More than Enough

So as promised, this is my follow-up to last week’s post regarding that beloved little bike ride in Pittsburgh known as the Dirty Dozen. As I mentioned before, this is an event that occurs on the Saturday after Thanksgiving and takes riders up thirteen of the steepest hills Pittsburgh has to offer. Here’s how things went.

I guess I had a preconceived notion of what steep hills were. After all, I’ve been riding a bike for a little while and I’ve been on some intensely mountainous rides. However, nothing I have ever done before was able to prepare me for the hellish inclines that I encountered on Saturday. I think it’s fair to say that I was woefully unprepared for these hills.

Unless you’ve actually seen the hills that are on the DD course, you don’t physically have the ability to imagine how steep they actually are. Add to that the fact that you’ve got almost 200 people trying to ride up these vertical streets that are no wider than about a car length and you have all the makings for a cocktail of pain and anguish.

The bottom line is I survived, barely. I made it up every hill on my first try and didn’t go down once. My heart almost exploded out of my chest on more than one occasion, and on the final hill I was going so slow that I think it was just one long track stand. My arms hurt worse than my legs from pulling on the bars and walking hasn’t been that easy. I should also say that Jared almost won Canton Avenue, but lost to Steevo (who won the DD, again) by about a half a wheel length and Colin took fifth overall for the day. This could be one event that I don’t ever want to do again, but it surely was a lot of sadistic fun.

A Cornucopia of Pain

In less than a week, we folks in the good ‘ole You Es of Ay will be celebrating that wonderful holiday where everyone gorges themselves on too much food and then either sleeps, watches football, or falls asleep while watching football. That’s right, I’m talking about Thanksgiving. This year, like most, I’ll be playing the role of pilgrim and allowing others to take care of me and make sure I don’t starve. Luckily, I won’t have to wear a hat with a giant buckle on it.

Instead of spending this holiday with my family, I’ll be traveling to Pittsburgh to spend the day with Jared, Caroline, and a cavalcade of other vagabonds that happen to venture into western PA. Oddly enough, Thanksgiving isn’t intended to be the highlight of my trip. That will come in the form of me, a bike, and thirteen of the steepest hills Pittsburgh has to offer. It’s a little bike race/ride known as the Dirty Dozen.

For close to thirty years, cyclists have gathered on the Saturday after Thanksgiving to test their grit by racing and riding the DD. Cyclists race to the top of each hill, but then wait for everyone else before continuing on to the next hill therefore making it both a race and a ride. I think at this point it’s important for me to point out that I will NOT be in the group that is racing. I will be in the group that is merely trying to survive, and in this case I do mean survive. Granted, I’ve said that in the past when talking about rides or races but in this case I truly mean it.

See, the hills in the DD are beyond steep. I don’t think any hill is less than a 20 percent grade with the steepest, Canton Avenue, topping out at 37 percent. Did mention it’s also cobblestone? Well, it is. One of the rules of this little Saturday morning spin is that all hills must be ridden. Therefore if you fall or stop or cough up a lung and put down a foot, you have to go to the bottom and start over. I’m not entirely sure why I agreed to participate in this test of pure insanity but this year I will be thankful if I get back to the SC with my legs still attached.

Top Drawer

This weekend I got to experience something in the SC that I’ve never done before. I was fortunate enough to get all fancied up and attend a gallery opening, for actual art, by real-life artists. Now I realize this might not be a big deal for some people out there but for me, in my little world, this was a first. See, I’ve never been invited to a gallery opening (or any kind of opening for that matter). While some people around here like to think that we’re an upper-crust cosmopolitan town that competes with New York and Los Angeles as a hub of cultural activity, the truth is that State College is an odd oasis in the middle of forests and farms that manages to attract a few tidbits of civility from time-to-time. That made this past weekend’s opening that much more special.

The opening at ion was an invitation only event which added to the air of sophistication. Also, because I knew one the artists I felt even more significant (but clearly that didn’t get me anywhere). Upon arrival, I glad-handed with the few other well-dressed individuals that I knew and set out to browse the various artistic mediums that were represented; all of which were for sale.

Very quickly, a few things dawned on me. First, I had no idea what I was looking at. I realize that art is subjective and means different things to different people but let’s be honest; I have no worldly idea about art. Eventually though, I began to recognize why I most likely don’t know anything about art: the price. While I don’t doubt the time, energy, and talent that is required to develop some of the items I was looking at, I most certainly wouldn’t be dropping two large for a chair that I may or may not be able to sit on. Regardless of my own personal shortcomings in the art-world, it was still nice to feel like a bon vivant and see some of my friends dressed in something other than a chamois.

A Little Taller

So my friend Cathy is starting to see the light at the end of her full-on remodeling tunnel. It’s been about a month since things started and she no longer has a carport, but what she has gained is lots of dust, knock-out fumes, plywood floors with sections of hardwood, radiant natural light, a third bedroom, and about 750 additional square feet of living space. And soon she’ll have a cavernous kitchen (compared to her old one) and boatloads of finish carpentry to perform.

Since the contractor has been at her house for so many weeks in a row, the workers have been leaving most of their tools so they don’t have to tote all those heavy utensils around (after all, a 22 ounce California framing hammer weighs about a pound and a half; seriously). Since Cathy’s build has finally arrived at the drywall stage, the workers have been using stilts. So I stopped by her house the other day to survey the progress and, if you’re anything like me (and may all that is good and holy help you if that’s actually the case, because let’s face it; you’re screwed) you walked over to said stilts, fumbled around with the buckles, and experienced life as a man that’s damn near eight feet tall.

While I might not be the tallest man alive, I have to admit, being that close to the ceiling was wicked cool. I contemplated buying really long pants and heading downtown but I thought that might be a little too weird (especially since Halloween was last weekend). Anyway, what I realized was that everyone should be able to walk around on stilts (and I mean quality stilts) for a little while. It’s a unique feeling to experience what it’s like to be that freakishly tall (and see all the dust on the tops of their picture frames).