“These seats are saved,” the big guy says to me, his jowly neck jiggling as he motions with his head to the two empty chairs beside him. The room is packed with lobbyists, concerned voters, state legislators and me, and all I want is a seat. But he’s not budging. He stares forward, unwilling to make eye contact, breaking the unwritten rule that the only people who’re allowed to save seats are mean girls in middle school and dads at dance recitals.
I lean against the wall to the back, the room filling up with more and more people. Two high school kids with funky sneakers and studded bracelets stand to my right, with what looks like their teacher hovering near them, flipping through a packet of papers. Two women whisper to each other about how much money they really need for their programs, and a young woman from Governor Lynch’s office intently texts on her fancy phone. Everyone is waiting to begin.
I’m here in the Legislative Office Building in downtown Concord, spending a day with the state legislature, listening and learning, watching the sausage get made up close. When I learned that New Hampshire’s state representatives earn only $100 a year, I decided that any job that pays less than what an apprentice carny makes is worth experiencing for a day.
My guide is Democrat Jessie Osborn, who’s in the first year of her fourth term. Jessie’s been in the news of late, but I don’t know much about her. I met her a few days before Election Day, and what struck me was not Jessie so much, but her opponent. Jessie ran and beat a college student, Garret Ean, whose campaign flyer caught my eye. In it Garret smiles into the camera, an American flag behind him; atop his head rests a fabulous mound of well-groomed curly hair – like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. Garret’s libertarian stances and hairdo didn’t win him the election, so I’m spending the day with Jessie instead.
I’ve accepted the fact that the big guy isn’t changing his mind, so I stand. We’re in a House Ways and Means Committee session, its seventeen members seated around a giant U-shaped table. Jessie takes a seat front and center at the table facing the representatives. She’s here to present House Bill (HB) 166, a proposal to raise the tax on every gallon of beer sold in the state by ten cents. Just before Jessie begins, my seat-saving nemesis is joined by two others, the three of them wearing bright orange name tags with the words, “Lobbyist” in white letters. At this point, I’ve walked the hallways of the Legislature for almost three hours, long enough to know you don’t need orange name tags to spot the lobbyists. Just look for the eager people huddling in corners, whispering into cell phones, furtive and focused. Almost to a person, the lobbyists are younger, walk faster and wear expensive shoes.
As Jessie starts, I notice my lobbyist pal and his buddies represent the Beer Lobby, holding documents with titles like, “The Real Truth about Drunk Driving” and “Raising Beer Taxes will not Reduce Abuse!” and they pass around committee seating charts and legislator bios, getting their bearings before the discussion starts. The group to my right is prepping as well, the teacher whispering to the two teenagers and pouring over notes. This is shaping up to be a fight!
Jessie presents her bill, and when she says things like, “epidemic” and “racketeering,” the beer lobbyists scribble things down and shift in their chairs. Fellow supporters now speak, and committee members ask questions. Just when I think it’s time to see the real debate, Jessie stands and heads to the door, motioning for me to follow her. Even though she’s started this elaborate conversation, she’s not sticking around to see what happens; she has other state business to attend to, so we leave. She mentions to me more than once, “This is not a typical day for me.”
When it comes to governing ourselves, Granite staters have no equal. We boast the world’s third largest legislative body, rivaled in size only by the US Congress and the British Parliament. What we lack in people, square miles, tax revenue and night life we make up for in legislative representation. We have a state rep for every 3,200 citizens while states like Texas (150 reps, or one per 160,000 residents) and California (80 reps, or one per 460,000) have fewer legislators than they have enormous stuffed jackrabbits and ancient tar pits, respectively.
We began this day with members of Concord’s delegation and the city’s School Board. I’m expecting something light, like maybe a second grade class presenting its petition to make the raccoon the state varmint. Instead, within minutes, we’re up to our necks in doom and gloom scenarios about empty coffers, unshoveled sidewalks and uncut cemetery grass. Concord’s mayor, Jim Bouley, enters and launches an impassioned plea for money. “Even if I close the library, eliminate the recreation budget, lay off eighty city workers, and don’t open any pools this summer, we still won’t have enough money!” he says. He adds, “This is absolute desperation. I’m pleading for your help.” A School Board member ends the discussion, saying, “Let’s pick a number and work to get there.” The Mayor thanks the group and dashes off to vanquish anti-Concord sentiments wherever they linger.
Jessie’s a member of the Municipal and County Government committee, and after the mayor’s departure, her fellow committee members file in to start tackling more Concord School board business, and I’m struck by the committee’s average age. Let’s just say that this is an experienced group, one that may enjoy leaf peeping, posing for daguerreotypes and mid-morning water aerobics. Considering the job’s volunteer wage and flexible schedule requirements, I see why our retired citizens make up a sizeable portion of our state’s 400 representatives, or at least of this committee.
The chairman bangs his gavel to bring the session to order, and we begin. Everyone is engaged, even when statements like, “The tax cap belongs to the entity on the ballot,” and “A charter commission needs to be voted on by the constituents,” fly about the room. I’m doing my best to follow along, but for the hour I sit, probably fifteen minutes is real substantive conversation - the rest is clarifications on rules, laws and procedures. I suspect many of the members haven’t done their homework, and most of the discussion is dedicated to making sure everyone clarifies what they’re trying to discuss. We finally start hearing the pros and cons from the crowd, but Jessie and I leave to head off to present the beer tax bill across the hallway.
Later in the day, we’re sitting on a bench outside the committee room when I ask Jessie about the emphasis on formal structure and rules. She tells me, “The rules prevent really bad bills with serious consequences from becoming law, and that’s a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, “she adds, “There’ve been a lot of bills I haven’t liked, but they’re properly vetted.” Just then a slender woman approaches in knee-high leather boots, her face holding the remnants of a tan. She gives Jessie a warm welcome, and then she’s gone. “A lobbyist,” Jessie says, stating the obvious.
It’s after lunch, and Jessie’s again in front of the Ways and Means Committee, this time to reintroduce HB 642, designed to create a state-wide income tax tied to property values. The room buzzes with anticipation. The committee pays close attention, except for the one rep whose eyes are closed and the other who’s combing his hair and dusting dandruff off his lapels while supporters quote numbers and revenue gaps. It’s time for questions, and one member does his best to mask his distaste for income taxes, his smirk leaking out from behind his Abe Lincoln beard as he peppers Jessie’s co-sponsors with questions. Another legislator then asks what appears to be an 8th grade math word problem involving a retired couple, tax rebates, property values and a train leaving Minsk headed for Paris. The question stumps everyone, and all the committee members, speakers, opponents, supporters and lobbyists flip through their notes to find corrections to fiscal notes and figures. I’d be lying if it’s inspiring confidence. Again, it seems like everyone’s waited until just now to get informed.
Then one state rep, the only one I’ve seen the entire day younger than fifty five, saunters in late and takes his seat. He pretends to pay attention, taking notes and nodding at the right time, but he isn’t. He waits a few minutes, takes a deep breath, then slowly gathers his things, pauses, and hightails it out of there.
In another hour I do the same. The discussion is getting heated, the passion on both sides palpable, but it’s time to go. I’ve seen enough to know that the life of a state representative is a busy one. With so many members, so many bills and so many issues facing the state, it’s amazing anything gets accomplished. And as I head outside and make my way home, I spot the legislator who snuck out before me. He’s standing across the street with a group of young people, shaking hands and posing for photos rather than listening to dry tax discussions back inside. He’s no dummy - he’s up for reelection in less than eighteen months, and every minute counts.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Caching In
It’s just after eight on a frigid Sunday morning, and I’m standing in an empty stretch of woods on the outskirts of Concord. A man I’ve met only once before is digging in the snow with a small shovel. He shovels in bursts, moving across a huge outcropping of rocks buried in snow, pushing it away from the cracks in the rock pile. I’d offer to help, but this man is focused, and I don’t want to distract him. Besides, there’s only one shovel.
I’m here because I made fun of golfers. It was a few months ago, during a holiday party, and I said something about how there’s nothing worse than golfers yammering about fades, fat shots and handicapped dog legs. Just as I reached the crescendo about what golfers and geldings have in common, a stranger tapped me on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t make fun of people’s passions,” he said. Before I could respond, he pulled out what looked like a cell phone and turned it on. “Like me. I have a passion. Ever heard of geocaching? This is my new GPS, and I use it to find caches. Here,” he said as he handed me the device. “See those things there? Those are caches, and we find them.”
The man from the party and the one now on all fours, elbow-deep in snow, is Mark Myers, a 49-year old pediatrician from Bedford and a rising star on the New Hampshire geocaching scene. “Let’s keep looking,” Mark says, in between furious attacks at the icy snow, “but I might have to call Gavin.” Gavin is another geocacher, a mentor of sorts to Mark. Mark pauses and then calls his friend. Gavin provides advice. “It’s right where you’d expect it,” he tells Mark. Mark says goodbye and starts digging again. Moments later he finds what we came for – our first cache of the day.
Geocaching is an outdoor sport that combines the use of a hand-held global positioning satellite receiver (GPS), a website that supplies coordinates, hints, tips and rules (www.geocaching.com), and a passion to find and hide caches all across the planet. The goal is to use your GPS and specific coordinates to find a cache, logging the find in a small notebook once you’ve located it. It’s a real-life, high-tech treasure hunt, except the treasure is finding the cache’s hidden spot, not necessarily in what you actually find. There are almost 800,000 caches logged worldwide with countless people like Mark dedicating their free time to hunting them down. Mark has found over 1,100 caches, and he plans on adding more today.
Every cache has a name, like “Turnabout is Fair Play,” and “A Cache Called Wanda,” and cachers download coordinates along with helpful tips, stats, and the degrees of the location’s difficulty and terrain. This one is called, “Power to the Cachers,” and we’re the eighty-second group of cachers to find and log it since it was hidden almost three years ago. Mark explains there’s a notation language cachers use. “TFTC” – Thanks For The Cache, and “TLNLSL” – Took Nothing, Left Nothing, Signed Log. BTW, I think, my friends would be ROTFL, OMG, if they could see me now out here. LOL!
As I watch Mark leave our names in the tiny notebook, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a small man of Irish descent in the middle of nowhere looking for a box of lucky charms. I keep that reflection for myself because Mark is up and we’re ready to go. Before we move, I sneak a peak inside Mark’s backpack. He has a small shovel, doctor pliers, maps, pens, batteries, a flashlight, matches, a knife and who knows what else – everything but a tuna sandwich and today’s Racing Forum. To say that Mark is prepared would be an understatement. He’s even wearing gloves with his fingertips exposed so he can touch the GPS screen with ease.
Mark hands me his GPS. “Let’s go find the next one,” and he hustles past me, his cocoa brown dog, Sailor, running out ahead. Mark’s done his homework, explaining that there are four caches in and around these trails. We’re now looking for “My Fine Feathered Friends,” about half a mile away.
We walk along a trail towards a stone wall. Mark pulls up the clue on his GPS - “Behind the tree with a face – in a cavity in a wall of stone. Remember – you do NOT have to move any rocks!” I watch the distance drop from 500 feet to 200 feet as we snow shoe across the trail, and we spot the “face” - a gnarled knot on the tree that looks like one of those shrunken apple faces from third grade. Mark finds the cache right behind the tree, a camouflage-colored container crammed with a notebook, action figures, buttons, cards, pins and birds. He encourages me to take something, and I choose a parrot on a perch. Mark leaves something from his bag of tricks (“swag,” he calls it), he signs the log, we pack it all back up, hide the cache in its spot, and we’re off to the next one.
Geocachers are competitive. Mark mentions with pride the number of caches he’s found, and he speaks in reverent tones about some of New Hampshire’s leading geocachers, names like HockeyPuck, Chicken Lady, Me and My Dogs, Much Ado and Kayak Kouple. This Mount Rushmore of granite state geocachers has probably logged more than 15,000 caches in New Hampshire and elsewhere. Geocaching extends across the globe, from Switzerland to South Africa, from Hollis to Henniker - tens of thousands of people using hand-held GPS devices, a comfortable pair of shoes, competitive juices and a basic sense of direction. We’re an hour into the morning, and I lack all four of those requirements, but I’m having fun.
Mark, aka “Ponil,” explains the types of caches – regular ones, like the two we’ve found, puzzle caches that take some unraveling to decipher, virtual caches that require you to prove that you’ve seen something that can’t be moved, and multi-caches - a series of caches hidden in what can stretch for miles. There are nano-caches – small, magnetic capsules often hidden along street signs and guard rails - and bison tubes, small metal tubes hidden in trees and walls.
We press on, finding two more caches in these woods, one with the warning, “Please rehide well so the cache is not muggled.” Apparently there’s some sort of connection between Harry Potter, non-wizards and Tupperware containers hidden in the woods, but I don’t ask. For my money, anyone hoping to steal a well-hidden box of plastic monkeys and rubber rats should be called something other than muggle.
We reach the next spot, in the shadow of Sewalls Falls Bridge, and we find four more caches, including a virtual one. As we walk back from the final find, I start to wonder how this kind of thing could be marketed for the masses. We could make crazy tee shirts with slogans like, “Cache Me if You Can,” and “Cache but Don’t Carry!” Or maybe a TV reality show, “Dash for Cache,” where geocachers and muggles race against each other and the elements to find the true meaning of treasure and friendship.
I’m ready to call it a day, but Mark wants more. “It can be an obsession for some people, but not me,” he says, moments after describing his kayak trip on the Merrimack river two weeks ago (yes, in mid February) to find a middle leg of a multi-cache hidden by his caching cohorts. Paddling in a defenseless fiberglass watercraft in the middle of a swift, ice-strewn river may rank up there with what some consider obsessive behavior, but there’s no time to think because Mark’s got his GPS out and we’re heading to Penacook for more.
After ten minutes of driving, we find a nano-cache on the inside a traffic sign, the tiny scroll no wider than a baby’s finger, rolled up inside the capsule’s tip. We find another on the way back into town, causing a minor traffic jam in a cemetery on Fisherville Road. Mark tells me that police will often stop geocachers, which reminds me of Mark’s most important rule of geocaching. “Never geocache near a school during the school day.” I can imagine that conversation. “No, officer, really, I was just hunting for a small bucket of action figures. I didn’t even see the kids on the playground. Honest!”
We have one last cache to go – it’s now been more than four hours since we started, and I’m ready for a nap. But Mark keeps going, and now we’re on Commercial Street in Concord, staring at an enormous wall. “There’s a bison tube in the wall,” Mark tells me as he clears away snow with his feet and shovel. We try this for about ten minutes before giving up, the snow too deep to make much progress. I’m starting to slur my words I’m so tired, but Mark isn’t done. There are thousands more caches in New Hampshire for Mark to find, and hundreds of thousands across the globe waiting for him and his fellow treasure hunters. We shake hands, and as I drive off, I see Mark heading in the opposite direction, looking for just one more cache. I can’t do it – I’m all cached out. I’m strapped for cache. I’m cache-poor. Or maybe I’m just a muggle.
I’m here because I made fun of golfers. It was a few months ago, during a holiday party, and I said something about how there’s nothing worse than golfers yammering about fades, fat shots and handicapped dog legs. Just as I reached the crescendo about what golfers and geldings have in common, a stranger tapped me on the shoulder. “You shouldn’t make fun of people’s passions,” he said. Before I could respond, he pulled out what looked like a cell phone and turned it on. “Like me. I have a passion. Ever heard of geocaching? This is my new GPS, and I use it to find caches. Here,” he said as he handed me the device. “See those things there? Those are caches, and we find them.”
The man from the party and the one now on all fours, elbow-deep in snow, is Mark Myers, a 49-year old pediatrician from Bedford and a rising star on the New Hampshire geocaching scene. “Let’s keep looking,” Mark says, in between furious attacks at the icy snow, “but I might have to call Gavin.” Gavin is another geocacher, a mentor of sorts to Mark. Mark pauses and then calls his friend. Gavin provides advice. “It’s right where you’d expect it,” he tells Mark. Mark says goodbye and starts digging again. Moments later he finds what we came for – our first cache of the day.
Geocaching is an outdoor sport that combines the use of a hand-held global positioning satellite receiver (GPS), a website that supplies coordinates, hints, tips and rules (www.geocaching.com), and a passion to find and hide caches all across the planet. The goal is to use your GPS and specific coordinates to find a cache, logging the find in a small notebook once you’ve located it. It’s a real-life, high-tech treasure hunt, except the treasure is finding the cache’s hidden spot, not necessarily in what you actually find. There are almost 800,000 caches logged worldwide with countless people like Mark dedicating their free time to hunting them down. Mark has found over 1,100 caches, and he plans on adding more today.
Every cache has a name, like “Turnabout is Fair Play,” and “A Cache Called Wanda,” and cachers download coordinates along with helpful tips, stats, and the degrees of the location’s difficulty and terrain. This one is called, “Power to the Cachers,” and we’re the eighty-second group of cachers to find and log it since it was hidden almost three years ago. Mark explains there’s a notation language cachers use. “TFTC” – Thanks For The Cache, and “TLNLSL” – Took Nothing, Left Nothing, Signed Log. BTW, I think, my friends would be ROTFL, OMG, if they could see me now out here. LOL!
As I watch Mark leave our names in the tiny notebook, I can’t ignore the fact that I’m a small man of Irish descent in the middle of nowhere looking for a box of lucky charms. I keep that reflection for myself because Mark is up and we’re ready to go. Before we move, I sneak a peak inside Mark’s backpack. He has a small shovel, doctor pliers, maps, pens, batteries, a flashlight, matches, a knife and who knows what else – everything but a tuna sandwich and today’s Racing Forum. To say that Mark is prepared would be an understatement. He’s even wearing gloves with his fingertips exposed so he can touch the GPS screen with ease.
Mark hands me his GPS. “Let’s go find the next one,” and he hustles past me, his cocoa brown dog, Sailor, running out ahead. Mark’s done his homework, explaining that there are four caches in and around these trails. We’re now looking for “My Fine Feathered Friends,” about half a mile away.
We walk along a trail towards a stone wall. Mark pulls up the clue on his GPS - “Behind the tree with a face – in a cavity in a wall of stone. Remember – you do NOT have to move any rocks!” I watch the distance drop from 500 feet to 200 feet as we snow shoe across the trail, and we spot the “face” - a gnarled knot on the tree that looks like one of those shrunken apple faces from third grade. Mark finds the cache right behind the tree, a camouflage-colored container crammed with a notebook, action figures, buttons, cards, pins and birds. He encourages me to take something, and I choose a parrot on a perch. Mark leaves something from his bag of tricks (“swag,” he calls it), he signs the log, we pack it all back up, hide the cache in its spot, and we’re off to the next one.
Geocachers are competitive. Mark mentions with pride the number of caches he’s found, and he speaks in reverent tones about some of New Hampshire’s leading geocachers, names like HockeyPuck, Chicken Lady, Me and My Dogs, Much Ado and Kayak Kouple. This Mount Rushmore of granite state geocachers has probably logged more than 15,000 caches in New Hampshire and elsewhere. Geocaching extends across the globe, from Switzerland to South Africa, from Hollis to Henniker - tens of thousands of people using hand-held GPS devices, a comfortable pair of shoes, competitive juices and a basic sense of direction. We’re an hour into the morning, and I lack all four of those requirements, but I’m having fun.
Mark, aka “Ponil,” explains the types of caches – regular ones, like the two we’ve found, puzzle caches that take some unraveling to decipher, virtual caches that require you to prove that you’ve seen something that can’t be moved, and multi-caches - a series of caches hidden in what can stretch for miles. There are nano-caches – small, magnetic capsules often hidden along street signs and guard rails - and bison tubes, small metal tubes hidden in trees and walls.
We press on, finding two more caches in these woods, one with the warning, “Please rehide well so the cache is not muggled.” Apparently there’s some sort of connection between Harry Potter, non-wizards and Tupperware containers hidden in the woods, but I don’t ask. For my money, anyone hoping to steal a well-hidden box of plastic monkeys and rubber rats should be called something other than muggle.
We reach the next spot, in the shadow of Sewalls Falls Bridge, and we find four more caches, including a virtual one. As we walk back from the final find, I start to wonder how this kind of thing could be marketed for the masses. We could make crazy tee shirts with slogans like, “Cache Me if You Can,” and “Cache but Don’t Carry!” Or maybe a TV reality show, “Dash for Cache,” where geocachers and muggles race against each other and the elements to find the true meaning of treasure and friendship.
I’m ready to call it a day, but Mark wants more. “It can be an obsession for some people, but not me,” he says, moments after describing his kayak trip on the Merrimack river two weeks ago (yes, in mid February) to find a middle leg of a multi-cache hidden by his caching cohorts. Paddling in a defenseless fiberglass watercraft in the middle of a swift, ice-strewn river may rank up there with what some consider obsessive behavior, but there’s no time to think because Mark’s got his GPS out and we’re heading to Penacook for more.
After ten minutes of driving, we find a nano-cache on the inside a traffic sign, the tiny scroll no wider than a baby’s finger, rolled up inside the capsule’s tip. We find another on the way back into town, causing a minor traffic jam in a cemetery on Fisherville Road. Mark tells me that police will often stop geocachers, which reminds me of Mark’s most important rule of geocaching. “Never geocache near a school during the school day.” I can imagine that conversation. “No, officer, really, I was just hunting for a small bucket of action figures. I didn’t even see the kids on the playground. Honest!”
We have one last cache to go – it’s now been more than four hours since we started, and I’m ready for a nap. But Mark keeps going, and now we’re on Commercial Street in Concord, staring at an enormous wall. “There’s a bison tube in the wall,” Mark tells me as he clears away snow with his feet and shovel. We try this for about ten minutes before giving up, the snow too deep to make much progress. I’m starting to slur my words I’m so tired, but Mark isn’t done. There are thousands more caches in New Hampshire for Mark to find, and hundreds of thousands across the globe waiting for him and his fellow treasure hunters. We shake hands, and as I drive off, I see Mark heading in the opposite direction, looking for just one more cache. I can’t do it – I’m all cached out. I’m strapped for cache. I’m cache-poor. Or maybe I’m just a muggle.
Friday, December 26, 2008
“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.
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.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
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.
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.
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