Charlotte's got a lot?

Destination of the week, Charlotte, NC. Breaking tradition for Thanksgiving this year, we decided to pack up the kids and get out of town and Charlotte, the queen city of the Carolinas, provided a logical choice. Not too intimidating, plenty of on-goings for the holiday, and just big enough. First order of business:  check into the hotel and find dinner.

This shouldn't be a problem, being a large city and all.  Just need a restaurant that is not too pretentious, not a bar, and kid friendly and one that simply does not exist in the city.  Our desperate search yielded no less than forty upscale and eclectically named establishments that were devoid of humans. These places would have been better off all being named The Empty Table. Where was everyone?  The answer began to reveal itself as did the city's seedy underbelly.  On this night, only the city bus stops were inhabited; filled with society's undesirables doing stereotypical stuff. Shooting dice, drinking out of brown paper bag ghetto-sleeves, noshing on a dinner of corn flakes. Honestly it wasn't really that bad and certainly far from the worst situation I have been in, but cities are no place for young children.

"Tomorrow we could reconcile things," I thought.  Get some great breakfast, enjoy the Thanksgiving Day parade, wear out the kids at a park, and then chow down for dinner.  And, with the exception of breakfast, that is how it worked.  Turns out the only places open for breakfast on Thanksgiving were those that value holidays less than dollars; Dean and Deluca and Starbucks! How much does it cost to feed a family of four at one of these places?  I'm ashamed to say, but thankful we found them.  The parade was fun and Freedom Park proved to be even better.  Situated between the affluent suburbs of Dilworth and Southend, the park was a welcomed respite.  I began noticing people enjoying their surroundings and with it, I also began noticing all of the bike paths, bike racks, and bike shops throughout the city.  Charlotte is a big draw for mountain enthusiasts and roadies alike and also hosts a professional criterium each August.  This town did have some redeeming qualities.

Thanksgiving dinner was mediocre and a bit stressful, but with good company. We headed for home the next evening, but not before tooling around for another day and not before doing some reflecting.  I am far from a person who believes in fate, faith, or karma, but the tribulations of that first night in town struck me.  I started to feel that I was meant to see those that had truly fallen on hard times.  It made me appreciate what I had, and for that, I am thankful.

Rants

"Lennox Lewis, I'm coming for you man. My style is impetuous. My defense is impregnable, and I'm just ferocious. I want your heart. I want to eat his children. Praise be to Allah!"

--Iron Mike Tyson

Lunatic, cannibal, and quote machine

Apparently also a devout Muslim

"Three against one, it's not a big surprise...Don't stand on my dog or I cut your head off!"

--World Road Champ Cadel Evans

Perennial whiner and underachiever

See also: Schizophrenic

"The last thing I want to do with my time on the Earth is spend it with annoying people."

--My wife

in reference to Christmas shopping

I tend to agree (in reference to all of the time)

Screw Blue

Hate is a strong word, but hate is what I feel toward the University of Michigan. There, I got it out of my system. To even utter the name of that wretched place strikes me to my core (therefore that university will herein be referred to as "them", "they", or "group of despicable sucks"). More than willing them to lose every football game from now to eternity, I bid they go straight to hell and die. A plague on all their houses, including the Big House. Why do I feel the urge to spat on anyone sporting the maize and blue? I bleed scarlet and gray, that's why.

My appreciation for football came during my formative years. Starting with running endless pass routes with my brother in the backyard and graduating to barnyard football games, Madden, and Monday Night Football; football consumed the dreary fall afternoons in Ohio. Ohioans love football; Ohio State Football. Look, we have the Bengals and the Browns, okay!? Lovable losers. The real fate of Ohio Football (and to be honest that of the free world) rests with the Buckeyes. National Titles and undefeated seasons hinge on one game. Mediocre and crappy seasons hinge on one game. Life and death hinges on one game; the last game: OSU v. that "Group of Despicable Sucks". You know who I'm talkin' about. The stage is set.

Rewind to the '90s. Ohio State is graced with legendary names like Galloway, Germaine, George, Boston, Pace, Katzenmoyer (too many to list). Unfortunately, the Bucks are also graced by John Cooper. Year after year the Buckeyes are either mediocre or National Title contenders and year after year (for a decade) they manage to lose to those wankers! My college house mates and I had made it tradition to each drink a 40oz. of malt liquor per quarter during the big game. This usually ended in a lot of slurred swearing by late in the fourth. Our one win during the Cooper-era only bought us a lousy Rose Bowl trip since we couldn't put MSU to bed. Frustration.

Enter Jim Tressel. Finally someone that recognized that all of Buckeye nation teeters on the brink of one game. After five years of drowning ourselves in Magnum and King Cobra, no more. Three trips to the promised land, one National Title, and most importantly, only one loss to those pansies from up north. My college buddies and I still call each other during the big game to mock the other team or to vent. It has been awhile since we got belligerent together and shouted hate slogans at the other team (Author's note: To be exact, it was January 3, 2003; a date that every Ohio State fan will remember. My buddy Ted and I decided that it would be a good idea to trade off Irish Car Bombs for every Buckeye touchdown. Good thinking until the game went to double overtime. Anyway, despite not knowing my own name, I was able to tell everyone in Englewood Ohio who the f-ing National Champs were!).

For tradition's sake, I think I'll pour back a few beers this year, root on the Bucks, and give ol' Ted a call. I dunno if I can do the malt liquor anymore and I'll have to keep the obscenities to a minimum, but know this: Hail to the Victors bitches!

Dream Ride

I have done races, centuries, and double centuries, but it was last year's Tour de Tuck that spawned an idea for my dream ride. Climbing the mountains of the Blue Ridge provides for much challenge, solitude, and soul searching. Battling feelings of self doubt and accomplishment; surrounding yourself in pain and beauty. Why not do it for a week? My own mini Tour: Five stages, 476 miles. The Blue Ridge Parkway.

Yup, here's the plan: Me and four other dudes roll up to Virginia, take to the bikes, and end up on the other side of Asheville 5 days later. We have a fully stocked SAG wagon, rotate drivers, and keep ourselves well fed. It is that simple. Look, these guys did it. I lifted some information from here and there and this is what I came up with:

Stage 1: Waynesville to Peaks of Otter: 86 miles, 8600' total ascent.

What a nice way to start the tour. One hundred feet of elevation for every mile. An appetizer for the main courses to come.

Stage 2: Peaks of Otter to Fancy Gap: 113 miles, 9700' total ascent.

The legs will be feeling it today. The second longest day of the tour only has one major climb, but the rest of the profile looks like a saw blade. Make it past this stage and your body should become acclimated to the pain and numbness that still awaits.

Stage 3: Fancy Gap to Blowing Rock: 95 miles, 8700' total ascent.

Through the halfway point and into North Carolina, no looking back now. Thankfully today is an easier day, as tomorrow is the queen stage.

Stage 4: Blowing Rock to Mount Pisgah: 117 miles, 13, 900' total ascent.

By all accounts, a beast of a day; this alone could be anyone's most difficult day on a bike. Precede this with the first three stages and it becomes epic. The denouement. Passing near Grandfather Mountain and Mt. Mitchell, this stage features two peaks in excess of 5600'. As if this weren't enough, the last 20 miles contain nine tunnels and are all uphill.

Stage 5: Mount Pisgah to Cherokee: 60 miles, 6200' total ascent.

Make sure you set aside at least four hours for the finale, for the shortest day also contains the highest peak; the Richland Balsam at over 6000'. The last ten miles of descending should prove to be quick and emotional, but no worries, you'll have the rest of your life to reflect on what you just did.

Who is in? What is your dream ride? What's next?

Scallops, Wilted Spinach, and Warm Vinaigrette

This dish was inspired by our neighbor, a chef, a few years ago after my wife asked her to make us an anniversary dinner. I'd like to think that my version compares to that meal, though I couldn't hold a candle to her cooking prowess. I can always aspire to something, no?

For the salad.

Start by warming a handful of crushed walnuts in a pan over low heat. Higher heat will make the fats of the walnuts burn, so this will take some time. You want these added to the salad while still warm and have the smoky flavor of burnt toast. Meanwhile, toss a few good handfuls of baby spinach with some Watercress or other tasty green (Arugula, Dandelion, etc). Add some thinly sliced red onion and you're almost ready for plating.

Now the vinaigrette.

Fifty percent fresh lemon juice, fifty percent extra virgin olive oil, two cloves minced garlic, and Kosher coarse salt to taste. Set aside for later; that was tough.

Scallops.

Cook enough of these for about three large sea scallops per person. Sear the scallops over medium high heat in butter and olive oil until just golden (about 3-4 minutes per side). Again, if the heat is too high, the butter will burn and the oil will break down. Watch it.

Now bring it all together. Add the warm walnuts to the spinach and sprinkle with chunks of goat cheese. Top with the scallops and drizzle with warmed vinaigrette. The warmth of the walnuts, scallops, and vinaigrette will wilt the spinach and, combined with the creaminess of the goat cheese, will meld the flavors together. The simplicity of this dish is spoken through the ingredients and the preparation. The taste speaks for itself.

Milk: A Horror Story

It is 1986, a young boy sits in his kitchen. Clad only in tighty-whiteys, he is feverishly shoveling his milk and sugar laden Cheerios down his throat. "Hurry up!" his brother demands, "We're going to be late for church!" In a desperate attempt to finish the last of the floating-Os, he lifts the bowl to his face. The sweet, super-saturated sugary goodness graces his lips. The last few remaining oats, having avoided the spoon, will not escape the ritual act of drinking the milk from the bottom of the bowl. Then it happens.

Milk runs down the side of his face, the spoon shifts, he loses his grip. Almost in slow-motion, the bowl falls, dousing the boy from head to toe. He sits frozen, coated in the sour, sticky solution and dotted with Cheerios. "Nice one," as more sibling encouragement arrives, "don't just sit there, get in the tub!" His world spiraling out of control, he stumbles to the bathtub for relief that cannot come soon enough. Thoughts and movements become disjointed while the boy disconnects himself from what is happening. As he is tries to block out the situation and shutdown his senses, there is one that will never leave him: the smell. The rank, foul milk smell induces dry-heaves and the boy gags uncontrollably.

Milk and cheerios had infiltrated my hair, ears, and even my underwear. That's right. This is my horror story. Ever since that fateful day milk has been my nemesis; making me wretch at the sight or smell of it. As a kid, after finishing my cereal, I would race to the kitchen, cereal bowl at arms length, dry heaving all the way (somewhere my sister is laughing). I even switched to using water for my Corn Flakes. Water plus cereal sucks. It's mushy. Ultimately I would give up milk entirely.

Twenty years and a couple of kids later and milk and I are on speaking terms again. It was impossible for it to be any other way. Kids love milk, it literally is their lifeblood. Is there anything more mammalian? And as such, you have to get used to having milk spilled on you, puked on you, or otherwise bathing in milk. Finding a few randomly hidden sippy-cups filled with month old curdled milk could cure any phobia. While I am still bothered by a little milk spillage, it doesn't bring me to the verge of panic-stricken vomiting anymore. And yes, I can again drink the milk from the bottom of the bowl.