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.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Men in Tree Houses
My son Sam and I are in the car driving north, looking for a tree house. I miss hanging out in the one I had as a kid, a hand-me-down from my brother. By the time it was mine, the only things left were shag rug remnants stapled to the trunk, past issues of Cracked magazine, and two-by-fours hammered into a makeshift ladder leading to a cluster of sturdy limbs. This morning, as we head towards the mountains, we’re looking for a place called Monkey Trunks. I’ve heard it’s the best tree house around.
I have almost no idea what we’re getting ourselves into. Based on the scant information I gleaned from Monkey Trunk’s website, I’m not sure if we’re heading to a heart-stopping manly adventure or into a glorified McDonaldland jungle gym and ball pit mistake.
We’ve been driving for an hour and just after passing Lake Chocorua and the rock-scarred mountain that shares its name in the distance, we arrive. We’re greeted by Hazel Ives, a Nottingham, England native and Monkey Trunks’ owner. She welcomes us in, and within moments we’re seated in a small conference room to view a video about on-course safety. We learn we’re about to spend the morning atop a high-wire adventure course with three levels and twenty-five challenges. Sam is thrilled.
Next we meet our team leader, Marcus Hansen. He stands there, harnesses, clips and helmets in hand. Marcus is our guide for the day; he’s from Denmark and, after living in England, he came to Chocorua to help Hazel open Monkey Trunks this past spring. As Marcus fits a harness around Sam, Hazel explains, “These courses are very popular in England.” By the line of folks queuing in the driveway, I think the same might soon be the case in New Hampshire.
Marcus makes sure our gear is snug and explains the rules. I’m counting on Sam to remember all the pertinent details, because the harness is giving me such a wedgie that I’m having trouble concentrating. Once Marcus hands us our “monkey paws,” double-hinged fist-sized clips attached to our harnesses, we learn the one key rule to success on the course – “Never, ever have both clips unhooked from the rope.” Before I can say, “Why not?” Marcus adds, “Because that’s how you can fall all the way down,” without a trace of a smile. Sam nods in agreement.
After a quick hands-on lesson in clipping on and off the ropes, Marcus explains that before unclipping each monkey paw, we must ask aloud, “Permission to transfer,” and get an “OK” from one of the three instructors before unclipping and moving our paw to another rope. This way, he explains, we’ll always be tethered. As we walk towards the structure, I realize this is the biggest tree house I’ve ever seen. It’s imposing, rising more than sixty feet with towers and platforms, swings, rings, pulleys, nets and steel cables criss-crossing each other on three levels.
Sam jumps right in, and I follow. Within seconds we’re onto our first challenge, a massive cargo net that stretches from one platform to another, about thirty feet off the ground. Sam climbs along with ease. I wait for him to finish, and I yell, “Permission to transfer.” It doesn’t take long for me to realize that 13-year old boys are better climbers. A few moments ago, I imagined scampering across the net like Spiderman but as I labor, I look like Peter Parker’s chubby older brother Clint who tries to keep up while his inhaler and pocket calculator fall out of his fanny pack.
We move at a fast pace. Hazel told us we’d lose track of time, and time is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy keeping up with Sam while making sure this harness doesn’t cut off all circulation to my hips. We try every challenge, Sam always going first, my strategy having more to do with me not wanting Sam to see me slip, fall and dangle like a giant spider’s next meal than with common courtesy. We head to a huge V-shaped rope, and then it’s onto foot rings as we swing and teeter across. This is sort of like American Gladiators, without the steroid rage and skin-tight trousers, although this harness isn’t doing me any favors.
Sam and I traverse the course to the “Gauntlet,” a combination of rings and platforms that requires more than one mini-leap and scramble. We’re on level three and determined to get over to the top platform and the zipline. Sam gets there first and is greeted by Kate Everett, Marcus’s fellow team leader, her red hair poking out from underneath her helmet. I’m still making my way across a tightrope challenge as Sam stands on the platform. “You’re about sixty-five feet off the ground,” Kate tells us. She starts to explain what’s in store for us when I look over to see Sam standing there with both clips in his hands as he listens. Hmm, both clips in his hands – that looks funny. I must have missed that part of the video, and I don’t remember hearing Sam say anything about “Permission to transfer.” Uh oh.
“Sam,” I say in my calmest, most fatherly voice, “Clip on now. Immediately. Do it.” He stares at me with a terrified look, but he clips back on as Kate gently and firmly scolds him, warning him he’ll have to leave the course if he does it again. This mini-drama of unsafe adolescent behavior doesn’t slow us down because after a short tutorial in ziplines, we’re off the platform and hurtling down the wires, laughing our heads off, trying to outrace each other.
Marcus hoists a ladder and unclips us, and we head back for more. It’s been close to two hours, but it feels like fifteen minutes. My fingers are like bruised Vienna sausages, my shoulders are killing me, and I’ve been in a full sweat since I put my helmet on. But we continue, working our way up the course, and by now it’s crowded. We wait for our turn on the challenges as Kate, Marcus and Matthew Macdonald, the third team leader, navigate the course, responding to “Permission to transfer” with shouts of “OK.” All Sam says to me is, “This is awesome.”
The rope swing is our final challenge. Kate meets us on the platform as Marcus unhooks the rope swing from its tether below. Sam goes first. He sits down on the edge as Kate clips the heavy buckle attached to the rope onto his harness. I can see the weight already pulling him off the platform, but he hangs on. On the count of three, Sam lets go and he flies down, the long rope swinging him in huge arcs back and forth. He lets out a happy scream. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not ready for the tug of the thick rope. I’m slipping off the platform – Kate tells me to go for it, and I fall for what feels like forever before the buckle catches, and I swing back and forth, the late summer air rushing past my face. It’s not every day a 40-something man gets to spend a morning in a tree house, swinging like an ape with his son. Now if someone can just get me down from here, I might even try it again.
I have almost no idea what we’re getting ourselves into. Based on the scant information I gleaned from Monkey Trunk’s website, I’m not sure if we’re heading to a heart-stopping manly adventure or into a glorified McDonaldland jungle gym and ball pit mistake.
We’ve been driving for an hour and just after passing Lake Chocorua and the rock-scarred mountain that shares its name in the distance, we arrive. We’re greeted by Hazel Ives, a Nottingham, England native and Monkey Trunks’ owner. She welcomes us in, and within moments we’re seated in a small conference room to view a video about on-course safety. We learn we’re about to spend the morning atop a high-wire adventure course with three levels and twenty-five challenges. Sam is thrilled.
Next we meet our team leader, Marcus Hansen. He stands there, harnesses, clips and helmets in hand. Marcus is our guide for the day; he’s from Denmark and, after living in England, he came to Chocorua to help Hazel open Monkey Trunks this past spring. As Marcus fits a harness around Sam, Hazel explains, “These courses are very popular in England.” By the line of folks queuing in the driveway, I think the same might soon be the case in New Hampshire.
Marcus makes sure our gear is snug and explains the rules. I’m counting on Sam to remember all the pertinent details, because the harness is giving me such a wedgie that I’m having trouble concentrating. Once Marcus hands us our “monkey paws,” double-hinged fist-sized clips attached to our harnesses, we learn the one key rule to success on the course – “Never, ever have both clips unhooked from the rope.” Before I can say, “Why not?” Marcus adds, “Because that’s how you can fall all the way down,” without a trace of a smile. Sam nods in agreement.
After a quick hands-on lesson in clipping on and off the ropes, Marcus explains that before unclipping each monkey paw, we must ask aloud, “Permission to transfer,” and get an “OK” from one of the three instructors before unclipping and moving our paw to another rope. This way, he explains, we’ll always be tethered. As we walk towards the structure, I realize this is the biggest tree house I’ve ever seen. It’s imposing, rising more than sixty feet with towers and platforms, swings, rings, pulleys, nets and steel cables criss-crossing each other on three levels.
Sam jumps right in, and I follow. Within seconds we’re onto our first challenge, a massive cargo net that stretches from one platform to another, about thirty feet off the ground. Sam climbs along with ease. I wait for him to finish, and I yell, “Permission to transfer.” It doesn’t take long for me to realize that 13-year old boys are better climbers. A few moments ago, I imagined scampering across the net like Spiderman but as I labor, I look like Peter Parker’s chubby older brother Clint who tries to keep up while his inhaler and pocket calculator fall out of his fanny pack.
We move at a fast pace. Hazel told us we’d lose track of time, and time is the last thing on my mind. I’m too busy keeping up with Sam while making sure this harness doesn’t cut off all circulation to my hips. We try every challenge, Sam always going first, my strategy having more to do with me not wanting Sam to see me slip, fall and dangle like a giant spider’s next meal than with common courtesy. We head to a huge V-shaped rope, and then it’s onto foot rings as we swing and teeter across. This is sort of like American Gladiators, without the steroid rage and skin-tight trousers, although this harness isn’t doing me any favors.
Sam and I traverse the course to the “Gauntlet,” a combination of rings and platforms that requires more than one mini-leap and scramble. We’re on level three and determined to get over to the top platform and the zipline. Sam gets there first and is greeted by Kate Everett, Marcus’s fellow team leader, her red hair poking out from underneath her helmet. I’m still making my way across a tightrope challenge as Sam stands on the platform. “You’re about sixty-five feet off the ground,” Kate tells us. She starts to explain what’s in store for us when I look over to see Sam standing there with both clips in his hands as he listens. Hmm, both clips in his hands – that looks funny. I must have missed that part of the video, and I don’t remember hearing Sam say anything about “Permission to transfer.” Uh oh.
“Sam,” I say in my calmest, most fatherly voice, “Clip on now. Immediately. Do it.” He stares at me with a terrified look, but he clips back on as Kate gently and firmly scolds him, warning him he’ll have to leave the course if he does it again. This mini-drama of unsafe adolescent behavior doesn’t slow us down because after a short tutorial in ziplines, we’re off the platform and hurtling down the wires, laughing our heads off, trying to outrace each other.
Marcus hoists a ladder and unclips us, and we head back for more. It’s been close to two hours, but it feels like fifteen minutes. My fingers are like bruised Vienna sausages, my shoulders are killing me, and I’ve been in a full sweat since I put my helmet on. But we continue, working our way up the course, and by now it’s crowded. We wait for our turn on the challenges as Kate, Marcus and Matthew Macdonald, the third team leader, navigate the course, responding to “Permission to transfer” with shouts of “OK.” All Sam says to me is, “This is awesome.”
The rope swing is our final challenge. Kate meets us on the platform as Marcus unhooks the rope swing from its tether below. Sam goes first. He sits down on the edge as Kate clips the heavy buckle attached to the rope onto his harness. I can see the weight already pulling him off the platform, but he hangs on. On the count of three, Sam lets go and he flies down, the long rope swinging him in huge arcs back and forth. He lets out a happy scream. Now it’s my turn, and I’m not ready for the tug of the thick rope. I’m slipping off the platform – Kate tells me to go for it, and I fall for what feels like forever before the buckle catches, and I swing back and forth, the late summer air rushing past my face. It’s not every day a 40-something man gets to spend a morning in a tree house, swinging like an ape with his son. Now if someone can just get me down from here, I might even try it again.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
I Wanted to be like Mike
I wanted to be like Mike. After this month’s Olympics in Beijing, who wouldn’t? By now you’re familiar with Michael Phelps, the 23-year old American swimmer who singlehandedly won more medals than Mongolia, Malaysia and Moldova combined, breaking world record after world record and making all the other swimmers look like Water Baby class dropouts with swim diapers and runny noses. I first told myself I’d never be like Mike – at least not in the pool. My competitive swim career ended in the phone booth of a local swim club as a ten year old. Whether it was the fear of competition, the early morning practices or how my new Speedo pinched me in all the wrong places, I hid from the coach and cried to my mom over the phone until she agreed to rescue me.
So how else could I be like Mike? After watching his Olympic victories and scouring the internet for any and all stories about him, I learned that Mike likes to eat. Hey, me too! I love to eat. Maybe I could be like Mike. I wouldn’t need to shave my body or wear a form-fitting bathing suit to eat just like him. Sure, he swallows 12,000 calories a day, not a normal amount, but how hard could it be to sit around and eat? I’ve been doing it for years but never had a goal – maybe this time, with focus and the right amount of coaching, I could live the Olympic experience and never leave my kitchen.
My Phelps Gastronomic Emulation Experience took place last Sunday. I’d learned that Mike works out for six hours a day, so I needed to burn a few calories before sitting down to breakfast. I can’t even sleep for six hours a day, and I certainly wasn’t going to swim for six hours, so instead I ran for three miles, burning 458 calories, which was not a good sign. Michael probably burns that flossing his teeth.
Preparing breakfast was a workout in itself. First, a five-egg omelet, then three chocolate chip pancakes, three slices of French toast, followed by three fried egg and cheese sandwiches on whole wheat buns with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato and fried onions (a nice touch). Oh, and a bowl of grits, which I hear is a southern delicacy – which, if true, is the reason the South lost the Civil War (“Git that blue coat, Jessup!” “I cain’t - my belly’s a’swollen with them dang grits!”). I finished cooking and sat down with the feast before me. The mood among the coaching staff in the kitchen was not one of positive encouragement. “You’re gonna barf,” my daughter told me as she paced back and forth. I wore swim goggles and my two fourth-place butterfly medals from my younger days to get in the mood as I began eating.
Whatever calories I burned during my daybreak run I gained back after the second bite of the mayo and fried onions in the first egg sandwich. The sandwiches were going down faster than expected, and the omelet wasn’t so bad. And those pancakes, wow! Chocolate chips are yummy! “I can do this no problem,” I said to myself between forkfuls of eggs and French toast. Even the grits were good – well, ok, “good” might not be accurate. How about “edible?” On to the second egg and cheese sandwich and some coffee and maybe a few more bites of the omelet. Ding Ding! Open wide! Here comes the chocolate chip choo choo around the corner for more pancakes! Let’s not forget the French toast. The food was disappearing, and I felt fine, even though I was in a full sweat as my goggles fogged up. Just a few more nibbles of the omelet and maybe a spoonful more of the grits before I returned to the French toast. Hmm, well, maybe I should take a breath or two – I mean, no need to rush it right? “Let me get through these pancakes, and then I’ll worry about the last egg sandwich,” I murmured to no one in particular. Fifteen minutes into the first meal of the day, my belly was filling up, the coffee was cold and the grits, um, the grits started to look and taste like wallpaper spackle. But I needed to get through that last sandwich – a few more mouthfuls and I’d be done.
How does Michael Phelps do it? I felt like I swallowed fifty pounds of wood pulp and couldn’t imagine keeping my head above water much less doing the backstroke for 360 minutes. With half a bowl of grits and a few slices of French toast remaining, I sulked away from the kitchen counter. No time to think about failure because lunch was coming soon. The menu - one pound of pasta (with sauce), 1,000 calories of energy drinks, and two ham and cheese sandwiches. As I imagined every bite of lunch, I lay on the floor of the living room, delirious with carbohydrates. My son yelled to no one in particular, “This was a really bad idea.” I began to concur but drifted off to a fitful nap.
At 1:30 PM, about four hours since breakfast, I headed to the pool, knowing I needed to burn more calories if I stood any chance of surviving. There are few sights sadder than a 41-year old short fat man wearing borrowed goggles, gym shorts and a heart rate monitor around his bulging pale belly trying to swim laps. I swam for thirty minutes, the pace going something like this – stroke, breathe, burp, stroke, burp, breathe, stroke, burp. I burned 273 calories, an amount Mike burns as he clips his enormous toe nails on his cartoonishly huge feet.
I arrived home and decided to skip lunch – two sandwiches, a gallon of protein shakes and a pound of fusilli? No way. But the day wasn’t over, and there was still time for redemption, so I hopped on my bike and spent the next ninety minutes riding up, over and down Oak Hill and home, burning another 1,100 calories. Maybe my mini-triathlon had the intended effect, because when I got home, I was hungry for the first time since dawn.
For dinner each day, Michael Phelps consumes an entire cheese pizza, another 1,000 calories of energy drinks and a second pound of pasta with sauce. It’s rare when a grown man has an excuse to order, buy and eat an entire pizza pie, and I relished the moment. As I returned home from the pizza shop, I thought I heard the faint tones of the Olympic theme song playing in a distant meadow, but it turned out to be one of the four strawberry cream Myoplex shakes I chugged in order to get a head start on the meal. The shake had a vague taste of gorilla sweat combined with the fruity aroma of marshmallow circus peanuts and a metallic finish like when you chew on a lint-covered pencil. The pinkish liquid was seeking a place to call home in my gut, and the sound was unnerving.
By the fourth slice of pizza, I faced the reality that I was no Olympic athlete – I couldn’t swim like one, and I now knew I couldn’t eat like one. The giant bowl of pasta never stood a chance, and the idea of taking another swig of that strawberry bilge water masquerading as protein made me want to cry and/or vomit. My son saw the anguish on my face and said, “For your own health, just say, ‘I quit’ and walk away.” I did just that. There would be no gold medal for me this day.
I no longer want to be like Mike. I don’t have the time, the physique or the talent. He’s the greatest athlete in the world, and I’m the fourth greatest athlete in my house. Besides, those grits were really gross.
So how else could I be like Mike? After watching his Olympic victories and scouring the internet for any and all stories about him, I learned that Mike likes to eat. Hey, me too! I love to eat. Maybe I could be like Mike. I wouldn’t need to shave my body or wear a form-fitting bathing suit to eat just like him. Sure, he swallows 12,000 calories a day, not a normal amount, but how hard could it be to sit around and eat? I’ve been doing it for years but never had a goal – maybe this time, with focus and the right amount of coaching, I could live the Olympic experience and never leave my kitchen.
My Phelps Gastronomic Emulation Experience took place last Sunday. I’d learned that Mike works out for six hours a day, so I needed to burn a few calories before sitting down to breakfast. I can’t even sleep for six hours a day, and I certainly wasn’t going to swim for six hours, so instead I ran for three miles, burning 458 calories, which was not a good sign. Michael probably burns that flossing his teeth.
Preparing breakfast was a workout in itself. First, a five-egg omelet, then three chocolate chip pancakes, three slices of French toast, followed by three fried egg and cheese sandwiches on whole wheat buns with mayonnaise, lettuce, tomato and fried onions (a nice touch). Oh, and a bowl of grits, which I hear is a southern delicacy – which, if true, is the reason the South lost the Civil War (“Git that blue coat, Jessup!” “I cain’t - my belly’s a’swollen with them dang grits!”). I finished cooking and sat down with the feast before me. The mood among the coaching staff in the kitchen was not one of positive encouragement. “You’re gonna barf,” my daughter told me as she paced back and forth. I wore swim goggles and my two fourth-place butterfly medals from my younger days to get in the mood as I began eating.
Whatever calories I burned during my daybreak run I gained back after the second bite of the mayo and fried onions in the first egg sandwich. The sandwiches were going down faster than expected, and the omelet wasn’t so bad. And those pancakes, wow! Chocolate chips are yummy! “I can do this no problem,” I said to myself between forkfuls of eggs and French toast. Even the grits were good – well, ok, “good” might not be accurate. How about “edible?” On to the second egg and cheese sandwich and some coffee and maybe a few more bites of the omelet. Ding Ding! Open wide! Here comes the chocolate chip choo choo around the corner for more pancakes! Let’s not forget the French toast. The food was disappearing, and I felt fine, even though I was in a full sweat as my goggles fogged up. Just a few more nibbles of the omelet and maybe a spoonful more of the grits before I returned to the French toast. Hmm, well, maybe I should take a breath or two – I mean, no need to rush it right? “Let me get through these pancakes, and then I’ll worry about the last egg sandwich,” I murmured to no one in particular. Fifteen minutes into the first meal of the day, my belly was filling up, the coffee was cold and the grits, um, the grits started to look and taste like wallpaper spackle. But I needed to get through that last sandwich – a few more mouthfuls and I’d be done.
How does Michael Phelps do it? I felt like I swallowed fifty pounds of wood pulp and couldn’t imagine keeping my head above water much less doing the backstroke for 360 minutes. With half a bowl of grits and a few slices of French toast remaining, I sulked away from the kitchen counter. No time to think about failure because lunch was coming soon. The menu - one pound of pasta (with sauce), 1,000 calories of energy drinks, and two ham and cheese sandwiches. As I imagined every bite of lunch, I lay on the floor of the living room, delirious with carbohydrates. My son yelled to no one in particular, “This was a really bad idea.” I began to concur but drifted off to a fitful nap.
At 1:30 PM, about four hours since breakfast, I headed to the pool, knowing I needed to burn more calories if I stood any chance of surviving. There are few sights sadder than a 41-year old short fat man wearing borrowed goggles, gym shorts and a heart rate monitor around his bulging pale belly trying to swim laps. I swam for thirty minutes, the pace going something like this – stroke, breathe, burp, stroke, burp, breathe, stroke, burp. I burned 273 calories, an amount Mike burns as he clips his enormous toe nails on his cartoonishly huge feet.
I arrived home and decided to skip lunch – two sandwiches, a gallon of protein shakes and a pound of fusilli? No way. But the day wasn’t over, and there was still time for redemption, so I hopped on my bike and spent the next ninety minutes riding up, over and down Oak Hill and home, burning another 1,100 calories. Maybe my mini-triathlon had the intended effect, because when I got home, I was hungry for the first time since dawn.
For dinner each day, Michael Phelps consumes an entire cheese pizza, another 1,000 calories of energy drinks and a second pound of pasta with sauce. It’s rare when a grown man has an excuse to order, buy and eat an entire pizza pie, and I relished the moment. As I returned home from the pizza shop, I thought I heard the faint tones of the Olympic theme song playing in a distant meadow, but it turned out to be one of the four strawberry cream Myoplex shakes I chugged in order to get a head start on the meal. The shake had a vague taste of gorilla sweat combined with the fruity aroma of marshmallow circus peanuts and a metallic finish like when you chew on a lint-covered pencil. The pinkish liquid was seeking a place to call home in my gut, and the sound was unnerving.
By the fourth slice of pizza, I faced the reality that I was no Olympic athlete – I couldn’t swim like one, and I now knew I couldn’t eat like one. The giant bowl of pasta never stood a chance, and the idea of taking another swig of that strawberry bilge water masquerading as protein made me want to cry and/or vomit. My son saw the anguish on my face and said, “For your own health, just say, ‘I quit’ and walk away.” I did just that. There would be no gold medal for me this day.
I no longer want to be like Mike. I don’t have the time, the physique or the talent. He’s the greatest athlete in the world, and I’m the fourth greatest athlete in my house. Besides, those grits were really gross.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Bike to the Future
I’m standing by the service counter of a local bike shop, and I think I might be in over my head. I’m here to pick up my new road bike – a blue and black Trek 500 with cool handlebars, shiny brakes and more gears than I know what to do with. I approach the counter as the young mechanic puts down his tools and eyes me with a look of slight disdain. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the same look you get in a record shop or book store – that air of subtle contempt for anyone not wearing a beret, a “Neil Peart for President” tee shirt or a “Frodo Lives” button. “I’m here to pick up my bike,” I say. He ambles over and, in a light guffaw, says, “Oh. That little one over there?” This isn’t starting off well - my first foray into the world of road biking, and I’m pegged as a circus clown in street clothes picking out my new mini bike.
Then again, maybe it’s me and not the mechanic. I’ve resisted this day for more than two years. My wife’s an ardent road biker, riding from April to November, heading out on the weekend for epic stretches. She’d been asking me to join her, and I’ve held back. I haven’t owned my own bike for thirty years due to a series of two-wheeled experiences that all ended in tears. There’s the 1981 Memorial Day Apollo Three Speed broken chain to broken wrist disaster, or the recent fiasco when, on a borrowed bike, I bumped my daughter’s back tire, and she broke the fall to the pavement with her two front teeth. And how can I forget the lingering shame of my sister’s hand-me-down bike from high school? If there’s a list of things not to do when arriving at a 10th grade make-out party, riding a girl’s bike with the bent bar and daisy stickers rests near the top.
I’ve eased into this day by spending the last four years spinning, an indoor exercise class that involves an instructor, loud music and a stationary bike that you peddle like someone’s chasing you, slowing down to pretend you’re on a hill and speeding up for an imaginary flat stretch of road, all the while gender-confused pulsating club music blasts in your ears as your instructor reminds you to do a better job of pretending you’re riding a real bike. In hindsight, indoor bike riding makes about as much sense as indoor duck hunting, but the classes have prepped me for what awaits me outside.
But true love makes you do crazy things, and with my wife’s encouragement, I returned home with the bike (and helmet, water bottle and speedometer) and got ready to ride. We rode thirteen miles that first day, and other than realizing that compulsive gear changing only ends in popped chains and greasy fingers, I survived, and since that day, I’ve learned a lot about road biking. First, your shoes should come with clips, and these take some getting used to. Trust me. No matter how hard you may try, it’s impossible to look like a seasoned expert while you’re flailing around on the road, your shoes wedged into the bike clips as your belly makes its way free from your untucked tee shirt, your water bottle’s contents pooling with the bike grease that covers your hands and face.
Bikers put a lot of effort into their outfits. Cotton is about as welcome as a flat tire because bikers wear clothes that breathe, usually high-tech shirts with bright colors with team names on them, form-fitting black spandex pants with cushions in the rear, fancy sunglasses and padded fingerless gloves, making everyone look like Darth Vaders’ Storm Troopers on Spring Break. I refuse to wear a skin-tight shirt with a zipper to the navel, but I did acquiesce and buy a pair of black biker socks. I did so to avoid what my wife calls the, “white tube sock as ‘80’s leg warmer look.” I’ll admit that wearing black socks with shorts reminds me of a priest playing kickball at recess, but they are comfortable.
I have a recurring fantasy about me and my new bike. I’m riding on Farrington Corner Road outside Concord, alone on the road in the early morning. The only sounds are the spinning of my tires, the changing of my gears and my measured breathing. I reach the dense underbrush near the power lines, and a huge black bear leaps into the road and attacks. I’ve worked out two endings to this fantasy. First, I fall to the ground as the enraged ursus lunges at me. I huddle under my bike, its alloy frame and sophisticated gears shield me from the bear’s body blows, his claws glancing off the spokes of my wheels. The alternate ending has the beast sprinting to catch me as I shift gears and speed up. The bear lumbers next to my accelerating bike, a look of angry surprise on his face, shocked at my ability to outrace him. With both fantasies, the bear grows weary and sulks back to the underbrush, settling for that unsuspecting runner I spotted a while back. Either way, my bike rescues me from a certain mauling.
I’ve had the bike now for fifty days, and I’ve gone more than 400 miles. I’ve done a bunch of quick rides and a few rides so far from home that I half-expected to see French-Canadians waving cheap American dollars and laughing at me, American tourist biking fool. But last week I finally figured out what road biking is all about.
I was riding on Rollins Road in Hopkinton and been told to look out for three big hills. The first two hills were bad but not horrible, and I expected one more to go before heading home. But after the third came a fourth, and this one was brutal. I changed gears and made my way up, but as I continued, yet another steep hill loomed ahead! Would these hills ever stop? I didn’t have much gas in the tank, and I got so distracted with the fear of heart failure that I didn’t bother getting my gears ready. I slowed to a crawl, my arms and shoulders aching as I pulled against the handlebars and pushed my legs forward. Gasping for breath, I didn’t dare switch gears, too worried I’d pop my chain and teeter over. At this point, the only things breathing were my socks. Just as I was close to wobbling over and down, I found a tiny burst of energy and made it to the top. Within moments, I took a right turn and headed downhill at breakneck speed. My speedometer showed 32 mph, 36 mph, 39 mph! I clung to my bike for dear life, the only things separating me from certain death were two thin tires and my helmet that looks like it came off of Wheelie, the recuperating American Girl doll. Down I went, hurtling towards certain doom when the road evened out. Just as I slowed to breathing speed, Beech Hill Farms appeared like a mirage, its overflowing orders of homemade ice cream beckoning my name. I rode on by – miles to go before I could stop, but I promised myself I’d return to the scene of my near demise and celebrate with ice cream.
If road biking is about anything, it’s about risk and reward. And if I need to risk a serious case of road rash, broken limbs and oxygen depravation in order to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae, I’m ready to ride any time you’d like. You pick the route, and I’ll pick the flavor.
Then again, maybe it’s me and not the mechanic. I’ve resisted this day for more than two years. My wife’s an ardent road biker, riding from April to November, heading out on the weekend for epic stretches. She’d been asking me to join her, and I’ve held back. I haven’t owned my own bike for thirty years due to a series of two-wheeled experiences that all ended in tears. There’s the 1981 Memorial Day Apollo Three Speed broken chain to broken wrist disaster, or the recent fiasco when, on a borrowed bike, I bumped my daughter’s back tire, and she broke the fall to the pavement with her two front teeth. And how can I forget the lingering shame of my sister’s hand-me-down bike from high school? If there’s a list of things not to do when arriving at a 10th grade make-out party, riding a girl’s bike with the bent bar and daisy stickers rests near the top.
I’ve eased into this day by spending the last four years spinning, an indoor exercise class that involves an instructor, loud music and a stationary bike that you peddle like someone’s chasing you, slowing down to pretend you’re on a hill and speeding up for an imaginary flat stretch of road, all the while gender-confused pulsating club music blasts in your ears as your instructor reminds you to do a better job of pretending you’re riding a real bike. In hindsight, indoor bike riding makes about as much sense as indoor duck hunting, but the classes have prepped me for what awaits me outside.
But true love makes you do crazy things, and with my wife’s encouragement, I returned home with the bike (and helmet, water bottle and speedometer) and got ready to ride. We rode thirteen miles that first day, and other than realizing that compulsive gear changing only ends in popped chains and greasy fingers, I survived, and since that day, I’ve learned a lot about road biking. First, your shoes should come with clips, and these take some getting used to. Trust me. No matter how hard you may try, it’s impossible to look like a seasoned expert while you’re flailing around on the road, your shoes wedged into the bike clips as your belly makes its way free from your untucked tee shirt, your water bottle’s contents pooling with the bike grease that covers your hands and face.
Bikers put a lot of effort into their outfits. Cotton is about as welcome as a flat tire because bikers wear clothes that breathe, usually high-tech shirts with bright colors with team names on them, form-fitting black spandex pants with cushions in the rear, fancy sunglasses and padded fingerless gloves, making everyone look like Darth Vaders’ Storm Troopers on Spring Break. I refuse to wear a skin-tight shirt with a zipper to the navel, but I did acquiesce and buy a pair of black biker socks. I did so to avoid what my wife calls the, “white tube sock as ‘80’s leg warmer look.” I’ll admit that wearing black socks with shorts reminds me of a priest playing kickball at recess, but they are comfortable.
I have a recurring fantasy about me and my new bike. I’m riding on Farrington Corner Road outside Concord, alone on the road in the early morning. The only sounds are the spinning of my tires, the changing of my gears and my measured breathing. I reach the dense underbrush near the power lines, and a huge black bear leaps into the road and attacks. I’ve worked out two endings to this fantasy. First, I fall to the ground as the enraged ursus lunges at me. I huddle under my bike, its alloy frame and sophisticated gears shield me from the bear’s body blows, his claws glancing off the spokes of my wheels. The alternate ending has the beast sprinting to catch me as I shift gears and speed up. The bear lumbers next to my accelerating bike, a look of angry surprise on his face, shocked at my ability to outrace him. With both fantasies, the bear grows weary and sulks back to the underbrush, settling for that unsuspecting runner I spotted a while back. Either way, my bike rescues me from a certain mauling.
I’ve had the bike now for fifty days, and I’ve gone more than 400 miles. I’ve done a bunch of quick rides and a few rides so far from home that I half-expected to see French-Canadians waving cheap American dollars and laughing at me, American tourist biking fool. But last week I finally figured out what road biking is all about.
I was riding on Rollins Road in Hopkinton and been told to look out for three big hills. The first two hills were bad but not horrible, and I expected one more to go before heading home. But after the third came a fourth, and this one was brutal. I changed gears and made my way up, but as I continued, yet another steep hill loomed ahead! Would these hills ever stop? I didn’t have much gas in the tank, and I got so distracted with the fear of heart failure that I didn’t bother getting my gears ready. I slowed to a crawl, my arms and shoulders aching as I pulled against the handlebars and pushed my legs forward. Gasping for breath, I didn’t dare switch gears, too worried I’d pop my chain and teeter over. At this point, the only things breathing were my socks. Just as I was close to wobbling over and down, I found a tiny burst of energy and made it to the top. Within moments, I took a right turn and headed downhill at breakneck speed. My speedometer showed 32 mph, 36 mph, 39 mph! I clung to my bike for dear life, the only things separating me from certain death were two thin tires and my helmet that looks like it came off of Wheelie, the recuperating American Girl doll. Down I went, hurtling towards certain doom when the road evened out. Just as I slowed to breathing speed, Beech Hill Farms appeared like a mirage, its overflowing orders of homemade ice cream beckoning my name. I rode on by – miles to go before I could stop, but I promised myself I’d return to the scene of my near demise and celebrate with ice cream.
If road biking is about anything, it’s about risk and reward. And if I need to risk a serious case of road rash, broken limbs and oxygen depravation in order to reward myself with a hot fudge sundae, I’m ready to ride any time you’d like. You pick the route, and I’ll pick the flavor.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Red Bull and Fisher Cats
Minor League baseball is like America’s goofy uncle - the one on your mom’s side with the wacky voices and crazy hats, those plaid-on-stripes outfits and a belly laugh that makes you smile. Lucky for us, we have such an uncle nearby. Right down Route 3 you’ll find the New Hampshire Fisher Cats, the Eastern League affiliate of the Toronto Blue Jays, a team two rungs from the big time located in the heart of Manchester. If the major leagues are “The Show,” then the Fisher Cats are more like an off-off-Broadway event. The on-stage talent may ebb and flow, but it’s always a great time.
I spent a night living the minor league experience as a guest member of the Fisher Cats’ on-field promotions crew. The Fisher Cats met the Portland Sea Dogs, the Red Sox’ double A team on a crisp Friday night, and I had a front-row seat, even though I didn’t do much sitting.
My guide and boss for the evening was Morgan Crandall, a twenty-something Maine native and the Community Relations manager for the Cats. Danielle Matteau, the Fisher Cats’ head of Public Affairs, agreed to let me shadow Morgan and her co-workers as part of the promo team as it led the crowd of 6,500 fans through all sorts of mid-inning on-field hi-jinx.
Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I wanted to be the mascot – just for one game. A single night dressed as a cartoon fisher cat - a large, dark-brown North American arboreal, carnivorous mammal - would be something I’d brag about for decades, but Danielle demurred. Besides, the team already has a more than capable mascot in Slider. And after seeing Slider sweat his stubby brown tail off for nine innings of baseball, I’m confident I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill.
I arrive at the park two hours before game time to meet Morgan, and we start walking at a fast clip while Morgan talks. I scramble to keep up, a theme that repeats itself for the next six hours. In the time it takes us to walk from the right field foul pole to behind home plate, I learn this is Morgan’s third Eastern League team in three years; after college in Virginia, where she majored in sports management, Morgan “couldn’t imagine not working in sports once I graduated,” she says as we turbo-stroll the concourse. Morgan is a force of pure energy! She says hello to everyone we pass, directing employees and interns while greeting season ticket holders and harried birthday party parents. Morgan introduces me to both Bernie Carbo and Rico Petrocelli while collecting waivers from the Cub Scout color guard and ensuring the crowd of ceremonial first pitchers is ready to go all the while sharing, in exacting detail, about the Eastern League All-Star game taking place in mid July right here at the stadium. “That’s my thing; I’m organizing it,” she announces with pride.
The game starts in ninety minutes, and I’m already exhausted. There’s no way Morgan can keep this pace up - she’ll be toast by the seventh inning stretch! But there’s no time for idle thoughts. We need a little girl for the fireworks promo, and while we scan the crowd, Morgan tells Luke the summer intern to, “Look for cute.” Luke, a college student from Indiana, is one of the twenty-two interns the Cats hire each summer. Luke says little, stunned by the rapid-fire directions Morgan shoots his way. I don’t know about Luke, but I’m getting chest pains just watching her work. “Try doing this for nineteen days straight,” Morgan says to me, smiling.
It’s 6:20, and first pitch is minutes away. We move onto the field. A dozen kids from a local taekwondo school jump, shout, and kick in red and white outfits to pulsating music as Michaela Sweet, Morgan’s cohort, the team’s marketing manager and on-field emcee paces back and forth. The kids howl, breaking boards with their hands and feet on the first-base side of the field. Michaela is inches away from getting a pre-teen foot to the head, but she’s unfazed. I guess once you’ve been in the minor league baseball promotions business for six years like her, one gaggle of yelping, frenzied pint-sized warriors is like any other. Even as the nunchuks come out, Michaela is unconcerned.
As I stand on the field, a giant tooth uses an oversized toothbrush to clean off home plate. Slider hurls balls into the crowd while dozens of Jays and Clam Kings - local little leaguers - play catch on the infield. Morgan commands the scene like General Patton at a traffic stop, giving the Cub Scout color guard instructions. I’m afraid to move a muscle - I’m either gonna get a nunchuk to the noggin, an errant Clam King cutoff throw to the ear, or Super Tooth will mock my gingivitis, so I stay motionless by the dugout.
Then, in an instant, a youngster belts out the National Anthem, the Scouts present the colors, the Clam Kings run off the field, the first ball throwers do their thing, and the game begins. I feel like we’re already in extra innings, and not a single pitch’s been thrown. Morgan never skips a beat. In the first two innings, she arranges a successful scoreboard-announced engagement (“Kelly, will you marry me? Alan”), sets up and judges a gunny sack race for a box of cereal between two pint-size girls, and preps for the Build a Burger event.
Underneath the stands, Morgan corrals the two burger builders, gulping a Red Bull as she talks. Maybe this is the source of her boundless momentum, but she’s been working non-stop for hours already, and this energy drink might actually be calming her down. Either way, she is cheery, focused and does a nice job of thanking both bun and burger for participating.
It’s the third inning, and we’re standing in the corner of the Sea Dogs’ dugout. The sumo competitors, Morgan, Michaela, and I are clustered together, drawing no attention from the players, which is a good thing. My one chance to interact with the future stars of the Red Sox, and I’m helping a man velcro himself into an enormous non-breathable fat suit. The inning ends, the wrestlers flop around for ninety seconds, and we’re onto “Race the Mascot” in another three outs.
Eight-year old Megan is racing Slider tonight, and she beats him by a whisker to the applause of the crowd. Morgan congratulates Megan and hustles off to change into an elf costume for next inning’s Santa’s Village promo. Never knowing if the inning will be over in three pitches or, in the case of tonight’s game, forty pitches, two pitching changes, one error and five runs, means Morgan and her cast must be ready immediately. Elfin magic Morgan and her Santa sidekick perform with gusto, giving away a scooter to a lucky fan.
It’s the seventh inning, and I give Morgan the slip and sit down to watch some baseball. The Sea Dogs lead 14-8 in front of a thinning crowd. Out of nowhere, the Fisher Cats manager throws a fit, directing a tirade at the home plate umpire, his tanned face turning purple-red with anger as he screams at the man in blue. He gets tossed and is followed by the Cats’ hitting coach, who yells all sorts of adult-only adjectives until he too is asked to leave. It’s a bit unsettling when two of the oldest people in the park act like complete babies, but if you had to wear stretch pants, an athletic supporter and do nothing more aerobic than spit sunflower seeds, you’d be a blown call away from snapping too.
Just when I think the promos are done, a group of interns gathers on the concourse to prep for the 8th inning ”Cha Cha Slide” dugout dance, wearing food-themed costumes. I’m not sure what they’re promoting, but if bananas, hot sauce, Tootsie Rolls, ketchup and tomato soup are the ingredients, I’m not taking a bite.
Friday night is Fireworks night for the Fisher Cats fans, and the moment the game ends, Morgan and Michaela waste no time kicking off the finale. Morgan leads a little girl onto the field, Michaela introduces her with an energetic voice, the girl drops the pretend detonator, and fireworks fill the Manchester night sky.
This is my cue to call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t even look up at what sounds like quite a show. As I leave the field, I see Morgan in a dead sprint, off to hammer out final details on another task. In ten hours, she and the rest of the entire Fisher Cats organization will be right back here to do it all over again. Let’s hope there’s enough Red Bull to go around.
I spent a night living the minor league experience as a guest member of the Fisher Cats’ on-field promotions crew. The Fisher Cats met the Portland Sea Dogs, the Red Sox’ double A team on a crisp Friday night, and I had a front-row seat, even though I didn’t do much sitting.
My guide and boss for the evening was Morgan Crandall, a twenty-something Maine native and the Community Relations manager for the Cats. Danielle Matteau, the Fisher Cats’ head of Public Affairs, agreed to let me shadow Morgan and her co-workers as part of the promo team as it led the crowd of 6,500 fans through all sorts of mid-inning on-field hi-jinx.
Okay, I’ll be straight with you. I wanted to be the mascot – just for one game. A single night dressed as a cartoon fisher cat - a large, dark-brown North American arboreal, carnivorous mammal - would be something I’d brag about for decades, but Danielle demurred. Besides, the team already has a more than capable mascot in Slider. And after seeing Slider sweat his stubby brown tail off for nine innings of baseball, I’m confident I couldn’t afford the dry cleaning bill.
I arrive at the park two hours before game time to meet Morgan, and we start walking at a fast clip while Morgan talks. I scramble to keep up, a theme that repeats itself for the next six hours. In the time it takes us to walk from the right field foul pole to behind home plate, I learn this is Morgan’s third Eastern League team in three years; after college in Virginia, where she majored in sports management, Morgan “couldn’t imagine not working in sports once I graduated,” she says as we turbo-stroll the concourse. Morgan is a force of pure energy! She says hello to everyone we pass, directing employees and interns while greeting season ticket holders and harried birthday party parents. Morgan introduces me to both Bernie Carbo and Rico Petrocelli while collecting waivers from the Cub Scout color guard and ensuring the crowd of ceremonial first pitchers is ready to go all the while sharing, in exacting detail, about the Eastern League All-Star game taking place in mid July right here at the stadium. “That’s my thing; I’m organizing it,” she announces with pride.
The game starts in ninety minutes, and I’m already exhausted. There’s no way Morgan can keep this pace up - she’ll be toast by the seventh inning stretch! But there’s no time for idle thoughts. We need a little girl for the fireworks promo, and while we scan the crowd, Morgan tells Luke the summer intern to, “Look for cute.” Luke, a college student from Indiana, is one of the twenty-two interns the Cats hire each summer. Luke says little, stunned by the rapid-fire directions Morgan shoots his way. I don’t know about Luke, but I’m getting chest pains just watching her work. “Try doing this for nineteen days straight,” Morgan says to me, smiling.
It’s 6:20, and first pitch is minutes away. We move onto the field. A dozen kids from a local taekwondo school jump, shout, and kick in red and white outfits to pulsating music as Michaela Sweet, Morgan’s cohort, the team’s marketing manager and on-field emcee paces back and forth. The kids howl, breaking boards with their hands and feet on the first-base side of the field. Michaela is inches away from getting a pre-teen foot to the head, but she’s unfazed. I guess once you’ve been in the minor league baseball promotions business for six years like her, one gaggle of yelping, frenzied pint-sized warriors is like any other. Even as the nunchuks come out, Michaela is unconcerned.
As I stand on the field, a giant tooth uses an oversized toothbrush to clean off home plate. Slider hurls balls into the crowd while dozens of Jays and Clam Kings - local little leaguers - play catch on the infield. Morgan commands the scene like General Patton at a traffic stop, giving the Cub Scout color guard instructions. I’m afraid to move a muscle - I’m either gonna get a nunchuk to the noggin, an errant Clam King cutoff throw to the ear, or Super Tooth will mock my gingivitis, so I stay motionless by the dugout.
Then, in an instant, a youngster belts out the National Anthem, the Scouts present the colors, the Clam Kings run off the field, the first ball throwers do their thing, and the game begins. I feel like we’re already in extra innings, and not a single pitch’s been thrown. Morgan never skips a beat. In the first two innings, she arranges a successful scoreboard-announced engagement (“Kelly, will you marry me? Alan”), sets up and judges a gunny sack race for a box of cereal between two pint-size girls, and preps for the Build a Burger event.
Underneath the stands, Morgan corrals the two burger builders, gulping a Red Bull as she talks. Maybe this is the source of her boundless momentum, but she’s been working non-stop for hours already, and this energy drink might actually be calming her down. Either way, she is cheery, focused and does a nice job of thanking both bun and burger for participating.
It’s the third inning, and we’re standing in the corner of the Sea Dogs’ dugout. The sumo competitors, Morgan, Michaela, and I are clustered together, drawing no attention from the players, which is a good thing. My one chance to interact with the future stars of the Red Sox, and I’m helping a man velcro himself into an enormous non-breathable fat suit. The inning ends, the wrestlers flop around for ninety seconds, and we’re onto “Race the Mascot” in another three outs.
Eight-year old Megan is racing Slider tonight, and she beats him by a whisker to the applause of the crowd. Morgan congratulates Megan and hustles off to change into an elf costume for next inning’s Santa’s Village promo. Never knowing if the inning will be over in three pitches or, in the case of tonight’s game, forty pitches, two pitching changes, one error and five runs, means Morgan and her cast must be ready immediately. Elfin magic Morgan and her Santa sidekick perform with gusto, giving away a scooter to a lucky fan.
It’s the seventh inning, and I give Morgan the slip and sit down to watch some baseball. The Sea Dogs lead 14-8 in front of a thinning crowd. Out of nowhere, the Fisher Cats manager throws a fit, directing a tirade at the home plate umpire, his tanned face turning purple-red with anger as he screams at the man in blue. He gets tossed and is followed by the Cats’ hitting coach, who yells all sorts of adult-only adjectives until he too is asked to leave. It’s a bit unsettling when two of the oldest people in the park act like complete babies, but if you had to wear stretch pants, an athletic supporter and do nothing more aerobic than spit sunflower seeds, you’d be a blown call away from snapping too.
Just when I think the promos are done, a group of interns gathers on the concourse to prep for the 8th inning ”Cha Cha Slide” dugout dance, wearing food-themed costumes. I’m not sure what they’re promoting, but if bananas, hot sauce, Tootsie Rolls, ketchup and tomato soup are the ingredients, I’m not taking a bite.
Friday night is Fireworks night for the Fisher Cats fans, and the moment the game ends, Morgan and Michaela waste no time kicking off the finale. Morgan leads a little girl onto the field, Michaela introduces her with an energetic voice, the girl drops the pretend detonator, and fireworks fill the Manchester night sky.
This is my cue to call it a night. I’m so tired I can’t even look up at what sounds like quite a show. As I leave the field, I see Morgan in a dead sprint, off to hammer out final details on another task. In ten hours, she and the rest of the entire Fisher Cats organization will be right back here to do it all over again. Let’s hope there’s enough Red Bull to go around.
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