Suspenders. I’m standing among rocks encrusted in thick rime ice on the tallest peak in New England, the wind whips against my body, and I can see the Atlantic Ocean in the distance. Turning around I spy distant lakes (Winnipesauke and Sebago), ski mountains (Gunstock, Attitash, Wildcat and Shawnee Peak, to name a few), and ranges in Vermont and New York. The scenery is almost too much to describe. But the only word that comes to mind is “suspenders.”
There is nothing like a wind chill of minus 28 degrees on your backside to remind you to add suspenders to your birthday wish list. The wind has a habit of finding any exposed skin, and my pants, I’m realizing, need a little adjusting to account for this bitter cold that would turn any plumber’s smile into a frostbitten frown in seconds.
It’s been close to five hours since we started this day, down at the base of Mount Washington. Eight of us signed up for a Winter Day Trip with the Mount Washington Observatory, and our guide, Jeff DeRosa is pointing out the clouds over the Gulf of Maine, far off to the east. We’re next to him along the south edge of the summit - the Observatory, communication towers and buildings are behind us, and Jeff’s explaining rime ice. “It’s frozen fog – the suspended water in the clouds freeze on the first thing it comes in contact with, so what you’re standing on isn’t snow – it’s rime ice.” The rocks, buildings, wires, poles and signs are coated in a brilliant white. Rime ice looks like ivory coral, patterns of prisms, swirls and clusters blanketing everything we see. And if I don’t hike up my pants, I’ll be taking some rime ice home with me.
Jeff’s a fantastic guide. He met us earlier down at the base of the Auto Road where we rendezvoused for this Observatory-sponsored journey. The Day Trip is part of the Observatory’s mission to “Advance understanding of the natural systems that create the Earth’s weather and climate.” The first thing Jeff said to us was, “It’s cold today!” When a guy who’s spent most of his adult winters either on the summit of Mount Washington or at the South Pole (average temperature minus 100 degrees) tells you it’s cold, you better be prepared.
This group, a family trio from Maine, a pair from Vermont and a few of us from the Granite State, is covered head to toe in gear. I’m wearing six layers on my upper body, three on my legs, a neck warmer, balaclava for my head and face, a hat, glove liners and gloves, two pair of thick socks and fancy winter mountaineering boots that look like footwear for the stylish Mars explorer of the future.
We load up the huge white Snow Cat, a boxy tractor/truck that rides on thick treads, sports a massive grader/plow in the front and seats each of us in heated comfort. Our driver, Pete Roberts, steers the Cat towards the Auto Road entrance, and we head up. Mount Adams looms above to our right, its white peak stark against the brilliant blue sky.
Pete makes a few stops along the eight mile trek upward. At each stop, we marvel at the view and at the fact that the weather’s quite good for a mountain that boasts “the world’s worst weather.” Jeff tells us how today is “not typical. This is rare. We’re normally walking in clouds. We never get sunny days like this,” he says. Most of us ditch hats and gloves, but something tells me it won’t last. Twenty minutes later we pull over, the tree line a distant memory. The Auto Road snakes back and forth above us, and the wind makes me take notice. I leave the shelter of the Snow Cat, and the cold air smacks me in the face.
We arrive at the summit, and Jeff and Pete hustle us into the main entrance, off-limit to the half-dozen hikers who’re milling around out of the wind’s reach. They all walked up here today, putting their crampons and ice axes to good use. I admit feeling a little guilty as I complain about how chilly it is while walking past. One guy’s eating handfuls of gorp, his face a mixture of exhaustion, elation and determination.
We remove our outer layers and head down to the living quarters. We meet the two volunteers, Steve Moore and Pat Luddy, who’ve made us turkey vegetable soup. The warm broth is perfect. Steve’s been volunteering on the summit for more than thirteen years, and Pat, a retired doctor and hospital administrator from New Haven, tells me he looks forward to this week in the winter more than any other in the year. Volunteers arrive on a Wednesday and stay for seven nights, cooking for the Weather Observatory’s staff and visitors like us. “This week’s been amazing,” Pat says. “We’ve had every kind of weather you can imagine.” To his left I can see a screen showing the current weather outside. The wind’s around 45 mph, and the wind chill’s close to minus 30. We need to keep our voices down – one of the Observers is asleep. The Weather Center runs non-stop, all day every day, and the Observers and one intern take turns sleeping while the others record the weather and maintain the instruments.
After lunch, we add our layers and head to the Observation Tower, the highest point of the Observatory and the “center of our weather collection,” as Jeff says. We walk out onto the circular platform and feel the wind push against us. It’s my turn at the top of the tower, and I climb up a metal ladder to a small turret, the Pitot tube anemometer perched above me, collecting the wind speed. At this moment, I’m literally on top of the world, or at least on top of New England. Later, Jeff tells me that the staff has to climb out here hourly when the clouds come in to knock off the rime ice that builds up on the instruments. “The ice can grow about eight inches an hour, so we use crowbars to knock it off. It can get pretty intense.”
On the drive up, Jeff told us about the Century Club. Membership to this club requires Observatory members to walk upright and unaided the entire length of the building’s promenade in sustained winds of at least 100 mph – up and back. Considering I was teetering in wind speeds less than half that strength, I can only imagine how hard it must be to earn that merit badge.
After more than two hours outside, Jeff takes us in for a cup of coffee and a tour of the Weather Center. The Observatory’s Weather Center’s been an official part of Mount Washington for more than 80 years. We see what could be “The US Wind Gust Hall of Fame” along one wall. Plaques commemorate some of the most memorable gusts ever recorded on the planet, from the July 1996 blast of 154 mph to the December 1980wind speed of 182 mph, equal to a Category 5 Hurricane.
“Just wind, baby!” ought to be the observatory’s slogan. Wind speeds are recorded on a Hays Wind Chart, which looks like a slow-moving paper turntable mounted on the wall. Each day’s wind is recorded on a circle of graph paper, a red marker recording the wind at exact intervals. “The farther away the red gets from the center, the stronger the wind,” explains Jeff. Glancing over his shoulder at the 1980 Hall of Fame entry, I witness the jagged red lines screaming out from the center of the graph, reaching the circle’s outer ring on what must have been quite a day for kite flying.
Jeff shows us a massive topographical map on the wall, explaining why the wind’s so ferocious up here. “If you look at Mount Washington, you can see how the hills to the northwest help create a funnel, forcing the wind up the valley towards the summit.” Mount Washington’s really at the top of nature’s New England wind tunnel.
We’re keeping our voices down as Rick Giard, one of the Observatory’s weather observers, delivers a distance learning session via webcam to a classroom somewhere far away. We can hear Rick explain how temperature, wind, barometric pressure and other measures are captured hourly and shared with the world. Rick finishes the broadcast and points out that today’s highest wind was 68 mph. “It was 122 last week, and yesterday we had 95 mile an hour winds. That’s when you know about kinetic energy!” At that moment I wish I’d paid more attention in 11th grade physics class. “This is like a 6,000-foot weather balloon,” Rick says as he waves goodbye and heads out, his entire body covered to protect himself from the elements. Marty, the Observatory’s official pet cat, licks itself on a nearby table and seems unimpressed.
The sun starts to slip down towards the western horizon, and it’s time to go. Jeff herds us back towards the Snow Cat after we bundle up again. It’s a quick walk to the Cat, and the temperature’s dropping. Our ride down goes quickly. Pete keeps the rig close to the edge, and huge chunks of snow and ice tumble down the mountainside as we lumber along. We’re mostly silent as the road cuts through the trees as we head towards the base.
Pete pulls to a stop, the group disperses, and within minutes everyone’s gone. The sun’s almost set, winter’s gray gloom takes over, and finally the wind’s died down. I’m exhausted but content, knowing I had a short taste of raw winter.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Shelter from the Storm
“What’s your name?” he asks me, his eyes half-closed from a long day of drinking. He extends his hand, the knuckles covered in scabs, a deep gash across the bridge of his nose, remnants of what must have been quite a scrap. We shake hands, and I join him on the bench, handing him a cup of black coffee. “I’m Erik – nice to know you,” he says as he takes a tentative sip from the mug.
Erik arrived over an hour ago with his friend Mark, who’d all but carried Erik inside, too drunk to walk on his own. Mark talked to him gently, promising him a bed to sleep things off. Erik was in no condition to argue, barely awake and struggling with every step.
Now Erik’s up, our attempt to get him to sleep failing. We’d arranged his cot in Room 6, with a few extra blankets and a pillow. But Erik’s sitting with me on the bench, drinking coffee, telling me what happened to his hands and face, no plans on falling asleep any time soon. “I got beat up real bad,” he shares, the dried blood on his nose testament to that assertion. “But my buddy Canadian Mike took care of the other guy,” Erik says. “He stomped him good for me.”
Mark tries to convince Erik to call it a night. When he’d brought his friend in, Mark did all he could to help. After getting him into his cot, Mark unlaced Erik’s worn sneakers, tucked him in and closed the door. “He’s wrapped up nice and tight – he won’t be awake until tomorrow,” Mark assures me and the other volunteers, only to chuckle as Erik emerges in the hallway, meandering towards us, declaring he needs one more cigarette before he sleeps.
Erik’s a guest tonight, joining fifteen others here in one of Concord’s two adult Cold Weather Shelters. I’ve been here for almost four hours, volunteering at the First Congregational Church on North Main Street. It’s the second week the homeless shelter’s been open to people like Erik, those who need a warm bed, a cup or two of coffee and reassurance that, at least for tonight, they won’t have to sleep outside.
The Shelter’s open every evening from early December until early spring, offering an escape from the overnight cold. Tonight’s not busy, as it’s been a pretty mild start to winter. “But later this winter, when it gets really cold, we’ll have over thirty guests here,” Terri Blake told me when I arrived. Terri’s the Shelter’s director and a whirlwind of activity when the night began. She introduced me to the four volunteers who’ll be here for the next few hours, greeting the guests, placing their cigarettes and lighters aside for later and assigning rooms where they’ll sleep.
I met Terri’s assistant, Don Belaire, who says hello in a soft voice. Don came here as a guest in 2004, working his way out of desperation into a paying job at the Shelter over the past seven years, now responsible for making sure this place runs smoothly for the many members of Concord’s homeless community. “This place saved my life,” he told me.
Mike LaFontaine is tonight’s manager, tasked with overseeing the volunteers and ensuring all goes well. Mike knows many of tonight’s guests by name, greeting them as they arrive just after six, when the doors open, making sure the right rooms are assigned, the coffee’s hot and everyone’s safe. “We have three guiding principles at the Shelter,” Mike explained during a lull in arrivals. “Safety, hospitality and respect.” I asked Mike why he volunteers here. “Satisfaction outweighs sacrifice,” he said as he left to check on a guest.
The volunteers welcomed every guest with a warm hello and a set of questions. “What’s your name? Have you had any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty-four hours? Do you have any cigarettes or lighters? Any weapons or prescription drugs?” The guests all knew the drill; some stood outside before the doors opened, guaranteeing they’d have a bed and a spot in front of the TV tonight. Over the next four hours, we helped the dozen or so men and a few women get settled. Ricky, “the King of the Streets,” made a bee line for the hospitality room while Felix asked about the bus schedule to Manchester, where a job awaits him in the morning. Abe took on one of the volunteers, Chip Rice, in a ruthless game of Cribbage, and Richard went to bed early, skipping the cot and setting up his mattress on the floor of his room.
Now, just before lights out, as the other guests sleep or watch TV, Erik’s still awake. Mark stands next to us as we sit on the bench outside Erik’s room. Erik tells us more about Canadian Mike, prompting Mark to say, “Erik, your buddy Mike just got send to jail for thirty days for contempt.” Erik looks disappointed but not surprised. They talk about their own upcoming court dates until Mark kneels down, whispering something to Erik, convincing him to head to bed.
A few minutes later, with the hall lights out and Erik asleep, Mark stands by door as the two overnight volunteers and I sit in the foyer. I ask Mark if he wants to stay tonight, but he declines, “I have a place to stay.” He lingers by the exit, telling us how he sees things. “What I did for Erik tonight, I’d do for any human being. It’s about how we all have goodness inside of us, no matter what I look like to anyone on the outside.”
Just before he leaves, Mark says softly, “God so loved the world,” and he walks off into the December night. I’m not so sure he does have a warm place to stay tonight.
I leave the church before midnight as the volunteers get ready to go to sleep. The lights are out, the TV’s turned low and the doors are locked.
Early the next morning, as I lie in my bed, my wife asleep next to me, my daughter down the hallway, stuffed animals and pillows covering her bed, I hear a blistering blast of wind outside, the walls of my bedroom shifting slightly against the gusts. The heat comes to life, the gas furnace pinging the radiators as I pull the blankets against me. I’m not sure how I feel about last night. One stint of volunteering doesn’t earn me much in the way of karma, but it does remind me. It reminds me about things I care about, those things that matter in my life, and those pieces I make important but probably shouldn’t. Guilt is not what I feel right now, as I embrace the warm security around me. I think the feeling’s closer to impatience. And maybe it’s time to find out why that is.
Erik arrived over an hour ago with his friend Mark, who’d all but carried Erik inside, too drunk to walk on his own. Mark talked to him gently, promising him a bed to sleep things off. Erik was in no condition to argue, barely awake and struggling with every step.
Now Erik’s up, our attempt to get him to sleep failing. We’d arranged his cot in Room 6, with a few extra blankets and a pillow. But Erik’s sitting with me on the bench, drinking coffee, telling me what happened to his hands and face, no plans on falling asleep any time soon. “I got beat up real bad,” he shares, the dried blood on his nose testament to that assertion. “But my buddy Canadian Mike took care of the other guy,” Erik says. “He stomped him good for me.”
Mark tries to convince Erik to call it a night. When he’d brought his friend in, Mark did all he could to help. After getting him into his cot, Mark unlaced Erik’s worn sneakers, tucked him in and closed the door. “He’s wrapped up nice and tight – he won’t be awake until tomorrow,” Mark assures me and the other volunteers, only to chuckle as Erik emerges in the hallway, meandering towards us, declaring he needs one more cigarette before he sleeps.
Erik’s a guest tonight, joining fifteen others here in one of Concord’s two adult Cold Weather Shelters. I’ve been here for almost four hours, volunteering at the First Congregational Church on North Main Street. It’s the second week the homeless shelter’s been open to people like Erik, those who need a warm bed, a cup or two of coffee and reassurance that, at least for tonight, they won’t have to sleep outside.
The Shelter’s open every evening from early December until early spring, offering an escape from the overnight cold. Tonight’s not busy, as it’s been a pretty mild start to winter. “But later this winter, when it gets really cold, we’ll have over thirty guests here,” Terri Blake told me when I arrived. Terri’s the Shelter’s director and a whirlwind of activity when the night began. She introduced me to the four volunteers who’ll be here for the next few hours, greeting the guests, placing their cigarettes and lighters aside for later and assigning rooms where they’ll sleep.
I met Terri’s assistant, Don Belaire, who says hello in a soft voice. Don came here as a guest in 2004, working his way out of desperation into a paying job at the Shelter over the past seven years, now responsible for making sure this place runs smoothly for the many members of Concord’s homeless community. “This place saved my life,” he told me.
Mike LaFontaine is tonight’s manager, tasked with overseeing the volunteers and ensuring all goes well. Mike knows many of tonight’s guests by name, greeting them as they arrive just after six, when the doors open, making sure the right rooms are assigned, the coffee’s hot and everyone’s safe. “We have three guiding principles at the Shelter,” Mike explained during a lull in arrivals. “Safety, hospitality and respect.” I asked Mike why he volunteers here. “Satisfaction outweighs sacrifice,” he said as he left to check on a guest.
The volunteers welcomed every guest with a warm hello and a set of questions. “What’s your name? Have you had any drugs or alcohol in the past twenty-four hours? Do you have any cigarettes or lighters? Any weapons or prescription drugs?” The guests all knew the drill; some stood outside before the doors opened, guaranteeing they’d have a bed and a spot in front of the TV tonight. Over the next four hours, we helped the dozen or so men and a few women get settled. Ricky, “the King of the Streets,” made a bee line for the hospitality room while Felix asked about the bus schedule to Manchester, where a job awaits him in the morning. Abe took on one of the volunteers, Chip Rice, in a ruthless game of Cribbage, and Richard went to bed early, skipping the cot and setting up his mattress on the floor of his room.
Now, just before lights out, as the other guests sleep or watch TV, Erik’s still awake. Mark stands next to us as we sit on the bench outside Erik’s room. Erik tells us more about Canadian Mike, prompting Mark to say, “Erik, your buddy Mike just got send to jail for thirty days for contempt.” Erik looks disappointed but not surprised. They talk about their own upcoming court dates until Mark kneels down, whispering something to Erik, convincing him to head to bed.
A few minutes later, with the hall lights out and Erik asleep, Mark stands by door as the two overnight volunteers and I sit in the foyer. I ask Mark if he wants to stay tonight, but he declines, “I have a place to stay.” He lingers by the exit, telling us how he sees things. “What I did for Erik tonight, I’d do for any human being. It’s about how we all have goodness inside of us, no matter what I look like to anyone on the outside.”
Just before he leaves, Mark says softly, “God so loved the world,” and he walks off into the December night. I’m not so sure he does have a warm place to stay tonight.
I leave the church before midnight as the volunteers get ready to go to sleep. The lights are out, the TV’s turned low and the doors are locked.
Early the next morning, as I lie in my bed, my wife asleep next to me, my daughter down the hallway, stuffed animals and pillows covering her bed, I hear a blistering blast of wind outside, the walls of my bedroom shifting slightly against the gusts. The heat comes to life, the gas furnace pinging the radiators as I pull the blankets against me. I’m not sure how I feel about last night. One stint of volunteering doesn’t earn me much in the way of karma, but it does remind me. It reminds me about things I care about, those things that matter in my life, and those pieces I make important but probably shouldn’t. Guilt is not what I feel right now, as I embrace the warm security around me. I think the feeling’s closer to impatience. And maybe it’s time to find out why that is.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
It's Electric!
Trying to save the planet by driving a Chevy Volt is like trying to save a chicken by eating just the nuggets. So it’s a good thing I have no intention of coming to the earth’s rescue or ordering the three-bean salad – I’m here to drive an electric car.
I’m standing in the main entrance of Banks Chevrolet with Courtney Thomson, its recently-hired Marketing Coordinator. On a whim, I emailed the dealership a few days ago, and within minutes, Courtney called, inviting me to borrow a brand-new Chevy Volt for the weekend.
The Volt is the American car industry’s first major foray into the world of electric vehicles, joining the Nissan Leaf and the soon-to-come Toyota Prius Plug-In as the only widely available electric cars on the road today. The Volt isn’t purely electric, isn’t a hybrid and isn’t a traditional gas-fueled car. Where the Leaf only has a battery, and a hybrid uses gas, a battery that recharges itself and can’t be plugged in, the Volt has a 9.3 gallon fuel tank and a rechargeable, 430-pound, 300-volt battery that powers two 115 kilowatt motors, providing about 35 miles on a full charge. It’s safe to say that the Volt won’t stop global warming, but in a nation addicted to crude oil, you can’t argue with the gesture.
As I chat with Courtney, Mike Mercer arrives. Mike is Banks’ Service Manager and a self-confessed “electric car guy.” I can see in his eyes he loves the Volt. Mike takes pains to explain everything, from the Volt’s 112 mpg to its three speed options (Standard, Mountain and Sport – “The Sport mode will push you back into your seat!”), to its four-cylinder, 1.4 liter internal combustion engine to its stinger of a sticker price ($46,000 fully loaded) and the federal tax rebate (“You’ll get $7,500 back on your taxes,” Mike tells me).
My ride arrives, and it’s red, with grey and black interior, a huge “Volt” decal painted on the side. As Mike shows me the two dashboards, he reminds me to “Keep the green ball in the middle,” pointing to the meter on the screen, explaining that steady driving keeps the ball balanced in the middle as a reminder not to drive like a lunatic. “Aggressive driving will drain the battery pretty fast,” Mike tell me.
I’m still amazed that all it took was a simple email, and I’m sitting in a beautiful new car, ready to drive away for the weekend. Courtney and Mike must really trust in the kindness of strangers, or they know I won’t get far with a huge “Volt” decal in splashy writing on the side.
For the past few years, I’ve had a minor obsession with the idea of an electric car. Maybe it’s the fact that my older brother works in the industry, or that I never learned to drive a stick shift or that these cars seem like the first step towards flying cars and jet packs. Or it could be that my ‘03 Honda Accord has over 200,000 miles on it and drinks oil like pretend vegans drink soy lattes. Either way, I’ve been dying to drive one, and today’s my lucky day.
Mike gives me a few last pointers, and I’m off, zooming down Manchester Street, trying to keep the green ball in the happy zone. And as I turn on the radio, Edgar Winter sings, “Come on and take a free ride . . .” Don’t mind if I do, Edgar, don’t mind if I do.
I arrive home, giddy at the thought that I’m about to plug my car in! The battery shows only 9 miles remaining, so I get the big charger, pop open the fuel tank, and plug one end into the car and the other into the outlet in the garage. Mike told me I should see a stream of green lights on the power cord’s housing, but I only see red. I try it again but still no luck. I switch outlets in the garage, pulling our cars out on the street while I maneuver the Volt. Still nothing. I pull the Volt out of the garage and run the cord into the kitchen. I then realize the Volt has a keyless lock feature - when you’re about 20 feet away from the car with the key in your pocket, the car locks. This is swell, except if you unplug an electric car while the car is locked, the alarm sounds. I’ve now set this off four times, and I’m sure my neighbors are wondering what I’m up to.
I try another plug and another, resorting to a web search where I read about Volt owners who’ve had issues with their chargers. I even call Mike at home and ask him what to do – he tells me to come back tomorrow and they’ll swap out the chargers.
But I refuse to go quietly into the chargeless night and head to the only public electric charging stations in Concord – three silver kiosks outside the new Courtyard by Marriott on Hall Street. I drive up and notice that all three stations are blocked by non-electric cars. How dare these Luddite Neanderthals ruin my plans! I storm towards the front desk to register my complaint and then realize I’m not a hotel guest and quickly turn around and drive home. The battery is down to zero, I’m driving on gas and my first evening with the Volt lacks the spark I seek.
After a quick swap-out of the defective charger the next morning, I’m ready to roll. I’ve drained the battery and watch my overall gas mileage drop from over 200 to around 95 as the gas engine kicks in. I head to the dry cleaner and get my first comment of the weekend. “You get a new car? Looks pretty cool!” says the young woman behind the counter. I seize upon the moment to tell her all about the Volt. She loses interest when I start talking about dedicated charging lines, five-star crash ratings and the 110v versus 220v debate that rages in the electric car community. “Do you want medium or heavy starch on your shirts?” she asks. But it’s an electric car!
After a quiet morning of yard work and battery charging, I head up 93 North. With close to 15 miles on the battery, I take Mike’s advice and try the Sport mode. The car does pin my ears back and handles like a dream. Before I reach Canterbury, the battery’s drained, the engine switching seamlessly to gas.
“What’s ‘Volt’? You selling energy drinks?” a woman asks me. I begin my explanation, and she says, “Energy drinks or skis. I was wondering what you were selling,” not listening to a word I’m saying.
Later that night, a friend drives up to the house, asking, “Why is that car plugged into the garage?” And then on Sunday, as my daughter and I take the fully charged car out for a little aimless driving, I pull into the parking lot of a local ice cream stand. An older woman in matching sweatshirt and pants, balancing what appears to be an entire quart of ice cream on a cone in her hand, shakes her head in apparent disapproval. Someone else points and says something I can’t hear. I resist the urge to pull over and wax poetic on the virtues of clean cars and needing only one oil change per year, but the Lady in the ‘80’s track suit is lingering, and I don’t want a volley of Moose Tracks to spoil my day.
We arrive home, and I examine the tally on the dashboard. We started with a fully charged battery with 33 available miles. We went 28.9 miles, used no gas, burned 9.3 kilowatt hours of electricity and averaged 250 miles per gallon. If that’s not a new definition of “Sunday Driver,” I don’t know what is.
After another attempt at a public charging on Hall Street, which ended with a phone call to a service center somewhere south of Bangalore and a promise of a free charge card that’s yet to arrive, I realize there are no working charging stations anywhere near or within Concord. At least the Volt gives you a fighting chance with its gas engine. Driving a Nissan Leaf, with 100 total miles on the battery, means you best plan your driving routes or have one really long extension cord.
I’m sad to return my Volt on Monday morning. As I wait at a stop sign on the way to the dealership, a man on a bicycle passes in front of me. He wears a yellow safety bib with the words, “One Less Car” stenciled across the back as he rides in front of the Volt. I give him a knowing wave, hoping for the slightest recognition that this car could help make a difference. He never even turns to look as he churns the pedals around and around and around. “But this car is electric!” I say to myself, “This car is electric.”
I’m standing in the main entrance of Banks Chevrolet with Courtney Thomson, its recently-hired Marketing Coordinator. On a whim, I emailed the dealership a few days ago, and within minutes, Courtney called, inviting me to borrow a brand-new Chevy Volt for the weekend.
The Volt is the American car industry’s first major foray into the world of electric vehicles, joining the Nissan Leaf and the soon-to-come Toyota Prius Plug-In as the only widely available electric cars on the road today. The Volt isn’t purely electric, isn’t a hybrid and isn’t a traditional gas-fueled car. Where the Leaf only has a battery, and a hybrid uses gas, a battery that recharges itself and can’t be plugged in, the Volt has a 9.3 gallon fuel tank and a rechargeable, 430-pound, 300-volt battery that powers two 115 kilowatt motors, providing about 35 miles on a full charge. It’s safe to say that the Volt won’t stop global warming, but in a nation addicted to crude oil, you can’t argue with the gesture.
As I chat with Courtney, Mike Mercer arrives. Mike is Banks’ Service Manager and a self-confessed “electric car guy.” I can see in his eyes he loves the Volt. Mike takes pains to explain everything, from the Volt’s 112 mpg to its three speed options (Standard, Mountain and Sport – “The Sport mode will push you back into your seat!”), to its four-cylinder, 1.4 liter internal combustion engine to its stinger of a sticker price ($46,000 fully loaded) and the federal tax rebate (“You’ll get $7,500 back on your taxes,” Mike tells me).
My ride arrives, and it’s red, with grey and black interior, a huge “Volt” decal painted on the side. As Mike shows me the two dashboards, he reminds me to “Keep the green ball in the middle,” pointing to the meter on the screen, explaining that steady driving keeps the ball balanced in the middle as a reminder not to drive like a lunatic. “Aggressive driving will drain the battery pretty fast,” Mike tell me.
I’m still amazed that all it took was a simple email, and I’m sitting in a beautiful new car, ready to drive away for the weekend. Courtney and Mike must really trust in the kindness of strangers, or they know I won’t get far with a huge “Volt” decal in splashy writing on the side.
For the past few years, I’ve had a minor obsession with the idea of an electric car. Maybe it’s the fact that my older brother works in the industry, or that I never learned to drive a stick shift or that these cars seem like the first step towards flying cars and jet packs. Or it could be that my ‘03 Honda Accord has over 200,000 miles on it and drinks oil like pretend vegans drink soy lattes. Either way, I’ve been dying to drive one, and today’s my lucky day.
Mike gives me a few last pointers, and I’m off, zooming down Manchester Street, trying to keep the green ball in the happy zone. And as I turn on the radio, Edgar Winter sings, “Come on and take a free ride . . .” Don’t mind if I do, Edgar, don’t mind if I do.
I arrive home, giddy at the thought that I’m about to plug my car in! The battery shows only 9 miles remaining, so I get the big charger, pop open the fuel tank, and plug one end into the car and the other into the outlet in the garage. Mike told me I should see a stream of green lights on the power cord’s housing, but I only see red. I try it again but still no luck. I switch outlets in the garage, pulling our cars out on the street while I maneuver the Volt. Still nothing. I pull the Volt out of the garage and run the cord into the kitchen. I then realize the Volt has a keyless lock feature - when you’re about 20 feet away from the car with the key in your pocket, the car locks. This is swell, except if you unplug an electric car while the car is locked, the alarm sounds. I’ve now set this off four times, and I’m sure my neighbors are wondering what I’m up to.
I try another plug and another, resorting to a web search where I read about Volt owners who’ve had issues with their chargers. I even call Mike at home and ask him what to do – he tells me to come back tomorrow and they’ll swap out the chargers.
But I refuse to go quietly into the chargeless night and head to the only public electric charging stations in Concord – three silver kiosks outside the new Courtyard by Marriott on Hall Street. I drive up and notice that all three stations are blocked by non-electric cars. How dare these Luddite Neanderthals ruin my plans! I storm towards the front desk to register my complaint and then realize I’m not a hotel guest and quickly turn around and drive home. The battery is down to zero, I’m driving on gas and my first evening with the Volt lacks the spark I seek.
After a quick swap-out of the defective charger the next morning, I’m ready to roll. I’ve drained the battery and watch my overall gas mileage drop from over 200 to around 95 as the gas engine kicks in. I head to the dry cleaner and get my first comment of the weekend. “You get a new car? Looks pretty cool!” says the young woman behind the counter. I seize upon the moment to tell her all about the Volt. She loses interest when I start talking about dedicated charging lines, five-star crash ratings and the 110v versus 220v debate that rages in the electric car community. “Do you want medium or heavy starch on your shirts?” she asks. But it’s an electric car!
After a quiet morning of yard work and battery charging, I head up 93 North. With close to 15 miles on the battery, I take Mike’s advice and try the Sport mode. The car does pin my ears back and handles like a dream. Before I reach Canterbury, the battery’s drained, the engine switching seamlessly to gas.
“What’s ‘Volt’? You selling energy drinks?” a woman asks me. I begin my explanation, and she says, “Energy drinks or skis. I was wondering what you were selling,” not listening to a word I’m saying.
Later that night, a friend drives up to the house, asking, “Why is that car plugged into the garage?” And then on Sunday, as my daughter and I take the fully charged car out for a little aimless driving, I pull into the parking lot of a local ice cream stand. An older woman in matching sweatshirt and pants, balancing what appears to be an entire quart of ice cream on a cone in her hand, shakes her head in apparent disapproval. Someone else points and says something I can’t hear. I resist the urge to pull over and wax poetic on the virtues of clean cars and needing only one oil change per year, but the Lady in the ‘80’s track suit is lingering, and I don’t want a volley of Moose Tracks to spoil my day.
We arrive home, and I examine the tally on the dashboard. We started with a fully charged battery with 33 available miles. We went 28.9 miles, used no gas, burned 9.3 kilowatt hours of electricity and averaged 250 miles per gallon. If that’s not a new definition of “Sunday Driver,” I don’t know what is.
After another attempt at a public charging on Hall Street, which ended with a phone call to a service center somewhere south of Bangalore and a promise of a free charge card that’s yet to arrive, I realize there are no working charging stations anywhere near or within Concord. At least the Volt gives you a fighting chance with its gas engine. Driving a Nissan Leaf, with 100 total miles on the battery, means you best plan your driving routes or have one really long extension cord.
I’m sad to return my Volt on Monday morning. As I wait at a stop sign on the way to the dealership, a man on a bicycle passes in front of me. He wears a yellow safety bib with the words, “One Less Car” stenciled across the back as he rides in front of the Volt. I give him a knowing wave, hoping for the slightest recognition that this car could help make a difference. He never even turns to look as he churns the pedals around and around and around. “But this car is electric!” I say to myself, “This car is electric.”
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Does Concord bore you? Are you one of those young people we’ve been reading about who’s leaving Concord and other Granite state cities in droves, abandoning us old folks here with our rascal scooters, shuttered store fronts and memories of halcyon days of yore? Recent statistics warn that by 2025, Concord will be a city populated solely by pre-schoolers and grandparents, and there’ll be a diaper shortage to rival the Dionne Quintuplet Diaper Rationing Scare of 1934.
But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.
Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.
Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.
The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.
Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.
Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.
Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.
I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.
This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.
The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.
Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.
Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.
We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.
We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.
Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.
The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.
We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.
The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.
It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.
I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.
My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.
But I think Concord’s getting a bum rap. I’ve always wondered if there’s a lot more here than meets the eye. Armed with a modest amount of cash and a clear calendar, I set out to discover what a guy can do on a Saturday night in Concord, from dusk till dawn, taking in everything to do within the city limits. I start my journey where most journeys begin - at the movies.
Red River is Concord’s answer to big city independent movie theaters, a cinematic art house where the words, “blockbuster,” “Will Smith” and “family-sized Zagnut” aren’t used. Plush seats, adult beverages, gourmet snacks and the best popcorn in the city, Red River shows an eclectic mix of films ranging from Oscar winners (The King’s Speech, Black Swan) to brooding reflections on the human psyche (Moon, Blue Valentine) to the downright bizarre. I’m still recovering from the time I saw a subtitled animated Japanese film about a ham-eating talking fish-child named Ponyo.
Tonight’s fare is a dark comedy that takes place on the western coast of present-day Ireland. The Guard stars Brendan Gleeson and Don Cheadle as police officers partnering to quash a major drug deal; the film involves murder, bribery, snappy one-liners, criminal philosophers and lots of drinking. A perfect way to begin my exploration of Concord.
The movie lets out just after seven, and I head to Old Europe, one of Concord’s newer restaurants. Grabbing a seat outside on this beautiful fall evening, I watch people stroll along Main Street as the State House’s golden dome shines in the balmy night air. And then Carmine arrives, and things are about to change.
Carmine Tomas is a Concord resident and a man of many talents. He practices law in Boston, races cars on the weekends, plays the piano, cooks a mean chicken marsala and once grew a mustache for an office contest so real and so thick that he looked like Super Mario Brother incarnate. We plot our strategy over a plate of mussels and salted meats. This is the picture of civility – two grown men sharing a meal and wine at an open-air café, talking about how many bars they can visit until last call at 1 AM.
Our next destination is the Concord City Auditorium to see the Granite State Orchestra. We’re fifteen minutes late and wander upstairs to the balcony. It wasn’t our intent to sneak into the symphony, but with no one selling tickets, we just found seats and enjoyed the show.
Billed as “An Evening with Classical Overtones,” the Granite State Orchestra (aka, GSO), led by conductor Robert C. Babb, is great. I don’t know an oboe from Gluck’s “Orfeo ed Euridice,” but I do know great live music when I hear it. Within minutes Carmine and I are transfixed by Larry Veal, tonight’s cello soloist, who’s mesmerizing the almost-full Audi with Boccherini’s Cello Concert #9 in B flat, major.
I’ve been to the Audi a few times before, here to witness my daughter and her dance pals perform syncopated donkey hop dance moves to such kid-friendly recital classics as “It’s Raining Men,” “My Humps” and “More than a Woman.” Tonight’s a nice change to that routine.
This isn’t the only highbrow event in town tonight, mind you. We could have gone to the Capital Center to catch Frederica von Stade sing opera standards, but I figured I’d be von snoring within minutes, so here we are.
The GSO ends the evening with Mozart’s Symphony #36. Conductor Babb leaves no gesture untried as his white hair bobs and weaves with his gesticulating shoulders, his hands frenetically waving up and down, his baton pointing out directions only he and his tuxedo-clad musicians understand. Who cares where the poco adagio transitions into the menuetto because it’s all a perfect cascade of string, French horns and kettle drums.
Carmine and I high-tail it out of there for what one might call the “less cultured” stops on this Concord sojourn.
Main Street and the surrounding blocks boast more than their fair share of restaurants and bars. Within walking distance of the State Capital, there are no fewer than ten drinking and victual establishments, and we plan on visiting them all in the next three hours.
We begin at the Barley House, a bar and restaurant that serves up great burgers and beers. I spy my wife’s nephew, Trevor, near the bar, who, after hearing about our quest, gives some advice. “Stay away from Tandy’s. The clientele can get a little, you know, rough,” Trevor says as he walks away smiling.
We do everything but run to Tandy’s Top Shelf, down the block from the Barley House. We pay our $5 cover and enter. The bar’s about half-full. There’s an odd energy down here, like we’re one plastic cup of watery keg beer away from an Anchorman-style brawl, complete with tritons, weighted nets and brickbats. It’s like the bar scene from Star Wars without the blue aardvark playing the space bassoon. Carmine and I keep to ourselves, wondering if eye contact will be frowned upon. A young lady approaches, a shot glass in her hand. “Hi, I’m Becky from Pretty Girl Promotions. We have one last shot of Jim Beam left – you guys wanna share it?” Going Dutch with a shot of whiskey in this place may be grounds for an instant full nelson, so I take a furtive sip and pass it along. Mouth and throat on fire, I move to the door and Carmine joins me.
Before heading towards more bars, we take a short interlude to True Brew Barista where the proprietors have invited us to a private, small gathering. Carmine and I use the secret knock, enter and share some laughs and double shots of espresso with Rob and Steph and their coterie of cohorts. This coffee should keep me going the rest of the night. I’m sure of it.
The clock’s approaching midnight, giving us about an hour remaining before the city’s last call.
We sidle up to the empty bar at Margarita’s and order. It’s always a bad sign when the bartender’s vacuuming – it lends an air of, “I need to leave and let my cat out” to the surroundings. We oblige by rushing though our drinks and heading to Penuche’s Ale House, around the corner. We barrel down the stairs into a world I’d not seen in a while. The dance floor is teeming, and the band is rocking! We grab a beer and join the fun.
The drummer sees me approach and gives me a friendly nod, perhaps thinking I’m the bass player’s dad here to drive them all home after the gig. They launch into Johnny Cash’s “Folsom County Blues,” and the patrons dance with gusto. I spot my neighbor DJ, in his knit cap, grooving with a well-dressed pride of cougars. The band reaches a fever pitch, Carmine and I do our best white man overbite moves, and DJ gives me a high five. But it’s getting late and there are other peaks to conquer. Besides, when you’re older than the cougars, it’s probably time to leave. And Carmine’s starting to get a slightly crazy look in his eyes.
It’s around 12:45, and there is no way we’ll make it everywhere on our list. We head to the Green Martini to assess the situation, and it’s here that my grand plan starts to disintegrate. I’m not sure if it was that last beer, the rapid change of venues or the fact that on most Saturday nights for the past decade, I’d be closer to a morning bowl of oatmeal than another late-night beer at this point.
I’d planned to spend the next four hours with a driver from Concord Cab, taking in the wee small hours from the passenger seat, but it’s time to leave. I beg the cabbie for a ride home, say good night to Carmine and collapse on a couch in my basement where I’ll sleep for a solid ten hours.
My Dusk to Dawn plan was a bust, but not completely. I found culture, live music, good food, a range of atmospheres - from festive to menacing - and Carmine and I learned that espresso, tequila and keg beer are not smart ingredients for rational planning. It’s not a bad idea – the “Concord after Dark” experience. I promise you’ll have a blast, and you may even be home before the sun rises. And your definition of boring just may change.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
My So-Called Vegan Life
Ponder a life without bacon cheeseburgers. An existence devoid of mashed potatoes, ice cream sundaes, beef jerky or tuna melts. Imagine a world where cows kept their milk, butter was a dirty word and the only things we hunted were bargains. Or a universe where the Monte Cristo was nothing more than a half a book title on a dusty shelf.
There are those among us who inhabit such a place, people who’d rather starve than snap into a Slim Jim. They’re called vegans, and they believe that any food derived from animals should never be eaten. Some are vegans for health reasons, others for ethics, and some choose this dietary journey because, well, their girlfriend suggested it (“You’re so right – meat is murder. Anyway, let’s check out my uncle’s hot tub!”).
The list of foods vegans won’t eat is long. No beef, pork, fowl, fish, reptile or insect, cooked or otherwise, may pass a vegan’s lips. And anything that comes from an animal – milk, butter, ice cream, eggs, or yogurt in any form is also forbidden. A vegan’s philosophy is simple – eat nothing with eyes or anything that came from a creature with eyes. Vegans avoid honey for the reason that bees suffer and die in its production, and hardcore vegans eschew processed sugar because it’s filtered through charcoal, often made from animal bones. I can’t speak to those who play the piano or collect scrimshaw, but I can only imagine the hassles they get at the vegan arts festivals.
But my ham salad-eating mama always told me you shouldn’t knock someone until you’ve walked a mile in his hemp and canvas sandals. I took the challenge and became a vegan, giving myself two weeks to forego eating meat, dairy and honey in all their forms.
I didn’t do much preparation other than find a paperback vegan cookbook, do some web research and brace myself for my first taste of soy milk. My wife suggested I not try to become a master vegan chef over the ensuing two weeks. So I avoided grand plans for millet and tempeh casseroles, legume-themed soups and fishless sushi party platters, sticking to the basics. I chose a few recipes, learned about what I couldn’t eat and jumped right in.
The first few days were rough. I found out black coffee is wretched, brown rice cakes are no substitute for Suzy-Q’s and salads without bacon bits, buffalo chicken strips and ladles of bleu cheese dressing are nothing more than piles of wimpy lettuce.
I scanned my pantry to discover most of what I normally ate was now verboten. Everything from wheat bread (honey) to energy bars (milk) to pesto (cheese) to eggs (eggs) was a no-no. But we vegans are creative, and between the extra fruit, unsweetened applesauce and cereal with almond “milk,” I managed.
I even tried my hand at two simple vegan recipes, the first a vegan waffle, which weighed about seven pounds and had the consistency of supple burlap, and the second a meal of soba noodles and broccoli in a soy, ginger and peanut sauce. It’s best to describe the meal as “Japanese spaghetti with peanut butter,” which sounds hideous, but when you’re subsisting on twigs and apricots, you’ll seek any safe harbor.
I ordered a black bean burger for lunch that first week and soon realized that ketchup and mustard are condiments, not miracle workers. And no amount of condiments could mask the vile bastardization of the all-American meal that black bean burger perpetrated on my palate.
Then things went horribly wrong. After a week of diligent vegan stoicism, I found myself in my kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, a dinner party in full swing. The aroma of pan-seared chicken breasts draped with prosciutto and pasta in a pancetta and ham-filled sauce assaulted my senses. I tried to stick to the cucumbers and bread but couldn’t stop myself, any shred of vegan decency cast aside as I crammed piece after piece of chicken and fancy paper-thin Italian pork into my dishonest mouth.
I then went from weak to pathetic as I arrived in New York City for business. Spending a few days in Manhattan as a vegan is like a teetotaler spending Spring Break in Cancun. All the willpower in the world faded away as my environment surrounded me. I’d like to tell you I was pure, the pinnacle of principled veganism, but after the bagel with cream cheese, the steak slathered in garlic butter, the turkey BLT with mayo, the bucket of beef brisket nachos and the three pieces of classic New York pizza, I’d only be fooling myself. Yet I dare any vegan among us who’s claimed to resist such temptation to cast the first fiddlehead.
The next morning, at home in Concord, I did my best to reclaim my vegan pride, but as I poured a dollop of non-dairy soy milk into my coffee, the swirls of pretend creaminess made a sad face in the java, its lactose-free eyes filled with disappointment.
“When does this end?” I asked myself. I began to hate potatoes, despised bananas and resented peanut butter. I think the serving of quinoa bean salad finally killed veganism for me. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) is a protein-laden grain from the foothills of the Andean mountains boasting all sorts of health-related benefits, none of which has anything to do with flavor. Sure, Peruvian highlanders live for centuries eating this stuff, but I’d rather die on my 63rd birthday, facedown in a suet-flavored ice cream cake than live 400 years with a belly full of keen-wah. Veganism is for the birds – at least the ones that don’t eat worms and grasshoppers.
My last day as a vegan was a mixture of remorse, anxiety and gastric distress. It started off just fine - fruit for breakfast, vegan chili for lunch, an apple and almonds for a snack. But as I arrived home after work, I began secretly wedging chunks of stale bread into a tub of cream cheese, and at the dinner table, I snuck a pad of butter while no one was watching. I was falling apart. Then, later that night, my wife asked me, “So do all vegans smell like garlic?” Once your spouse complains that your dietary life choices are adversely affecting your body odor, it’s time to return to the world of omnivores. No one ever told me to stop smelling like pork rinds.
My two-week vegan experience was a failure. I spent my days either dreaming of deli meat snacks as my hummus-filled stomach grumbled like low-rolling thunder, or I gorged myself on an anti-vegan menu in fits of delirious indiscretion, justifying my actions through a combination of deceit, rationalization and head fakes. It’s no way to live – this vegan life. I’ve leave the tofu and berries to them. Besides, that means more cheeseburgers for the rest of us.
There are those among us who inhabit such a place, people who’d rather starve than snap into a Slim Jim. They’re called vegans, and they believe that any food derived from animals should never be eaten. Some are vegans for health reasons, others for ethics, and some choose this dietary journey because, well, their girlfriend suggested it (“You’re so right – meat is murder. Anyway, let’s check out my uncle’s hot tub!”).
The list of foods vegans won’t eat is long. No beef, pork, fowl, fish, reptile or insect, cooked or otherwise, may pass a vegan’s lips. And anything that comes from an animal – milk, butter, ice cream, eggs, or yogurt in any form is also forbidden. A vegan’s philosophy is simple – eat nothing with eyes or anything that came from a creature with eyes. Vegans avoid honey for the reason that bees suffer and die in its production, and hardcore vegans eschew processed sugar because it’s filtered through charcoal, often made from animal bones. I can’t speak to those who play the piano or collect scrimshaw, but I can only imagine the hassles they get at the vegan arts festivals.
But my ham salad-eating mama always told me you shouldn’t knock someone until you’ve walked a mile in his hemp and canvas sandals. I took the challenge and became a vegan, giving myself two weeks to forego eating meat, dairy and honey in all their forms.
I didn’t do much preparation other than find a paperback vegan cookbook, do some web research and brace myself for my first taste of soy milk. My wife suggested I not try to become a master vegan chef over the ensuing two weeks. So I avoided grand plans for millet and tempeh casseroles, legume-themed soups and fishless sushi party platters, sticking to the basics. I chose a few recipes, learned about what I couldn’t eat and jumped right in.
The first few days were rough. I found out black coffee is wretched, brown rice cakes are no substitute for Suzy-Q’s and salads without bacon bits, buffalo chicken strips and ladles of bleu cheese dressing are nothing more than piles of wimpy lettuce.
I scanned my pantry to discover most of what I normally ate was now verboten. Everything from wheat bread (honey) to energy bars (milk) to pesto (cheese) to eggs (eggs) was a no-no. But we vegans are creative, and between the extra fruit, unsweetened applesauce and cereal with almond “milk,” I managed.
I even tried my hand at two simple vegan recipes, the first a vegan waffle, which weighed about seven pounds and had the consistency of supple burlap, and the second a meal of soba noodles and broccoli in a soy, ginger and peanut sauce. It’s best to describe the meal as “Japanese spaghetti with peanut butter,” which sounds hideous, but when you’re subsisting on twigs and apricots, you’ll seek any safe harbor.
I ordered a black bean burger for lunch that first week and soon realized that ketchup and mustard are condiments, not miracle workers. And no amount of condiments could mask the vile bastardization of the all-American meal that black bean burger perpetrated on my palate.
Then things went horribly wrong. After a week of diligent vegan stoicism, I found myself in my kitchen, surrounded by friends and family, a dinner party in full swing. The aroma of pan-seared chicken breasts draped with prosciutto and pasta in a pancetta and ham-filled sauce assaulted my senses. I tried to stick to the cucumbers and bread but couldn’t stop myself, any shred of vegan decency cast aside as I crammed piece after piece of chicken and fancy paper-thin Italian pork into my dishonest mouth.
I then went from weak to pathetic as I arrived in New York City for business. Spending a few days in Manhattan as a vegan is like a teetotaler spending Spring Break in Cancun. All the willpower in the world faded away as my environment surrounded me. I’d like to tell you I was pure, the pinnacle of principled veganism, but after the bagel with cream cheese, the steak slathered in garlic butter, the turkey BLT with mayo, the bucket of beef brisket nachos and the three pieces of classic New York pizza, I’d only be fooling myself. Yet I dare any vegan among us who’s claimed to resist such temptation to cast the first fiddlehead.
The next morning, at home in Concord, I did my best to reclaim my vegan pride, but as I poured a dollop of non-dairy soy milk into my coffee, the swirls of pretend creaminess made a sad face in the java, its lactose-free eyes filled with disappointment.
“When does this end?” I asked myself. I began to hate potatoes, despised bananas and resented peanut butter. I think the serving of quinoa bean salad finally killed veganism for me. Quinoa (pronounced keen-wah) is a protein-laden grain from the foothills of the Andean mountains boasting all sorts of health-related benefits, none of which has anything to do with flavor. Sure, Peruvian highlanders live for centuries eating this stuff, but I’d rather die on my 63rd birthday, facedown in a suet-flavored ice cream cake than live 400 years with a belly full of keen-wah. Veganism is for the birds – at least the ones that don’t eat worms and grasshoppers.
My last day as a vegan was a mixture of remorse, anxiety and gastric distress. It started off just fine - fruit for breakfast, vegan chili for lunch, an apple and almonds for a snack. But as I arrived home after work, I began secretly wedging chunks of stale bread into a tub of cream cheese, and at the dinner table, I snuck a pad of butter while no one was watching. I was falling apart. Then, later that night, my wife asked me, “So do all vegans smell like garlic?” Once your spouse complains that your dietary life choices are adversely affecting your body odor, it’s time to return to the world of omnivores. No one ever told me to stop smelling like pork rinds.
My two-week vegan experience was a failure. I spent my days either dreaming of deli meat snacks as my hummus-filled stomach grumbled like low-rolling thunder, or I gorged myself on an anti-vegan menu in fits of delirious indiscretion, justifying my actions through a combination of deceit, rationalization and head fakes. It’s no way to live – this vegan life. I’ve leave the tofu and berries to them. Besides, that means more cheeseburgers for the rest of us.
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