The Diary of a Man Sometimes Lost.

An American Road Trip. Pt. 1

2010-05-16T06:30:00.000-07:00

We stood and shivered in the sub-freezing Kansas winter night air and wondered if the sadistic Greyhound driver would ever let us on his bus. It had been a long day-a long couple of days-and we were ready for rest. Questions lingered on our minds as we waited for entry onto the vehicle that represented our only chance of getting home: What went wrong? What would happen to the car, now that it was stuck in rural Kansas? Why had we thought that we could pull off such a stunt? We were close, so close, to being able to finally go home, but now we were dealing with this. A man with a hard-on for punishing others.

A confused elderly woman in line with us asked the bus driver when he would allow us on the bus. "When I feel like it" he replied. He had brought us out of the warm, dry terminal forty-five minutes earlier to make us form a line outside of his bus. We had stood patiently outside after he closed the door and inspected the bus, prohibiting us from entry. He had paced slowly back and forth inside the bus, glancing at us through the window. He would make us wait. He was in charge. We would pay the price for wanting warmth. He would teach us that lesson, and he would do it with a sinister smile.

It was 6 degrees outside and windy. How long would he make us wait?

This was not the adventure that Bert and I had planned. Two days earlier we had set off on a cross-country road trip that had been on our bucket list since we were teens. Two friends in a classic chevy driving across America's heartland. Two friends -brothers- who had spent most of their lives together, but were now living on opposite sides of the continent. The plan was simple: get the old car out of storage, spend a week or two preparing it for the trip, drive it from Boulder to my new home in Nashville.

A 1966 Cheverolet Impala SS. A candy apple red two-door hardtop with a small block engine that rumbled a distinctive low purr through its dual chrome tail pipes. Originally my brother's project car, I had bought it from him when I was twelve for $300. For me it had been love at first sight. The long, low, curved lines of the car. The bucket seats. The smell of its interior. What my eyes were witnessing was a grey, rusty, hunk of metal with a deteriorated interior and an engine that didn't run. My head, however, saw a red beauty that ran perfectly. It would take five years, but that vision would become reality.

When I wasn't in class, I was either working as a bus-boy at the country club earning money for the car, or I was working on the car. It was obsessive. Non-stop for years. I would stay up all night some nights removing the old carpeting or cleaning the engine parts. Some nights I would just sit in the car, imagining what it would be like when it was finished. My father would give me guidance, and I felt close to him when we worked on the car together. For Christmas and birthdays, I always asked for something car-related: a new headliner, a carburetor, tools.

Bert would often sit with me while I worked on the car. We would listen to music (The Doors, Led Zeppelin, The Beach Boys, Pearl Jam) and talk about girls. In fact, we talked about everything. Two teenage boys trying their hardest to figure out the mysteries of life, the intricacies of the high-school social scene, and their own place in the world. We fantasized about cruising in the car, driving through the mountains and across the plains of eastern Colorado. We promised to take the car across the country when it was finished.

To be continued...

Master of Nothing?

2010-05-05T17:26:00.000-07:00

Beware the man who does too many things, for he does not many of them well.

It's OK to lose.

2010-04-26T20:52:00.000-07:00

A man's true sense of grace is revealed more so during times of failure than during times of success.

A New Declaration

2010-04-07T19:33:00.000-07:00

The Declaration of Independence was drafted out of necessity during a time when citizens’ rights were being violated by an oppressive government. The need to break free of the status-quo and redirect the cultural attitude towards the relationship between government and citizen led to its being drafted and, ultimately, to its being enacted. Likewise, in the nineteenth century the need arose for women to speak out against an oppressive culture and government that had excluded half of its population from the rights that had been declared almost a century earlier. Today, close to two hundred and fifty years after Thomas Jefferson’s Declaration of Independence, and more than one hundred and fifty years after Elizabeth Cady Stanton’s Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions, the need for a new type of declaration has presented itself. This declaration must speak against the many abuses suffered by those living things on Earth whom cannot speak for themselves.

Declaration of Environmental and Non-Human Rights

When, in the course of world history, it becomes necessary for a majority portion of the world’s population to assume among other living creatures a position different from that which they have hitherto occupied, but one to which the laws of nature and nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to all living creatures, both human and non, requires that the causes that impel them to such a course should be declared.

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all natural things in this world are created equal; that they are endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the freedom to live naturally, the way that God intended them to; that to secure these rights human beings have been given the duty of protecting and nourishing those very things that provide them with a meaningful existence. Whenever any type of living creature becomes destructive of these ends, it is a right of those who suffer from it to have their liberties be voiced, and in doing so have a new institution of protection be insisted on, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such a form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and right to flourish. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that the role of human kind in the world, long established, should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience has shown that most bodies of nature are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to be able to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they were accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is the duty of human beings to change their behavior, and to provide new guard for the future security of the abused. Such has been the suffering of the world’s forests, tundra, jungles, rivers and oceans. Such too has been the suffering of so many of God’s creatures under the oppressive watch of human beings, and such is now the necessity which constrains them to be spoken for, and demanded the equal and natural station to which they are entitled.

The history of mankind is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations on the part of human beings toward all other living creatures in this world, having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over them. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.

They (human beings) have cut down the forests of this world in order to make room for building habitats that are both unnatural to humans and burdensome on the Earth.

They have replaced dense foliage and open prairie with concrete and metal.

They have killed animals, not out of necessity, but rather for sport, and in doing so have endangered and made extinct many of God’s most beautiful creations.

They have polluted the waterways with poisonous chemicals that kill fish and other marine life, in the name of convenience.

They have torn down a majority of the world’s rainforests in order to harvest minerals from the ground that will make them money.

They have forgotten their role as protectors of the world and mistaken it with being owners of the world, and in doing so have thoughtlessly taken over a majority of the Earth’s surface, with little thought to the impact they are making.

They have become near-sighted to the point of blindness with regard to the long-term impact of their lifestyles.

They have silenced the voices of those who speak for the plants and animals of the world, opting instead to indulge in the false pretense that what is out of sight and, therefore, out of mind, must be unworthy of their attention.

They have decided time and time again that immediate financial rewards outweigh the health and happiness of future generations.

They have placed animals, who by their nature roam thousands of miles during their lifetimes, into small, isolated corridors.

They have forgotten that they are a part of the world, and that the world is not theirs to oppress.

They have done more damage to the world, in little more than one hundred year’s time, than had been done in the thousands of years prior.

In every stage of these oppressions, the living plants and animals who cannot speak for themselves have silently suffered, while their plight has been ignored. The stewards of the Earth, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, has acted unfit to be the ruler of God’s creatures.

We, therefore, the representatives of all things living, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by the Authority of all plants and animals of this world, solemnly publish and declare, That all of God’s creatures, no matter how silent and how small, be provided a measure of protection and respect from mankind that assures the continued and joyous balance that God and Nature intended.

It is only when these simple actions, those of a balanced and loving world, are enacted, that we as humans shall truly rejoice in the beauty of the world of which we have been bestowed. For if it were not for the lush greens, the clear water, the blue sky and the natural process of the animal kingdom, our lives would be that of a false reality. We must at once take action to ensure the protection of the world’s great wonder and beauty for the many generations who have yet to witness it.

(Written by Adam Trapani and based on The Declaration of Independence by Thomas Jefferson)

Ringing true

2010-03-03T21:25:00.000-08:00

It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.

-J.K. Rowling

Tetris and Life

2010-02-02T16:45:00.001-08:00

No two games ever get the same set of pieces.

How well you do depends both on where you decide to put the pieces as well as what pieces you get. It’s a mix of chance of performance.

Everyone plays Tetris differently. Some play it safe, taking it one line at a time, while others take risks, stacking up a big pile of pieces hoping for a straight piece to come along and save the day. Some people just don’t seem to know where to put the pieces, while others seem to navigate the game without effort.

It’s easy to do well in Tetris when the right pieces come at the right time.

Sometimes your game is cut short when the piece you’re waiting for doesn’t come.

You can use the exact same tactics in two separate games and do well in one and not the other.

It’s easier to know where to put the pieces when you are watching someone else play than when you are playing your own game.

Likewise, it’s easy to criticize another player’s strategy, but it’s incredibly aggravating when other people criticize yours.

It’s easy to blame a poor score on the game for not giving you the right pieces.

Some people play for points, while others try to get as many lines as they can. Others think that success is measured by what level they get to.

You can start on the easy level and do well, but you don’t get many points for it.

Each person seems to think that they know the best way to play Tetris.

Thinking back after a game is over, it’s easy to see what moves you could have done better.

A bad game of Tetris is still better than no Tetris at all.

Entertainment?

2010-01-24T11:41:00.000-08:00

The average football game, as presented on television (source: The Wall Street Journal):

-60 minutes of commercials

-75 minutes of huddling or milling between snaps

-17 minutes of replays

-11 minutes of actual football

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is America's favorite pastime.

I think I'll go for a bike ride.

Adam

I'm back and I'm mad.

2010-01-14T17:10:00.001-08:00

You know, just when I think no one is paying attention to this little blog, I get a surprise kick in the butt by a friend to remind me that someone, somewhere, is reading. Thank you, old friend.

So without further ado....

This posting is about the beauty of being mad, and the good that comes from telling the ugly truth . I'm mad, dammit.

As a New Year's resolution of sorts I have decided that when I'm mad, sad, disappointed or indifferent, I'm going to show it. And I expect the same from my friends. Life's too short not to be real with each other, so let's cut through the powdered sugar coating and express ourselves.

I want my friends to trust what I say. When I pay a compliment, I want it to mean something. When I'm happy, I want it to show. Likewise, when I'm mad at you, I'm going to tell you that. When I act like a jerk, I want you to call me out on it. I want to argue with you when I disagree with you, instead of keeping my opinion to myself, afraid of how it may make me look. I want to show you my ugly side, my mean side, my vulnerable side, and my insecure side.

I long for the freedom to be an asshole! I really, really, do.

And I'll start now. Let me publicly declare that it pisses me off that so many Americans are fat. There is no excuse for that! Stop eating so much crap! And stop going to the doctor looking for a magic pill that will solve your cholesterol problems, your heart problems, and your joint issues. That's not how it should work.

Phew, that felt good! And please, if you disagree, I expect to hear it from you. I'm beginning to realize that telling the truth-the whole, ugly truth-is a matter of respect.

Happy New Year. Here's to telling your friends why they piss you off, and having them return the favor.

With love,

Adam

Put Christ back in Christmas?

2009-11-27T20:19:00.001-08:00

I think it's time you studied your history, sirs.

Crystal ball.

2009-11-09T10:49:00.000-08:00

There is a difference between a plan and a prediction.

It's when the two coincide that we are at our best.

Right?

2009-11-03T21:08:00.000-08:00

Something can't come from nothing.

At least as far as my little brain can tell.

We're here.

We're part of a much bigger picture.

We just don't have the means to see it.

That blindness, to me, is what makes life so rich.

My Political Philosophy?

2009-11-03T21:05:00.001-08:00

Don't waste your time trying to stop a runaway train. Redirect it instead.

This Might Upset You...

2009-10-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

But I miss the days before cell phones.

I miss the days when conversations weren't interrupted by ringtones and vibrations.

I miss the days when aspects of planning were left to chance.

I miss when I could go to events with friends without photos of it being uploaded immediately for the world to see.

I miss the days when people didn't walk around public places talking to someone who wasn't there.

I miss the days when it was OK to not be in touch 24/7.

I miss privacy.

If you have an issue with these notions, call me at home and we'll talk about it. If I'm not there, leave a message.

Green grass

2009-10-14T16:04:00.001-07:00

It seems to me that for every single person that longs to be married, there is a married person who longs to be single.

Don't force it, Kiddo. Let life unfold.

Wouldn't allow suffering?

2009-10-12T19:49:00.001-07:00

But what is the joy of pleasure to a person who hasn't experienced pain? What is the celebration of summer to someone who hasn't been through a winter? To have experienced both is to be enriched. To know no pain is to be numb.

Love Knows No Enemies

2009-10-10T17:36:00.000-07:00

Love knows no enemies

Comes climbing up a tree

And swings over our heads

And tucks us into bed

It's climbing up the wall

And peaking through the stall

It slides down the stairs

And steals our underwear

It sneaks into our rooms

It's where our secrets loom

It flows into our hearts

And pulls the shades apart

Written (a while ago) for an incredible friend. ;)

True Story

2009-10-08T20:48:00.000-07:00

I've seen love change shape.

I've seen love go into hibernation.

But I've never seen it die.

Who knew it would work?

2009-10-07T19:10:00.000-07:00

Four months later. Sugar free (almost) diet. Fruits. Veggies. Push-ups. Crunches.

The belly is gone.

Waiting pt 2

2009-09-23T18:43:00.000-07:00

I threw my bag over the fence and climbed over after it. I pitched my tent in the rain while the stray dogs took cover under a small overhang nearby. It was mid-afternoon. I sat in the tent, reading “The Grapes of Wrath” and playing solitaire until I fell asleep later that night. The first day of waiting was over, and there was no sign of Adi and Ed.

It rained through the night and into the next day. I stayed in my tent, hopeful that Adi and Ed would see the tent and recognize it as mine. I waited patiently, while the rain hammered the roof of the tent and the floor seams started to leak water. I sat and read. I took naps. I ate the small amount of food that I had carried with me. Boredom and loneliness were starting to set in. Still Adi and Ed didn’t come.

On the third day of waiting I left the tent. My sleeping bag had become wet with rainwater. My book was soaked. I didn’t want to sit in the tent anymore. I unzipped the opening and stepped out into the persistent rain. Two dogs that had been investigating the area around the tent scurried away, their ribs pressing out against their mangled fur and their tails hanging low. The beach was only a few blocks away, so I climbed the fence and walked to it.

As I walked down the beach, soaked and shaking with cold, I reflected back to the expectations that I had had for this trip. I had set out from home determined to see the world. I had been so convinced that I would be gone a long time that I had quit my job. Believing that we wouldn’t see each other again for at least a couple years, my girlfriend and I had broken up. I envisioned circling the globe, learning and working as I went. I pictured picking apples on a farm in France, riding camels through the deserts of Morocco, and sailing a boat through the Pacific Isles.

I was 19 and free to do whatever I wanted. Determined to prove my independence, I had decided to leave home and let my insticts be my guide. A solo trip around the world without the assistance of anyone. No guidebooks, no reservations, no plans; just a one-way ticket to Rome. It had sounded so good.

Now, just three weeks after I left the U.S., I was exhausted, lonely, and out of money. My back was sore from carrying an overstuffed backpack that was filled with enough survival gear to climb Mt. Everest. My stomach was empty. I had lost ten pounds in three weeks. I was stranded in a strange city, sharing the overgrown backyard of an abandoned building with a pack of stray dogs. This wasn’t an apple orchard in France. This wasn’t sailing the Pacific. This was terrible.

I spotted a payphone through the rain from a quarter mile away. At once I knew I had a new decision to make. Arriving at the phone, I picked up the receiver and made a collect call.

“Hello?”

“Hey dad, it’s Adam!”

“Hey, buddy, how are you?

“Oh, I’m great dad. I’m really having a good time.”

We talked for a few minutes before I told him I had to get off and continue exploring this interesting new town. We said goodbye, I hung up, and started to walk back to my muddy purgatory. Then I paused, turned around, returned to the phone and made another call.

“Hello?”

“Dad…”

“Yeah buddy?”

“I want to come home”

Years later I recalled my disastrous visit to Bari to a group of friends and someone asked what the moral of the story was. “The moral?” I asked, stumped. Then it dawned on me. “It’s better to risk everything for a chance to move forward than it is to risk nothing and stay with yesterday’s comforts.”

As for Adi and Ed, I never found out if they showed up or not. If they did, I hope they brought raincoats.

Waiting pt. 1

2009-09-21T18:04:00.000-07:00

I stood in the rain staring at the sign on the door and realized I had a decision to make. Three weeks earlier in Rome I had met Adi and Ed, two young British men recently graduated from boarding school who had invited me to join them as they hitchhiked around the world. We had agreed to meet at the only youth hostel in the southern Italian port city of Bari before taking a ferry to Greece. The plan was simple: Wait three weeks, meet at the hostel, go to Greece. But now, as I read the sign on the door, I realized that there was a great flaw in our plan. I also realized what everyone had been trying to tell me as I had made my way toward the hostel.

“Chiuso,” the bus driver told me earlier that day when I asked him to bring me to the youth hostel, “Closed.” I told him to go ahead and bring me there, that I would just wait until they opened. He shrugged his shoulders and obeyed, driving me to the bus stop nearest to the hostel. As I exited the bus, the bus driver began to give me walking directions to the hostel. I didn’t speak Italian well, but judging by his hand gestures and ongoing dialog, I concluded that not only was the hostel still a good distance away, it was also going to be difficult to find.

I approached a man across the street who was filling his tiny Fiat’s tank with gas. I asked him if he could tell me how to get to the hostel. “Ostello?” he replied, “Chiuso.” Once again, I did my best to explain to him that I would be happy to wait until they opened. He shook his head and hopped in his car. Then he propped the passenger side door open and signaled for me to get in. I obliged and he accelerated down the narrow Italian streets, cigarette hanging from his mouth and pop music coming out of the car’s stereo.

He dropped me off at the street corner in front of an abandoned building that was surrounded by a tall iron fence with a locked gate. The windows of the building were broken and boarded up with wood. The lawn was overgrown with weeds. Stray dogs roamed the property. Above the door hung a sign that read “Ostello.” Beneath that was a handwritten sign on a piece of wet cardboard that read, “Chiuso.”

This was the hostel, and it was closed. Permanently.

I had a decision to make. Stay and wait at the hostel for Adi and Ed to show up, which might not be for another few days, if ever, or leave Bari and go back north, back to Venice where I had been drinking wine, sharing food and dancing with my new friends Becki, Sally, and Liz the night before. Staying meant pitching my tent in the backyard of the abandoned hostel and surviving the rain, the police, and the stray dogs while I waited for Adi and Ed. Leaving meant sunshine, friends, good food and shelter. Staying meant keeping a promise, and leaving meant breaking it. I would have to stay.

Hibernation

2009-09-09T07:18:00.000-07:00

I'm going to be spending most of my time doing homework now, and I'm not sure how much time I'll be able to spend writing. Blogs are probably only going to come every couple weeks until the end of the semester.

And when I come back I promise not to tell you to pretend you're dying again. ;)

Adam

Serendipity

2009-09-01T20:20:00.000-07:00

It always happens at the worst times.

Today's Homework

2009-08-31T13:24:00.000-07:00

Pretend you’re dying one year from today.

How do you feel? What will you do differently? What will remain the same? How will you tell your family and friends? How does it effect your views on relationships, success, and material goods? Are you scared? How will you come to peace with it? What do you hope you will have left behind? What are your regrets? What were your proudest moments? What are your fondest memories? What do you still need to do before you die? What do you believe will happen when you die? What was important to you yesterday that isn’t important now? What do you want to be remembered for? What do you need to say to your loved ones that you haven't said before? Are you happy with the life you've lived and the person you have been?

Now stop pretending.

We're all going to die sooner than we wish, and that's OK. Life is incredibly short, no matter how long we may live. Let's not let our lives float by without making a point to create some meaning.

Now go call your Mom and tell her you love her.

God, I hope this doesn't become one of those inspirational chain emails.

Adam

(My) Life on the Mississippi pt. 4/4

2009-08-24T08:33:00.000-07:00

No clock. No watch. No phone. I was expected to wake up early and prepare the bikes for each day’s journey by pumping up the tires and checking adjustments. I was supposed to be waking up almost an hour before anyone else, but I was utterly exhausted. I had started the trip severely sleep deprived. I was riding a bike 4-5 hours each day, and running errands for Steve the rest of the day. I was going to bed late and I was expected to be the first one up. And I had no way of knowing what time it was. I had no clock.

I slept lightly, waking often to look out the window and gauge the light. I was so scared of sleeping in that most mornings I got up before sunrise to start my work. One morning however, my exhaustion caught up with me. I awoke with the sun peaking through the curtains. The sun was peaking through the curtains! There were people on the deck, laughing, eating, and getting ready for the ride.

I hadn’t gotten to the bikes yet.

Jumping from bed and throwing on my clothes, I sprinted out of my room and ran down the stairs, grabbing a pump and heading to the bikes. Steve was already there. His face was beet red as he pumped up a tire and patted a rider on the arm. “Have a good ride,” he said to her. Then, aiming his eyes at me, smile fading, “We need to talk.”

I had an easy gig, he explained. Take care of the bikes, fill in for riders taking the day off, run an errand here and there. How hard could it be? I had come highly recommended, but he had to admit he was disappointed in my work. Steve had had to skip breakfast in order to tend to the bikes himself when I hadn’t shown up that morning. I had let him down. It would be the last time I worked for him, he assured me.

Still, somehow, the week went by quickly.

On day seven we landed in New Orleans. My job was to find my way back to Memphis and get a truck that would meet the riders there the next day, after their train ride back. I took a cab through the streets of a town ripped apart by a storm nine months earlier. Blue tarps covered the roofs. Debris crowded the side streets. Windows were broken and boarded up and houses were covered with the spray painted code words that had been used by rescue crews after the storm. It was chaos in still form.

I boarded a train to Memphis. I had planned on sleeping, but the view of the rural south proved too beautiful to miss. Houses with sagging roofs, corn fields and a plethora of beautiful front porches passed by the window. Porches with people sitting in them. Porches worn down by generations of sitters, thinkers, talkers, chewers and lovers. Old ladies sat and rocked on their porches. Children played on their porches. Dogs hid from the sun under the porches.

Arriving in Memphis I grabbed my bag and the heavy toolbox that Steve had sent with me. “You’ll need this in the truck with you,” he had said. I sat outside of the train station and waited for a cab to come. It never came. I checked the bus schedule. They had retired for the night. I looked for a payphone but didn’t find one. Finally I surrendered and started walking to the hotel, which was a few miles away.

My arms and shoulders struggled under the weight of the toolbox, and my backpack grew heavier by the minute. I held the toolbox in my left hand until I couldn’t hold on anymore, then I switched it to my right. I asked for directions at a convenience store and learned that I still had ways to go. Taking a break in the parking lot and shaking the blood back into my hands I prepared myself for the rest of the walk. Finally, my arms an inch longer and my hands cramped, I arrived at the hotel. The man in the lobby asked if he could help with the bags. “No, I’ve got ‘em,” I said.

The next day I shuffled dozens of riders from the train station to the Peabody Hotel, where the trip had started. I packed bikes, shook hands and said goodbye to the riders. They thanked me for all of the help and said how nice it had been to get to know me. The women hugged me and the men tipped me. John came over, scratching his belly, and said I could be his stoker anytime. Steve said nothing.

My car was still not drivable, and I needed to find a way back to Nashville. With little options and even less money, I called the man who had sent me out on this adventure. “Kerry,” I spoke into the payphone at Mrs. Winner’s Chicken, “Just got back to Memphis. My car is broken and I’m not quite sure what to do.” “OK. I’ll meet you at your hotel in three hours” he said from Nashville, 200 miles away. “I can’t wait to hear all about the trip.”

As we cruised down highway 40 toward Nashville that afternoon, my car being towed by Kerry’s truck, he asked about the week.

“How was it?
“Amazing. Thanks for setting me up with it.”
“Did you get some good riding in?”
“Definitely.”
“What did you think of my friend Steve?”
“Steve?”
“Yeah, what did you think of him?”
“He’s a…nice guy.”
“Great. I’ll let him know you’ll help him whenever he needs it. It really wasn’t that hard?”
“Nah, piece of cake.”

And with that, I fell asleep.

(The End)

(My) Life on the Mississippi pt. 3

2009-08-17T13:22:00.000-07:00

60 tandem bikes carrying spandex-clad couples pull into the dirt parking lot of a Mississippi blues club, creating a cloud of dust that rises well above their heads. Helmets on, cleat-bottomed shoes clacking on the worn wooden porch, they enter the building. Inside they find a deep, dark room with unfinished wood floors and a high ceiling. The paint on the walls is chipped and stained from decades of smoke, food and sweat. The air smells sweet, a mixture of corn bread, slow cooked pork, and tobacco. An aging black man with a missing front tooth plays the blues at the far end of the room with the aid of an electric guitar and a tiny amplifier.

The riders enter, the only white people in the club, and stand in line to have their plates filled with collared greens, corn bread, black eyed peas, chicken and pork. They sit and enjoy the meal, utilizing the indoor picnic tables, while the musician entertains them with songs about racial injustice, poverty, fornication, and broken hearts.

How funny, I think to myself. They’ve all spent a lot of money to be doing what some of the poorest people in the country do all the time.

During the day we would ride 60-80 miles down small country roads leading through small country towns, where we were always warmly welcomed, and often stared at. We ate lunch at local eateries, sampling the native cuisine. We visited antebellums and plantations. We visited Angola Prison, where armed security officers escorted us on our ride through the prison grounds. Prisoners were working the fields all around us. I imagined them singing as we passed.

At night we would float down the river on the Delta Queen. During dinner, local musicians provided the guests with entertainment and historians shared the history of each day’s location. Below us in the engine room, a full time crew worked round-the-clock lubricating pistons, checking gauges, and pulling massive levers in a noisy, 100+ degree room.

While the guests on the boat were downstairs enjoying the entertainment, I would stand on the top deck, outside of my room, listening to the giant paddles trudge through the water. The sky was clear those nights, and the moon shone on the water. Silhouettes of trees lined the banks. Crickets chirped from shore. I felt an urge to jump into the muddy, dark water. To wrestle against it and experience its might. To feel the undertow of the boat passing over as I tumbled and struggled beneath it. I wanted to swim ashore and walk the woods barefoot, being scraped and bruised by the roots, rocks, and earth. I wanted to be part of what I was in awe of, but I knew I couldn’t. Instead, I would head to my bunk, turn off the lights and pray that I would wake up on time

To be continued…

(My) Life on the Mississippi pt. 2

2009-08-13T19:38:00.000-07:00

The morning after my near-disastrous late night arrival in Memphis came too quickly. After only a few hours of sleep (and no sleep two nights earlier), the alarm went off in the room. I slowly got out of bed, hopped in the shower, and dressed. John was still sleeping. I said his name. He didn’t wake up. I said it louder. Nothing. I poked his foot with my hand. Confused, he looked at me for a second before dosing off again. Finally, after getting the courage to shake him by he shoulder, he got out of bed.

We were late arriving at the famous Peabody Hotel, where we were to meet our boss for the week, Steve, the owner of the tandem company that was running the trip. Steve’s reputation proceeded him: he was a difficult man to work for. He had had many people walk out on him, some who had run away from him, and even a few who had left in tears. Piece of cake, I thought. I can charm anyone.

I didn’t charm Steve.

“You’re Adam?” He asked as I approached. “Yes, Sir,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake, “Nice to…” “Go get a rental truck and meet us at the boat in 45 minutes” He interupted, placing a credit card into my outstretched hand.

“Yes, sir. Where do I get the rental truck, and how do I get to it?”

“You seem like a smart enough man. Figure it out.”

And just like that, my week as Steve’s gopher began.

I did figure it out, after all, and after a frantic ride across town on a borrowed bike, I found a truck rental place. I chose a truck, signed the rental agreement, paid, and headed out the door. But the truck wouldn’t start. I watched the clock in horror as the staff searched for a new truck, taking up precious minutes of time. It had been more than 45 minutes. I was going to be late. I had failed my first task.

Arriving at the boat with the truck, I was struck by the beauty of the scene. There, docked on Mud Island, floated the Delta Queen. She was beautiful. The last standing wooden steamboat on the Mississippi, and we had her all to ourselves for a week. Even as I stood there exhausted, irritated, and confused, I began to get excited. This was an adventure. This was why I had moved to the South. This was my first hand chance to experience Mark Twain’s “Life on the Mississippi,” traveling down the Mississippi Delta, visiting small towns and meeting the locals. Suddenly I didn’t give a shit what Steve had to say to me, or what random jobs he was going to have me do. This was my week. This was my chance to be Huck Finn.

“Adam!” I heard Steve yell from somewhere inside the massive ship. “Where the Hell’s Adam? He has a job to do!”

Then again, maybe this was going to be a nightmare.

To be continued…

(My) Life on the Mississippi pt. 1

2009-08-10T19:11:00.000-07:00

I was still exhausted when I woke up after my first day of work aboard the Mississippi Delta Queen. I had no clock, so I didn’t know what time it was. All I knew was that if I was late, I was in trouble. The previous day had shown me that my new boss had no tolerance for anything but perfection. He also had no tolerance for people who couldn’t read his mind. I had struggled with both. Now, as I put on my clothes and looked out my window at the passing trees above the river banks, I wondered if I could make it to New Orleans without being fired.

I had driven to Memphis to start the job two nights earlier, after having stayed up all night getting to know a new friend over a glass of wine and cartwheels in the park. I fell asleep at the wheel a few times over the course of the 200-mile drive, each time waking up in a different lane, adrenaline kicking in and sending my heart into overdrive. My car started breaking down around midnight, just outside of Memphis. The water pump had blown, causing the engine to overheat and the power steering to go out, making it difficult to drive. I knew it was serious, but I was too tired to care. I limped the poor car the last 20 miles and parked it at the hotel, where I was to meet John, my partner on the trip.

I stumbled to my room, struggling to keep both eyes open, wondering how I was going to get my broken car back to Nashville. In the room I found a note from John that read, “Adam, I’ll be down on Beale Street having a drink and watching music. Please feel free to join me. I’ll be getting in early, since we are waking up at 5:00 tomorrow morning.“ I looked at the clock. It was close to 1:00 in the morning. I went to bed. I woke up an hour later to the door opening and the lights being turned on. In came a fifty-something overweight man with a graying beard and coke-bottle glasses. He introduced himself as John, stripped down to his whitey tighties, farted, turned off the lights, and hopped into his bed. “Getting up early tomorrow,” he said. Then we both fell asleep.

John was the bicycle travel writer. I was the bicycle mechanic. I had read some of John’s articles, and had heard that he was a respected author of various books about cycling and tandeming. They hired us both to help with the week-long tandem-bicycle tour of the Mississippi Delta. It sounded like a dream come true. Help with a few adjustments here and there, earn yourself a free trip down the Mighty Mississippi from Memphis to New Orleans. Piece of cake, I thought.

If I had only known.

To be continued...

Heh?

2009-08-09T13:58:00.000-07:00

He mows. He chops. He noodles and brims. He stares out and never comes back again.

He learns and fatigues. He guesses and waits. He wonders if somewhere he ought to begin.

He punches his drawls. He kicks and he moves. He suddenly feels he has something to prove.

He lacks what he gives. He gives what he gets. He remembers at most, but sometimes he forgets.

A little bit of bad is good.

2009-07-30T13:33:00.000-07:00

At the end of the day, it’s healthy to cause a little bit of trouble.

I’ve become obsessed with eating healthy. After my realization last month that my gut had grown to the point of me looking like a marshmallow on toothpicks, I declared that I would eat nothing but fresh fruits and vegetables until it went away. No processed sugar. No bread. No dairy. I’m happy to say that it’s working. I’m sad to say that there is a price to pay for such health. Although my gut is going away and my general health is improving, I’m afraid I’m becoming a bit of a wimp.

As my body has grown healthier, its tolerance for imperfection has plummeted. I ate a cheeseburger yesterday and had to lie down for an hour afterward because I felt sick. Not being accustomed to meat, my guts struggled with the duty of breaking down tough animal proteins and the grease they were saturated with. I’ll be the first to tell you that as a society, we eat too many cheeseburgers. I would, however, like to be able to enjoy one every once in a while. We all have to be a little bad here and there, don’t we? A touch of poison only makes you stronger.

What other “healthy” obsessions are we partaking in that can actually have a negative impact on our lives? Here are a few that might surprise you:

Money management. Of course it’s good to be smart with money. Save it and quit wasting it on stupid garbage! Don’t take on debt. Make sure the next generation is better off than we are. BUT, have a little fun! Splurge every once in a while. You might die tomorrow, you know.

Perfect manners. Respect your elders. Open the door for your lady. Don’t throw around f-bombs as if your life depends on it. But for God’s sake, loosen up every once in a while and allow yourself the occasional curse word. People will stop thinking you’re a fake. And you’ll feel better, too. Try it right now. Say shit.

Anti-bacterial soap/hand sanitizer. Throw it away. RIGHT NOW! If we stop coming into contact with everyday bacteria, we lose our immune system. Get sick every once-in-a-while. It’s good for you.

Steadfast abstinence. There is a current movement encouraging people to not kiss or touch until they’re married. I’m pretty sure this will lead to a lot of awkwardness and regret later in life. Don’t sleep around. It’s not good. Don’t get intimate with people who you don’t care about. Be smart enough to know that with intimacy comes consequence. Sexuality is a normal, beautiful thing. Respect it and celebrate it and hold tightly to your own values. Then find a stranger at a bar one night and kiss them.

As for me…

What do I want to be? A vegetable chomping health-nut who, when invited to a friend’s house for meatloaf and french fries graciously accepts and enjoys a wonderful meal. A father who lets his kids climb trees, knowing darn well they might fall out. A friend who you can share a beer and a few dirty jokes with at the end of a stressful week. A man who does good by embracing a little bit of bad.

Go cause a little bit of trouble. It’s good for you. I’ll be eating a cheeseburger, followed by steamed broccoli.

Unbelievable

2009-07-26T19:39:00.000-07:00

The garlic worked. The warts are gone. Completely.

I can't believe it.

I've had them for years.

Doctors couldn't get rid of them.

Store-bought remedies couldn't get rid of them.

Cutting them off just made it worse.

But mashed garlic mixed with olive oil burned them off within weeks.

Crazy.

A different type of angel. Pt 1

2009-07-20T09:44:00.000-07:00

I thought I knew where I was going, but she changed it. She approached me outside of the Santa Barbara Greyhound station and asked for help. I gave it to her. Minutes later, she returned and offered me a ride to the Bay Area. I was heading toward Yosemite, I told her, which was in a different direction, but thanks anyway. Then my gut told me to take the ride. So I grabbed my guitar case and caught her on the next block.

"I'll take the ride." I said.
"I thought you were going a different direction." She replied.
"I was, but now I want to go with you, if that's OK."
"Of course it's OK. We'll stop and get some food first."
"I should tell you I have no money, so I can't pay you anything."
"That's no problem. I like the company."

After a quick stop at Trader Joe's, where I hesitantly gave in to her insistence on buying me food, we hit the road.

I had left my home in Boulder 3 weeks earlier with a broken heart, a small backpack, a guitar, and a 30-day unlimited greyhound bus ticket. I didn't have a plan. I just wanted to leave. I wanted new sights, new smells, new surroundings, and new people. I needed a spiritual and mental cleansing. The goal was to follow my gut instinct and see where it would bring me. So far, it had reconnected me with an old friend who now resided in Santa Barbara. It had brought me to new friends with whom I roamed beaches, explored neighborhoods, and philosophized about life, love, and music. New songs were pouring out of me. I was sleeping on my friend's couch. I was truly happy.

I wish I could remember the name of the woman who picked me up that day, but honestly, I don't. I think it was Beth, but I'll never know for sure. It turned out that Beth made the drive from Santa Barbara to the bay area every other weekend. She enjoyed the company of strangers on the drive and had learned to go to the Greyhound station where she would ask for help and see who would give it to her. It was her way of finding trustworthy people who happened to need a lift.

Beth and I traveled up the coast, taking the old, slower, more scenic route. We stopped in San Luis Obispo, where she brought me to an art gallery and introduced me to her favorite painter. She told me about her obsession with art deco signs. She stopped many times to take pictures of random objects, like cafes and cars. A few hours into the ride, she brought me to a small town with a large wharf, where we sat and ate lunch while seals swam all around us. It was wonderful.

Hours into the drive, we began opening up about our personal lives. I explained to her the story of my broken heart. I told her about my father's ongoing battles with different illnesses. I told her different stories from my trips to Europe. Beth told me that she was a retired school teacher who, being recently divorced, was saving up to travel the world. A year earlier, her friend in the Bay Area whom she described as a "Madame," made her an offer that was hard to refuse: Come up to the bay area some weekend, and a business man will pay you to go on a date with him. No strings attached. Just a lonely man who needs company. After some debate, Beth decided what the Hell, and did it.

And then she did it again.

Soon she was being bought dresses and jewelry by different Silicon Valley execs and traveling business men. Just dinner turned into sensual massages in hot tubs, which turned into being paid huge sums of money to go home with the men. She actually enjoyed it, she told me. It made her feel sexy. She told me about the encounters in full detail, explaining the methods in which she would arrouse and satisfy the men.

By the end of the story, Beth had her hand on my leg, and was looking toward me intently. I ignored her and changed the subject. It was a little awkward for the next half-hour or so, but soon we got back into the rythm of a conversation, and then enjoyed some periods of comfortable silence.

After 8 hours of driving, we made it to our destination. Beth offered me a place to stay, but I told her no thanks, I would continue on toward Yosemite. She dropped me off in downtown Berkeley, where I had no idea what I would do next. I had less than $10 in cash left, no money in my checking account and no credit card. I did, however, have a bus pass that could get me anywhere. I did a quick gut-check, then headed toward the bus stop. The following 24 hours would be some of the most frightening, challenging, revealing, and ultimately satisfying hours of my life.

But that's another story for another time.

Just know that I was grateful for everything Beth had given me, not just including the food and the ride, but also great memories and a new perspective. I learned a lot during that car ride, and I wish I could have had the chance to thank her.

Wherever you are Beth, I hope you're doing what you love. Thank you.

A couple of samples.

2009-07-19T12:09:00.000-07:00

A couple of songs from last week's recording session in the country with Shannon.

Listen carefully and you'll hear the crickets outside.

Song 1: I don't know what it takes to go

Song 2: One shot away

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....

2009-07-14T13:19:00.001-07:00

Been recording songs in a country home non-stop for 3 days.

Tired.

Happy.

Adam

Pictures of Matchstick Man.

2009-07-12T07:25:00.000-07:00

Vibe. This house has it. So I'm taking advantage.

Shannon came over last night with his drums and, after his mandatory tractor ride, we turned off the lights, lit some candles and started recording. The room sounds great. Shannon's not bad, either.

I believe it was about 1:30 am when, out of the corner of my bleary eyes, I noticed a flame that was too big to be from a candle.

Turns out they make candlesticks out of wood?

Woops! Luckily, the only thing that caught on fire when the candle burned down to nothing was the candlestick itself. I did mention I'm house-sitting a 19th century country mansion, right?

Looking forward to explaining that one.

I think tonight we'll set the "vibe" with a dimmer-switch.

Adam

Been Seven Years.

2009-07-09T07:29:00.000-07:00

I played your guitar last night. Loud. Plugged it in, turned it up, and strummed, feeling the vibrations ripple through the floor and off the walls. I didn't stop for an hour. The guitar still smells the same as it did when I was a kid and I would sneak into your closet, open the case, and hold it against my body, pretending to play. The smell of Louisiana swamp ash, dirt, and the oil from your hands. It still plays well. Still stays in tune. Still sounds better than my new one.

I miss you Dad.

Adam

Human Nature

2009-07-07T19:54:00.000-07:00

I should have been in bed last night, but I was up doing it again. I did it this morning. I did it at work when no one was looking. I had to force myself to quit doing it a few minutes ago.

I can't stop surfing the internet for Michael Jackson stuff: Videos, photos, stories and more. I think I'm going crazy, and the rest of the world seems to be right there with me.

Some observations:

-Immediately following someone's death, one of mankind's best qualities kicks in: the ability to remember the deceased for the good things they did.

-We all have a little Michael Jackson in us. We are a mix of good and bad. We are a product of our surroundings. A big part of our public persona is a reaction to other people's perceptions of us. A part of us all wishes we were something that we're not, regardless of how much praise we receive. We all want attention and privacy, sometimes simultaneously.

-Michael Jackon's death seems to have changed his legacy overnight from eccentric child-molester to genius musician/performer.

-He looked young.

-He looked scary.

-He was the only person who thought he looked better post-surgery.

That's it. I'm going to go google some photos of Neverland now.

Adam

Of Nipples and Ticks and Things.

2009-07-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

Rode the tractor. Picked apples and pears. Played in the barn. Later, my nipple began to hurt. Turns out there was a tick munching on it.

How do you remove a tick? Burn it. What happens to a nipple with a burnt tick on it? It gets burned too.

Ouch.

I woke up this morning with a sore, swollen, bleeding nipple. And a smile on my face. This is an adventure.

Adam

Country Living.

2009-07-06T07:41:00.000-07:00

The phone call went something like this:

"Hey, Adam?"
"Yeah man"
"Would you be interesting in house-sitting for us?"
"House-sitting?"
"Yeah, house-sitting."
"The farm?"
"Yeah"
"With the tractors and cows and barns and pick-up truck and 19th century mansion?"
"Uh huh"
"Can I ride the tractors?"
"Yep"
"Can I ride the cows?"
"If you can figure it out."
"For how long?"
"10 days"
"What do I need to do"
"Feed the Cats"
"Feed the cats?"
"That's it."
"Yeah, I think I can handle that."

And that's how I found myself living in a gigantic, beautiful country home for the next 10 days. It's quiet. It's beautiful. It's awesome. A little mini-vacation. I brought my guitar, and I plan on recording new songs in the barn. I brought a book to read under the beech trees. I brought my bike, and I look forward to getting lost on the country roads.

And all I have to do is feed the cats. I think I'll go do that right now.

Adam

Downhill Mountain Biking.

2009-07-03T13:00:00.000-07:00

Tell my wife and kids I love them...

2009-06-27T20:05:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I'll be trying downhill mountain biking for the first time. We leave at 5am, drive 3 hours, park at the top of a mountain, and then barrel down as fast as we can, riding over obstacles and going off jumps. Then we drive back to the top and do it again.

Oh God.

More tomorrow...

Top of the muffin to ya.

2009-06-26T19:01:00.000-07:00

I saw it today. It snuck up on me when I didn’t expect it. I had been warned about it, but I didn’t believe the stories. Now I’ve seen it. Now I believe. Now I know the monster exists. It’s attached to me. It’s a beer belly. And. It. Scares. Me.

To be Indiana Jones again...

2009-06-26T06:52:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. I'm hungry. Starving, actually, for the thing that a Jedi craves not: adventure.

When I was 19 I left the country, alone, for the first time. A one-way ticket to Italy in hand, I set out to conquer the world. I would start in Italy, visiting small towns and hitchhiking to the far reaches of the country, while learning the language and customs of my ancestry (I often forget that I'm only 1/4 Italian). From Italy I would stow away on a fishing boat that would take me to Morocco, where my African adventure would begin. I would live with indigenous people, learning how to build canoes and spearfish. I would walk under the African sun, dodging lions and staying in huts. From Africa, through Asia, the pacific islands (where I would learn to sail) and on up to Russia, Alaska (live off the land) and Canada (cross-country ski) I would travel, earning my way as I went along and making friends everywhere I went. I would be gone 2-3 years, so I quit my job, I said goodbye to my girlfriend, and I left.

I flew to Italy, bringing way too many things with me. 3 weeks later, homesick and out of money, I came home.

I might have come home 153 weeks too early, but I came home with an awakened soul. I came home with thicker skin. I came home with stories to tell, pen pals to write to and new, hip Italian clothing to wear. Most importantly, I came home excited about the next adventure. It would come the following summer.

As a 20 year old, and now seasoned veteran of travel (I had, after all, now taken 2 trips to Italy, one alone and one with my family) I took my girlfriend Kim with me on a 6 week tour of Italy, France, and Spain. There was only one problem: She brought a guide book. It was against everything I believed in. It told you where to go, where to stay, what to do and how to do it. It told you how locals dressed and how they behaved. It even mentioned small towns that few people knew about. Clearly, my poor, naive girlfriend didn't know how to travel, or whom she was traveling with. I was, after all, Adam Trapani, world explorer and extreme adventurer. I would show her.

And, I'm sorry to say, I did show her. I showed her what an ass I was. That's another story (or blog) for another time, however. Just know that Kim was a patient woman, who humored me and allowed me to play tour guide, getting us lost and even endangered while the book in her pocket remained unused. I hope to get the chance to thank her someday.

Even a one-day adventure can be fulfilling. There was the time when I, the great mountain biker, set out to conquer the Switzerland trail: a rocky, winding descent that weaves through the mountains above Boulder. I knew that a true mountain biker would ride his bike up the canyon to the trail first, before enjoying the adrenaline rush of a fast descent. So I went, huffing and puffing up an incredibly steep, unending canyon road, zig-zagging my way from one side of the road to the other in an effort to stay upright. I barely made it to the trailhead, and when I did, I was so exhausted I could hardly pedal. My descent down the mountain ended up being a nightmare, with my sweaty hands slipping off the grips, my arms and legs rattling to the point of numbness, and my eyes filled with dirt and bugs. I got home, dropped my bike on the living room floor, and then fell asleep on top of my bed covers. I woke up hours later a proud, true mountain biker. Then again, I think it was another year before I rode off-road.

Then there was the Ireland trip when I was 25. God, that was a great trip (more blogs about that one later, too). 3 weeks of busing, hitchhiking, and getting lost in what would become my favorite part of the world. Did I mention I’m 1/4 Irish?

And of course, there's my defining adventure: The time I lived in my car for months, traveling coast to coast before landing here in Nashville. In reality, I stayed mostly on friends' couches and in creepy weekly rentals. All little details aside, it was every bit as raunchy, raw and soul-inspiring as I hoped it would be. I worked long, hot days at construction sites to earn money. I experienced the American Ghetto first hand for the first time. I was scared, happy, lonely, awake and living. I read books. I met friends. I learned that there are many different southern accents.

After that, the adventures stopped. I got a job. I tried to make a living as a musician. I made no money as a musician and focused harder on my job. I bought a house, and then another, and renovated them. I made the same salad every night. I ate the same thing for breakfast everyday. Friends visited. I visited friends. I played more shows. I printed t-shirts, wrote more songs, and cooked dinner for friends. I dated. I grew my hair long and then cut it off. And then grew it long again.

Now I've run out of time to be a rock star and I've done the unthinkable. I've applied to school. I have hopes of being a college professor. The adventures are done. My exciting life is over. While one of my good friends rides a bike across the country, I'm busy putting money into a savings account. My life has become boring.

Or has it?

May we all tell our stories someday and realize just how adventurous all parts of life are.

Adam

Short story, pt 1

2009-06-22T19:38:00.000-07:00

Joseph opened the door to find a new world staring at his young face. He had been sleeping for days, and his legs barely worked beneath him. He had dried blood on his left cheek, in the shape of a large lima bean. His mouth was dry and sticky. He needed water. His eyes, though puffy and still, could sense a change in the light. He looked at his father’s watch, which hung loosely around his left wrist. It was 9am. He was late for school.

The other kids would walk straight to class, but Joseph knelt at each tree, breathing and collecting the silence that held him close. Each tree was a friend. Each tree had given him a different fruit, which had kept him healthy. This morning it was different. The trees, which looked the same, felt different to Joseph. He coughed. It didn’t wake them. He stood. They didn’t listen.

He kept going.

In class, the lecturer spoke of candles and horses and stories about fire. Joseph needed to run, but stayed closed in. It was how it was back then. They didn’t let you run. They encouraged flight, swimming and dance, but not running. Too tough on the knees. Besides, what does an eight year old need to be running from?

His girlfriend, Ali, was a good girl. She was a challenger and a comforter. She knew how he ticked and why he ran. He scared her and she liked that. Her family didn’t know, but she did. It made her giggle. She had been doing it for a year now, and that’s what scared her the most.

At lunch, Ali and Joseph dug a hole. They filled it with water and then left before it disappeared. It smelled like roses that day, and they were thankful for that. On a typical day, fevers would hit and kids would ho home. Not today. Just water, roses, running. They held hands and left the school, not looking back. It was earlier than planned, but again, what can you do when you’re eight? You get a chance and you take it. That’s just what our friends did.

They headed across the street to a field where nothing green ever grew. It was brown year round. The dry dirt was itchy, but their bare feet were fine. They got to the big, white rocks in the middle of the field and rejoiced, for the first step was done. They were out of sight of the school now, and next to the fence that would bring them closer to their freedom.

Out of their pockets came peanut butter and jelly, warm and smashed up, but still good for the eating. He ate hers. She saved his for later. A quick rain came, which they hid from under an overhang in the white rock. Carved into the stone were initials, dates, and heart symbols. Ali started to, but Joseph stopped her. “Not until we’re done,” he said, grabbing her wrist and winking at her, like they did on the T.V. shows that he watched.

A snake came. They moved closer to it, but it rattled. It would have to wait.

Joseph grabbed the bottom wire of the fence, avoiding the barbs, and pulled it up for Ali to crawl under. When she was through, he climbed to the top wire, which wiggled under him, and jumped off to the other side, where Ali was. He had been scared of falling off and looking like a fool, so he was happy when he hit the ground with no incident.

They had only gotten this far one time previously, and it didn’t end well. They both knew that the risks were greater this time than last, but they also knew they had no choice.

Some 6 word stories for you:

2009-06-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

I should have known she knew.

The cancer would come back again.

The guitar player stood there, listening.

In one year he changed everything.

The placenta smelled like garlic bread.

You would never guess who won.

The lion roared, the soldier fell.

In the landfill the evidence disappeared.

Black dad. White mom. Beautiful girl.

She was a virgin, but sinful.

She didn’t realize that he knew.

He came to get over it.

Sometimes I’m good. Sometimes I’m bad.

I never lie. That’s a lie.

The chocolate covered her whole body.

I said “I do,” but didn’t.

Skating naked has never been better.

We climbed in and were gone.

His accent made him even sexier.

Digging for gold, she fell in.

A.T.

Grrrrrrrr....

2009-06-21T12:03:00.000-07:00

I’ve tried garlic. I’ve tried razor blades. I’ve tried acid. I’ve tried liquid nitrogen.

The warts are winning.

Too much wine, not enough sleep, and a wrong turn. My story of the Tour de Cure.

2009-06-08T14:00:00.000-07:00

I went to bed at 3:30 am. I woke up at 5:00 am. I could still taste the pinot.

I packed my bike and riding gear into the car and drove to Springfield to participate in a 100 mile bike ride to raise money for, and awareness about diabetes. My training had consisted of occasional beach cruiser rides around the neighborhood, a 5 mile bike ride to work and a couple of road rides with friends. I had lost my bag of riding gear the previous summer, so for the diabetes ride I begged a helmet, a jersey, and even a pair of padded spandex cycling shorts from a (hesitant) friend. Me, prepared? You bet.

I met my friend and riding partner, Christian, at the starting line and when the gun went off, we pedaled away. I didn't tell him that there wasn't a chance in Hell that I would finish the ride. Instead, I brainstormed, trying to find an excuse for stopping the ride early. I was conjuring up a plan to fall off my bike and twist an ankle when Christian announced that he, too, wasn't prepared to ride his bike 100 miles. He had been working too much, he said, and hadn't ridden his bike for months. So we did what any good friends would do and we brainstormed together excuses for pulling out of the ride early.

Then I remembered that I had made a promise to finish the ride. So we rode.

We rode and we talked about girls. We rode and we talked about politics. We rode and we talked about nothing. We rode until our legs hurt, our lungs hurt and we were panting. Then we finished our first 10 miles.

By mile 40 we were in a groove and riding at a comfortable clip. We felt strong. We were beginning to realize that we might actually finish this thing.

At mile 60 we stopped to eat a snack and stretch under the shade of a tree. We relaxed for 15 minutes before getting on our bikes. It would only be 10 miles to the next rest stop, so we decided it would be fun to ride the leg at a fast pace. We turned and rode, with the wind at our back, as hard as we could. The miles went by quickly now, and we smiled as we glided through the beautiful country scenery. We knew that 10 miles of hard pedaling would bring us to an aid station with bananas, sandwiches, electrolite drinks and some much-needed rest. But after 11 miles with no sign of a rest stop, we began to wonder if we had taken a wrong turn. Then it was confirmed by a local man who's door we knocked on. Then we realized that we would have to pedal back against a strong wind. Then we realized that we would end up riding 122 miles. Then we started crying.

And so we rode, silently suffering, back to the 60 mile marker.

The rest of the ride went smoothly. When the officials learned about our wrong turn, they allowed us a short cut that saved 7 miles. Around mile 85 (mile 100 for us) , I was starting to suffer and slow down drastically, so Christian rode ahead. At one mile to go (mile 115), I decided to finish strong and push hard, picturing hundreds of cheering people awaiting my arrival with confetti, pounding music, and delicious barbeque. My heart pounding, my legs tired, and my lungs burning, I sprinted around the last corner and crossed the finish line, blowing kisses and waiving to a crowd that had left hours earlier. There was no music. There were no hundreds of screaming supporters. There was no confetti. There were just 3 friends, who had endured a long day of volunteering, cheering wildly. And there was Christian, holding a to-go box of leftover barbecue that he had saved for me when the caterers had packed up for the day. We smiled at each other and high-fived, and when I tried to stand, I fell over.

I was the second to last rider to cross the line. My average speed was laughable. I looked ridiculous in spandex and with blotches of sun burned skin. But I made good on my promise. Because of that, I was able to sleep well that night. In fact, I slept well for 15 hours.

May we all keep our promises, even when we're not prepared.

Adam