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.

The Project Manifesto

Manifesto - noun, plural -toes. - a public declaration of intentions, opinions, objectives, or motives, as one issued by a government, sovereign, or organization.

Normally, a manifesto comes before any sort of action. Having written in this blog for about ten months, writing a manifesto now is akin to firing then aiming. Be that as it may, I still feel as though I should let you know what my intentions are with this blog. If it sounds like you are a parent interviewing a pimply teenager that is trying to date your daughter, it's because what I aim to do here isn't that far off. No, I'm not trying to date a teenager. No, I don't have pimples. But, I do want to make a connection. I want you to connect with what I write. I want that connection to solicit some sort of reaction. Any reaction. Happiness, sadness, inspiration, thought, anger. Something.

The first job of a writer is to notice. A writer notices the smell of a college professor's office that is full of shelves packed with old textbooks that haven't been dusted for months. A writer notices the feeling of a sick mother trying to be strong for her young sons, even if she's terrified. Writers notice. I notice. Notice is a derivative of the latin "notus," which means "known." I will write what I know. What I've experienced. What I've felt.

I want my writing to resist paraphrase. I want to capture what has avoided capturing. I am a camera.

It's the Way Your Elbow Fits the Groove of the Bar

For Ashley.

I've determined that in 1866, the stars aligned. During that year, in New Orleans, William M. Levy was born. At the age of 21, he moved to St. Louis and took a job as a draftsmen at an architecture firm, Grable & Weber. Five years later, he opened his own office and worked as an independent architect. Will Levy is most known for designing over two dozen buildings in the Central West End. There is, however, another, less well known building he designed. At some point prior to 1919, Will Levy constructed a building in the city's garment district.  It served as a garment shop in its early days, and stayed that way, even after the loft rehabbers came in the early 1980s. Since 2000, the building has been Anatol's Fabric outlet and a vintage clothing store. It's a fairly simple design. It has two large glass windows in the front, with a door sunk a few feet back in between them.

***

On some nondescript Friday night during the summer of 2009, I was looking for something to do. I had recently graduated from the University of Missouri and moved to an apartment on 4th Street. A long relationship had just come to an end and I needed some distracting. My roommate and I took off down Washington Avenue, looking for a new bar to take on. It was still early, maybe eight o'clock, and as humid as only a St. Louis summer can be. We walked block after block, passing bar after bar until we came to 13th and Washington. It was a simple building, two large windows in the front, with a door sunk a few feet back in between them. The Open sign was glowing in the window on the left, and there was a poster that read "Live Music Every Thursday at The Sidebar".

We walked in.

I had never been there before, but it felt familiar. It felt comfortable. I thought about what I wanted for a minute. You see, going up to the bar is like closing a menu, you don't do it until you're ready to order. I made up my mind quickly and approached the bar. I noticed two things right away. One, it has a brass rail at the base of the bar for you to rest your foot on. Two, Your elbow fits the groove of the bar perfectly. I assumed my bar stance position. One foot on the rail, one arm in the groove, eyes watching for the bartender to give me the go ahead to order. A cute blonde walks up the bar and stands opposite to me. She looks right at me.

"What're you drinkin'?"

"Whiskey coke, please."

She grabbed a glass, scooped the ice and poured the whiskey while simultaneously pouring the Coke (Sidebar actually uses Pepsi products, but I digress) from the fountain. Just as I slid my debit card across the bar, my drink was placed in front of me.

"Thanks. Keep it open."

As soon as she walked out of ear shot, I turned to Sean.

"Did you see her?! My God!"

I couldn't see the stars that night, but I'm sure they were identical to that day in 1866.

***

So began my infatuation with Sidebar. It just has something that makes it great. Whether it's a Thursday night watching the house band, Optimus Prime (who are really rad guys), a raging Friday night, drinking on Saturday to keep the hangover from killing you, or recovering with a slinger on Sunday, Sidebar just has "it." I go to Sidebar for every occasion. I've celebrated my last two birthdays there. I've been part of bachelor parties there. I've been there after putting a friend to rest, doing pink shots just for her. I went there after a friend was laid off, and we nearly drank them out of whiskey. I have more stories from Sidebar than I do from anywhere else and I'm sure the staff has some stories about me. Probably even some stories I don't know exist.

Speaking of the staff, I consider all of them friends. I see them at least once a week. Julia, who has, without a doubt, one of the best smiles this side of the Mississippi. Bri (lovingly called Bri B), who's presence lights up the bar and is required to give me a hug every time I arrive. I rarely go to Sidebar without texting her "You working tonight?" She always makes me feel better, even if I'm already having an excellent day. Ashley S., the only one who's there for me when I go to Sidebar on a Sunday afternoon. She has a laugh that cures my hangover. Kate, whose impeccable taste in style and music is only matched by her talent in fashion design. Audrey, who hides a fierceness behind that pretty face of hers. A truly wonderful girl who can also kick your ass. Just ask the bartender at Mandarin. Brittany, one of the few girls who will do a shot of Jameson with me and keep tending bar like nothing happened. The new girl, Brooke, who I haven't had the pleasure to meet yet, but since she works at Sidebar she's already cool. Nell, who can make me laugh so hard, whiskey comes out of my nose. And, of course, Justin, who, somehow, makes me feel cool by just giving me the head nod when I walk through the door.

There have been a few who left the bar after leaving their mark on its story. Sidebar wasn't quite the same after Emily left. The combination of her and Ashley behind the bar was magic. Last call has always felt less threatening since Emily stopped screaming it. Luckily, I've had the great fortune of drinking with her on the other side of the bar a few times since she left.

That leaves us with Ashley. The same Ashley at the beginning of this post. I think the crush I had on her when I first started frequenting Sidebar was the worst kept secret in St. Louis. Since I was out of town and missed her last day, something I was shocked to hear, I dedicated this entry to her. How flattering! She's infinitely cool and I could always count on her for a smile and a wave when I walked through the door. She would always have my drink waiting for me by the time I got to the bar. So, Ashley, I hope the move went well and I wish you nothing but success at your new job. The next time you're at Sidebar, I owe you a drink - from the other side of the bar.

Whenever you walk in, you feel welcome. It feels familiar. It's not the drinks that make Sidebar great, although they are remarkable. It's not the food, although it is delectable. It's not the music, although it always seems to be playing the right song. You see, that "something" that Sidebar has is the people. William H. Levy built it, The staff makes it, the regulars keep it, and I walked in it one day. Sidebar is great because of the people that are a part of it. Combine the people with the way your elbow fits the groove of the bar and you've got something pretty special.

Just As I Imagined It

"Rob, as soon as that seat belt light turns off, I want you to run as fast as you can."

That's when vacation started for me. It was exciting and seemed, albeit ridiculous, dangerous. There was a real possibility we could miss our connection. We had just landed in Atlanta and we had exactly 42 minutes to get to our connecting flight to Punta Cana. My brother had been nervously checking his watch and then looking at the departure time for our next flight for the last fifteen minutes. During our decent to Atlanta, we discovered, thanks to the map in the back of Sky Magazine, that our departure gate was the exact furthest spot you could get from our arrival gate. Add that to the fact that Atlanta's airport is massive, and the result is my brother stating the plan above.

The seat belt light turns off. I get up and run. Two rows. Everyone else on the plane piles in to the aisle ahead of me, putting an abrupt end to our hastily devised plan. I look back at my brother and his shoulders slump in defeat. We wait. After the plane finally deboards, the race begins anew. My family and I zig and zag through the other travelers in Terminal E. We get on a train and take it to terminal T, the other end of the airport. We all check our watches, our phones, any clock we can lock our eyes to. We get off the train, wheeling our luggage behind us as we continue to scurry through other travelers.

There it is. T42. We've arrived. We board and take our seats. In just over 3 hours, we'll be landing in paradise. The engines spin and scream. We take off from Atlanta and fly over the North Atlantic. Since I don't wear a watch and airlines require you to turn your cell phone off, I lose all sense of time in planes. Instead, I keep track of time by the number of pages I read. 160 pages later, we're touching down in Punta Cana.

We navigate through various lines, one of which includes paying a $10 entry fee to the country. That's correct. The Dominican Republic has a cover charge. It's fitting really. The entire country is one giant bar, essentially. After paying, we locate the shuttle to our resort, The Majestic Colonial, and get on. We nearly died no less than four separate times on that ride. Traffic laws are more aptly described as traffic suggestions in Punta Cana. Cars were veering into on coming traffic with no regard. My mother had the great fortune to be sitting shotgun on the shuttle. So, she had special exposure to each near death experience. Each time we all held our breath and made our peace with God, the shuttle driver would laugh and say something in Spanish. It would take a few hours after we arrived, but we would eventually find the humor in the situation.

We finally arrived at the resort about 2 hours after we landed. It was just as I imagined it. Open air, thatched roofs, palm trees, pools, fountains, drinks, everything. We checked in and went to our room. Upon entering my room, which I shared with my brother, I went immediately to the fridge, grabbed a beer, popped it, and proceeded to drink it. Only then, did I examine the room. One bottle of champagne, two beers, four bottles of water, two chocolate bars. Excellent. The beer, El Presidente, was pretty tasty. It was a welcome refreshment after the fate-tempting shuttle ride. I had arrived to the resort alive and El Presidente was my prize. The best part about my prize? It's restocked every morning.

After checking out the rooms, we all went to dinner. Each dinner is a buffet, and every buffet has a theme for the food that they prepare and serve. I don't recall what the theme was on this particular night, but it was delicious.

After dinner we retired to our rooms and went to bed.

The following morning we went to the beach. We stayed there all day. I finished reading No One Here Gets Out Alive and started reading Life, Keith Richards' memoir. There's something about the sea breeze and the rolling ocean that gives me the ability to burn through several books in a very short period of time. I love it. I could get used to this lifestyle. The Dominican is very laid back, very go-with-the-flow. Just like me.

The next day, we went to the beach for a few hours and then to the pool. My brother opted out of the pool. He was burned pretty badly on our second day on the beach. At the bar at the pool, I ordered my first drink in Spanish.

"Red Label y roca, por favor." Johnny Walker Red on the rocks.

Just then, a Pina Coloda is spilled at the bar right in front of me and a distinctly British voice cursed.

"Shit!"

She picked up the cup as my whiskey was being handed to me. She looked at me and apologized. She was striking. I have that moment in my memory like a snapshot. Like an instagram photo. Her hair was up in a ball behind her head, with a few strands down and curled behind her ears. Her eyes were a vibrant green forest that you could get lost in for days. She had freckles sprinkled like cinnamon across her face. Her cheek bones were pronounced, which gave way to a smile that could send you to heaven or hell. It was both mischievous and beautiful at once. It was punctuated on both ends by dimples and filled with teeth whiter than the sand on the beaches just feet from where we were standing. She was stunning.

"I didn't mean to get in your way," she said apologetically. I wasn't quite back to the situation yet. I was some where between her eyes and her freckles.

"Oh! No, it's completely fine. I spill drinks all the time."

What? Smooth, Rob.

"What are you drinking?" I'm still not over the accent. That accent gets me every time.
"Red Label."
"And?"
"Ice."
"You Americans and your whiskey. You're brave." If I wasn't already enamored with this girl, what she said next sealed the deal.

"Would you like a shot?"
"Absolutely! I'm buying."

This is funny because it's an all inclusive resort. She laughed. I think it was more because it was corny. I'll take it either way. We did a shot of rum and hung out at the bar for a while. Her name was Veronica. She was on vacation with her family to celebrate her finishing her graduate degree at the Royal Academy of Music in London. She has a Master of Music in Performance. She plays the piano. She wants to teach music. I explain to her why we're on vacation. My brother and I are both graduates. We're the first siblings in our family to both graduate from college. This vacation is a celebration of that. That and it's my parent's 30th wedding anniversary.

We kept drinking. We talked about music, college, what it was like in London, what it was like in Missouri, where she grew up, where I grew up, what we want to do when we grow up. The conversation moves from the pool to the liquor store to the beach. We take pulls from Dominican rum and continue talking as the sun sets in the Caribbean.

It's interesting. Although two people come from countries that are a world apart, they can still share similar experiences or struggles.

"Do you ever feel like your just floating along? All our lives we were working toward something. When your young, you work toward grammar school, then university. After that, then what? I went to get my graduate degree because I didn't know what I wanted to do. I didn't know what was next. I don't know how to handle that."

Grammar school. University. I love that. The accent strikes again.

"Just because you don't know how to handle something doesn't mean you aren't handling it right. I still don't know what I want to do. I'm 26. Sometimes I feel like you should have things figured by now. Other times I think, how boring would it be to have your life figured out when you're 26?"

She laughed, "That's one way of looking at it!"

We got up and walked down the beach to where the tide meets the sand, bottle in hand, still trading swigs. We talked more.

"I just got done reading this book about Jim Morisson, and I gotta tell ya'. I think The Doors are better than The Rolli..."

She kissed me. Mid sentence. As I was getting ready to bash what is arguably the best thing to come from the UK next to Posh Spice. She pulled back and looked at me. Her head was silhouetted against the dusk of the sky over the North Atlantic. At this time in the evening, it's difficult to tell where the ocean ends and the sky begins. She smiled again, lighting up the dimples in her face.

"I've been wanting to do that for a few hours," she said. "C'mon, let's go. I should get back before my family starts worrying about me."

We walked back up the beach, leaving the bottle of rum in the sand. We parted ways by the pool. I went my way and she went hers.

The next morning I woke up with a slight hangover. Nothing I couldn't handle. Nothing a little El Presidente couldn't repair. Mid way through my drink I realized something. I don't have any way to get a hold of Veronica. I don't know her room number. I don't know her e-mail address. I don't even have a last name to go by. Neither does she. We must've been just drunk enough to not realize it. My only hope is that I run into her again - totally up to chance. I cross my fingers, then I finish my beer. We spend the day at the beach and the pool again. After dinner, where we had the Domincan's version of sushi and Asian pork, we went back to our rooms and went to bed. No sign of Veronica.

When I woke up, something was not right. I wasn't quite sure what it was yet, but it wasn't right. I went to the pool with my family. Fifteen minutes later, I'm sprinting from the pool to my room, past my red brother laying burned on the bed, and into the bathroom. I've been struck by the Scourge of the Dominican. Montezuma's Revenge. Without getting into too much detail, just know that it was hell. It was foul. It was 12 hours of something awful. It would eventually tear through my entire family in the next 36 hours. I stayed in for the rest of the day. Still no Veronica.

It rained the next day as the Scourge continued to rip through my family. On Sunday, we ate breakfast and checked out. The bellhop loaded our bags into the shuttle and we boarded. As the rest of the passengers took their seats, I looked out my window. I couldn't believe it. Walking up the stairs to the lobby was Veronica. She was wearing a fedora, but it was definitely her. She couldn't see me through the tinted glass of the shuttle windows. Even if she could, she was probably too far away to notice. I'll never see or hear from her again. It's okay, though. It was only one evening. A couple of hours. It was nothing. But, like all great things in the world - women and religion and the sky - you wonder about it. And you don't stop wondering about it.

It's okay. In about 160 pages, I'll be landing back in the States and this will all be a good story about a family vacation to the Dominican Republic. That is, if we survive the shuttle back to the airport.

Everything in this story is true. Except the part about Veronica. I completely made that up. I wanted to try my hand at fiction. I bet I had you going, though.

Whiskey Ginger

Five o'clock finally finds it's way on to my watch
Finally, finally Friday
I zip through traffic, sharing a concrete ocean with perfect strangers
Faster, faster, finding my way to you
I imagine you at home, in the city, in the loft
Beautiful and soft, waiting and smiling, anxious for what the evening will bring
Waiting for me
But the reality is, you're not there, in the loft, in the city
You never were
So, when I get home, I'll head to the bar
Down the steps and across the street
I'll put my foot on the rail and my elbow in the groove
"Whiskey Ginger"
There I'll wait
For you
I'll take solace in the thought that
You're on you way
And you'll get here as fast as you can

Filler Posts. I Hate Filler Posts.

I've started writing a few things, but can't seem to figure out where I want to go with them. So, you are stuck with this.

Smith Magazine is a storytelling magazine. They launched a project called Six Word Memoirs. Legend has it that Ernest Hemingway was once challenged to write a short story in six words. Smith Magazine went with it and started a literary craze. The first memoir? "For sale: baby shoes, never worn". They've published a few books of collected memoirs. So, to stir up some activity in my brain, I'm going to post a few six word memoirs.

"Everything once wanted, no longer needed"
"Received talent, ignored it. Fuckin' A"
"All the good times involved whiskey"
"If I'm not here, check Sidebar"
"Nineteen ninety eight, that changed everything"
"Doing scary things. Yep, I'm alive!"
"That broken heart saved my life"

Give it a try.