Earlier today I stopped by the University of Missouri – Saint Louis, to attend the Motion Titles presentation of the current junior graphic design class. My class, as did many classes before us, had to go through this same rite-of-passage presentation, the first we as students had to do. The audience is usually made up of the faculty, some family, other students and alumni. This all part of the Advanced Problems in Graphic Design II class, where we had to choose a movie, create a new poster and DVD package that incorporated more symbolism and relevance to the movie than the average off-the-shelf Hollywood garbage (generally a big budget/big name movie poster/DVD cover will consist of the actors faces with some irrelevant background imagery). The last part of the project were the motion titles, which is just a fancy word for the intro. Not many people pay attention to the motion title, unaware of how much they say about the movie. I think the best motion title I’ve seen was for the movie U-Turn (starring Sean Penn and Jennifer Lopez). So much is revealed about … well everything. Anyway, this tends to be the most challenging part of the assignment, because all of a sudden you’re dealing with an entirely new element. The first thing I noticed today was how many people used a completely different software to do it then my classmates and myself did only two short years ago. Two things here: 1. time flies and 2. boy is technology eager to leave you behind. That said the little ones did quite all right. I was very impressed with two of the students and quite satisfied with the vast majority.

On a more negative note, I’m more convinced than ever than universities need to make public speaking classes absolutely mandatory. I’m no Demosthenes, but I’ve always striven for some measure of eloquence, and I’m rarely left speechless. While I was in school I found some of my classmates lacking good communication skills, but I guess being away for almost a year now makes it a bit more of a shock. For a second I imagine them talking to my VP, nervously muttering about something, sounding entirely unprepared for all of 10 seconds before being looked with the strangest of looks and told to get to a point … soon. Not a single person talked about their work, instead they all just read things off a piece of paper some with a voice so monotonous it was hard to take. Some would lose their spot on the page and restart at the beginning of the current sentence, the way novice telemarketers do when they are startled by an unexpected question. While no particular part about this irked me, the apparent (not actual) lack of knowledge on the subject of their own work was nothing short of disappointing. I have been there and I know all of them spent enough time with their projects to know them inside and out, yet they all spoke (read, actually) with the shaky uncertainty of an 8th grader reading Nietzsche. Of course it’s not the end of the world but communication is damn important, in my opinion, and if we’re out there education a new generation, shouldn’t we teach them how to speak rather than just talk?

I honestly cannot remember the last time I went to a club. One could say that clubs are not my kind of thing. At all, really. This Saturday, however, I got to go to Winter Warpdrive 3 at the Roberts Orpheum Theater in downtown St. Louis, the year’s biggest local rave. A co-worker of mine, who in those circles is known as DJ Ken Evil, provided me a ticket and a VIP pass. I’m not gonna lie to you, the party kicked ass. The place is cool, the DJs were all outstanding, and despite much the scantly clad crowd looking extremely jail-bait-ish (the event was 18 and up), there was energy in that place. I’ve often wondered, how a particular friend of ours could always stay up till dawn at age 39 when I’m often ready to hit the sack minutes after midnight. I’m sure for a lot of people it’s drugs. I saw more than just one person stumbling/dancing around with an eerily vacant expression on their face. Full tank of gas, but no one at the steering wheel. Drugs or not, though, there was a certain energy and even fully sober (minus a few beers) I was up and moving until the lights came on.

At one point during the night a young girl came up to me and my friend, Rae, and said something to her. Then she sort of liquid-danced her way over to me and said (verbatim) “Are you a handsome stranger with a jolly rancher?” I, having no candy in my pockets said “No, sorry.” She made an “awww” face at me and kept on dancing. Aside from really not having any candy on me, I had almost reflexively started saying “no” to almost any question or statement that night. One guy asked me if I wanted something I had never even heard of and kept talking to my shoulder and my back for about 5 minutes, after I declined. After the girl had moved on in her quest for a jolly rancher, I started thinking about what had just happened, and ultimately found myself wishing, that I had asked her to clarify what she meant (Uh, what do you mean by jolly rancher, because I only have starburst). Best I could figure and my friend Rae confirmed it, it was a euphemism (or a rather blatant offer) for oral sex. A quick fact check over at urbandictionary.com only partially confirms my assumption though. Apparently a jolly rancher means either a guy who can stay hard for a very long time, in rap music often used in direct relationship with oral sex, or a cough-suppressant that’s taken in pill form (for the DXM which causes hallucinations much the way an overdose on cough syrup will do). I guess I will never know what she was really after that night.

Jolly Rancher saga update:
I have been informed that it is quite possible that the girl was in fact asking about an actual real sugar-and-artificial-coloring kind of Jolly Rancher. It tuns out that when one is experiencing the effects of the drug Ecstasy, the texture or flavor or whatever of a Jolly Rancher is stimulating in some way.

Picture update due to popular demand:
Judging by my search hits, “Winter Warpdrive 3 pictures” is quite popular at the moment so here you go …

http://www.flickr.com/photos/pshannon/
best pictures of the stage

http://www.flickr.com/photos/unitovone/

http://s128.photobucket.com/albums/p165/allrightname/Winter%20Warpdrive%2016%20FEB%202008/

http://s251.photobucket.com/albums/gg309/bshamalian/

It is almost embarrassing how late this post is but I suppose it is better late than never, right? Now that I’m finally writing this I’m starting to realize why. It was such an awesome party, I want to write something that does it justice.

If you live in the St. Louis area you have undoubtedly heard of this Halloween party. Ok, so it’s possible that I’m exaggerating a little bit, but it does capture the gist of it: kick ass party. Huge. Tons of fun. If you missed it, that is too bad, but the good news is there will be another one next year.

Halloween Hero
Halloween was a special time for almost all of us when we were kids. We got to dress up as our favorite hero and pretend to have superpowers for a night. Somewhere there was a princess waiting to be rescued by her knight. Superman was flying around the neighborhood faster than a bullet, swooping down on every doorstep, to fill his bag with candy. It was the night we got to go out into the world and show off the (current) hero that was hiding inside of us — or if you were unfortunate enough to have been dressed by your parents, you ultimately got to show off your parents’ other self — to family, friends, and neighbors. Not only did we get to go out and show off, we got rewarded for it. Your experiences may have been slightly different, but I would imagine most kids have very fond memories of that day (unless your parents did indeed dress you, and were particularly cruel with costumes).

Sadly, as people grow up many leave the fun of Halloween behind, and some even scoff at the idea of dressing up in a costume. Personally, I think the scoffing is just their insecurity talking and that is a damn shame because Halloween, as an event, only gets better with age. Fortunately for me there are many people out there who still enjoy Halloween thoroughly and I seem to be meeting more and more of them all the time. In the end though, my girlfriend Laura takes the (chocolate) cake as the Halloween Hero, for being so relentless at making every Halloween better than the last.

Victorian Steampunk Masquerade Ball
First, this is not your mom’s “throw a white sheet over your head and pretend to be a ghost for a night” party. Laura, Rachel, Deech (a co-host) and I started working a few months before the party on props and decorations for the party.

As you can see in the picture above we were partying like it was 1899. Quite a few people from the Saint Louis Costume Makers Guild were in attendance and most of the costumes were amazing. Of course, not all of the costumes were Victorian or steampunk — that wasn’t a requirement. Masks, however, were.

All floors were open for the party, from the basement to the upstairs bedroom, and most were decorated in some way shape or form. Some of the decorations were quite elaborate, like the pipe organ and the old school telephone (pictured on the right). Laura built the pipe organ using a really old plastic keyboard and a variety of other materials. Lots of cutting, masking and painting and gluing later the fully functional pipe organ was finished. The telephone — unfortunately not functional — was built using pieces of an old trashed rotary phone, wood, and metal ornaments. Both were a huge hit. On the kitchen counter, we had a rather unusual punch fountain built by Deech for this party. Before we move to the rest of the house, the amazing gargoyles need to be mentioned. Most people couldn’t believe that Laura had built them essentially from scratch using aluminum foil to form the shapes and papier-mâché to cover them with a skin which, when painted, looked remarkably like stone. They also had red glowing eyes through two LEDs that were inserted and wired into their heads during production. Before the party started we placed the four gargoyles on the four posts of the front staircase. I thought the effect was fantastic.

Moving on to the rest of the house. In the upstairs bedroom we placed my little masterpiece, which was a fully functional gramophone unit that was also a huge hit (people were dancing until about 4 a.m. to some records I got from the 99-cent bin at Vintage Vinyl). Laura and I built a large canopy to cover the bed with the intent to make it part of the theme and overall atmosphere. I was hoping the bed would provide more intimate space for people to sit on, similar to the way a couch in the living room would. To discourage anyone from actually getting into the bed, two lovable corpses were placed there and did the trick. There were of course other, less elaborate decorations through the house, such as old faded photographs in vintage frames, articles from 1800’s magazines on the cabinets in the kitchen and Christmas lights to provide a good level of moody lighting — yes I know, not exactly Victorian, but lanterns and candles didn’t appeal to us due to certain safety concerns. Dracula’s coffin from last year’s party — another one of Laura’s remarkable creations — served as a very stylish cooling chest for all types of beverages. The basement became a dimly lit dungeon featuring many of Deech’s props and monsters.

A lot of hard work, but ultimately it all paid off. Best estimate is that around a hundred people showed up to enjoy the festivities. We were all uncertain, though a little curious, to see how well that many people would fit into the house. To our surprise, it never really got too packed, and the entire house, including the back porch and backyard got fully utilized.

The most amazing thing about this party was the level of interaction between … well … everyone. For most of the night, everyone wore masks, which I believe created a much looser atmosphere and put the focus on communication rather than just than sex appeal, which often governs the dynamics of interaction at a party. Yes, I do realize how pretentious that previous sentence sounds, but I just can’t think of a better way of putting it.

Stephen and Stacey, pictured just above, won the contest as a couple. Previously, I incorrectly stated that Stephen won, which would only be half-true. Stephen’s flamethrower man costume was pretty sweet, and Stacey as his “smoke & mirrors” completed the effect. It’s too bad I didn’t get more pictures of them both, particularly the big rusted canister he was wearing on his back. I’m not sure where it came from, but it was a steampumk classic. Combined, the two of them most definitely deserved the first prize. The fact that his home-made flamethrower was actually working was super cool to some and a little scary to others. Since the night ended without any propane explosions, I’d say it was a success.

Here you can watch a video of Stephen and his flamethrower helping blow up some pumpkins in the back yard. I’m sorry about the quality but it’s the best my phone can do at night. Should be enjoyable nonetheless.

For a full gallery of pictures from the party, you can go here. I picked and pulled what I felt were the best pics from my set and all the ones I received from other people at the party.

Thank you all who came to have a fantastic time with us, and see you next year.

Few weeks ago, Stephen and Stacey held their second annual “Bring your own drinking container” party which was, as before, a ton of fun. If you are not familiar with the party here is the short version:

They provide the booze (two kegs this year) and all you have to do is show up with a drinking container. The word “container” is used rather loosely here because the big twist is: it has to be something you wouldn’t normally drink out of (like the mannequin Stephen butchered and than groped throughout the night).

The high point of the night is always the container contest which breaks down into four categories: biggest, smallest, grossest and most creative. The contest is judged by the audience and decided by their cheers.

Laura won in the biggest category, because size DOES matter (Stephen’s actual words). Keith won for the grossest. Nate gave him a pretty good run for his money but in the end the dirty old tighty-whities persevered. This guy beat me by the slimmest margin since the 2000 Presidential election, and got the most creative award. Now that I think about it, I have no idea who won for the smallest (someone please let me know). Update: Per Keith’s comment below, Sarah won for smallest with a 10 microliter (1.0 x 10^-5 liters or 0.003 ounces) measuring cup. Small indeed.

You can also view all of the images I took here.

As a bonus I’m posting a pic of the inside of my Deus Ex Machina drinking container, which required you to pour in water in order to be able to drink vodka and cranberry juice out of it. As you can see when poured water into the funnel, it filled the white container. The weight of the container would cause it to descend and the scooper at the other end of the see-saw lever to be pulled up. With each scoop from the main (second) container a portion of the drink would be poured into a third container not shown here. It was located right in front of the scooper. Once the top was mounted a tube ran into the third container so that drinking was possible. Two wires also ran into it and whenever liquid was present, an LED would glow as a result of the closed circuit. The container that received the water initially had holes in the bottom which let the water out slowly. Once its weight returned to normal, it would be pulled up by the now heavier scooper. Pour water. Repeat process. There were many other interesting back-ups and safety systems but I don’t feel like going into detail I’m sure you’ve already fallen asleep twice.

I need to …

put up/send out pictures from our Halloween party — a Victorian themed Masquerade Ball — which was just plain awesome. Best estimate is that around a hundred people in fantastic costumes showed up for a good time (some reluctantly leaving around 4:30 in the morning)

put up pictures from Stephen & Stacey’s drinking container party as well as pictures & design sketches of my Deux Ex Machina drinking container that as many have assured me, should have won for most creative. Despite its awesomeness — such awesomeness it would make Chuck Norris nod in approval — it didn’t win for a number of reasons that can be best summed up as: people didn’t get what it did. I’ll explain when/if I ever get around to putting up the pics. That was also a great party and I’m already looking forward to next year.

process all the pictures from my last photo shoot with Carrie, a new acquaintance I’ve made, who has been willing to spend time modeling for me.

come up with more ideas for photo shoots

get packed for our annual Thanksgiving climbing trip

go through a few thousand images, and judge them for the everyman photo contest. two sections down 4 more to go.

On a completely different note, since my last real update I have …

celebrated mine and Laura’s one year anniversary (night of our Halloween party)

completed all possible 200 miles of the two-day MS150 bike tour and raised a little over a thousand dollars, thereby accomplishing both of my goals. next years goal: ride 300 miles in three days by riding the hundred miles from St. Charles to Columbia, then follow up with the 200 miles at the MS bike tour.

read the entire Harry Potter series and thought they were all great.

read Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials series. I enjoyed that one as well though I felt he fumbled it a bit at the very end. The first book, The Golden Compass, should hit the big screen sometime in December 2007.

read almost all books, all the ones I cared to read, by Neil Gaiman (American Gods a while back, then Good Omens, Stardust, Neverwhere, Anansi Boys)

seen the Stardust movie earlier this year as well. Didn’t live up to the book, of course, but was throughly enjoyable.

seen the live action Transformers movie and nearly peed on myself out of sheer joy.

been to a Renaissance Festival (in Kansas City) which was an awesome experience

entered two mountain bike races and won neither of them.

broken my wrist during a dirt-jump crash landing about eight weeks before the aforementioned MS bike tour. spent six weeks in a brace.

done the moonlight ramble.

traveled to Puerto Rico and made friends with some locals

discovered some cool new bands/artists like Beirut, the Decemberists, the Pipettes, Grizzly Bear, Amy Milan, Andew Bird, etc.

I’m sure there is a thing or two I forgot, but as it is 12:30am, I am out.

Earlier today I stumbled upon this article written by Kevin Tillman and I absolutely had to share it with anyone who may come across my blog. Kevin Tillman as you may or may not know is the brother of Pat Tillman, the Arizona Cardinals safety who was shot and killed in Afghanistan in April of 2004. Pat turned down a 3.6 million dollar three-year contract with the Cardinals and chose to enlist in the Army instead. His brother Kevin also enlisted, and passed up a career in professional baseball.

This letter is written in anticipation of the November 7th elections, and I hope it will move people to consider what we have allowed go on in this country.

After Pat’s Birthday

It is Pat’s birthday on November 6, and elections are the day after. It gets me thinking about a conversation I had with Pat before we joined the military. He spoke about the risks with signing the papers. How once we committed, we were at the mercy of the American leadership and the American people. How we could be thrown in a direction not of our volition. How fighting as a soldier would leave us without a voice… until we get out.

Much has happened since we handed over our voice:

Somehow we were sent to invade a nation because it was a direct threat to the American people, or to the world, or harbored terrorists, or was involved in the September 11 attacks, or received weapons-grade uranium from Niger, or had mobile weapons labs, or WMD, or had a need to be liberated, or we needed to establish a democracy, or stop an insurgency, or stop a civil war we created that can’t be called a civil war even though it is. Something like that.

Somehow our elected leaders were subverting international law and humanity by setting up secret prisons around the world, secretly kidnapping people, secretly holding them indefinitely, secretly not charging them with anything, secretly torturing them. Somehow that overt policy of torture became the fault of a few “bad apples” in the military.

Somehow back at home, support for the soldiers meant having a five-year-old kindergartener scribble a picture with crayons and send it overseas, or slapping stickers on cars, or lobbying Congress for an extra pad in a helmet. It’s interesting that a soldier on his third or fourth tour should care about a drawing from a five-year-old; or a faded sticker on a car as his friends die around him; or an extra pad in a helmet, as if it will protect him when an IED throws his vehicle 50 feet into the air as his body comes apart and his skin melts to the seat.

Somehow the more soldiers that die, the more legitimate the illegal invasion becomes.

Somehow American leadership, whose only credit is lying to its people and illegally invading a nation, has been allowed to steal the courage, virtue and honor of its soldiers on the ground.

Somehow those afraid to fight an illegal invasion decades ago are allowed to send soldiers to die for an illegal invasion they started.

Somehow faking character, virtue and strength is tolerated.

Somehow profiting from tragedy and horror is tolerated.

Somehow the death of tens, if not hundreds, of thousands of people is tolerated.

Somehow subversion of the Bill of Rights and The Constitution is tolerated.

Somehow suspension of Habeas Corpus is supposed to keep this country safe.

Somehow torture is tolerated.

Somehow lying is tolerated.

Somehow reason is being discarded for faith, dogma, and nonsense.

Somehow American leadership managed to create a more dangerous world.

Somehow a narrative is more important than reality.

Somehow America has become a country that projects everything that it is not and condemns everything that it is.

Somehow the most reasonable, trusted and respected country in the world has become one of the most irrational, belligerent, feared, and distrusted countries in the world.

Somehow being politically informed, diligent, and skeptical has been replaced by apathy through active ignorance.

Somehow the same incompetent, narcissistic, virtueless, vacuous, malicious criminals are still in charge of this country.

Somehow this is tolerated.

Somehow nobody is accountable for this.

In a democracy, the policy of the leaders is the policy of the people. So don’t be shocked when our grandkids bury much of this generation as traitors to the nation, to the world and to humanity. Most likely, they will come to know that “somehow” was nurtured by fear, insecurity and indifference, leaving the country vulnerable to unchecked, unchallenged parasites.

Luckily this country is still a democracy. People still have a voice. People still can take action. It can start after Pat’s birthday.

Brother and Friend of Pat Tillman,
Kevin Tillman

Link to original article:
http://www.truthdig.com/report/item/200601019_after_pats_birthday/

What a weekend.

It all started on Friday, when I took off early from work and got home to pack up everything I would need. A few items of clothing, tent, sleeping bag, pads, bike, helmet, shoes … oh and I almost forgot (indeed I did have to turn around for this) my water bottles.

Once everything was stowed in the back of my hatchback, I hit the road to Columbia, Missouri. Having left work early I had plenty of time to make the seven pm team dinner. Or so I thought. Just as I hit the first major highway I hit traffic so bad, it would give downtown Los Angeles traffic-penis-envy, if such a thing existed. It took me over an hour to make it out of Saint Louis and my ride was no longer leisurely.

I arrived to the dinner only a little late, and luckily for me the waitresses were slacking worse than pot-smoking college freshmen. I had plenty of time to get introduced, take pictures before they even came to take our orders.

After the dinner I followed my team-captain’s vague directions to where the event would be held, it was time to set up a roof over my head. After setting up the tent I was not ready to go to bed yet, and I could hear the sounds of a band coming from the lower area where all the team tents were located. The band sound pretty bad and they were playing for a handful of people still left in front of the stage. After a few minutes I decided I had enough of that so I returned to my tent.

I went to sleep despite the heat which was generously provided my arctic sleeping bag — I did briefly consider sleeping on top of the sleeping bag but I knew from experience that I would wake up freezing cold at some point during the night so I decided against it. I woke up around five-thirty am, chuckling at the fact that the alarm was set for six. I quickly changed into my jersey and jumped out of the tent ready to tackle the day.

The grass outside my tent was dewy and I could feel the humidity mixed in the cold morning air. I did not mind it, it was a good morning. The pale orange sun was casting a few rays through the morning haze and onto our field of tents though it was still fairly dark. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of voices could be heard as people were starting to shuffle around. We were all dark figures moving about, everyone with a clear sense of purpose.

Now it was time for breakfast. The pasta dinner from the night before provided some good carb-loading, but everyone knows you can’t start the day without a good breakfast. I got in line at the food tent and got myself a burrito, hash browns, sausage and orange juice — the same thing everyone else got. I filled one bottle with water and the other with Gatorade — which as I soon found out was so thick, you could almost chew it — but it would do. It was now quarter to seven and I made my way up the hill to where we were supposed to meet for the team picture. This year there were thirty-three riders on the team. The most there’s ever been. I was among the new additions to the team.

After the photo I ran back to the car to lock up my camera (I wanted pictures of my own, to document this event — or as much of it as I could) and then back again to grab my bike and get to the start line. We hit the pedals at sven-fourty am and slowly made our way up the first few hills. There were riders of all skill levels, and many of them, on the first stretch of the road so the pace was pretty slow. I was just relaxing but some anxiety would creep in every so often — I had never done anything like this before. As we hit the fourty mile route cut-off, quite a few turned off and more experienced riders continued on. I tried to keep myself from looking at my odometer because I knew I still had very far to go. In fact, we were just getting started and I was nowhere yet.

We came by the first rest stop but we did not stop. There appears to be some unwritten rule that if you’re riding hard, you don’t stop at the first rest stop. We passed it and pressed on. Then, the moment of truth came. The green arrow was pointing to the left, the seventy-five mile route cut-off and the blue arrow was pointing straight. Straight ahead lay the century route. One hundred miles of road full of hills, valleys and pain. After only four actual weeks of riding, many said this wasn’t a good idea. I think that settled the decision long before I had to actually make it — I was doing the century today and nothing would stop me.

The cut-off was at the twenty-third mile and so far I had not taken a single rest. After a couple more miles I saw the next rest area and pulled in. I was greeted with cheers by volunteers and as I rode by a guy stretched out his hand to give me something. I grabbed it still moving on the bike and held it tightly in my hand until I stopped. It was the century patch. Again, it sank in some more – I’m going to ride one hundred miles today. Then I spotted my team captain and some team mates who were not as far ahead as I thought they would be. We took pictures holding up our century-patches and I was glad to see that it wasn’t just a big deal to me. It was a big deal to everyone.

I filled up my water bottles and ate some bananas (a damn good source of potassium). A few words of advice stuck with me from the night before. “Eat before you get hungry, drink before you get thirsty and rest before you start feeling really tired, and you should be okay.” I got back on the road and tried to keep a solid pace but one that would not exhaust me. I had no competition here today except the road that was between me and the finish line. I was feeling pretty good so far but who could know what would happen at mile seventy or mile eighty? I pressed on and kept my own pace, though occasionally I would draft people for a little while. Approaching the fifty mile mark I could definitely feel my neck. The muscles were tense and stiff from trying to hold my head up in this unnatural position so I would twist it left and right and move it around every few minutes. The rest stop at mile fifty was a real let-down. They were out of food and Gatorade. In fact, all they had left were tootsie rolls. Then one of the volunteers went in the back and brought out some sandwiches that were actually meant as lunch for the volunteers – but they figured we needed it more than they did. Hats off to them.

It would be hard for me to describe most of the ride but it was definitely a time of reflection, as I got to spend most of it by myself. The countryside we passed through was beautiful and it never got dull. Occasionally I would find myself riding alongside someone and we would exchange a joke or two, sometimes even talk a little if the stretch was not too tough. Man is definitely a pack-animal. As much as solitude and time for reflection are enjoyable so can be the company of a complete stranger. Sometimes, a team of riders would pass me and I was latch on the back and draft them not because I needed to rest but simply because I liked riding behind someone, and riding at someone else’s pace for a while.

I’m not entirely sure when it happende — I didn’t track all this by mileage, it just so happens that I remember much of it that way — but I noticed that my right foot was feeling loose as I pulled up on the upstroke. I tried to ignore this the best I could and decided to investigate it at the next rest stop. As it turned out, my right shoe was coming apart. The sole was three-qurters of the way off and flapping around. I asked around for some duct tape and luckily they had it. I duct taped my foot and shoe and cut holes for the clips. Only a few miles into it a realized I had put the tape on way too tight, but there was no way I would stop now. This wasn’t such a good idea because by the time I got the next rest area I couldn’t even feel my right foot. I jumped off the bike and removed the tape. I let my foot recover and then put the duct tape back on — much more carefully this time.

The hundred-mile route was basically an extension added to the seventy-five mile route, so at one point they merged back together. There I came up on some of my team mates who did the seventy-five mile route. I rode with them and at the next rest stop we hung out for a bit. I found out that it was easier for me if I didn’t make long stops, so while they still sat around chatting I got on my bike and started counting down. I only had about twelve more miles to go though much of it was hilly.

Shortly after this stop I hit a few hills that made me want cry out in pain but I would be damned before I got off that bike. There was no way I would walk a single mile, or even ten feet.

I pushed on and then I came to a stretch of road I recognized. The marker wasn’t pretty — a big dead possum on the side of the road — but I knew now that I only had few more miles to go. A long but not too steep hill lay ahead and out of nowhere a burst of energy came. I picked up speed and kept it at about eighteen miles an hour the entire way up the hill and then kicked it up twenty-two to twenty-four once I hit the downhill part. I was cruising, I was there!

When I got to the finish line I realized I was just shy of exactly one hundred miles (since the routes don’t add up perfectly). I rode straight past the finish line and right up the next hill. There I turned onto the road that goes up a very large hill and back up to the tent area. This additional little loop got me my hundred miles and then I was happy. After eight hours and fourty minutes, I was off that bike and sprawled out on the ground.

I was definitely hurting, and the sight of the bud light truck made my heart jump. I ate and then I drank. I drank a lot, probably a lot more than I should have considering I had to do another fifty miles tomorrow, but it made those aching legs feel not so achy, so the simple old formula (more is better) was applied and thoroughly followed.

I am not going to state what time I finally made it to bed, but it was late. Very late for someone who had just done a hundred miles on a bike and had to do fifty more in the morning.

I crawled inside my sleeping bag and before I knew, it was lights out.

Quit entry to post a few pictures from our first multi-annual(?) beach party. This is not nearly as fancy as it sounds since we have no oceans here. My friend Stephen found this cool spot on the Mississippi that’s sort of across from downtown (which technically puts our beach into the infamous East Saint Louis area). A nice secluded sandy beach with a great view of the downtown lights. Perfect place to have a little fire and hang out with friends.