“Mr. O’Shea is the only person allowed to fail,” Lieutenant Scott Sweet of the New Hampshire State Police announces from the front of the room. Twenty-five of us sit on hard plastic chairs in a drafty lecture hall on a cold Saturday morning waiting for instruction. We’re here to start the process to become New Hampshire State Police officers. I have no real desire to be a state trooper, but I don’t want to fail today, despite my free pass to do just that. The physical agility test starts this morning, and things have already gotten interesting.

More than a dozen people haven’t even lasted to 9 AM. One guy doesn’t even make it to the registration table, stopped by a tattoo on his bicep. I’d read that all visible tattoos – on heads, faces, necks or hands, or low enough on biceps, are instant disqualifiers. As two others are rejected for their body ink, I’m grateful I decided against that butterfly teardrop tattoo that seemed like such a swell idea at the Weirs years ago. Five others, including a woman who’d driven all the way from Maryland for this morning’s test, are sent away because of poor-enough eyesight.

I’ve known about the requirements for weeks. For me, a man in his forties, I need to accomplish the following: bench press 86% of my weight at least once, do thirty-two sit-ups in a minute, nail twenty-two push-ups, and run a mile and a half in just under thirteen minutes. I haven’t bench pressed anything in a while, and I don’t normally run like someone’s chasing me, which is what it will feel like once the timed run comes around.

Applicants for a job with the State Police must pass all four phases of the physical test, score at least a 70% on today’s written test, and then pass the oral boards a few days later, prefaced by an exhaustive questionnaire, thirty-plus pages of questions ranging from past employers to your gambling habits. Then you must pass an extensive background check, followed by a polygraph test, interviews with the Director of State Police, physical and psychological exams and unannounced drug tests. “Only three to five percent of everyone who walks through that door is offered a job,” Lt. Sweet offers. “It’s very rigorous. We consider personal appearance, communication skills, bearing and demeanor as important pieces of what makes a state trooper,” he states as he looks past me at the line of the applicants. This is all swell, but my sparkling communication skills won’t be lifting that bar off my chest.

My application process will end with the physical this morning, but I’m determined to do everything I can to earn a 70%. I’d love to take the written test if I qualify, but I’m told it wouldn’t be a good idea. I bet they have lots of questions about scatter guns, dirtbag perps and that guy in the red Ferrari heading north on 89 at an unsafe clip, but Lt. Sweet tells me it’s more about general aptitude than trooper lingo.

Six applicants fail the bench press, each with his own dejected, embarrassed smile as he walks out of the weight room and across the assembly hall, escorted by a trooper who explains, presumably, why weaklings like them make lousy officers. The trooper offers a handshake, but I want to see him grab the guy’s hand and squeeze hard, dropping the former applicant to his knees in crippling, humiliating pain, but each time the trooper offers words of encouragement as he points to the door. I should temper my desire to watch others fail, because based on my lack of upper body strength, lifting 86% of my own body mass may induce a stroke. I know Lt. Sweet’s given me a pass, but still, emitting whimpering sounds in front of uniformed, gun-toting spotters while the weight slams into my larynx is no way to make an impression.

Before I know it, I’m flat on my back with two troopers standing over me, the brims of their hats blocking the ceiling light as they ask if I’m ready. I am and lift the weight with no problem. Wow – that was easier than I thought. “Want to up the weight?” one trooper asks. I decline and head back into the assembly room where the other twenty-three men and one woman are waiting.

Lt. Sweet stands in front of us, explaining that state police work “birthdays, holidays, weekends and anniversaries,” reminding us that we must be willing to live anywhere in the state if we’re hired. He informs us that there’s a “self-imposed hiring hiatus,” and I can see a few mental balloons deflate among the group. Lt. Sweet adds, “It’s the Colonel’s decision when to start hiring again,” which is interesting because the only decisions the Colonel’s ever made that I cared about were what to charge for extra crispy or when to throw in a biscuit for free.

We’re split into groups of three for the rest of the testing, and we’re paired up for the push-ups and sit-ups. As we gather around the mats, Trooper Cooper, a man only an inch taller than me but with a chest and arms like a circus strongman, barks orders to the group. “This is your first and only opportunity to demonstrate your seriousness about this job. Give 110% at all times – we’re not looking for average here today,” he says, pausing to make eye contact with each of us. “We are not here to motivate you so don’t be anyone’s cheerleader.” Trooper Cooper concludes with a warning – “We don’t need to hear any swearing or vulgar language from any of you. I tolerated it during the bench press but no longer.” Everyone nods in agreement. “Are there any questions?” he asks. Now, everyone in a ten-mile radius of this moment knows now is not the time to ask questions, but that doesn’t stop one young guy who asks, “Can we move side to side during the sit-ups?” Trooper Cooper stares at the kid for a moment, looks away and says, with simmering contempt, “Work your side obliques on your own time.” He ends with, “Don’t question the trooper – don’t argue or we’ll send you packing.” I think he’s serious.

I’m paired with David Tirado from New York City, a crack push-up specialist recently done with his Air Force service. We both pass with flying colors, each of us taking turns holding each other’s feet and placing a fist under the chest for a perfect push-up. Trooper Cooper is right down next to us, counting out each and every exercise. I do more than thirty push-ups, but he takes a few away from my tally because I didn’t get low enough. I decide not to correct him.

All eight of us pass these second and third tests, and we head to the final challenge – the timed run. The track is a miniature version of a racing oval, and we’re told it’ll take seventeen and a quarter laps for the mile and a half. The entire set-up has the vague feeling of a Japanese game show, except we’re not wearing helmets or shiny unitards. We sit in silence, waiting to begin. It’s really hot in here, and my arms are shaking from the rapid-fire push-ups I’ve just done. Minutes later we’re up, standing at the starting line.

The lone female trooper takes the helm, explaining that we’re to shout out our names and lap number each time we pass the troopers, each of whom stands with a stop watch and no trace of a smile. She shouts, “Go,” and the eight of us take off. I have no reason to rush – I know I can run a mile in eight and a half minutes, and my day ends after this, but I’m caught up in the moment and run like an EZ Pass violator with three priors and an expired registration. A few guys sprint out ahead, and I struggle for a pace. “O’Shea one!” I yell as I come around the corner. One guy in a red shirt finds inspiration and sprints at an absurd speed – there’s no way he’ll make it. I settle into a groove and keep going as the others ebb and flow around me, the red shirt sprinter putting more and more distance between us. Laps later, just as I yell “O’Shea thirteen,” the red shirt sprinter grabs his hamstring and nearly falls to the ground. I think about stopping to help, but there’s no time. My heart thumps, and it must be at least ninety degrees in here. I pass someone and keep going. The troopers offer no encouragement, only flatly stating our elapsed times. I finish my seventeenth and a quarter laps, and I’m done. I’ve run it in just over eleven minutes, at a pace close to seven and a half minutes per mile, earning me a passing grade of 80% on the run. Lt. Sweet sits with me afterwards, tallying my final score. I score an 81.25%, good enough for a B-minus average for the whole test.

I learn later from Lt. Sweet that only nineteen applicants made it past the sit-ups and the run, including me. Another two failed the written test, and two more didn’t survive the oral boards, leaving roughly a third of everyone who showed up on Saturday ready for the more rigorous requirements that still lie ahead. I wish them luck, but I won’t be joining them. I’m leaving my tattoo options open.

Bet on It

The world is divided into poker players and the rest of us. True poker players use phrases like “wired nines,” “limping in,” and “kickers don’t play,” while we say things like, “All my cards are red cards – is that good?” “Where is the closest ATM?” and “Do fries come with that?” Good poker players are like good fishermen – anyone can drop a worm in the water, but you need some skill to reel in the big one.

I’ve never played much poker – a few games decades ago where the host used rules he memorized from Odd Couple episodes while everyone else complained about the flat RC Cola and stale snacks. No one knew how to shuffle, and we ended up playing liar’s poker for pretzel rods and noogies.

But I’m in my forties, and time is running out to master the manly arts – things like moose hunting, whiskey drinking and chain sawing - those elemental aspects of a masculine life brimming with self-reliance and gumption. Poker’s one such art – and one I’m determined to learn.

I should be an expert already, considering how many hours of poker I’ve watched on basic cable, but television’s no substitute for the real thing. I try joining a local “house” game where the bets are small, the lighting is lousy and the local authorities aren’t welcome, but my contact rebuffs me, fearing my big mouth and lack of knowledge will result in legal action and a fat lip.

Instead, I find the next best thing – a weekly $20 poker tournament in Concord. Makris Lobster and Steak House, on the outskirts of Concord, hosts poker games two nights each week. These are known as “charity gaming” events, where selected charities, the state and the gaming company split each night’s proceeds. Play real poker, give to charity and help with our state’s education funding woes – while drinking cold beer? Is this heaven? Maybe so, but I need to earn my wings so I don’t embarrass myself at the tournament table.

My first stop is my sister-in-law Jonsey’s house where Bo, her husband and local card shark, gives me a quick tutorial in poker’s finer points. I learn about the button, betting, and big and small blinds as Bo deals hand after hand of Texas Hold ‘Em, the game of choice at the Makris Poker Room. His instructions come rapid-fire - “Don’t give up the big blind.” “Hands off your chips!” There’s nothing wrong with limping in.” We walk through scenario after scenario, and Bo concludes with two valuable lessons. Playing a hand of poker, Bo tells me, is usually more about everyone else than it is about me, which is good because if everyone else is as confused as I am, we may all end up wrestling for chips underneath the table. He ends by saying, “There is no shame in folding. Sometimes the smartest thing you can do is get out of the hand before losing any money.” I feel like young Grasshopper at the feet of Blind Master Po.

Next I try my luck on the web, finding a free novice room for Texas Hold ‘Em players. Online poker loses its luster pretty quickly. Playing against cartoon icons with names like Fuzzy_Gambler2645 and Captain_Gummybear88 lacks that human element, and the scrolling text commentary tells me the world of online poker is filled with a combination of shut-ins, misanthropic math whizzes and future tax evaders.

The big night’s here, and I’m nervous. I arrive at the restaurant and meet Kory Kamke, the manager of the Makris poker nights and an employee of Torguson Gaming, the Mississippi-based casino company that runs these games and a slew of others at the Lodge at Belmont. The tournament crowd gathers, and Kory explains how charity gaming works. Charities across the state apply to win a coveted spot on the schedule, earning 35% of the proceeds for ten nights a year. Tonight’s charity is the District 44-N Pinardville Lions Club of Manchester, and Kory’s expecting a good night. “For a $20 roll, we fill up almost all the seats. On our free roll nights, we get more than sixty five people.” Kory shares a few tips with me, including, “Everyone wants to see a cheap flop.” I laugh and nod my head but have no idea what he’s talking about. Bo said nothing about any cheap flop.

There’s no time to fret because the tournament’s starting. There are three tables of at least seven players each. I find my seat, and Bo’s two spots away from me; I can’t tell if he’s smiling because he’s happy to be playing cards or if he’s happy to be playing cards against me. Twenty-one year old Natasha Ganzel is our dealer, and she welcomes us to the game, fanning out the deck of cards for our scrutiny. I’m flanked by Kathy Watson from Loudon and Bill Boomhower from Penacook. Franklin’s own Joanne Poehlman sits two to my right and the only two people I’ve not met are Mr. High Roller, who’s already bought an extra $60 in chips, and a guy seated directly across from me, to Natasha’s left. He has his game face on, and I sense he will be my nemesis.

We begin, and I peek at my two cards. Two 9’s – not bad for a first hand. Mr. Instant Nemesis makes no eye contact, figuring me for an easy mark. He’s too aggressive for the first hand, and he continues to raise the bet while fondling his stack of $1,000 chips (not really that amount – $20 gets you $3,000 in chips). We’re no more than ninety seconds into the first hand, and if I fold, Mr. Instant Nemesis wins, and I’m history. I call his bet and after the flop and another round of betting, I’ve put almost all of my $3,000 into the pot. Not much shows on the board, and Mr. Instant Nemesis seems rather confident. Natasha tells us to flip our cards, and I win! I gather my pile and pull it towards me as everyone remarks on my beginner’s luck.

I either fold or lose the next four or five hands, then I’m dealt two aces – I later learn the correct term is “wired aces,” but for now, I only know this is as good as it gets. OK, don’t panic. Don’t start laughing or emitting high-pitched bird mating whistles – just stay cool. Three of us remain and I’m tagging along - calling each bet. Mr. High Roller, who’s been buying chips like the bank’s been buying bad mortgages, goes all in, and I don’t have enough to match him. Bill, to my right, remains in as well and the pot’s now enormous. Mr. High Roller and I enter into some sort of side bet, which Natasha explains, but I’m too busy trying to not pass out from the stress to understand what’s happening. People gather around as we flip our cards. My two aces are not enough to beat Bill’s three jacks but better than Mr. High Roller’s pair of kings. I win some of the pot, enough to keep playing. This is all very confusing.

Kathy, to my right, flames out. “For twenty bucks, it was a fun night out,” she says as she walks away smiling. Joanne, sitting to my far right, continues to win pot after pot. My stack is dwindling as I spot pocket 4’s. Within seconds it’s just Joanne and me. I forget Bo’s advice to fold when my pair isn’t the highest on the board, and I see two kings in the flop, but I try to ride my 4’s to victory, which is like trying to ride a Big Wheel to victory at Daytona. I go all in and lose immediately to Joanne’s superior pair of 7’s. She wins the pot and all my chips, and my tournament is over.


I linger for a bit, enough to sit down and join a cash game. The rules are a little different and as five of us sit down with Natasha, Joanne runs over and whispers in my ear, “You can never push someone off their cards with your hand.” This is probably sage advice, but I lose $20 in chips so fast that the only words of wisdom that might have helped were, “Put your money away – you’re no poker player.” Maybe not, at least not today. But between Bo’s instruction, basic cable programming, the Makris Poker Room and Captain_Gummybear88, I’ll be a real poker player in no time. You can bet on it.

Right Lane Loser

If wishes were low gas prices, beggars would drive. There was a time when gas for $2.79 a gallon would make a man cry, but now it’s cause for high fives. I, for one, refuse to sit around yearning for the days when two bits bought me enough petrol to fill the Packard for a ride to the barn dance and a fountain soda with my best girl. So I’ve decided to take action. I’ve become a hypermiler.

Hypermiling is the art of gas conservation, something I’d only previously practiced in delicate social situations. Older folks remember it as gas rationing during the War, and you drivers from the ‘70’s didn’t do much rationing because you were too busy blaming Henry Kissinger for your troubles as you slept in line for gas in your huge family station wagons with bench seating and optional lap belts. But as gas prices shoot up faster than Tina Fey’s approval ratings, hypermiling is all the rage, with plenty of techniques to choose from.

Strategies range from the logical (drive the speed limit, use cruise control) to the practical (avoid drive-thru windows, combine errands), and the innovative (eschew left turns and fast music) to the downright dangerous (draft behind bigger vehicles, drive barefoot, and never come to a complete stop until you arrive). Hypermilers remove extra weight from their cars, always look for pass-through parking spots and never idle - a hypermiler idling his car is like a pastry chef whipping up a batch of Yodels. Some extreme followers practice “ridge riding.” Driving in the right lane, you aim your right tires at the big white line separating the road from the shoulder, reducing friction under your wheels.

Times are tight, and every dollar matters. I clean out my 2003 Honda Accord of extraneous things. I fill the gas tank and do the quick math. I’ve been getting around 30 miles per gallon pre-hypermiling – not bad, but I’ve heard that some hypermilers increase their MPG by 50%. If that’s the case, I won’t need a refill until spring training.

Day One is here, and I drive in the right lane, going the speed limit and watching a parade of cars fly past. I’m going so slowly that I feel like I should be heading to the Cat n’ Fiddle for a 3:45 dinner seating of chicken cordon bleu, ambrosia salad and a nice glass of sherry for dessert. I really need to get to work, but I won’t give in. I continue on, flirting with ridge riding and making sure to back into my parking spot when I arrive. I’m a good ten minutes behind schedule as I double-time it to my desk.

Day Two starts just as Day One ended – creeping along alone in the right lane as everyone else drives like their hair’s on fire to my left. I avoid fast music – only non-confrontational talk radio and a Kingston Trio – Cowsills mix tape that really is a hoot. Spending so much time over here makes me feel like I’m stuck watching the cool kids arm wrestle each other while my mathlete pals and I trade graphing calculator tips. I’m turning into a Right Lane Loser. But I won’t stop, even though I realize hypermiling means chronic tardiness. I’m fifteen minutes late for work, and arriving home at night, my family’s started dinner without me. “Late and Hungry” – the hypermiler’s credo.

Day Three begins badly. On my way to the gym, I forget to time the stop light and sit idling for almost a minute. I leave the car on to run a few items into the post office and realize as I back into my driveway I forgot to combine errands! Back out I go, take three left turns and even have the audacity to turn on the car’s heat. I’m a failure, and I haven’t even eaten breakfast yet.

As penance, I drive to and from work shoeless, a sockless foot giving me a real feel for the gas pedal - a barefooted supplicant to the Gods of Refined Oil, my sins forgiven with every speed limit-adhering mile I go. I also try drafting behind an 18-wheeler until the driver makes it clear he is not amused. Hypermiling is hard; it takes lots of patience and concentration, two things I’m finding in short supply.

I need some advice so I turn to Hugo Martel, local hypermiling legend. Hugo, (his name changed to protect him from hypermiling profiling) starting hypermiling before it had a name. “I was sick of giving my money to Exxon,” Hugo tells me, “so I just figured out how to use less gas.” Hugo is a proponent of EOC – Engine Off Coasting, something that can only be done with a manual transmission and intestinal fortitude. Hugo seeks out east-west routes because, “Those are the ones with the hills.” He speaks of a two-mile coast outside Boscawen in hushed tones and describes a four-mile coast on Route 9 just over the Vermont border like a renegade flower hunter describing a rare ghost orchid. Hugo turns the car off completely and lets gravity do the work. His advice? “You need to be vigilant. You can’t afford to get distracted. You need to pay very close attention to everything to do this right and not get rammed from behind.”

I know what he means. Day Four arrives, and I lose my concentration, finding myself in the cash lane at the toll booth. The woman in front of me must be trying to convert drachmas to dollars because it’s taking forever. I’m stuck behind the one commuter without EZ Pass! What year is this? Was she too distracted by the Falcon Crest marathon last night to get her exact change in order? Hurry up! I’m wasting gas, and all the ridge riding and drafting I can muster won’t make up for that idling at the toll plaza. And, of course, I’m late for work – again.

Day Five comes and goes with strict recognition of the rules- a day dominated by no sudden stops, no idling and a calm, steady pace with my right tires on the white line for frictionless driving. My gas tank hovers at the midpoint, which is good because tomorrow is every hypermiler’s dream - a road trip. I’m heading to New York City for the weekend, determined to wring every drop of gas from my tank before filling up.
Day Six arrives, and I deploy every technique I know – tire overinflation, windows up, heat off, cruise control and public radio on, drafting, ridge riding and staying at or below the speed limit, not an easy thing on a Concord to Manhattan road trip. A quick note – slow, early morning driving on empty highways while listening to the BBC World Service is akin to taking a fistful of Lunesta with a warm glass of milk. But the voice of Hugo Martel keeps me awake and alert, exhorting me to press onward.

By the time I’m south of Hartford, I’ve gone 460 miles on the same tank when the gas light finally comes on, more than 100 miles than usual. I should have at least four gallons remaining at this point, so I continue. The odometer reads 470, 480, 490, 500 miles! I’m determined to see how far I can go before spending another dollar on gas. But as the odometer reads 520, I start doubting my middle school math word problem skills and panic that I’ve miscalculated. I’ve never gone more than 450 miles without filling up, and I’m well past that now. I can’t wait any longer and find an exit and fill up the tank. It’s bittersweet realizing I still have more than three gallons to go before I would have run dry. I could have made it all the way to New York. True, I would have run out directly on the Cross Bronx Expressway, but I would have done so with pride, the epitome story of hypermiling courage and persistence.

Before I pull back onto the highway, I figure I’ve increased my MPG from 30 to 37, a 23% increase. Not bad for a neophyte hypermiler with a lead foot. And as I head south on the interstate, I smile as I ease into the left lane, hit the gas pedal and crank the tunes. I wave to the right lane losers as I speed towards the big city, trying to make up for lost time.

Men in Tree Houses

My son Sam and I are in the car driving north, looking for a tree house. I miss hanging out in the one I had as a kid, a hand-me-down from my brother. By the time it was mine, the only things left were shag rug remnants stapled to the trunk, past issues of Cracked magazine, and two-by-fours hammered into a makeshift ladder leading to a cluster of sturdy limbs. This morning, as we head towards the mountains, we’re looking for a place called Monkey Trunks. I’ve heard it’s the best tree house around.

I have almost no idea what we’re getting ourselves into. Based on the scant information I gleaned from Monkey Trunk’s website, I’m not sure if we’re heading to a heart-stopping manly adventure or into a glorified McDonaldland jungle gym and ball pit mistake.

We’ve been driving for an hour and just after passing Lake Chocorua and the rock-scarred mountain that shares its name in the distance, we arrive. We’re greeted by Hazel Ives, a Nottingham, England native and Monkey Trunks’ owner. She welcomes us in, and within moments we’re seated in a small conference room to view a video about on-course safety. We learn we’re about to spend the morning atop a high-wire adventure course with three levels and twenty-five challenges. Sam is thrilled.

Next we meet our team leader, Marcus Hansen. He stands there, harnesses, clips and helmets in hand. Marcus is our guide for the day; he’s from Denmark and, after living in England, he came to Chocorua to help Hazel open Monkey Trunks this past spring. As Marcus fits a harness around Sam, Hazel explains, “These courses are very popular in England.” By the line of folks queuing in the driveway, I think the same might soon be the case in New Hampshire.

Marcus makes sure our gear is snug and explains the rules. I’m counting on Sam to remember all the pertinent details, because the harness is giving me such a wedgie that I’m having trouble concentrating. Once Marcus hands us our “monkey paws,” double-hinged fist-sized clips attached to our harnesses, we learn the one key rule to success on the course – “Never, ever have both clips unhooked from the rope.” Before I can say, “Why not?” Marcus adds, “Because that’s how you can fall all the way down,” without a trace of a smile. Sam nods in agreement.

After a quick hands-on lesson in clipping on and off the ropes, Marcus explains that before unclipping each monkey paw, we must ask aloud, “Permission to transfer,” and get an “OK” from one of the three instructors before unclipping and moving our paw to another rope. This way, he explains, we’ll always be tethered. As we walk towards the structure, I realize this is the biggest tree house I’ve ever seen. It’s imposing, rising more than sixty feet with towers and platforms, swings, rings, pulleys, nets and steel cables criss-crossing each other on three levels.

Sam jumps right in, and I follow. Within seconds we’re onto our first challenge, a massive cargo net that stretches from one platform to another, about thirty feet off the ground. Sam climbs along with ease. I wait for him to finish, and I yell, “Permission to transfer.” It doesn’t take long for me to realize that 13-year old boys are better climbers. A few moments ago, I imagined scampering across the net like Spiderman but as I labor, I look like Peter Parker’s chubby older brother Clint who tries to keep up while his inhaler and pocket calculator fall out of his fanny pack.

We move at a fast pace. Hazel told us we’d lose track of time, and time is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy keeping up with Sam while making sure this harness doesn’t cut off all circulation to my hips. We try every challenge, Sam always going first, my strategy having more to do with me not wanting Sam to see me slip, fall and dangle like a giant spider’s next meal than with common courtesy. We head to a huge V-shaped rope, and then it’s onto foot rings as we swing and teeter across. This is sort of like American Gladiators, without the steroid rage and skin-tight trousers, although this harness isn’t doing me any favors.

Sam and I traverse the course to the “Gauntlet,” a combination of rings and platforms that requires more than one mini-leap and scramble. We’re on level three and determined to get over to the top platform and the zipline. Sam gets there first and is greeted by Kate Everett, Marcus’s fellow team leader, her red hair poking out from underneath her helmet. I’m still making my way across a tightrope challenge as Sam stands on the platform. “You’re about sixty-five feet off the ground,” Kate tells us. She starts to explain what’s in store for us when I look over to see Sam standing there with both clips in his hands as he listens. Hmm, both clips in his hands – that looks funny. I must have missed that part of the video, and I don’t remember hearing Sam say anything about “Permission to transfer.” Uh oh.

“Sam,” I say in my calmest, most fatherly voice, “Clip on now. Immediately. Do it.” He stares at me with a terrified look, but he clips back on as Kate gently and firmly scolds him, warning him he’ll have to leave the course if he does it again. This mini-drama of unsafe adolescent behavior doesn’t slow us down because after a short tutorial in ziplines, we’re off the platform and hurtling down the wires, laughing our heads off, trying to outrace each other.

Marcus hoists a ladder and unclips us, and we head back for more. It’s been close to two hours, but it feels like fifteen minutes. My fingers are like bruised Vienna sausages, my shoulders are killing me, and I’ve been in a full sweat since I put my helmet on. But we continue, working our way up the course, and by now it’s crowded. We wait for our turn on the challenges as Kate, Marcus and Matthew Macdonald, the third team leader, navigate the course, responding to “Permission to transfer” with shouts of “OK.” All Sam says to me is, “This is awesome.”

The rope swing is our final challenge. Kate meets us on the platform as Marcus unhooks the rope swing from its tether below. Sam goes first. He sits down on the edge as Kate clips the heavy buckle attached to the rope onto his harness. I can see the weight already pulling him off the platform, but he hangs on. On the count of three, Sam lets go and he flies down, the long rope swinging him in huge arcs back and forth. He lets out a happy scream. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not ready for the tug of the thick rope. I’m slipping off the platform – Kate tells me to go for it, and I fall for what feels like forever before the buckle catches, and I swing back and forth, the late summer air rushing past my face. It’s not every day a 40-something man gets to spend a morning in a tree house, swinging like an ape with his son. Now if someone can just get me down from here, I might even try it again.

I Wanted to be like Mike

I wanted to be like Mike. After this month’s Olympics in Beijing, who wouldn’t? By now you’re familiar with Michael Phelps, the 23-year old American swimmer who singlehandedly won more medals than Mongolia, Malaysia and Moldova combined, breaking world record after world record and making all the other swimmers look like Water Baby class dropouts with swim diapers and runny noses. I first told myself I’d never be like Mike – at least not in the pool. My competitive swim career ended in the phone booth of a local swim club as a ten year old. Whether it was the fear of competition, the early morning practices or how my new Speedo pinched me in all the wrong places, I hid from the coach and cried to my mom over the phone until she agreed to rescue me.

So how else could I be like Mike? After watching his Olympic victories and scouring the internet for any and all stories about him, I learned that Mike likes to eat. Hey, me too! I love to eat. Maybe I could be like Mike. I wouldn’t need to shave my body or wear a form-fitting bathing suit to eat just like him. Sure, he swallows 12,000 calories a day, not a normal amount, but how hard could it be to sit around and eat? I’ve been doing it for years but never had a goal – maybe this time, with focus and the right amount of coaching, I could live the Olympic experience and never leave my kitchen.

My Phelps Gastronomic Emulation Experience took place last Sunday. I’d learned that Mike works out for six hours a day, so I needed to burn a few calories before sitting down to breakfast. I can’t even sleep for six hours a day, and I certainly wasn’t going to swim for six hours, so instead I ran for three miles, burning 458 calories, which was not a good sign. Michael probably burns that flossing his teeth.

Preparing breakfast was a workout in itself. First, a five-egg omelet, then three chocolate chip pancakes, three slices of French toast, followed by three fried egg and cheese sandwiches on whole wheat buns with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato and fried onions (a nice touch). Oh, and a bowl of grits, which I hear is a southern delicacy – which, if true, is the reason the South lost the Civil War (“Git that blue coat, Jessup!” “I cain’t - my belly’s a’swollen with them dang grits!”). I finished cooking and sat down with the feast before me. The mood among the coaching staff in the kitchen was not one of positive encouragement. “You’re gonna barf,” my daughter told me as she paced back and forth. I wore swim goggles and my two fourth-place butterfly medals from my younger days to get in the mood as I began eating.

Whatever calories I burned during my daybreak run I gained back after the second bite of the mayo and fried onions in the first egg sandwich. The sandwiches were going down faster than expected, and the omelet wasn’t so bad. And those pancakes, wow! Chocolate chips are yummy! “I can do this no problem,” I said to myself between forkfuls of eggs and French toast. Even the grits were good – well, ok, “good” might not be accurate. How about “edible?” On to the second egg and cheese sandwich and some coffee and maybe a few more bites of the omelet. Ding Ding! Open wide! Here comes the chocolate chip choo choo around the corner for more pancakes! Let’s not forget the French toast. The food was disappearing, and I felt fine, even though I was in a full sweat as my goggles fogged up. Just a few more nibbles of the omelet and maybe a spoonful more of the grits before I returned to the French toast. Hmm, well, maybe I should take a breath or two – I mean, no need to rush it right? “Let me get through these pancakes, and then I’ll worry about the last egg sandwich,” I murmured to no one in particular. Fifteen minutes into the first meal of the day, my belly was filling up, the coffee was cold and the grits, um, the grits started to look and taste like wallpaper spackle. But I needed to get through that last sandwich – a few more mouthfuls and I’d be done.

How does Michael Phelps do it? I felt like I swallowed fifty pounds of wood pulp and couldn’t imagine keeping my head above water much less doing the backstroke for 360 minutes. With half a bowl of grits and a few slices of French toast remaining, I sulked away from the kitchen counter. No time to think about failure because lunch was coming soon. The menu - one pound of pasta (with sauce), 1,000 calories of energy drinks, and two ham and cheese sandwiches. As I imagined every bite of lunch, I lay on the floor of the living room, delirious with carbohydrates. My son yelled to no one in particular, “This was a really bad idea.” I began to concur but drifted off to a fitful nap.

At 1:30 PM, about four hours since breakfast, I headed to the pool, knowing I needed to burn more calories if I stood any chance of surviving. There are few sights sadder than a 41-year old short fat man wearing borrowed goggles, gym shorts and a heart rate monitor around his bulging pale belly trying to swim laps. I swam for thirty minutes, the pace going something like this – stroke, breathe, burp, stroke, burp, breathe, stroke, burp. I burned 273 calories, an amount Mike burns as he clips his enormous toe nails on his cartoonishly huge feet.

I arrived home and decided to skip lunch – two sandwiches, a gallon of protein shakes and a pound of fusilli? No way. But the day wasn’t over, and there was still time for redemption, so I hopped on my bike and spent the next ninety minutes riding up, over and down Oak Hill and home, burning another 1,100 calories. Maybe my mini-triathlon had the intended effect, because when I got home, I was hungry for the first time since dawn.

For dinner each day, Michael Phelps consumes an entire cheese pizza, another 1,000 calories of energy drinks and a second pound of pasta with sauce. It’s rare when a grown man has an excuse to order, buy and eat an entire pizza pie, and I relished the moment. As I returned home from the pizza shop, I thought I heard the faint tones of the Olympic theme song playing in a distant meadow, but it turned out to be one of the four strawberry cream Myoplex shakes I chugged in order to get a head start on the meal. The shake had a vague taste of gorilla sweat combined with the fruity aroma of marshmallow circus peanuts and a metallic finish like when you chew on a lint-covered pencil. The pinkish liquid was seeking a place to call home in my gut, and the sound was unnerving.

By the fourth slice of pizza, I faced the reality that I was no Olympic athlete – I couldn’t swim like one, and I now knew I couldn’t eat like one. The giant bowl of pasta never stood a chance, and the idea of taking another swig of that strawberry bilge water masquerading as protein made me want to cry and/or vomit. My son saw the anguish on my face and said, “For your own health, just say, ‘I quit’ and walk away.” I did just that. There would be no gold medal for me this day.

I no longer want to be like Mike. I don’t have the time, the physique or the talent. He’s the greatest athlete in the world, and I’m the fourth greatest athlete in my house. Besides, those grits were really gross.

Bike to the Future

I’m standing by the service counter of a local bike shop, and I think I might be in over my head. I’m here to pick up my new road bike – a blue and black Trek 500 with cool handlebars, shiny brakes and more gears than I know what to do with. I approach the counter as the young mechanic puts down his tools and eyes me with a look of slight disdain. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look you get in a record shop or book store – that air of subtle contempt for anyone not wearing a beret, a “Neil Peart for President” tee shirt or a “Frodo Lives” button. “I’m here to pick up my bike,” I say. He ambles over and, in a light guffaw, says, “Oh. That little one over there?” This isn’t starting off well - my first foray into the world of road biking, and I’m pegged as a circus clown in street clothes picking out my new mini bike.

Then again, maybe it’s me and not the mechanic. I’ve resisted this day for more than two years. My wife’s an ardent road biker, riding from April to November, heading out on the weekend for epic stretches. She’d been asking me to join her, and I’ve held back. I haven’t owned my own bike for thirty years due to a series of two-wheeled experiences that all ended in tears. There’s the 1981 Memorial Day Apollo Three Speed broken chain to broken wrist disaster, or the recent fiasco when, on a borrowed bike, I bumped my daughter’s back tire, and she broke the fall to the pavement with her two front teeth. And how can I forget the lingering shame of my sister’s hand-me-down bike from high school? If there’s a list of things not to do when arriving at a 10th grade make-out party, riding a girl’s bike with the bent bar and daisy stickers rests near the top.
I’ve eased into this day by spending the last four years spinning, an indoor exercise class that involves an instructor, loud music and a stationary bike that you peddle like someone’s chasing you, slowing down to pretend you’re on a hill and speeding up for an imaginary flat stretch of road, all the while gender-confused pulsating club music blasts in your ears as your instructor reminds you to do a better job of pretending you’re riding a real bike. In hindsight, indoor bike riding makes about as much sense as indoor duck hunting, but the classes have prepped me for what awaits me outside.

But true love makes you do crazy things, and with my wife’s encouragement, I returned home with the bike (and helmet, water bottle and speedometer) and got ready to ride. We rode thirteen miles that first day, and other than realizing that compulsive gear changing only ends in popped chains and greasy fingers, I survived, and since that day, I’ve learned a lot about road biking. First, your shoes should come with clips, and these take some getting used to. Trust me. No matter how hard you may try, it’s impossible to look like a seasoned expert while you’re flailing around on the road, your shoes wedged into the bike clips as your belly makes its way free from your untucked tee shirt, your water bottle’s contents pooling with the bike grease that covers your hands and face.

Bikers put a lot of effort into their outfits. Cotton is about as welcome as a flat tire because bikers wear clothes that breathe, usually high-tech shirts with bright colors with team names on them, form-fitting black spandex pants with cushions in the rear, fancy sunglasses and padded fingerless gloves, making everyone look like Darth Vaders’ Storm Troopers on Spring Break. I refuse to wear a skin-tight shirt with a zipper to the navel, but I did acquiesce and buy a pair of black biker socks. I did so to avoid what my wife calls the, “white tube sock as ‘80’s leg warmer look.” I’ll admit that wearing black socks with shorts reminds me of a priest playing kickball at recess, but they are comfortable.

I have a recurring fantasy about me and my new bike. I’m riding on Farrington Corner Road outside Concord, alone on the road in the early morning. The only sounds are the spinning of my tires, the changing of my gears and my measured breathing. I reach the dense underbrush near the power lines, and a huge black bear leaps into the road and attacks. I’ve worked out two endings to this fantasy. First, I fall to the ground as the enraged ursus lunges at me. I huddle under my bike, its alloy frame and sophisticated gears shield me from the bear’s body blows, his claws glancing off the spokes of my wheels. The alternate ending has the beast sprinting to catch me as I shift gears and speed up. The bear lumbers next to my accelerating bike, a look of angry surprise on his face, shocked at my ability to outrace him. With both fantasies, the bear grows weary and sulks back to the underbrush, settling for that unsuspecting runner I spotted a while back. Either way, my bike rescues me from a certain mauling.

I’ve had the bike now for fifty days, and I’ve gone more than 400 miles. I’ve done a bunch of quick rides and a few rides so far from home that I half-expected to see French-Canadians waving cheap American dollars and laughing at me, American tourist biking fool. But last week I finally figured out what road biking is all about.

I was riding on Rollins Road in Hopkinton and been told to look out for three big hills. The first two hills were bad but not horrible, and I expected one more to go before heading home. But after the third came a fourth, and this one was brutal. I changed gears and made my way up, but as I continued, yet another steep hill loomed ahead! Would these hills ever stop? I didn’t have much gas in the tank, and I got so distracted with the fear of heart failure that I didn’t bother getting my gears ready. I slowed to a crawl, my arms and shoulders aching as I pulled against the handlebars and pushed my legs forward. Gasping for breath, I didn’t dare switch gears, too worried I’d pop my chain and teeter over. At this point, the only things breathing were my socks. Just as I was close to wobbling over and down, I found a tiny burst of energy and made it to the top. Within moments, I took a right turn and headed downhill at breakneck speed. My speedometer showed 32 mph, 36 mph, 39 mph! I clung to my bike for dear life, the only things separating me from certain death were two thin tires and my helmet that looks like it came off of Wheelie, the recuperating American Girl doll. Down I went, hurtling towards certain doom when the road evened out. Just as I slowed to breathing speed, Beech Hill Farms appeared like a mirage, its overflowing orders of homemade ice cream beckoning my name. I rode on by – miles to go before I could stop, but I promised myself I’d return to the scene of my near demise and celebrate with ice cream.

If road biking is about anything, it’s about risk and reward. And if I need to risk a serious case of road rash, broken limbs and oxygen depravation in order to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae, I’m ready to ride any time you’d like. You pick the route, and I’ll pick the flavor.

Red Bull and Fisher Cats

Minor League baseball is like America’s goofy uncle - the one on your mom’s side with the wacky voices and crazy hats, those plaid-on-stripes outfits and a belly laugh that makes you smile. Lucky for us, we have such an uncle nearby. Right down Route 3 you’ll find the New Hampshire Fisher Cats, the Eastern League affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays, a team two rungs from the big time located in the heart of Manchester. If the major leagues are “The Show,” then the Fisher Cats are more like an off-off-Broadway event. The on-stage talent may ebb and flow, but it’s always a great time.

I spent a night living the minor league experience as a guest member of the Fisher Cats’ on-field promotions crew. The Fisher Cats met the Portland Sea Dogs, the Red Sox’ double A team on a crisp Friday night, and I had a front-row seat, even though I didn’t do much sitting.

My guide and boss for the evening was Morgan Crandall, a twenty-something Maine native and the Community Relations manager for the Cats. Danielle Matteau, the Fisher Cats’ head of Public Affairs, agreed to let me shadow Morgan and her co-workers as part of the promo team as it led the crowd of 6,500 fans through all sorts of mid-inning on-field hi-jinx.

Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I wanted to be the mascot – just for one game. A single night dressed as a cartoon fisher cat - a large, dark-brown North American arboreal, carnivorous mammal - would be something I’d brag about for decades, but Danielle demurred. Besides, the team already has a more than capable mascot in Slider. And after seeing Slider sweat his stubby brown tail off for nine innings of baseball, I’m confident I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill.

I arrive at the park two hours before game time to meet Morgan, and we start walking at a fast clip while Morgan talks. I scramble to keep up, a theme that repeats itself for the next six hours. In the time it takes us to walk from the right field foul pole to behind home plate, I learn this is Morgan’s third Eastern League team in three years; after college in Virginia, where she majored in sports management, Morgan “couldn’t imagine not working in sports once I graduated,” she says as we turbo-stroll the concourse. Morgan is a force of pure energy! She says hello to everyone we pass, directing employees and interns while greeting season ticket holders and harried birthday party parents. Morgan introduces me to both Bernie Carbo and Rico Petrocelli while collecting waivers from the Cub Scout color guard and ensuring the crowd of ceremonial first pitchers is ready to go all the while sharing, in exacting detail, about the Eastern League All-Star game taking place in mid July right here at the stadium. “That’s my thing; I’m organizing it,” she announces with pride.

The game starts in ninety minutes, and I’m already exhausted. There’s no way Morgan can keep this pace up - she’ll be toast by the seventh inning stretch! But there’s no time for idle thoughts. We need a little girl for the fireworks promo, and while we scan the crowd, Morgan tells Luke the summer intern to, “Look for cute.” Luke, a college student from Indiana, is one of the twenty-two interns the Cats hire each summer. Luke says little, stunned by the rapid-fire directions Morgan shoots his way. I don’t know about Luke, but I’m getting chest pains just watching her work. “Try doing this for nineteen days straight,” Morgan says to me, smiling.

It’s 6:20, and first pitch is minutes away. We move onto the field. A dozen kids from a local taekwondo school jump, shout, and kick in red and white outfits to pulsating music as Michaela Sweet, Morgan’s cohort, the team’s marketing manager and on-field emcee paces back and forth. The kids howl, breaking boards with their hands and feet on the first-base side of the field. Michaela is inches away from getting a pre-teen foot to the head, but she’s unfazed. I guess once you’ve been in the minor league baseball promotions business for six years like her, one gaggle of yelping, frenzied pint-sized warriors is like any other. Even as the nunchuks come out, Michaela is unconcerned.

As I stand on the field, a giant tooth uses an oversized toothbrush to clean off home plate. Slider hurls balls into the crowd while dozens of Jays and Clam Kings - local little leaguers - play catch on the infield. Morgan commands the scene like General Patton at a traffic stop, giving the Cub Scout color guard instructions. I’m afraid to move a muscle - I’m either gonna get a nunchuk to the noggin, an errant Clam King cutoff throw to the ear, or Super Tooth will mock my gingivitis, so I stay motionless by the dugout.

Then, in an instant, a youngster belts out the National Anthem, the Scouts present the colors, the Clam Kings run off the field, the first ball throwers do their thing, and the game begins. I feel like we’re already in extra innings, and not a single pitch’s been thrown. Morgan never skips a beat. In the first two innings, she arranges a successful scoreboard-announced engagement (“Kelly, will you marry me? Alan”), sets up and judges a gunny sack race for a box of cereal between two pint-size girls, and preps for the Build a Burger event.

Underneath the stands, Morgan corrals the two burger builders, gulping a Red Bull as she talks. Maybe this is the source of her boundless momentum, but she’s been working non-stop for hours already, and this energy drink might actually be calming her down. Either way, she is cheery, focused and does a nice job of thanking both bun and burger for participating.

It’s the third inning, and we’re standing in the corner of the Sea Dogs’ dugout. The sumo competitors, Morgan, Michaela, and I are clustered together, drawing no attention from the players, which is a good thing. My one chance to interact with the future stars of the Red Sox, and I’m helping a man velcro himself into an enormous non-breathable fat suit. The inning ends, the wrestlers flop around for ninety seconds, and we’re onto “Race the Mascot” in another three outs.

Eight-year old Megan is racing Slider tonight, and she beats him by a whisker to the applause of the crowd. Morgan congratulates Megan and hustles off to change into an elf costume for next inning’s Santa’s Village promo. Never knowing if the inning will be over in three pitches or, in the case of tonight’s game, forty pitches, two pitching changes, one error and five runs, means Morgan and her cast must be ready immediately. Elfin magic Morgan and her Santa sidekick perform with gusto, giving away a scooter to a lucky fan.

It’s the seventh inning, and I give Morgan the slip and sit down to watch some baseball. The Sea Dogs lead 14-8 in front of a thinning crowd. Out of nowhere, the Fisher Cats manager throws a fit, directing a tirade at the home plate umpire, his tanned face turning purple-red with anger as he screams at the man in blue. He gets tossed and is followed by the Cats’ hitting coach, who yells all sorts of adult-only adjectives until he too is asked to leave. It’s a bit unsettling when two of the oldest people in the park act like complete babies, but if you had to wear stretch pants, an athletic supporter and do nothing more aerobic than spit sunflower seeds, you’d be a blown call away from snapping too.

Just when I think the promos are done, a group of interns gathers on the concourse to prep for the 8th inning ”Cha Cha Slide” dugout dance, wearing food-themed costumes. I’m not sure what they’re promoting, but if bananas, hot sauce, Tootsie Rolls, ketchup and tomato soup are the ingredients, I’m not taking a bite.

Friday night is Fireworks night for the Fisher Cats fans, and the moment the game ends, Morgan and Michaela waste no time kicking off the finale. Morgan leads a little girl onto the field, Michaela introduces her with an energetic voice, the girl drops the pretend detonator, and fireworks fill the Manchester night sky.

This is my cue to call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t even look up at what sounds like quite a show. As I leave the field, I see Morgan in a dead sprint, off to hammer out final details on another task. In ten hours, she and the rest of the entire Fisher Cats organization will be right back here to do it all over again. Let’s hope there’s enough Red Bull to go around.

In the Cards

So this guy shows up at a psychic’s office without an appointment. The psychic opens the door to her office and says, “I’ve been expecting you!” Before the other night, that joke summed up my appreciation for the world of psychic powers. That and some creepy memories of run-ins with the Ouija Board as a child. And the Drew Barrymore movie when she uses her mind to set fire to anyone who gives her the stink eye, although I always figured she just never got enough love from her stage mom, and, deep down, she was really a nice little telekinetic second grader. Michelle Beauregard changed all that for me. And contrary to popular myth, psychics do require appointments. I made mine for this past Monday night and arrived at Michelle’s office in Center Barnstead with nothing but a “clear mind,” at her suggestion.

I’m here for what Michelle calls an “intuitive reading.” I’ve never done anything like this before and have no expectations, except a vague sense that she’ll spill the beans about my future. As I sit down, my only hope is that I don’t learn that I’ll die in the claws of an enraged giant marsupial, and I definitely don’t need her telling me that she sees me fatter, balder and shorter in my waning years. I don’t need a psychic to tell me - the mirror works just fine for that.

Michelle sits me down, and as she picks up a small crystal and holds it in her hands, she asks me to select a pack of cards from a broad assortment. “Look them over,” she tells me, “and choose the pack you’re drawn to.” I feel no energy emanating from the cards, although that pack on the end looks kinda cool so I grab it. “Those are the Shape Shifter cards,” she tells me as I shuffle them into three stacks. Michelle takes the stack I point to and lays out three rows of six cards each. The drawings on these cards are not what I expected. With titles like “Legacy,” “Success,” “Loneliness,” and “Sorcerer,” the cards look like the album cover concepts Ronnie James Dio rejected for his greatest hits compilation. But there’s no time to think about the breakup of Black Sabbath because Michelle launches into what she sees or feels about me and my energy through the eighteen cards on the table between us.

Michelle is a thirty-year old mother of two, a shamballa reiki master and psychic whose been doing this kind of work full-time for two years. “I’ve always been intrigued by tarot cards, ever since I was a kid,” she says. “And then once I learned reiki and the energy work around it, I heightened my senses and really started to do card readings for people outside my friends and family.” (Check her out at www.theinnateinyou.com) I’m pretending I know even the first thing about tarot cards, and before tonight I would have guessed that shamballa reiki was some sort of bean curd dish served with fresh vegetables, as in “Yum, this shamballa reiki tastes swell with a nice cold glass of soy milk!” But I’ve since learned that it’s a form of holistic healing that focuses on the energy inside of us, and reiki masters use their hands to help channel the energy into the right spots to fix whatever’s ailing you.

What’s ailing me first, apparently, is the fact that I could use a little more money. Michelle feels a “heavy weight” pressing down on her as she focuses in on the card, which, I’m presuming, shows a gas pump and Concord tax bill, but as I look, I think I see a man’s head on a piggy bank, and the man is weeping. Considering it cost me $47 for half a tank of gas to get here, I’d say Michelle is right on target. Holding up the card titled, “The Moon,” she goes on to say a few very insightful things about my wife’s family, which, for the sake of harmonious holiday dinners to come, I’ll keep to myself.

Most of what Michelle tells me is spot-on. She knows that my family owns a cabin in the woods up north and that my mom loves the solitude of it, often spending time there alone. She nails it when she describes my job and what might lie in store for me, although her insistence that there is a 5’10” woman “with long legs, blonde curly hair with either heavy eye makeup or eye glasses” who has a lot to do with my future career success is a tad unnerving. And her description of my wife as “The Sacred Flame,” full of talent, potential and “untapped spiritual energy” is something I commit to memory immediately for future use at the appropriate time.
Michelle barely takes a breath, except for occasional sips of water, and she juggles the crystal in her hands, her eyes glazing over a bit as she moves from card to card. I really have no idea how she’s doing what she’s doing, and her sunny face, her great laugh and the ease with which she seems to be capturing pieces of my past and present and turning them into a puzzle for my future is compelling and comforting.

Not all the news is good. She takes a while explaining how one of my siblings will get into some trouble at work, and how I will be the “guiding light” to help him or her (I’d rather not share) make it through the dark times. She intimates that this sibling’s done something bad, so, just in case, I’m on caller ID high alert at home, my copies of ethical and/or criminal codes handy for quick reference. And then there’s just plain odd. Michelle swears my family and I are soon to see a dinner theater version of the Disney movie “Mulan,” but I honestly have to say we’d need to be forced at sword point to do such a thing. Maybe a meatball sub and a DVD of the movie, but “Mushu and Friends on Ice” isn’t in the cards for us, even though it seems to be for her.

The hour flies by, and Michelle tells me a lot of information about myself, the choices I’ve made, the regrets I have and how my future and my family’s future is generally very bright. Granted, I didn’t need her to tell me that my wife and I are happy together, but it’s sure nice to get the validation, even if it’s based on a stranger’s interpretation of a playing card with a drawing of a scantily-clad woman-lioness hybrid frolicking with a cloven-hoofed man-beast playing a lute and laughing to the sky. The weird thing is that is exactly what we’re wearing for Halloween next year. Coincidence? I think not.

Karaoke Krimes

You self-confident people have all the fun - always smiling, with lots of healthy-looking hair, using your fingers like pretend pistols as you point, chuckle and say, “Hey there, buddy!” because you have no idea what my name is, and buddy will work just fine. Well, my name is Tim, and I could use a little more self-confidence. But how? Extra smiling seems creepy, and the only place I’m growing hair at my age is on my ears; I could call more people “buddy,” but buddy’s really a dog’s name. After some thought, I decided the fastest way to earn more of this elusive character trait was to spend a night in public, singing for a bunch of strangers. And nothing says “strangers” and “singing,” like karaoke, so I invited a few friends and headed to the local bar to check it out.

Karaoke’s origins are disputed – some claim it was a bunch of besotted Japanese salarymen filling in for a missing performer; others say it was a Japanese bar singer who coaxed the drunken patrons to join him in singing; and others contend it started during Japan’s feudal era when the Samurai would drink boxes of sake and sing to relieve their stress from carrying around such heavy swords in their pajamas.

My wife and I meet our Massachusetts friends Erika and Kojo in the basement pub of Chen Yang Li in Bow. There were no more than ten people on this Thursday night, and most of them are focused on basketball and not on Rick the KJ in the corner. Rick runs “Rick’s Good Time Karaoke” where it’s suggested on his song request forms that we “Come be the star that you are!”

In the interests of full disclosure, I’ll share that I’ve arrived with a few beers already in my belly – the history of this activity stresses alcohol as a key element, and earlier in the week, my co-worker Kelly explained in Rule Four of Kelly’s Five Rules of Quality Karaoke that, “The only way to get up there and do karaoke is to do it drunk!” Kelly knows a lot about karaoke, enough for me to commit her Five Rules to memory. I get myself a cold draft, find a table for my wife and friends and prep for a night of self-confident singing.

The bar has the feel of a cantina at a forced labor camp. One couple picks over a plate of chicken wings while a guy in a red hat gives us a look that says, “Don’t even think about singing.” I grab a binder of song choices from Rick’s gear, and Erika and I pour over the pages. Neither Kojo nor my wife will be singing - they’ve our designated drivers tonight, which is a good thing based on how fast that beer just went down.

As I select my first song, Kelly’s Rule One comes to mind: “Pick a song you really love and know all the words.” The song binder is massive – choosing between Mel Tillis, Motorhead and the Monkees is harder than you think. While I keep looking, Erika bounds up front, and Rick announces, “Let’s hear it for Erika!” Other than us, no one gives Erika a second thought, but with the first sounds of her voice, everything changes. “I’ve been cheated, been mistreated. When will I be loved?” Erika sings, and everyone in the bar stops to listen. As she continues, it’s as if Linda Ronstadt herself came in for mu shu takeout, heard a commotion and grabbed the mic. Erika’s voice is full, sweet and sultry, and when she sings, “It happens every time!” the crowd is hers and hers alone. The song moves into the instrumental break, and I’m so mesmerized by my friend’s beautiful voice that I don’t remember Kelly’s Rule Three (“Never, ever speak the words ‘Instrumental Break’ when they flash on the screen. It’s not funny.”) No need to because Erika is gently swaying to the rhythm while we wait in rapt anticipation for the finale. She delivers, and the crowd loves it. Rick’s smiling, and Mr. Red Hat is hooting, giving Erika a high five as she sits down. Everyone applauds.

The pressure! The crowd will be expecting brilliance after that debut, and I hustle up front. I’ve chosen Lynrd Skynrd’s rollicking tribute to the flirtatious coward in all men - “Gimme Three Steps.” After thirty years of singing that song to myself, I know the words and belt it out, using hand gestures to emphasize phrases like, “And he was looking for you-know-who,” and “Wait a minute mister, I didn’t even kiss her, don’t want no trouble with you,” and the crowd at least seems unoffended. I finish to tepid but noticeable applause. I can feel the confidence flowing a bit, or maybe that’s the hops and barley. Either way, this is fun.

Erika’s up again, choosing Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.” The crowd hangs on every note from her throaty, precise voice, and when she croons, “I might’ve saved a little trouble for the next girl,” the smiles on the faces of two women closest to Erika, both deep into matching goblets of white wine, are huge. As Erika sits, another woman walks over and says, “That was beautiful. Did you see my man split for the bathroom when you started singing that one? Ha!” Erika’s voice – so good it forces cheating men to run for cover.

I’m up next and take a risk, choosing “Hit Me with Your Best Shot,” a Pat Benatar staple. I thought about “Hell is for Children,” but remember Kelly’s Rule Two: “Karaoke is much more fun when the audience knows the song.” I can see one of the Chardonnay Twins laugh as I begin. It’s better than expected, although my voice sounds more like Alvin the Chipmunk going through puberty than Pat Benatar in her heyday. But Alvin never sang lines like, “Before I put another notch in my lipstick case, you better make sure you put me in my place.” The crowd approves, and the Chardonnay Twins love every minute of it - even Mr. Red Hat throws me a high five. Maybe I wasn’t so bad after all.

This really is fun. Granted, catching lawn darts is lots of laughs after six quick beers, but something tells me I’m OK at this. I decide the best way to win the crowd over and nail this self-confidence thing is to duet with Erika! This fulfills Kelly’s Rule Five – “A team effort is a good thing,” and we choose Elton John’s and Kiki Dee’s, “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” We walk arm in arm to the front, and I’m ready to blow ‘em all away. But right out of the gate, I can’t find the tune, and my voice sounds like Peter Brady during his “Time to Change” phase while Erika’s performance demands everyone in the room strikes the mere memory of Kiki Dee’s now-pedestrian voice from our minds forever. We continue, and I hear something in the sparse crowd. Just before we finish, I realize Mr. Red Hat is shouting at me. “You stink! Stop singing. You’re ruining it!” he yells, leaning over as we walk by, saying to my wife, “That guy was lousy but the lady was awesome!” Wow – heckled by one seventh of the crowd. I’m not sure if Kelly has a secret Rule Six, but I’m betting “Expect to get heckled in front of your wife and friends,” is not it.

We sit down and think about heading home when the taller of the Chardonnay Twins ambles by, the wine edging over the lip of her glass and announces to Erika, “You have a voice of pure gold. You got to do something with it. I’ve seen every episode of American Idol, and you are way better than every one of them.” Erika is gracious, brushing off the compliments, but Chardonnay Sister One persists. “What are you doing in Concord, New Hampshire? You are too good for this place. Promise me you’ll do something with your voice. Promise me,” she says, touching Erika’s arm. Erika promises, and Chardonnay Sister One stumbles away, content her role as local dream catcher is complete.I sit and watch this unfold, realizing my voice, on the other hand, is not too good for Concord (or Bow, Penacook or Hooksett, for that matter), and I’m OK with it. This self-confidence thing is gonna take some time, and I’ve got just the right song list to get me there. But next time, I’m going solo, avoiding Elton John and doubling up on the beers. I’m pretty confident about that.

A Fish(less) Story

It’s just before sunrise on a frigid February Sunday morning, and I’m standing on a frozen lake. It’s still dark, although the sun is starting to make its way up and out over the trees behind me. My guide for the morning, Ben Nugent, a thirty year-old biologist for Fish and Game, finishes pulling his sled, packed with the tools we’ll need for a day of ice fishing. I met Ben about twenty minutes ago, right near Mosquito Bridge outside Tilton. The first thing he said to me was, “This is the coldest morning I’ve fished this year,” and now, standing in the middle of Lake Winnisquam, wearing six layers of clothes, two pairs of pants, two pairs of socks and foot warmers inside my boots, I believe him. The cold takes my breath away, reminding me that it sure was warm in my bed about an hour ago, where I still could be, snug and cozy as I dream of soft tropical breezes and warm sand between my toes.
My imaginary vacation is interrupted by the whine of the gas-powered ice augur that Ben’s man-handling as he drills a hole into the ice. Water gushes out as Ben kicks the slush and ice away and drills another hole. My guess is that the fundamentals of ice fishing haven’t changed much since our ancestors realized that salted squirrel meat gets pretty tired around mid January. You cut a hole in the ice, you bait a hook, you drop the hook into the hole, and you wait. A few days before Ben cautioned me that even though he’s picked out a sure-fire winning spot for us, “There are no guarantees” we’ll catch anything, but as I watch him set up the shelter and cut the bait, I have a feeling I’m in the hands of a pro, and if I can prevent myself from freezing to death or falling through the ice, I might just be eating fish for dinner tonight.
I’m not much of a fisherman. To-date, my greatest achievement as an angler is getting a three-pronged lure stuck in my ten-year old belly while yanking it from a sunken log only to be followed twelve years later by a mid-river mishap in Montana when I learned that fly fishing waders filled with gallons of Bighorn River water make for a hilarious, near-lethal combination. And prior to today, the thought of ice fishing reminded me only of the joke about how the ice fisherman died (he got himself run over by the Zamboni), but with thousands of fishable bodies of water across New Hampshire, I decided it was time to hit the ice and see what the frigid fuss was all about.
Ben’s from northern New Hampshire, and after two years of college, he abandoned his plan of becoming a pharmacist. “A life under fluorescent lights was not for me,” he adds as he divvies up the sucker meat. Ben is a conservation biologist for New Hampshire Fish and Game. “My job is to look for and study endangered fish populations for the state and help towns make good decisions about how to protect them,” Ben explains. And when he says things like, “Trawlin’ on Winni,” and “Jigging for lakers,” he says them with such casual conviction that I’m convinced this man knows more about fish and fishing than I could ever hope to. Besides, anyone who utters the sentence, “Black crappie makes great eating,” with a straight face deserves my respect.
We’re now seated in the temporary shelter – sort of a bob house on the fly. The thick plywood base has two hatches in the floor, and Ben’s positioned them just above the holes he’s drilled. He then unveils his baby, or as he calls it, “My $350 fishing buddy,” a state-of-the-art depth and fish finder. Ben drops the cable sensor down the hole, and we see how deep the water is and where the fish are. “Without this, you’re fishing blind,” he says, which sums up every attempt I’ve ever had at fishing until today.
Ben hands me a small rod with a simple lure and a piece of sucker meat on it. I watch as he cuts more of the meat and puts it into what looks like a small copper bell at the end of another rod. “It’s time to chum the holes,” he explains as he puts three or four pieces of bait into the bell, latches the bottom and drops it into my hole. Ben tells me that it’s a chum bucket, and I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve heard that term before, but only during Spongebob Squarepants, drawing even greater attention to the fact I’ve got lots to learn.
We watch the bucket descend on the depth finder’s small screen, and just as it reaches fifty-five feet and the bottom, Ben yanks the line to release the bucket’s bottom to let the chum fall to the floor. Our target today is lake trout, a robust species that’s found in most lakes across the state. I learn that any trout we keep has to be at least eighteen inches long and that trout love smelt. Ben waxes poetic about the smelt, about how they’re key to the health of the larger fish in the lake. “The trout and the salmon eat smelt, so we need smelt for the other fish to thrive,” Ben tells me. I had no idea how important smelt were to the entire operation, and Ben continues, telling me the smelt population in Lake Winnisquam is healthy and plentiful. I think we’ve dumped enough of it at the bottom of our holes to host a trout-only, all-you-can-eat “smeltasbord,” but so far, the fish ignore us.
Ben’s fish finder shows nothing except our lines in the water and an occasional fish or two. We’ve been out here for about two hours already and nothing’s biting except the cold air. Ben suggests that the chum left behind by the bob house owners in the distance might have helped our trout lose their appetites or that last weekend’s fishing derby may have played a role. Either way, we’re having no luck, and Ben decides to find a new spot. Within minutes he’s drilled two new holes, and we’re soon seated in our cozy shelter, rods in hand, and fresh chum down the holes.
One thing I can tell you about ice fishing when the fish aren’t biting is that you spend a lot of time talking about other things. Ben saw John Hiatt and Lyle Lovett at the Capitol Theater last weekend, and I really liked George Clooney in the film, Michael Clayton. The sub-prime housing market issue is a big problem, and the New York Mets will play their last season at Shea this summer. I once saw an otter in the lake when I was a kid, and did you know that otters will eat only the eyes and brains of salmon that are caught in Fish and Game’s nets? We talk Red Sox, mink, bald eagles and fish. We discuss the state of fishing on Winnipesaukee (great) and the future of the Bridal Shiner (not great). We talk about how ugly the cusk is and about how last summer a renegade pickerel in Merrimack nipped at campers’ feet as they swam, and that the Round White is a very rare fish in New Hampshire and lives only in Newfound Lake.
“We might get skunked today,” Ben laments. We try another strategy and go back to the original holes and bait a hook on a “tip up,” a contraption that sits over the hole with a baited line at the end and a flag that snaps up the moment there’s any tug on the line. Ben sets it, and we head back to our holes.
It’s around 10 AM and we’ve been out here for four hours. Just then, Ben sees the raised flag on the tip up, and we jog over to see what we’ve caught. Ben can’t believe it – the flag’s up but there’s nothing on the end of our line, just remnants of the sucker meat. Apparently we’re the only suckers out here today. Back in the shelter, our time running out, we even try dumping the carcass of the sucker fish Ben filleted last night to entice our recalcitrant foes, but it’s frozen, and the sucker’s head bobs on the surface of my hole, its dead eyes staring through me, mocking my incompetence.
Just before we quit, we’ve fallen back into silence when Ben murmurs, “You’ve got a lake trout right underneath you.” I reel the bait gently upward, hoping the fish will forget the free food we gave him and attack my strings-attached snack. But he’s too smart, too full or too jaded for my shenanigans, and he swims away, leaving us fishless.
You might call five hours sitting on a block of ice in the frigid winter air with no fish to show for it the definition of failure, but I’m not so sure. How often do you get to learn all sorts of things from a man who’s an expert in his field and have fun doing it? And there are worse places to spend a Sunday morning than in the great outdoors. Besides, what’s a little frostbite among new fishing buddies?

"The Fat Man's Candy" or "How Cheese Changed my Life"

The holidays are over, and as I look in the mirror, I see a flabbier version of myself staring back, a look of confused anxiety on my face as I realize what six weeks of over-indulgence can do to a man. This year was gonna be different – this was the year I stayed away from third helpings of the festive pecan sugar log, rejected another lap around the buffet table, the year I avoided the face-first forays into the creamy Frito-laden dip. That plan ended the minute the eighth swan went a’ swimming, unfortunately, leaving me swollen, sullen and looking for the ghost of Jack Lalanne, and he isn’t even dead yet. When New Year’s Day rolled around, I seized upon the first day of the New Year as the perfect time to right my ways.
But then the cheese called. Well, not the cheese itself but the cheesemonger, dashing my hopes for a slimmer future. Cheesemonger? What in the name of Cheez Whiz is a cheesemonger, you ask. Until two weeks ago I too had no idea, but any job that features cheese in the title can’t be all that bad, so I went to learn more, casting my weight loss plan aside like an unopened Absizer.
There are those who care more about the Doodle than the Cheez, who consider cheese a sidekick and nothing more. Then there are those who see cheese for the glorious creation it is, finding a partially filled glass of milk and caring nothing about the half-empty versus half-full argument, demanding only to know what moron blew the chance to turn that milk into cheese. I love cheese not as the corner man but as the main event - the Muhammad Ali of the meal rather than the Bundini Brown. Cheese, I believe, is the pinnacle of human existence, the reason for life itself, and the only real thing that separates us from our simian cousins. Cheese – the fat man’s candy, milk’s leap into immortality – it has many names, each of them beautiful. I will never have enough cheese.
I enter Butter’s on Main Street in Concord, and Keith Dickey is standing there, waiting for me, a look of detached determination on his face. He greets me and hands me an apron. “Are you ready to work,” he asks with a wry smile. Keith’s been the proprietor of Butter’s since he opened its doors in the summer of 2006. After years as an archaeologist and then an investment banker in Manhattan, Keith, his wife and daughter moved to Concord, and soon after he poured all that archaeology money into Butter’s, creating a destination for cheese lovers across the Granite state.
After a quick tour of the store, a beautifully renovated space with exposed brick, cases teeming with cheese and fancy meats (think prosciutto, not porterhouse), shelves stacked with gourmet snacks, crackers, oils and wine, Keith gestures to an enormous wheel of cheese resting on a butcher’s block table in the store’s front foyer. “You’re going to cut that up,” he says and points to a table nearby covered in cheeses of all sizes. “And then we’ll tackle those.” I’m reminded of the line from the film, Field of Dreams, when Kevin Costner’s dad asks, “Is this heaven?” I expect Keith to read my mind and respond, “No, Tim, this is a cheese shop,” but he just smiles and gets me working on the wheel.
My first job as a cheesemonger, or one who sells cheese, is to cut it before I can sell it. The title of cheesemonger, I later realize, is a more unofficial one, like “parade grand marshal” or “celebrity spokesmodel,” except that this requires fewer decorative sashes and more skill. Keith introduces me to a beautiful wheel of Parmigiano Reggiano, and we wipe it down to remove the excess oil. He explains that this 80 lb. wheel of Italian cow’s milk cheese has aged for at least two years, its birthday burned into its rind. He offers a quick lesson in how to open it. I learn that a true cheesemonger never cuts this wheel; rather he breaks it into pieces slowly, using a set of special tools – a cross between spackling trowels and fancy hood ornaments. Within seconds my heart rate’s racing as I drive the tools inch by inch into the massive circle. A small crowd gathers – it’s not every day you see a small man wrestling with a large wheel of expensive cheese – and as I twist the tools in the opposite direction, the wheel opens and the most amazing smell releases into the air, drawing the three or four onlookers closer. Keith offers us a taste of the uneven shards, and the cheese explodes with flavor. It’s sweet, salty, robust and delicate. Parts of it crunch like candy as others melt softly in my mouth. Keith stands back as we each seem to be discovering this cheese for the first time, blown away by its aroma, texture and taste.
But I’m here to work, so I keep cutting, the halves into quarters, the quarters into eighths and so on until Keith and his team wrap the cheese into sections for selling. Next up we attack what looks like a curling puck, and I learn it’s an Ascutney Mountain cheese from Vermont, its slightly hard texture yellow with the milk of the jersey cows that’ve had a hand in its production. Its taste is dense and rich, not quite as intense as the Parmigiano but subtler, more subdued.
We finish with the Ascutney Mountain, and Keith gives me a lesson in wrapping. “True cheesemongers take special care to wrap cheese the right way,” Keith explains as he shows me the correct technique. “You don’t want any wrinkles – the ghost effect is the goal,” he says as he deftly wraps a half-wheel of the cheese we’ve cut without a single fold in the plastic wrap to be seen.
I continue cutting, first a soft Fourme D’Ambert, using a wire to slice it into two large discs, then use a double-handled, 24-inch blade to open a five-year old huge wheel of Gouda, its smokiness shattering my taste buds as I pop the gleaned remnants in my mouth. We talk cheese as I work.
At this point, I feel like the Trekkie at a Star Trek convention who’s wandered into Leonard Nimoy in the men’s room and struck up a conversation about the episode where Abe Lincoln and Captain Kirk band together to fight Genghis Khan and the Klingons. Keith tells me about the foundations of cheese making (“It’s all about the milk,”) and how there are strict rules governing around selling cheese made with raw versus pasteurized milk. Keith says things like, “My Stilton is stuck in the harbor,” “You don’t want bleu on your cheddar,” and, “Notice the piquant flavor.” And by the time he describes the “mushroomy nuttiness of Brie,” I feel like my older sister during her Leif Garrett stage, listening to his record as she flips the pages of Tiger Beat with Leif shirtless on the cover. Dreamy.
Keith continues, tells me about the role of rennet, the enzyme essential to the cheese making process. He explains how bacteria is to cheese what Big Papi is to the Red Sox – the critical element that turns regular milk into a winner. I learn that bleu cheese’s mold comes from penicillin and that the crust on the outside of a nice wheel of Brie is all mold as well. “All cheeses are living, breathing things,” Keith explains as I cram another fistful of soft Brie in my mouth. I can barely form sentences now I’ve eaten so much cheese, and when Keith offers me a few sips of wine he’d been sampling earlier, I might not make it home in one piece. We say our goodbyes, and as I leave, my hands and shoulders sore from the cutting and opening, my New Year’s resolution is in tatters. But I don’t care. Weight may come and go but cheese is eternal.