Romancing the Blade

Mug Brush

My fascination with shaving has a lengthy history that began when I was a small boy and became aware of this ritual performed by grown-up men. For as long as I knew him, my grandfather shaved with a safety razor, a mug of shaving soap, and a brush. He also had an old straight razor in his basement bathroom and although I never saw him use it, I’m sure he had done so once upon a time. I rarely got to watch Grandpa shave, but the few memories I have of those times involved him coming out of his bathroom with one or two fragments of tissue stuck to his face. I would later learn firsthand that this was a tried-and-true method for catching and holding blood droplets from the seemingly inevitable razor nicks and cuts.

Norelco

My dad’s arsenal was a bit more modern. He was a Norelco man, having owned numerous corded and uncorded models over the decades. But he also had several safety razors, at least one in each bathroom, and he used them on occasions when he wanted a particularly close shave. Pop professed that he could go for two days between proper wet blade shaves, whereas his electric razor required daily use.

My dad was no stranger to the toilet paper trick, either, but he also kept a solid alum block, which he had purchased from a barber, I couldn’t tell you in what year.  After shaving, you simply run the alum block under cool water and then gently glide it over your freshly-shaven skin. Any nicks, cuts or abrasions will immediately be made known. The alum stings like mad when it finds any such wound, but it does help check the flow of blood. Styptic pencils, used for the same purpose, also contain powdered alum crystals. After my dad passed away, I kept that old alum block, mainly for sentimental reasons, though I have used it from time to time. I wish I’d kept all of the razors as well. Hindsight is always 20/20.

Alum Block

When the time came for me to begin shaving, sometime during my high school years, my dad introduced me to shaving by presenting me with one of his safety razors. This particular one had a “butterfly” mechanism for replacing the double-edged blade and was also adjustable. Twisting a dial built into in the handle would change the height/exposure of the blade, allowing for a milder or more aggressive shave, depending on the setting. This was a good choice for a newbie like me.

We went over the basic techniques—using hot water and the shaving brush to work up a good lather and apply it to my face, holding the razor properly, rinsing thoroughly, using the alum block if necessary, and applying aftershave. My young peachfuzz whiskers never stood a chance. Neither did my face when I began experimenting with more aggressive razor settings over time. But I learned and I did okay.

Before long I became curious about electric shavers and got one of my own. Using an electric razor was cool because I could mow down my whiskers relatively quickly without fear of cutting myself. But they were also bothersome because (a) applying pressure to get a closer shave often resulted in razor burn and (b) the darned things needed to be cleaned regularly. Over the decades that followed, I tried various electric models from Norelco, Remington, Braun, and Panasonic. Some I liked better than others—especially the self-cleaning models, although those tended to break down after the warranty period was up.

Fusion

I also went through all the iterations of disposable and multi-blade cartridge razors, beginning with the Gillette Trac II and culminating with the Gillette Fusion5™ ProGlide Power razor. In the end, I preferred wet shaving, though not necessarily the rising costs associated with using the latest innovations in cartridge shaving technology. Every time the folks at Gillette (now part of Proctor & Gamble) rolled out another iteration of the latest must-have razor, I knew I could count on the cost of replacement blade cartridges going up.

I’d been seeing and hearing a lot about the resurgence of safety razors over the past few years and I guess it was just a matter of time before I got swept up in the movement myself. The cost of blade replacement for my five-bladed (six if you count the trimmer blade on the backside), self-lubricated, vibrating, flexing, pivoting shaving system was between two and three dollars per replacement cartridge and as much as I liked the product, I was ready for a change, if only to save a few bucks. As a rule, I am seldom afraid to try something new. But was I ready to try something old?

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After a bit of research, I decided to buy The Chieftain safety razor by Vikings Blade. an outfit in Australia that seems to have fun with what they do while taking the art of shaving quite seriously. The product is well-rated and comes with a storage/carrying case as well as five starter blades, all for a price that wouldn’t break me (I was still employed full-time and hadn’t yet broken my shoulder when I bought this). When my new razor arrived, I was not disappointed. The weight and balance are excellent, to say nothing of the fit and finish. The Chieftain is a quality product. I couldn’t wait to try it out.

Hamburger

Unfortunately, despite having read and reread the directions and even watched a video or two about shaving with a safety razor, I had built up some bad habits from many years of having shaved with pivoting disposable cartridge razors. Despite the “mild” blade I had used,  my poor neck paid dearly for those bad habits. It was days before I attempted shaving with that razor again, but to be very clear, it wasn’t the razor’s fault. This was pure user error.

I recall one of my college marketing professors, years ago, explaining that The Gillette Company had developed the pivoting razor head after research revealed that a substantial portion of shavers did not hold their razor at the proper angle. The advertisements never said, “…with a new pivoting head, because some of you are too stupid to hold your razors properly,” but that was the gist of it. And remembering that helped me get the best shave of my life with a safety razor. That and an email.

I emailed “Grumpy old Robert” Vue, owner of Vikings Blade, who merely confirmed what I already knew. “Michael, neck shaving with a safety razor is very very different and I can totally guess why you had to use the alum bloc.” He proceeded to give me some sound advice about shaving with a safety razor, which I took to heart. And so, with a healed up neck and a head full of knowledge, I picked up my safety razor and began anew. I even learned a few new things along the way.

If you are looking to make the switch to a safety razor, here are some important tips to keep in mind.

  • Hydration matters. Your skin needs to be very wet, your whiskers softened by it. The result will be an easier shave and more optimal results.
  • Use a proper shaving cream/gel that works for you. I’ll get into my favorite in a bit.
  • A safety razor will not pivot to correct your shave angle, nor will it forgive your mistakes. You must control the blade angle throughout the shave. A 30° angle is considered optimal and you won’t need a protractor to find it. When the portion of the razor head above the blade and the safety bar/comb beneath the blade are both touching your skin, you’re pretty much there.
  • Do not apply pressure on your safety razor for a closer shave! Use the natural weight of the razor and let it glide, at the proper angle, to do its job. Major thanks to Grumpy old Robert for driving this point home for me.
  • Lift the razor off your skin before changing the direction of a stroke or moving the blade sideways.
  • Shaving “with the grain” (in the same direction as your whiskers grow) will yield the mildest shave. Sideways to the grain is more aggressive. Against the grain is most aggressive and will yield the closest shave, if you have the skill and your skin can handle it.
  • Understand your face. There are about three points on the contours of my neck that require additional attention in order to get a close shave without injury. The same goes for the area above my mustache and beneath my nose. Your mileage may vary.
  • Take your time and do it right. If you rush, you may regret it.
  • Sometimes it makes more sense to shave less aggressively, i.e. on a very hot and humid day.
  • No matter what, your last razor strokes should be downward. I was taught that this would train the whiskers to grow downward. True or not, I can’t shake that teaching.

Shaven

My results have been phenomenal. Never again have I suffered the same “hamburger neck” that I experienced with that first, careless shave. I have graduated to using a more aggressive blade—more on that in a moment—and my usual result is an unbelievably close, smooth shave. Any actual nicks have been few and far between, and are usually the result of my zeal to repeatedly achieve the closest possible shave.

Astra Blades.jpg

I place a lot of emphasis on technique when it comes to shaving with a safety razor, but I would be remiss not to mention two other factors, that being your choice of double-edge (DE) razor blade and shave cream—each of which can be a very personal thing. On that fateful first day, when I turned my neck into so much hamburger, I couldn’t see using anything sharper than the “starter” blades that had come with my razor. Several weeks later, I had changed my mind. The Astra Superior Platinum Double Edge Safety Razor Blade is reputed to be among the sharpest-yet-smoothest blades available. These stainless steel, platinum-coated blades are super thin and even after “dulled” by a week or more of shaving, they should be handled with respect. I can get a full two weeks out of one blade, but one week is optimal and at just under ten cents a blade, when bought in 100-count packages, I have little reason to push it. That’s right, I buy 100 premium quality DE razor blades for a fraction of what I used to pay for four disposable Fusion 5 Power replacement cartridges. Some people periodically flip the blade over in the razor head, claiming that doing so extends blade life. Me, I flip the blade after every shave. Even if doing so doesn’t help, it can’t hurt.

Cremo

Cremo Original Concentrated Shave Cream is my go-to shaving product. I’ve tried others and kept returning to this one. Again, this is a very personal choice, so I encourage shavers to draw their own conclusions. For me, a dime-size dollop plus hot water gets my face as slick as heck and pretty much keeps it that way throughout the shaving process, as long as I can keep it moving with one wet hand. A sufficient coating of Cremo is nearly transparent on my face, which allows me to see what I’m doing and shave with precision.

My son looked at the results I have achieved with a double-edged safety razor and decided to draw his own conclusions. Less than a week later, he opted to get his own Vikings Blade razor, opting for The Chieftain, Odin Edition. I have yet to hear a complaint.

In the end, one’s shaving equipment and accessories are a personal choice. For now, I am very pleased with the choices I’ve made.

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Closures: My Summer Interrupted, Part III

Continued from My Summer Interrupted, Part II

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I was only in the hospital for two days, but two days spent lying in a bed gives one plenty of time to think, to dwell, to obsess… and yes, to fear. My left arm had been bound into an immobilizer (picture a sling on steroids, with generous helpings of velcro and foam) before they wheeled me out of the OR. My entire left arm, held firmly in place by that synthetic getup, felt like a decorative sculpture of sorts that had been left beside me as a memento of my surgery. Dr. Saleem said that as soon as he got inside, he knew there was no hope of repairing the bone, but that the replacement had gone very well.

I wasn’t too choked up about having had my shoulder replaced but it was necessary, given the severity of my injury. I adapted. Learned to eat with one hand. Never once had to use a bedpan or one of those confounded plastic handheld urinals. All in all, I thought I’d been doing pretty well. Then about midway through the following day, the nerve block began to wear off in ever increasing waves. A cold, metallic achiness began to pulse from my left shoulder, right through the elbow, across my wrist, into the very substance of each knuckle, and ever down, down, down, until it seemed as though the pain had begun to drip from each of my fingernails. As soon as I’d realized what was going on, I rang for the nurse, who materialized almost instantly.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi, I seem to be having a lot more pain. Can you give me… oh, jeez!” Each successive wave of pain was worse than the last. Of course the nurse immediately understood what was happening and arranged to administer an IV pain med, in addition to adjusting the dosage and frequency of my oral medication. That worked fine, but could not be kept up indefinitely. We gradually weaned off the IV juice and tried reducing the oral as well, but found my pain threshold pretty quickly. Reducing the dosage and frequency of my oral pain med—an acetaminophen/narcotic combo—took quite a few days.

Two days after surgery, I was released from the hospital. I sure hadn’t felt ready for that. Right up until discharge procedures were initiated, my nurses wouldn’t even let me walk the few feet from my bed to the bathroom without an escort. How was I going to fare in my cluttered house, with its stairs and other hazards, to say nothing of the animals, one of whom had put me in the hospital in the first place? We would soon find out because I was going home.

The nurse removed my IV port with ease. My physical therapist made her daily visit, as did an occupational therapist, who tried to show me how to put my own shirt on, a pretty tall order for a guy who is afraid to move his left arm. Last of all came my dressing change and drain removal. Karen observed as the nurse carefully removed the original dressing. I looked away wincing as some of the more aggressive adhesive strips came off. The nurse chose not to warn me before yanking the sizable drain tube out of my arm, probably a wise move, but did apologize after I stopped yelping like a dog whose tail just had a car door slammed on it. Then with a new, much thinner dressing in place and a hefty band-aid placed over the former location of my drain tube, I was ready to go home.

Eh, I did alright. At first I was petrified anytime the dog or cat tried to come near me. In time, I adapted to life in my recliner. Leia, who had already earned the title of “The Most Expensive Dog I’ve Ever Owned” before this incident, gradually learned to approach me calmly and head-on rather than to my left side. I eventually allowed Jazzy to assume her duties as a medicinal cat and take naps on my blanket-covered lap. Me, I took my pain meds on time, did my therapy exercises three times a day, and slept a lot.IMG_2122

The pain meds and the immobilizer were my main concerns. I couldn’t do anything about the immobilizer, which I had to wear it at all times, except when getting dressed or doing my exercises. It was torture, but vitally necessary to protect my new shoulder as the bone and muscle tissues began to mend around the artificial parts. I wasn’t allowed to lift anything with that arm anyway, not even a Kleenex.

The opioid pain meds were a pain in and of themselves. On the one hand, they were effective if taken regularly. On the other hand, keeping an adequate supply was difficult and I ran out more than once while waiting for the doctor’s office, the pharmacy, and the insurance company to sync up. That annoyed me, as did the prospect of getting hooked on the stuff, so I began replacing every other dose with plain Tylenol. Eventually I was taking only over-the-counter pain relievers and before long, I was taking nothing at all. This of course took time, but over the course of two to three weeks, I did it.

About a week after I went home, I had my first follow-up with the surgeon, who was very pleased with my results. I also had my stitches removed and the incision no longer required a dressing. I just had to leave the steri-strips in place until they fell off on their own. A few days after that, I was cleared for actual bathing and celebrated by shaving my entire face for the first time in over 20 years, traumatizing my kids and several of my friends in the process. The following day I began regrowing my facial landscaping.

A day or so after seeing the surgeon, I began going to physical therapy three times a week, while continuing to exercise at home three times daily. At first I was afraid to move, but the therapists at Advanced Physicians are a top-shelf group of professionals who are apparently very used to dealing with big babies and had me doing new and exciting things in no time.

I was still homebound for several more weeks and having earned no paid time off at my new job, I made an arrangement with my employer to work from home to the extent that I could for a fraction of my usual pay. I was glad to be earning at least some income and downright grateful to still have my new job, which I loved despite some inherent challenges and shortcomings.

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The weeks that followed were a continuum of baby steps forward. It seemed like every time I went to physical therapy, I was making some form of progress in my range of motion, strength, or my ability to add on another exercise. Everyday life activities, like showering and dressing, were also becoming easier.

Four weeks after my surgery, I was cleared to return to work, ramping up to full-time over the course of two weeks. But because I was still in the immobilizer, my wife Karen chauffered me to and from work, 35 miles each way, until I was able to do so myself. She must have really wanted me out of the house badly.

Five weeks after my surgery, I had another follow-up with the surgeon’s assistant, who cleared me to begin weaning myself off the immobilizer the following week and to begin driving, but only short distances. When I asked her about the  35-mile, 60-to-90-minute commute to work, she shook her head and said not to try that for several more weeks. The chauffering would have to continue for a while. Karen said she didn’t mind and we both agreed that we had been enjoying the hour-plus discussions we’d been having while stuck in traffic. Still, I was sad because of what was to happen in week six.

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Last winter, while I’d still been living a somewhat normal life, I put together a motorcycle rendezvous near Green Bay that would take place over Labor Day weekend, now known as week six. A small group of people would be riding in from at least three different states. The idea was for everyone to arrive Friday, spend all day Saturday touring Door County on the bikes, and then each do our own thing from Sunday morning on. I had found the perfect hotel from which to base, the AmericInn by Wyndham Green Bay East, whose sales manager set me up with a block of rooms and everything. My friend Ann was to be my pillion passenger.

As that weekend approached, realizing that I was still months away from being ready to ride again, I had arranged for Ann and me to drive up to the rendezvous, hang with the group at the hotel, and then do our own touring by car while a friend of ours from Minnesota would lead the bike tour. Now it seemed like I wasn’t even able to drive.

Ann and Karen to the rescue! Karen drove me to Kenosha, from where Ann picked me up and drove me around for the rest of the weekend before returning me to Kenosha on Sunday so that Karen could take me home. Together the two of them solved all of my logistical issues.

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And so there Ann and I were, up in Wisconsin on Friday morning, only to learn that the rest of our group had been canceling out since late Thursday night. In their defense, the weekend weather forecast for Green Bay and the Door County peninsula did include some chances of rain, although as far as I could tell, no day would be a complete washout. Nonetheless, the rest of our merry band had canceled. What to do?

What to do indeed! We had breakfast, went for a walk, and then headed for Green Bay. Breakfast was at a really happening place in Delafield called Lumber Inn. The food was great and the portions large. The walk was particularly enjoyable and also meaningful to me. See, during the first couple of weeks after my surgery, while I was basically stuck at home, Ann would take me along on her daily walks by sending me photos from her phone, promising that when I was able to do so, I could go along for real. And so I did. We saw deer, a turtle, fish, and people, some of whom had dogs. We spoke with some of the people and fed breadcrumbs to some of the fish. It was a pretty cool way to start out.

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Our next stop was the Rahr-West Art Museum, part of which is housed in a Queen Anne style Victorian mansion in Manitowoc. The mansion itself is cool to see and the museum has some interesting pieces, both inside and outside. The facility is owned by the City of Manitowoc and admission is free, although donations are gratefully accepted.

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Twenty or so years ago, whenever we were camping and boating over on Lake Winnebago, I would take my wife and kids over to Manitowoc and we always went to the big Wisconsin Maritime Museum down by the lakefront. Ann and I didn’t go into the museum, but we did enjoy a nice walk out back. I wanted her to see the USS Cobia, a World War II fleet submarine that had been built in Manitowoc. I had toured the Cobia a few times back in the day but would have had a difficult time passing through the hatches with one bad arm.

I also wanted to see if the Lake Michigan car ferry S.S. Badger was in port, but it wasn’t. We did walk past a pretty neat small ship called the Grande Mariner that was being fueled and “pumped out” by a couple of local tank trucks. I had never seen this vessel before, nor had I heard of its company, Blount Small Ship Adventures, so I made a point of Googling them after I got home. Apparently the Grande Mariner was doing its “Magical Lake Michigan” tour, a counterclockwise coastal journey that begins and ends in Chicago.

We walked along the Manitowoc River, where the Cobia is permanently docked, out to the Lake Michigan shore and onto a short concrete pier, part of the US Army Corps of Engineers Manitowoc Harbor Navigation Project. After all these years, I never seem to get tired of the sights, sounds, or smells of this or any of the great lakes. Ann took a few photos, while I took a photo or two of Ann taking photos. It’s almost an inside joke now.

Our last stop before reaching Green Bay was at the Trout Springs Winery in Greenleaf. What a delightful little place! The vineyard rows come right up to a small parking area in front of the main building. Free range chickens roam about the vineyard helping to keep the insect pest population in check. The tasting room is a friendly, inviting sort of place. Ann and I were greeted by a Welsh Corgi, who occasionally checked on us as we tasted several wines. We eventually selected an estate-grown wine called Rainbow Blush to enjoy in Green Bay that evening. Ann also picked up a Babordo Vino Nuovo port-style wine as a gift for one of her family members.

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We arrived at the hotel in Green Bay late Friday afternoon and as anticipated, did not see one motorcycle in the parking lot. We kept to the planned itinerary that evening and went up the road to Wertel’s Tap for their Friday fish fry. A classic family-owned bar/restaurant, Wertel’s was positively hopping when we arrived. There are a number of larger, more prominent restaurants near the hotel, just off the interstate, but this little cash-only establishment further up the road draws a substantial local crowd. And why not? The service is prompt and friendly, the food is wholesome and well-prepared, and they have ice-cold bottles of Spotted Cow, which Ann and I both enjoyed very much.

I had worn my prized Ralph Marlin designer Three Stooges button front shirt that day and it did not go unnoticed. While Ann and I were at the lakefront in Manitowoc, someone with a group of motorcyclists lounging on the lawn called out a halfway decent “woop-woop-woop” to us and then during supper at Wertel’s, a delightful older gentleman addressed me as a “fellow Stooge” and proceeded to describe his own extensive collection of Three Stooges memorabilia in detail. I couldn’t help but smile, both times.

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Ann and I met for the hotel’s “free” breakfast before heading out to tour Door County for the day. The AmericInn’s location, just off Interstate 43 and only a few miles south of Wisconsin 57, made it a perfect jumping off point and if I try putting this run together again next year, I would try to base the group out of this same hotel. It was clean, relatively up-to-date, and had a decent-sized indoor pool. The staff there is friendly and courteous, too.

Our first scheduled stop on the beautiful Door County peninsula was at Sturgeon Bay, the county seat and, I believe, its most industrialized community. Although this small city has a great deal to offer in and of itself, we were there to visit one fairly small park and then a much larger one. Both were worthy of our time. Ann and I got a little turned around looking for the Wisconsin Motorcycle Memorial Park but once we were there, we couldn’t help but linger. Established as “a place to recognize and honor the memories of friends and loved ones who are/were motorcycle enthusiasts,” this well-maintained park is at once solemn and lighthearted, if such a thing is possible. It’s also peaceful and beautiful. The “Walkway of Remembrance”, a path paved with tribute stones, is emotionally moving, not only for what it is but for the mementos left behind by friends and loved ones of those whose names are inscribed on the pavers.

The sculptures and furnishings, all donated, are also noteworthy. Some pieces made us smile or giggle, perhaps as reminders that this park was not intended to be a sad place. All of them held our attention for one reason or another. Ann and I approached an impressive metal sculpture of an eagle—created and donated by Art Weborg of Sister Bay—and realized that it had been changing direction with the breeze. As Ann was shooting some video footage of this, I noted an example of the real thing soaring high in the distance. It was a very cool moment.

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Over 25 years ago, my then-young family and I (along with some very close friends) visited Potawatomi State Park, on the shore of Sturgeon Bay just northwest of the city. While we were there, we climbed a 74-foot observation tower and were impressed by the view (and a brisk wind that had been blowing that day) once we had reached the top. Although I was younger then, I fancied the idea of climbing that tower again and showing Ann the spectacular views from the top. Imagine my disappointment upon finding that tower only to learn that it had been permanently closed due to “structural deterioration and safety concerns.” I couldn’t help but notice that some of the old wooden staircases seemed to be listing to one side or another. So there I stood at the foot of the old wooden structure, looking up toward the top, remembering how nothing of this earth is forever and suddenly feeling a bit structurally deteriorated myself. Ann consoled me and suggested that we continue our tour of the park, which still offers some wonderful views.

We traveled up the peninsula in a clockwise fashion, touring the more populated west coast along Wisconsin 42 before heading back down on the eastern side on Wisconsin 57. I won’t mention every town or every shop, but I will hit a few highlights for you. Predictably, some towns were rather crowded on this Labor Day holiday weekend, but most parts were quite tolerable. A case in point, Egg Harbor seemed to have more vehicular and pedestrian traffic than did most, but not enough to prevent us from stopping, shopping, and eating there.

We enjoyed lunch at a bar and restaurant called Casey’s BBQ & Smokehouse, which is well-rated across various internet and social media channels—and for good reason. You might not expect to find a decent barbecue joint in this part of Wisconsin, but we found one. Fancy? No. Popular? Seemingly so. Crowded? Not so bad, though we weren’t there during a peak meal time. All I can tell you is the smoked meats were nicely done, the waitress was friendly, the portions were quite generous for the money, and the service was prompt. They only had one barbecue sauce on the table, but it’s their own signature sauce, which has a pleasant if mild flavor to it.

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After lunch it was on to Fish Creek for a stop at Peninsula State Park, where  75-foot observation tower once stood. We learned from speaking with a helpful gentleman in a guard shack that this particular tower had been taken down two years ago. The good news, however, is that thanks to a fundraising effort, groundbreaking for a new tower was to take place in November. It’s too early to tell whether the same thing will happen at Potawatomi.

Still, Ann and I had a great time exploring the many views that this park has to offer. At 3,776 acres, this is Wisconsin’s third largest state park. It seems like a popular one as well.

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We encountered only one bad traffic clog during our entire day of touring and we encountered it twice, once each way: a gapers block in front of Al Johnson’s Swedish Restaurant in Sister Bay that stretched for blocks in either direction. The pedestrian traffic in Sister Bay was substantial, too. Understandably so, because it’s a nice touristy town. Just the same, we chose not to stop. And there is no simple way around that town, unless you know the side roads, because the main drag, which is Wisconsin 42,  leads on to the top of the peninsula and Wisconsin 57 also ties in there to take drivers south along the east coast. Something to be figured out before we go back, especially if we return with a group of motorcycles.

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We continued north on 42 as far as we could, stopping in Gills Rock to explore a couple of shops and admire the view. It was already late afternoon, so hopping the ferry to explore Washington Island was not an option this time. We knew in advance that this would probably be the case. Door County has a lot more than can be experienced in one day. Another consideration, should we decide to attempt another motorcycle rendezvous next year, is that it may be worthwhile staying until Monday. We’ll see.

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We made only one stop on our way down the peninsula’s eastern shore, mainly because we were running out of time, but that one stop was magical. Anclam Park is at the southern end of Baileys Harbor, a lovely, uncrowded community on the Lake Michigan shore. The last time my family and I visited Door County, we stayed at the Beachfront Inn in Baileys Harbor and absolutely loved it there. The inn is visible from Anclam Park and looking across at it brought back some fond memories of the days when my kids were still kids.

The lakefront was nearly perfect that afternoon and even though the park isn’t that large, Ann and I lingered there a while, enjoying the peaceful sights and sounds. Then we continued down Wisconsin 57 back to the hotel. Still pretty full from the big lunch we’d eaten at Casey’s, we opted to nibble on some snacks we’d picked up and drink one of the wines we bought at the Door Peninsula Winery earlier that day.

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On Sunday, September 2, Ann and I ate another free breakfast, checked out of our respective rooms, and headed for home. But we had time to kill before Karen was to pick me up in Kenosha, so we took our time and made a couple of cool stops, the first of which was Lambeau Field. This had been my suggestion, but I think Ann wanted to see a little of Green Bay before we left. Nothing was happening there that day, but there were people on the property walking around and taking photographs, just like us. It was kind of neat and much easier to get to than Soldier Field, down by me.

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Our next stop was at the Experimental Aircraft Association Museum in Oshkosh. This one was Ann’s idea and having never stopped there before, I was anxious to see this place about which I’d heard so much. It was cool! Lots of informative exhibits and their historic airplane collection is impressive, to say the least. As is the case with many places Ann and I had visited this weekend, we could have spent more time here than we did. I’m glad we stopped.

While we were walking the EAA grounds, Ann told me about a program called “Young Eagles” that was started in 1992 as a means of introducing young people to aviation. That sounded like a terrific idea to me and I wondered if a similar approach could be taken by the motorcycling community to get more young people interested in our hobby. For me, motorcycling has always been a sensory, experiential thing. I became a motorcycle fanatic as a small child, when I got my first motorcycle ride. There was something about the engine sounds and vibrations, as well as the way the motorcycle behaved as my older cousin worked through the gears and steered his bike through the neighborhood. All the multimedia endeavors in the world cannot take the place of taking a real motorcycle ride. There will be more to come on this subject, I’m sure.

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We left the EAA grounds just in time for lunch and as luck would have it, there is a Friar Tuck’s located very close by. I had been to their Fond du Lac location with my son a few years ago, based on a recommendation from Ann that I would like their burgers (she was correct). Her parents were fans of Friar Tuck’s and now, so am I. Their decor can best be described as dark and dated. Their food offerings are fresh, hearty, generously sized, and quite delicious. If you are ever in Oshkosh, Fond du Lac, or Manitowoc at lunch or supper time, give them a try.

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The only torrential rain we got all weekend long occurred less than five minutes after we stopped at Ann’s place to check on the cats, separate our respective purchases, and rest a while. Before long it was time for Ann to drive me to Kenosha, where Karen would meet us and take me home. Not counting business travel, my least favorite part of nearly every trip I’ve ever taken has been the end. Despite the rash of cancelations we had, this one was no exception. Sure, I had my limitations—I couldn’t even drive—but this had been my first road trip of any consequence since the accident. And with no small amount of help from Ann, it had gone very well.

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Week seven brought the same thing that the week following Labor Day always brings: the Sandwich Fair. Established in 1888, the Sandwich Fair is the oldest continuing county fair in Illinois and has been a D’Aversa family favorite for about 15 years now. It’s not even our county—this is DeKalb County’s fair and we live in Will County—but we love this fair and haven’t missed it in years. Karen and I have already established certain traditions. I must have a foot-long Pronto Pup as soon as possible after we arrive at the fair. Karen requires an ear of roasted corn. We usually get cream puffs and/or eclairs. We visit all of the commercial buildings. If it’s convenient, we take in a tractor pull or better yet, a demolition derby. And Karen must visit with the sheep.

You read right. Like any worthwhile county fair, the Sandwich Fair has a comprehensive collection of animal exhibits. A number of years ago, we were perusing the sheep barn when a large, healthy-looking sheep all but jumped out of its pen to greet Karen as she wheeled by. The two conversed for a while, I took photos, and then we moved on. Every year since then, Karen looks forward to hanging with the sheep at the Sandwich Fair. Some visits are more fruitful than others. This year four sheep wanted to visit with her, three of them from a single pen. Of those three, one attempted to eat Karen’s hat. Both Karen and the sheep seemed to enjoy the encounter immensely.

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At the beginning of week eight, I began driving myself to work. This was just one more baby step in a continual succession of small personal victories but to me, it was a milestone. If I could handle the 60-to-90-minute commute to and from work, I could handle longer drives, too—no more chauffering required.

At the end of week eight, with an estimated sixteen more weeks of recovery still ahead of me, my employer decided to sever our at-will employment agreement and abruptly did so. I will not say any more about this other than to confirm that what they did to me was legal and that I am no longer an employee of that company. How unfortunate for both of us.

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I am publishing this post on the eve of the 2018 autumnal equinox, the first day of fall. My summer that was so unexpectedly interrupted will also be over with. That suits me just fine. I’d rather look ahead than behind, anyway.

In the photo above, I am sitting on my motorcycle with my hands on the grips as they would normally be. When this photo was taken, my son had to help me lift the bike off its side stand and my left hand was extended as far forward as it could go, just to rest on that hand grip. Today I can stand the bike up myself, though not with equal effort by both hands, and I can turn those handlebars lock-to-lock. By all accounts, I am still two months away from actually riding the beast, but suffice it to say I have already been in training for that eventuality for eight weeks now.

What lies ahead? Hopefully a new and prosperous employment situation—one with at least as many challenges but none of the shortcomings—but that’s just one component of what lies ahead, one of many objectives. From the moment of my painful freak accident on the evening of July 4, 2018, I have had one end in mind: recovery. To me, that means gaining back as much of what I have lost as possible: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, financially, socially, etc. Beyond a doubt, I have come a long way already. Yet there is still more to be done.

This has been a long post indeed. From the bottom of my heart, thanks for hanging with me.

My Summer Interrupted, Part II

Continued from My Summer Interrupted, Part I

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It had been a pleasant, relatively quiet Independence Day holiday for me. I had settled into my recliner for the evening, laptop in front of me, cool drink at my side. My intent had been to write a blog post about the two weekends I had spent riding to and from Rock Island, to see a couple of my son’s stage performances, and I was doing exactly that when someone in the neighborhood began setting off heavy mortar-type fireworks.

My wife ran to the sliding door to call our dog in. Leia, a high-spirited black Shepherd/Labrador mix, was afraid of fireworks and would not have been outside had we realized the neighborhood idiots were going to pull out the heavy artillery that early. Karen called several times and then stepped out onto the deck. She returned quickly, yelling out, “She’s not in the yard; she’s gone!”

Leia runs fast and jumps effortlessly. Once underway, she doesn’t really spring when she jumps; she merely raises her landing gear and soars over obstacles. At three years of age, she is still quite the puppy and she absolutely does not like fireworks. She had jumped our picket fence several times in the past, so as a precaution, we had installed some plastic “deer mesh” fencing several feet above our wooden fence. We would later find out that on this particular night, Leia had been so spooked, she flew right through the deer fence, leaving a large, gaping hole in one panel. But we hadn’t seen that yet and since my girl had never gone very far in the past, I went out after her without stopping to grab a leash.

Several minutes later, two of our neighbors were out combing the neighborhood in an effort to help me find my dog. Four or five blocks out, my neighbor Jim caught up with Leia along Joliet Road, a fairly busy street, and walked her toward me. Not having a leash, I took Leia by the collar and the three of us began walking toward home. We were with a block or two of arriving when my wife pulled up to the curb in her minivan. Recognizing the van at once, Leia veered toward Karen’s van and lunged with all her might, pulling me right off my feet.

What occurred next took all of a second or two. I pinwheeled toward the van for a couple or three yards before gravity took over. As Leia broke free of my grip and zipped around to the driver’s side of the van, where Karen had opened the door to let her in, both of my feet left the ground and went out behind me. An instant later I landed in bellyflop fashion, making full body contact with a concrete sidewalk. There is some speculation that I may have hit the side of Karen’s van with my left hand as I went down—she said it had sounded like something had hit the van hard and from her vantage point, she thought it might have been my head. I have no recollection of that. What I can recall are shock and pain. My torso had taken most of the impact on landing, or so I thought. The wind had been knocked out of me and I felt a wall of pain across my chest and stomach areas. My right elbow had taken a bit of a scrape and was bleeding. I felt no worse pain in my left arm than anywhere else. Yet.

“Do you need help getting up?” That was Jim, one of the nicest neighbors I’ve ever known. He had moved in to assist as needed and by that time, Karen was standing over me, too.

“I dunno, but let’s wait a minute before we find out.” I was still lying face-down on the sidewalk, trying to get my wind back and hoping the pain across my body would subside. My mind was not particularly clear. They stood by and let me wait a bit longer. Then I tried to get up.

The pain that fired through my left arm from shoulder to fingertips assured me that all was not right. I went loose again, lying prone on the concrete. “I can’t use my arm!”

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Jim helped me to my feet and got me over to the van. I vaguely recall he and Karen saying something about the emergency room. After thanking Jim profusely, and our other neighbor, Tony, who’d been covering the area by bicycle, Karen drove to our house only long enough to put Leia in the house, and then drove me to the Edward Emergency Department of Plainfield, a component of Edward-Elmhurst Health and the only ER in town.

The 4th of July must be one of the worst days to need emergency care. It must rank right up there with New Year’s Eve and Christmas. I’m sure the people working those days see some very interesting cases. I’m also sure they’d rather be elsewhere. I know I did.

Before I go any further, let me state for the record that every staff member I saw at the Edward facility that night seemed friendly, courteous, and professional. Let me also add that most of our past experiences there have been positive ones. It was only in hindsight that I saw a dreadful comedy of errors unfold—and I was playing the unfortunate straight man in that comedy. Without going deep into every detail, here are the low points of what happened.

  • When we arrived, I nearly passed out walking from the van to the doors. Karen went in to get help. They came out to talk to me but all I could tell them was that I couldn’t see, that everything was going black. They brought out a wheelchair and took me inside.
  • After some preliminaries, they took me for x-rays. There were two techs in the room, both very nice. In order to take the x-rays, I had to stand in front of some sort of panel. I did the best I could but the room started going dark again. As soon as they were done, they let me sit down and once the images were verified, they wheeled me back to where I had been before.
  • A doctor on staff came in and informed me that I had fractured my shoulder. They gave me some pain medicine, a sling and the phone number of an orthopaedic surgeon to call the next day, explaining that the specialist would determine whether or not surgery would be necessary. I asked about the pain med they’d given me, which hadn’t seemed to lessen the pain at all. The nurse suggested that I give it more time.
  • They wheeled me outside and Karen brought the van around. I almost blacked out a third time but got myself into the van. The pain meds still hadn’t done much for me. We went home and as I walked in, rather than blacking out, I was hit by a wave of nausea. Fortunately, it passed after I settled into my recliner, where I spent the night.

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As you read this, I want you to bear in mind that I had sustained a very painful injury, the extent of which had not yet been discovered or disclosed, and for which I had received no treatment other than x-rays, a sling, and a bottle of pills that weren’t anywhere near strong enough to take the edge off my pain. Anything that caused me to clench the muscles in that sector of my body set off a wave of pain strong enough to make me scream. I make no exaggeration here, I assure you.

  • The following day, Karen phoned the orthopaedic surgeon’s office and was told he wouldn’t see me because this guy is a foot and ankle specialist. I think it was at this point that we began to seriously question the “care” I’d received the previous evening. Karen called the ER back and left a message.
  • While this was transpiring, I contacted my new employer and explained the situation. I was supposed to be at work, but that was not possible due to the extent of my injuries, my inability to drive, and the narcotic-though-insufficient pain meds I was taking. I hadn’t been there long enough to earn paid time off or any benefits, for that matter. My only hope was to still have a job by the time this nightmare was over. My CEO was quick to allay my fears in that regard, which only increased my admiration for the man and for the organization he leads.
  • Karen then proceded to spend a few hours calling my primary care physician (closed) and a host of other offices, none of whom could schedule me to be seen timely. This includes the DuPage Medical Group, to which the foot and ankle specialist belonged. After spending substantial time on the phone with DuPage and getting nowhere, Karen declared them “useless” and vowed never to use them again if she has a choice.
  • I had taken to sharing my experience thus far on Facebook. I got lots of sympathy and a few well-meaning suggestions, but no outright help. That is until a friend of mine who works at Rush CopleyMedical Center in Aurora gave me the name of an orthopaedic group to call and the specific doctor for whom to ask. An insider recommendation!
  • Upon receiving the recommendation, Karen called Rush Castle Orthopaedics and requested an appointment with one Arif Saleem, MD, a shoulder specialist. Although the doctor himself was out of town—hey, 4th of July holiday—his assistant was willing and able to see me that very afternoon. Karen scheduled an appointment, hung up the phone, and just breathed for a while.
  • At some point, an Edward ER nurse called back insisting that the orthopaedic surgeon whose name they’d given me should still be willing to see me. Karen again relayed what she had been told. This was turning out to be anything but a fruitful conversation and I could feel my wife’s frustration building to a dangerous level, so I suggested she tell them we’d already found somebody else to see. She did so and that ended the conversation, but not my troubles.
  • Later that afternoon, the Physician Assistant saw me. She was friendly, professional, and by all indications, highly competent. Just one problem, she couldn’t tell much from the x-rays that had been taken at the ER the night before—yet another red flag concerning the treatment I’d received there, if you’ll pardon the exaggeration. So she ordered another set, which showed not just a fracture, but a severe one, involving a shoulder that was likely broken into “a number of pieces.” She wrote an order for a CT scan, which would be necessary to determine the best course of action, but added that surgery seemed quite likely.
  • At this point we obtained an appointment to see Dr. Saleem on Thursday, July 12, which would be eight days after my accident.
  • We couldn’t get the CT scan done that day, July 5, because it was late and because some front desk worker claimed they would need approval from my insurance provider—and that she had three days to accomplish that feat.
  • On Friday, July 6, the front desk called to inform us that no approval was necessary and we could schedule the CT scan. When Karen called back, the earliest appointment she could get at any location was on Sunday, July 8, four days after my injury had been sustained.

Four days had passed, so far. Again, any time I moved wrong or sneezed or the planets aligned a certain way, I involuntarily cried out in pain and then waited, sometimes for quite a while, for the pain to subside. This had become very disconcerting for my wife, my sisters, my friend Ann (herself a healthcare professional), and anybody else close enough to me to know what was really going down.

  • On Sunday, July 8, I went to Rush Copley Medical Center and had my CT scan. Then I went home. Everyone was very helpful, friendly and professional, but not one person gave me any indication that going four days without actual treatment of my injuries was the least bit out of the ordinary.
  • I repeatedly ran out of pain meds because prescriptions for opioids cannot be written for large quantities or to include refills. No skin off my banana except I was still experiencing substantial pain from my as-yet untreated injuries. I totally understood the need for strict controls but at that time I was not yet an addict in the making; I was just a guy who didn’t want to keep screaming in pain every time I upset the bag of jacks that was my left shoulder joint.
  • On Thursday, July 12, I met Dr. Saleem and instantly liked the man. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. I had sustained a severe compound fracture and surgery was indicated without question. Once in, his first option would be to try and repair the fractured head of my humerus, the “ball” of my shoulder joint. This seemed unlikely but was still his first option. Barring that, he would replace the joint. By approving both options, I allowed him to address my injury one way or the other. I would enter the OR as an outpatient. If he could save the shoulder, I would go home that day. If a replacement had to be performed, I would become a guest of Rush Copley Medical Center for a couple of days. Surgery was scheduled for Tuesday, July 17.

This, in a nutshell, is how Edward-Elmhurst Health allowed a patient to “get away” and end up being treated by Rush Copley, a hospital that doesn’t even serve Plainfield. On one hand, I’m gravely disappointed in the way my case was handled by the ER, from the insufficient x-ray images to the inappropriate surgeon referral, all of which prolonged the amount of time that passed between the day I sustained my injury and the day it was fixed. On the other hand, their actions allowed me to connect with a well-regarded shoulder specialist, thanks to a personal recommendation from a friend. So maybe I was better off.

By the time Tuesday, July 17 came around, I was ready to have that painful broken shoulder fixed one way or the other. My hope, of course, was that Dr. Saleem would go in and find a shoulder that could be repaired instead of replaced. When they wheeled me out of recovery and into an elevator instead of back to the prep room where I had started, I knew that wasn’t the case. As the nurse wheeled my bed out of the elevator and onto an upper floor, I said my first full sentence following surgery: “I take it I’m an inpatient now.”

To which the nurse calmly replied, “Yes, you’re an inpatient.”

My heart sank at the realization.

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To be continued…

My Summer Interrupted, Part I

On the evening of July 4. 2018, I sat down to write about what would have been one of my usual blog topics, but just a few paragraphs into it, a life-changing event occurred and I never went back to finish writing that post. Until now. At the risk of running really long, I’d like to start out with my original story and then roll right into what happened next.

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There just wasn’t enough time. That’s been the running theme for me since last May, when I accepted an offer for what may become the most meaningful job I’ve ever had. That’s not the subject of this post, but it shapes many aspects of the story. Without going into gross detail, I am the marketing director for a strong local/regional player in an industry that is all but entirely new to me. The hours are long and they’re bookended by a commute that I can only describe as horrendous. Because I’m essentially starting over, I have to earn my keep, prove my worth, earn my perks, etc. But I do love my job so and have deemed my latest employment situation to be worthy of my efforts and dedication.

My son John is back in Illinois! At the beginning of June, he rode his motorcycle from his three-year temporary home in Portland, Oregon to Rock Island, Illinois, where he was once again working for the Mississippi Bend Players, a professional regional theatre group at Augustana College. He came out last year to act in one of their productions and also served as a construction intern. This year he once again performed in one of their productions, a seven-time Tony Award winner called Big River. For those not familiar, it’s a musical based on Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. It was wonderful and I was there. Twice.

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Photo by Ann M. Fischler

I was able to attend two performances of Big River, each on a Saturday night, one week apart. Again because of my new work schedule, everything had been somewhat tentative, so the basic plan both times involved me getting home from work Saturday afternoon, hopping on my motorcycle, and high-tailing it to Rock Island in order to arrive in time for the show. My other family members had similar plans but went on different days according to their respective availabilities. Under the circumstances, this was the best we could do.

On the first weekend, I was joined by my dear friend and pillion photographer Ann, who had timed her arrival in Plainfield to coincide with my own arrival home from work. After a few pleasantries and preparations, we were zooming west on Interstate 80. My wife Karen had attended the opening night performance the prior evening and was heading east at the same time. We kept an eye out for each other and somewhere between Princeton and the Quad Cities, we exchanged waves, each of us doing 70 MPH for a combined effect of 140 MPH. It was a quick wave.

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We had a little more time on our way back the following day, so rather than stay on the Interstate again, we exited at Illinois 178 and enjoyed a little two-lane touring through Utica, Ottawa, and points beyond. This is a very picturesque pocket of north-central Illinois featuring curvy roads, wooded areas, a rolling river, and even a few interesting elevation changes. Many bikers and cagers alike favor this area, so we had plenty of company on this beautiful day. Still, we enjoyed this portion of the ride home very much.

The following weekend was similar but different. Once again, I hightailed it after work on Saturday, only with a different set of friends. We were attending the Saturday performance. My wife was bringing her 90-year-old mother in that afternoon to see the Sunday matinee the next day. This presented an excellent opportunity for all of us to gather for supper early Saturday evening at the Bierstube in Moline. My mother-in-law was the star of our party, but nobody thought to take pictures (just one more reason why I appreciate having Ann on board). Still, a good time was had by all. My friends and I thoroughly enjoyed the Saturday night performance of Big River. My wife, daughter, and mother-in-law did likewise on Sunday afternoon, much to the delight of my son, the thespian artist.

There is more, but we are quickly reaching the point at which my story got interrupted in a big way.

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To be continued…

I Like Big Bikes and I Cannot Lie

IMG_0513Some of you may recall that when I attended the International Motorcycle Show in Rosemont last February (see My Good Day at the 2018 Chicago IMS), I had come away quite smitten with the 2018 Yamaha Star Venture and commented that I would need to ride the bike in order to understand what it really has to offer. Well, earlier today I did exactly that and now I’m here to tell you about it.

IMG_1478Despite having been planned months in advance, my demo ride very nearly didn’t happen. Rich’s Yamaha in Lockport, Illinois hosted the factory demo truck for three days, Friday through Sunday, from 9:00 AM to 4:00 PM, and they’d been promoting the event on Facebook since last winter. I work all day Fridays and until noon Saturdays, so I pulled in at the demo location at 2:00 Saturday afternoon. The bikes were out on a demo run and there were only a few people hanging around, so I walked up assuming my chances of throwing a leg over a Star Venture that afternoon would be good. Well, no.

“Hi! Where do I sign up?”
“You can’t. We’re all booked up.”
“Huh?”
“I said we’re all booked up. We open again at 8:30 tomorrow. First ride goes out at 9.”
“Can I sign up for tomorrow?”
“Nope. I can’t even access the sign-up screen until tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, well, I guess I’ll try again tomorrow.”

I gotta’ admit, I was a little sore about not being able to ride yesterday, mostly due to a lack of understanding on my part about how Yamaha USA structures their demo events. And I do mean structure. Up until now, the only demo truck events I’d been to were put on by Victory Motorcycles and their events were set up to accommodate as many riders as possible. There was no rigid schedule of excursions. Rather, the bikes went out for 15 minutes at a time, as many times as they could for the duration of the event. I would arrive at the event site, sign up, wait for the bikes to come in from a run, and place my helmet on whatever bike I wanted to ride. And riders could pretty much repeat this process as many times as they wanted.

IMG_1471By comparison, Yamaha has a set schedule of demo rides for any given day and riders are assigned to specific bikes by appointment, created on little digital touchscreens, for a given time slot and model. By setting everything up electronically, Yamaha USA collects my contact information, current bike brand, etc. and in return, I get a demo rider card that can be scanned at any Yamaha demo event for the rest of this year.  It’s just a different way of doing things, but one of which I was not aware. Until today.

For fear of not getting a chance to ride a Venture this weekend, I arrived at the demo site a few minutes prior to opening this morning and managed to be first in line when registration opened. This is when and how I learned about their scheduling methodology. I even got a donut out of the deal.

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I spent the next fifteen minutes looking over the bikes, especially the one I was going to ride, and chatting with a Yamaha USA rep who had been cleaning and polishing them. I do not recall the gentleman’s name, but he was exceptionally helpful. As soon as this rep had learned I would be taking the Venture out, he spent a fair amount of time with me, explaining some of the features—like the starting sequence for the keyless ignition and how to toggle between the “sport” and “touring” power modes. I was grateful for the one-on-one orientation session, believe me.

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After a brief pre-ride talk, we mounted our assigned machines, started them up, and headed out. The first thing I noticed about the Venture was its low seat height, which is odd because at 27.4 inches, this seat should have been several inches higher than that of my Victory Vision, which boasts a nominal seat height of only 24.5 inches. But the lowest point of my Vision’s slanted seat is indeed a single point whereas the lowest part of the Venture’s scooped seat occurs over a much more prominent area. So you see, the Venture’s seat is nominally higher than mine but in practical application—that is, where the tush meets the cush—it is indeed lower.

What positively floored me was how effortlessly the Venture comes off its side stand and how weightless the bike feels almost as soon as it is underway. Why? Because again, the numbers indicate that it should have been otherwise. My 2012 Victory Vision Tour, not a minibike by any means, has a wheelbase of 65.7 inches and an estimated wet weight of 869 pounds. Imagine my expectations when I read that the Venture has a 67.3-inch wheelbase and, in its Transcontinental (premium) configuration, a wet weight of 963 pounds. But once again, the numbers do not tell the entire story.

Without getting into a physics lesson, which I am not qualified to give, we know that a bike’s center of gravity, rider placement, and steering geometry (aka rake and trail) each play a large part in its handling characteristics. All I know is that when I first acquired my Vision Tour, riding it at parking lot speeds felt a lot like piloting an ocean liner. By comparison, on my very first time out on the Yamaha Star Venture, I was leaning into slow corners with confidence. The bike feels extremely well-balanced at any speed and to the extent that a bike weighing almost half a ton can feel agile, this machine felt agile and very responsive to my rider inputs.

IMG_1481About mid-way through our demo run, the rain began to fall. While I could complain, I was actually glad for the opportunity to see how the Venture handles in wet surface conditions. She handles beautifully! Sure, I kept the bike in touring mode and went easier on the throttle during the downpour, but the fact is this bike felt downright planted to me from the time we left the parking lot until the time we returned.

Let me share a few final observations and opinions with you. First, this bike has a lot of features I did not try out, mainly because I didn’t know how. There are a lot of controls in that cockpit. At one point, I had inadvertently activated the satellite navigation system and while I did play the radio while underway, I did not try to learn the entertainment system while I was riding the bike. Just like my Vision, there are a lot of handlebar-mounted controls that are not intuitive to the uninitiated. Some quiet time with the operating manual would prove very helpful in that regard.

The trunk and side bags are quite generously sized and there are additional small storage compartments as well. One of the few complaints I’ve had about my Victory Vision is the relative lack of luggage capacity. Definitely not a problem with the Venture.

The 113 cubic inch (1854cc) V-twin engine moves the bike fine, but I wouldn’t race a sportbike (or even a Gold Wing) for papers. The vibration factor is just enough to let the rider know there’s a big V-twin at work, but it was never intrusive or annoying at any speed. The exhaust note is downright muted by American V-twin standards. Refined seems to be a good word to describe this powerplant.

IMG_1480The bike I rode lists for over $27K in its Transcontinental trim. Asking whether it has to be that expensive is a lot like asking whether it has to weigh over 900 pounds. It is what it is. Right?

Finally, I regret that my favorite pillion passenger/photographer Ann was not available to join me for this demo ride. Had she been there, you would be enjoying far better photos—and maybe a video or two—from this outing. Ann’s presence would also have enabled me to evaluate the Venture’s handling characteristics with a passenger on board. By the same token, Ann is not a fan of riding in the cold rain. So maybe next time. After all, I have a Yamaha demo rider card that’s good for the rest of the year.

As always, thanks for hanging with me.

Mediterranean Flavors

I had hinted about doing this back when I wrote about our last cooking endeavor (see Cajun-Midwestern Fusion). With spring being a little late to arrive, Ann and I figured we had one more cooking opportunity before riding season really gets underway. So we sorted through countless recipes, favoring Mediterranean influences this time, and selected three dishes to make for our supper (click on each to see the original recipes and ingredients):
Bacon, Avocado, & Brussels Sprout Salad With Lemon Vinaigrette
Chicken Spinach Feta Pie
Roman-Style Stuffed Artichokes

But before we got into that, Ann served up a light lunch that reminded me of the Cajun cooking day we had enjoyed last month. Apparently one of Ann’s local supermarkets had brought in a sizable shipment of frozen, pre-seasoned crawfish. I’d eaten breaded and fried crawfish tails a few times, but neither Ann nor I had never done the break-em-open-and-eat-the innards thing before. She steamed them up and served them with melted butter in addition to a batch of the same spicy remoulade recipe we had made last time. I’m glad Ann and I shared this new and interesting experience together but in all candor, I prefer nibbling the deep-fried tails.

Raw, shredded Brussels sprouts and baby spinach formed the foundation for this particular salad, which we selected because it didn’t share too many ingredients with our other dishes, but also because Ann and I seem to have developed a thing for Brussels sprouts over the past year. We were not disappointed. The combined ingredients deliver big on flavor and textures. In the future, we might depart from the recipe slightly. The avocado seemed to get run over by everything else and so could be considered expendable. And although the lemon vinaigrette was quite good, a poppyseed dressing may complement the flavors even better. To be determined.

What do you get when you combine ricotta, feta, and Parmesan cheeses with spinach, chicken and more, all baked in a phyllo crust? I regret that I didn’t start shooting photos until our chicken spinach feta pie had already been assembled and baked. The preparation is somewhat involved, yet kind of fun. On this one, however, we deviated from the recipe before I had even arrived. Rather than season and pan fry the chicken breasts, I marinated them a day in advance and then grilled them to perfection the night before I drove up to Ann’s place. By doing this, we turned up the volume on that chicken considerably, I think for the better.

Have you ever worked with phyllo dough? We hadn’t, not before this, and we learned something about it in the process. Once you take the sheets out of their packaging, you’ve got minutes to bathe them in butter or otherwise do something before they become as frail and brittle as dry leaves. But when handled properly, there is no substitute for the light, layered, buttery, flaky magic that results.

Given all the stuff that went inside that pie, we really weren’t sure what was going to happen when Ann released the spring-form pan after baking. Would it self-destruct, sticking to the pan and oozing cheese-infused spinach all over the place? Nope. After allowing the contents to cool and set, the entire pie came out intact and retained its shape, even when sliced. The flavor profile was awesome! Just one amendment going forward, the recipe calls for concentric circles of chopped tomatoes, onions, and olives just beneath the top crust. After eating our respective slices, Ann and I agreed that we would combine those three ingredients into a medley, such that the resulting layer delivered a consistent flavor explosion across the entire pie.

I am a fan of stuffed artichoke hearts. My middle sister Anna has made them for years and I have always enjoyed them. Interestingly enough, Ann and I replicated her recipe almost exactly one year prior to our most recent endeavor, with good results. This time around, we wanted to try using fresh, whole artichokes, a daring endeavor to be sure. The results? Whole artichokes make for a more formidable presentation over canned hearts—think large, stand-alone pieces versus a casserole—but what you gain in appearance, you more than lose in labor and waste. Truth be told, my sister’s casserole has better flavor and texture. But again, we wouldn’t know this had we not tried and as always, we had fun throughout the process. There is no substitute for a kitchen filled with love and laughter.

meal

A few final thoughts. First, given the characteristics of this meal, I wanted to select a light-bodied, dry wine to balance it off. We went with an inexpensive Pinot Grigio (Fossetta) from Venice, Italy. Crisp and fruity, yet dry, this wine seemed to serve our needs.

Second, I have presented these three dishes in the order in which Ann and I both enjoyed them most. That salad was our hands-down favorite. It was light and brimming with flavor and texture. Sure, we would change things up a little if and when we make it again, but as built, this first-course dish was just fine. The pie was our second favorite. Plenty of flavors there, even if we hadn’t used grilled chicken (but I’m glad we did). It’s a rich dish, though, and that one pie could have fed up to eight people. Luckily, the leftovers are at least as good as the first time around. The artichokes tasted fine, but in the end, we deemed them to be too labor-intensive for what we got out of them, especially when compared to the tried-and-true casserole version that we’d made before.

Finally, speaking of labor-intensive dishes, all three of these involved a fair amount of cutting, chopping, mincing, grating, etc. That’s not necessarily bad, especially if you enjoy being in the kitchen. But if you are looking for quick and easy meals, these are not the dishes you seek.

It may be a while before you see another “Ann and Michael cooking” post, as once the weather warms up, we tend to go riding when we get together—and I do so enjoy sharing those excursions here. On the other hand, Mother Nature has been a little unpredictable lately, so we’ll just have to wait and see what happens.

Until then, as always, thanks for hanging with me.

The Last Motorcycle on Earth: A New Dramatic Three-Part Series

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“Motorcycles are outlawed. Gasoline is $20 per gallon. Self-driving cars are taking over. Silicon Valley and the United States Government have collaborated to push society toward a fully-autonomous transportation system. Motorcycles and riders are an easy first target in the drive to ban human-operated vehicles. Impossible, you say? Not so fast.”

Could motorcycles be outlawed in our lifetime? This is the question with which we are confronted in The Last Motorcycle on Earth,  a dramatic series by Eric W. Ristau, a director, cinematographer and editor of independent films, documentaries, and television commercials. This series is co-produced by Geneva Ristau, who has co-directed numerous works with Eric, and Neil “Morto” Olson, who also plays the story’s central character. An Indiegogo crowdfunding site has been established for The Last Motorcycle on Earth, which has already been in production, albeit on a limited budget.

I have been a loyal and supportive fan of cinematographer Eric W. Ristau since 2013. That’s the year The Best Bar in America was released. Produced and directed by Eric and his brother Damon, that movie resonated with me in a big way and I wasted no time telling anybody who would listen about the film. Eric acknowledged my enthusiasm and thus began our casual acquaintance of the past five years. We attempted to meet for a beer once, but Eric was in Canada the one time I had managed to ride my motorcycle through Missoula, Montana. I would still like to have that beer, though. I believe that someday, we shall do so.

How feasible is the scenario presented in this dramatic series? Eric submits the following.

“Our current youth culture is largely focused on virtual experiences rather than the tangible, physical stuff past generations were drawn to– in this case, motorcycles, cars and expression of personal freedom through travel. More young people than ever are deciding against getting a driver’s license and interest in ownership of vehicles by that group is at an all-time low. It is said that the last person to receive a driver’s license has already been born.”

As an active member of three distinct Motorcycle Rights Organizations, I’ve read various position statements on the topic of autonomous vehicle technology. Before reviewing the background information and video footage from The Last Motorcycle on Earth, though, I never gave serious thought to the possibility of the rise of autonomous vehicles causing the end of the motorcycle hobby as we know it. Now? I’m not so sure.

Let’s think about this. The technology is moving forward at a faster rate than most of us would have expected. There is no small amount of corporate backing for the advancement of autonomous vehicle technology. Countries, as well as companies, are vying to become the clear dominant player in this arena. And today’s youth are tomorrow’s voting majority.

Displacing conventional automobiles will surely take time, but based on our smaller population and lesser popularity, the motorcycling community seems like a feasible target for elimination by those who stand to gain the most from our loss. Think about that.

Please take a few minutes to view the following video. Perhaps you will consider helping to fund The Last Motorcycle on Earth. If you ride or are a fan of the hobby, I would also urge you to consider joining one or more motorcycle rights organizations. And as always, thanks for hanging with me.