Gone Dog Days
Posted August 27th, 2008
D-Rex, our seasonal suspension guru at the bike shop, is always the first to say it, and he said it once again this year. We were all slogging our way through an especially long and hot day at the shop, watching the clock move backwards as we looked forward to a bike ride after work, and he blurted it out. I had just finished fitting a two-year-old with her first helmet, a challenging and exhausting task analogous to giving a cat a bath, only with more screeching. The summer had entered the Dog Days, and as the rest of us were clinging to each precious summer day like leaf-shaped memories on a brain tree in the autumn of our minds, he said, “I can’t wait for snow.”
I feel that winter comes fast enough, and once it is here, it has the tendency to overstay its welcome. I’m a big fan of snow, and snowboarding and snow skiing and heck, even snowshoeing, and during that snowless stretch of time between late fall and early winter, which Kurt Vonnegut, may he rest in peace, labeled the Locking Season, when the earth is barren brown and the days are getting shorter and shorter, and the only snow around is a feeble strip of manmade ice at the ski resort, I definitely long for the white stuff. In the middle of July in Vermont, however, I long for a dry summer day that coincides with a day off.
This summer in particular has zoomed by faster than the all-new 2009 Batmobile, modified with a custom EPO turbo charger kit, and I’m starting to realize that many of those ambitious plans I made in the spring are going to remain as such. At this point, I’ve got a summer activity checklist going, and instead of doing each activity multiple times, I’m just focusing on doing them at least once. Mountain biking the Kingdom Trails, riding a century, and sailing on Lake Champlain are on there, but have yet to be checked off. However, hanging around all day, doing stupid guy things with fellow stupid guys, is now on the books.
Thanks to a wedding, which was beautiful and touching, a bunch of us ended up crashing at Land Beaver’s house. He and his nice lady, Super Tolerant Woman, live within stumbling distance of the wedding site and were more than willing to put us up for the night. They were even so accommodating as to place a sign in their yard that read, “Post Wedding Drunken Hostel Here,” to assure that we wouldn’t knock on the wrong door at two in the morning.
Following a delicious brunch, served up by our gracious hosts, we began a series of stupid activities pulled directly out of the “Stupid Activities for Stupid Guys” handbook. We started our grand day by hoisting the mast and rigging the sail of the ’70s-era catamaran that Land Beaver recently purchased, at a great deal, mind you, and then went for an imaginary sail in the driveway. It took a Dremel tool and two hours of standing around, scratching our heads, trying to figure out which piece of rigging went where, but we remained steadfast and resolute, and as a result of our unwavering determination, the sail went up. Watching that sail, which consisted of more patches than original fabric, fill with air, was a triumphant and touching moment that brought a tear to each of our eyes.
The fun didn’t stop there. Realizing that we probably weren’t going to embark on something cool like bike riding, and in an attempt to get some kind of exercise, we invented, organized, and played six full innings of Empty Ball, a thrilling game involving an empty beer can and a stick. Although this electrifying game of ours had provided a tremendous amount of fun that lasted at least four of the sixty minutes it took to finish, it provided very little exercise, so we went back to the planning books.
After a round of discussions, we decided that it would be a good idea to cut a 55-gallon plastic barrel in half and see how far we could navigate the section of rapids that flows behind Land Beaver and Super Tolerant Woman’s house before capsizing. Extra points, of course, would be rewarded for not spilling any beer. I was skeptical that the things would float, but as Land Beaver said, “It worked when we were twelve. I don’t see any reason why it won’t work now.” When the barrel halves sunk almost immediately, we were beside ourselves, and could only speculate that perhaps the viscosity of water has changed in the past 20 years. At that point, all I could say was, “Empty Ball anyone?” and all I could think was, maybe I’ll ride that century next week.
