guard. Then a runner from another team ran by, "You can rage, too!" I completely lost it.

At this point in the race, it is starting to get dark. So, Seth was the first runner on our team that was required to wear night gear. For safety reasons, while running between 6:00 PM and 6:00 AM, you are required to wear a reflective vest, a headlamp, and a red blinking light on your back - which we dubbed the "butt light". It makes you look like a runner that's running in a mine, but without a hardhat - and with a blinking light on your lower back.

Ragnar fashion. A reflective vest.

We've been on the road and running for a little over eight hours at this point. We felt pretty dirty. My vanmates, which is like your own family at Ragnar, said I smelled the worst. My own vanmates! I will admit, I was quite foul, but I do believe the odor was an amalgamation of everyone's funk and not just me. We were excited for Seth's run for a number of reasons. After he finished we would be inactive while van 1 completed their second leg. There was a rumor on Twitter that there were hot showers at the next exchange, which was a major exchange. We could stop and eat something substantial instead of the food we had in our van. All luxury's you give up while being the active van.

When we arrived at the exchange, it was chaos. We scrambled to find a parking spot among the hundreds of vans that were there. Inactive runners were wandering all over the exchange, people had set up mini camp sites to sleep, not to mention the general excitement of a major exchange. We unloaded and walked toward the exchange to find van 1. We shared stories of life on the road and life on the trail. Both vans have had some pretty good stories up to this point. They would get better.

Seth was fast, so when they called our team number, Jess, the first runner of van 1, moved to the exchange quickly. It was now dark. Seth started as a bobbing light in the distance of a vast field, then gained a form. As he got closer, you could see the reflective vest, you could see him take off his bracelet to hand it to Jess. He's getting closer, he's moving fast, he reaches to Jess, she grabs it and, "RAAAAAAGE!!!"

I completely lost it. I wasn't expecting Jon to do it again, but he did. It actually made Jess jump while she ran out of the exchange. Once we congratulated Seth for a good, strong run, we set off to find these showers. We grabbed our toiletries and a change of clothes from the van and asked around for the location of the showers. People had vague ideas or hadn't heard. So, we started marching to two buildings off in the distance placed between three baseball diamonds. It was a haul. It was dark, we were getting tired, and it was starting to rain. We trudged and trudged and finally made it to the first building. There was a line for the restrooms, but no showers. So, we started off to the second building. Same story. The rumors of hot showers were just that, rumors. We rinsed off int he bathrooms and we all changed clothes. When we all got back to the van, Leah had an announcement.

"Jon."
"Leah."
"I found the tick!"
"You found the tick? Where was it?"
"It was on my knee."
"Oh man. Was it in you?"

The immature ones laughed (read: me and Matt). With the tick saga behind us, we could focus on getting warm food. We hopped in the van and headed toward a restaurant we could all agree on. Applebee's. We had already wasted a lot of time looking for the showers, so we were a little rushed to get to Applebee's so we could sit for two or three hours. Exhaustion was setting in on everoyne by now. It was a combination of being up since 5:00 AM, running several miles, and navigating. Since Seth had just finished running at the last exchange, he opted to sit in the Pain Cave instead of look for the showers. He went to the restroom in Applebee's and washed up. We all sat down and met what had to be the coolest waitress of all time. When she approached the table, we made it clear what our mission was.

"We're in the middle of a race. We need a lot of water and we need the food to be fast."
"You got it!"

She came back with a pitcher of water and gave us a little more time to review the menus. I was so tired, I just picked the first pasta I saw. Chicken Parmesan. We looked like a ragged bunch. Rinsed, but not clean. Covered in dry sweat. Worn out. About this time, Seth comes out of the bathroom.

"When was the last time you were naked in an Applebee's?"

Classic. That would become the quote of the trip. Our food was ordered and came. We ate and talked about the race. Although we were tired, we were all having the time of our lives. We had plenty of time to relax before our next leg. We would regroup and take the time to clear our minds to mentally prepare for the next two legs. We wrapped up eating and continued talking. We had gone through three pitchers by now. We still had plenty of time. Then Leah's phone rang.

"You guys are where? Glenn is next? Okay, bye!"
She hung up the phone.
"Guys, we have to go. Apparently Van 1 is killing it. Glenn is next, then it's us."

We had no clue where we were or how to get to the next exchange. We paid for our food and ran out of the building to the van.

28:25:24 - The Beginning

Let's get the basics out of the way first.

What's a Ragnar Relay?


12 runners run, relay style, roughly 200 miles. Each runner completes 3 legs ranging between three and ten miles. You run through the night. In our particular race, we ran from Madison, WI to Chicago, IL.

Logistics?


Each team consists of two vans. Each van has six runners on board. When a runner from a. van starts his run, the van proceeds to the next "exchange". Exchanges are where, you guessed it, one runner finishes and another runner begins. When the last runner in a van hands off the "baton" (Ragnar uses slap bracelets. Rad.), to the first runner in the other van, these are called "major exchanges". There were a total of 36 exchanges on the course. Three of them were major exchanges. Still following?

Who ran?


Twelve people that had no idea what they were in for:

Van 2
Me
Jon
Leah
Seth
Dani
Matt

Van 1
Glenn
Julia P.
Terry
Julia B.
Carrie
Jess

I'm telling this story in parts because there is so much to write that you won't read it all in one sitting. It will be ridiculously long. So, in order for you to gain maximum enjoyment (and to build suspense?), I'm splitting it into three parts. This is part 1.

28:25:24

Getting There

"Wow, dude. You're so special." 

Matt was a little frustrated when I showed up about 30 minutes late to pick him up from the airport. It didn't help that I was driving down the shuttle lane of terminal 2 instead of the personal vehicle lane, which is where he was waiting. It probably did help that the beautiful Bri B., of Sidebar fame, was riding shotgun. Pretty girls disarm guys. This time, it worked to my advantage.

"Sorry, Matt. I brought you something. It's Bri!"

"Hi, Bri!"

Like a charm.

We drove back to Bri's place in Soulard and dropped her off. Then, we drove down town and back to my loft on Washington Ave. We have a bus to catch at Union Station at 1:15 AM. Matt and I throw in season three of Dexter and watch it until our ride to the bus stop arrives. When Julia and Terry arrive, we attempt to toss our bags in the trunk, but we forgot that Julia, although small, packs large. We carry our two bags on our laps for the short trip to Union Station.

At the bus stop, we meet up with Glenn and Carrie. We board our bus and Matt and I snag one of the last pairs of seats on the bottom floor of the double decker. Quite happy of ourselves for getting a pair of seats next to each other, Matt and I begin watching Dexter on my laptop where we left off. The ride was pretty uneventful until "the odor." About two hours into our trip to Chicago, it happened. Someone opened up the door to the restroom. I'm not entirely sure how to describe the aroma that slithered out of the commode, but it was quite foul. I described it in a tweet as the smell of a "dragon placenta". Imagine that for a minute before you read on. Now imagine it happening multiple times, including a bout of nearly 10 minutes when the door swung wildly after the small child that had finished using it forgot to latch the door shut.

The rest of the ride went on without incident until the bus driver swerved so hard it woke a grown man from his sleep with a scream. We did finally arrive at Union Station - Chicago a little late, thanks to morning rush hour. I hadn't slept at all. Matt, however, did. Before I woke him up with a camera flash.

So precious.

It was cold and rainy in Chicago. We walked through the gray sky and light drizzle, across the city streets and cross walks with herds of people going about their business. Criss-crossing intersections and sidewalks until we got into Union Station. There, we ate breakfast at a small place near the Great Hall. Surprisingly, it had one of the best breakfast burritos I've ever had. We had about three hours to kill before we caught our next bus to Madison. So, we snapped some pictures and did some people watching.

Cell phones and breakfast burritos.

We saw enough pregnant women in Union Station to supply another baby boom. We all felt under dressed in our travel clothes as compared to the business travelers on their way to work. We used half of the station's power grid to recharge our cell phones. The girls put their faces on. The guys debated buying beers at the bar that was 10 feet to my right. We discussed running. We exchanged stories. We tried to describe our excitement for the next day. We mostly fell short in being able to put it into words. Our expectations fell far short of the reality of Ragnar. At this point, however, we had no idea.

Leah was working across the street from Union Station. She and Julia B. would drive the rental vans from Chicago to Madison a few hours later. Seth was on a plane to Chicago and would be riding with them. Jon was waiting in Milwaukee to pick up Jess from the airport before driving to Madison. Dani would be catching a late bus from St. Louis. Every runner on our team, "Sole Train", would come from various parts of the Midwest and meet at one place - Madison - the beginning of a 197 mile journey.

Arrival

We rode Coach from Chicago to the University of Wisconsin - Madison. Nothing noteworthy happened. No smells, no sudden swerves. The bus drove by the starting point of Ragnar. That gave us a quick jolt of excitement as the starting line darted across our window and out of sight. The bus stopped and Jon's girlfriend, Caitlin was there to take our things in her car. We walked from Memorial Union to her apartment a few short blocks away.

Arrival.

Around 7:00 PM everyone, through their various modes of transportation, arrived in Madison. The trepidation among the twelve of us was palpable. As we ate the delicious dinner that Caitlin graciously prepared for us, we started predicting what may happen. "I'm gonna die, but it's gonna be awesome." "This will be the coolest thing I've ever done." "Whoever gave me the 9.9 mile leg better sleep with one eye open." "I hope my knee lets me run."

Shortly after dinner, the twelve of us claimed sleeping spots. Slowly, one by one, we began falling asleep. Like children before Christmas, we had to fight our nerves to let us slip into sleep. Tomorrow, it all begins.

Getting Back

My alarm woke me up at 5:00 AM. I shot up instantly. The adrenaline from my excitement was fueling my tired body. I had been asleep for about 6 hours. I peeled myself off of my air mattress and took the last shower I would have in nearly 36 hours. Once everyone was ready and the vans were packed, we drove to the starting line. Our starting time was 10:30.

At the starting line, we wrapped up registration, Van 1 went through a safety course, then we bought some swag from the merch tent.

At 10:15, we lined the starting chute. Jess was lined up next to a guy from a team called "Our Back Seats Pull Out, But We Don't". It was funny until you realized the girl next to him was eleven years old. It lost all humor later, when we discovered that eleven year old was running for her mother who was disabled. For more on that story, go here. At 10:30, it finally happened. Everything we had been excited for - the beginning. The runners took off. Jess was the first runner from our team to go. The start was less than what I had expected, less hype, less celebration. The excitement remained high among us, however. The beginning of our 197 mile run had arrived. Sole Train split to it's respective vans and went our separate ways.

Van 1 went to exchange 1. Van 2 went to exchange 6. The nerves didn't set in until this point for me. We stopped for lunch and I could only eat half of my sandwich. I disguised it as saving the rest for later in the race. In reality, I was out of my mind with nerves. I wasn't anxious about the distances - I could handle them. I was anxious because I wanted to deliver for my team. I wanted to meet or exceed the expectations I had put in place about my pace. I put it in the back of my mind.

The course with the major exchanges labeled. Van 2 starts at exchange 6.

When we arrived at exchange 6, we threw a Frisbee around. It helped take my mind off of the nerves. I didn't have to run until the 8th exchange, so I had time. Matt was up first. We walked up to the exchange and watched other runners come in, hand off to their teammate, and the new runner take off. The exchanges were exciting At this particular exchange, there was a lot of movement, a DJ, and even some dancing. This was a major exchange (van to van), so there was more action than usual. The exchange volunteer called our team name as Glenn approached the end of his run. In the exchange, he will off to Matt (his run).

"359!"
Matt jumped up, "that's us."
"Good luck, Matt! Run hard!"

Glenn came barreling down the chute, lined with cheering people, and handed off the bracelet to Matt. Matt took off. Van 2 had begun it's race. We took a few photos with Glenn and loaded into our van. We had to drive to exchange 7, where Jon would take the bracelet. For this run, the van could not support Matt. We were forced to take a different route than the runner. We arrived at the next exchange and waited for Matt. Matt finished strong. He handed off to my brother, Jon. Jon took off on his run. In the back of Jon's mind, however, was the daunting run he faced on leg 3, his last leg. With that on his shoulders, and soon to be on his legs, he ran on. We gave Matt water and walked him to the van, he told us he felt good during his run. Jon's leg had full van support. We could get out and cheer, give water, give food, give shoes, give anything to our runner that was on the course. Jon's run was nasty. It was very hilly and 6.7 miles long. We loaded up in the van and drove up the course a few miles. We parked by a ranch with a few horses outside, watching us. It reminded me of how horror movies start for some reason. There was nothing else around us.  All I could see were trees, fields, and runners every few hundred meters. That's it. We waited for Jon to run by. When he did, we gave him water and support as he crested a particularly nasty hill. He downed the water and kept running. We drove to exchange 8.

I hadn't had a whole lot of time to think until this point. When you're in the van, you may not be running, but you're still doing a lot of work. Your navigating, getting water ready, or prepping the runner about to run. The nerves I had put in the back of my head had come creeping up to the front of my mind again. We drove on, through the middle of no where in some ghostly farm town in eastern Wisconsin. We arrived at the exchange. I prepared, stretched a little, had a little water, tried to calm my nerves. They called our team number and I stepped into the exchange. Here comes Jon.

He handed the bracelet to me, brother handing off to brother, and I tore out of the exchange. I slapped the bracelet on my wrist and barreled down my leg. 8.2 miles to go. It started off in a small suburban neighborhood. I ran on sidewalks, roads, I crossed train tracks, and ran by empty baseball fields. My nerves were completely gone now and I was focused solely on my run. My feet hit the ground and my arms pumped. My run went off without a hitch until mile six. Six miles in to an 8.2 mile run, there is only one thing on your mind. Finishing. You're starting to pick up your pace, you're trying not to leave anything on the course. Your pulse races, your breathing quickens, your pace speeds up and up and up. By now, I was on a trail in the woods. There's no van support. It's just me and the course. I'm completely focused on finishing this leg and handing the bracelet to Leah. My lungs are burning and my legs are stiff from hitting the ground for six miles. I grit my teeth and press on. Just get me to the finish.

The course however, wasn't going to make that a straight shot.