From Cleveland to Portland: Day 1

States Visited: Ohio, Indiana, Illinois

Distance Traveled: 340 miles

Time: 6 hours, with breaks

I pulled out of the driveway of my house at 4:30 in the afternoon, headed west towards Chicago, IL. Beyond that, Portland, OR. I knew, based on multiple previous trips that it would take me about six hours to get there, with a break or two for dinner and gas. Kino was eager and restless, perched anxiously on top of the folded passenger seat beside me, eyes intent and forward. He had naturally known that something was up for weeks, and now here we were, piled together in my 2008 Jeep Patriot, bags packed and stacked in the back of the cab and heading away from home. He had gone on road trips with me before, but this was clearly different. It felt permanent. I have to give that dog credit, just by judging from his reaction, he's a lot more intuitive than most people would normally make him out to be.

I eased onto I-480 from the Brooklyn exit and 20 minutes later, onto the Ohio turnpike from there. This is where I-80 and I-90 run together almost until Chicago. There, I-80 splits west towards Denver. I-90, north into Wisconsin. I-90 and I were about to become extremely good friends. I would stay on this road until Spokane, Washington.

I'll be honest, it's a horrendously boring drive. From Cleveland, it's two hours to Toledo. For some reason, I always seem to fool myself into thinking that once I'm past Toledo, I'm at the western edge of the state. But no...it's another 90 minutes at least until Indiana. Yet, 90 minutes into Indiana and you start to wish that you were back in Ohio. It's flat, bland and completely uneventful. At one point you pass Notre Dame's campus, which you can't see from the turnpike. In the blink of an eye, it's gone with nothing but endless fields of corn and wheat in sight.

Then, there's Gary, IN. I hate driving through Gary, Indiana. Especially at night. It reminds me of two things; the first being the opening scene from Blade Runner...black, industrial, and like the inside of a furnace. Flames shoot from an endless expanse of smokestacks. Smoke and a golden haze permeate the air. The second being the wastelands from The Matrix. As fas as the eye can see, industry dominates the landscape. Every ounce of movement is mechanic and unnatural. It's unnerving, and I can't seem to get through it quick enough.

The good thing about passing through Gary, Indiana is that Chicago is only a short few miles away. As the old familiar skyline first presented itself to me on the horizon, I called my buddy Brad to let him know that I was about 30 minutes away. He was at a business dinner with his wife, but promised they would be there to greet me at their door, if not minutes after.

It was a quick stay. Once I got my things settled, I sat down in the living room with Brad and shared a bit of bourbon to toast to my move out west. We chatted for a bit, but unfortunately had to cut the conversation short due to an early wake-up call he needed to be prepared for. We finished our drinks over stories of his own adventures in Oregon about a decade earlier, the majority of which included examples of his pure, unabashed, dumb, stupid luck. As he headed upstairs, I finished setting up camp on his couch, while Kino stretched himself out on the floor beside me. With the real first leg of my journey beginning the following morning, it was almost a full hour before my nerves calmed and I was able to drift off into sleep.

Both Brad and Josie were practically on their way out the door as I came to the next morning. Following a much quicker goodbye in relation to our greetings the night before, both headed to work, leaving Kino and I in the house with their two dogs, Phantom and Tucker.

Knowing I had a full hour or so before I planned on being back on the road, I wasted no time before jumping into the shower, slipping into a comfortable change of clothes and reloading my bike back onto the back of my car. (There was no way I was going to let a vintage 1967 Schiwinn out of my sight...especially one that had as much significant meaning to me as this one.) Kino and I sat in the backyard for a few minutes while I snacked on a bit of fruit and granola from Brad & Josie's kitchen, savoring in a few moments of silence before venturing back onto the road. It was 9am. My destination goal that day was within a close proximity of the Badlands of South Dakota. Taking a deep breath, I proceeded to lock up the house and loaded Kino and I back into the car. Comfortable and relaxed, I started the engine, at which point the true first leg of our journey into the great northwest began.

From Cleveland to Portland

Over the next few days, I'm going to do my best to recount my four-day long, solo excursion to the west coast. This will be documented in four different posts, each detailing a day of the drive, from where I started that morning to where I ended up that evening, and everything in between. Because this is actually a post-event posting on the blog, I'm going to try and go back, recount my twitter posts and image uploads (at least most of them), and try to seamlessly incorporate it all here, as that was my primary use of social media during the drive, as opposed to my usual resourcing of the Jack Traveler blog.

This is of course, all part of an ongoing effort to catch this blog up-to-date with the more recent trips and weekend adventures I've had since my arrival here in Oregon over six months ago. I've experienced plenty, and with a visit with some close friends from Ohio coming just around the corner, I want to make sure to be all caught up to speed by then. In the meantime, enjoy. There'll be plenty to read in the weeks to come.

My Life in Boxes

The month of April 2011 was a self-inflicted 30 days of stress and anxiety. I was finishing up my last two weeks at my job, packing up my house, selling some furniture and moving the rest into storage. Each day seemed to be passing by quicker than the last and before I realized what was happening, I had arrived at the eve of my departure date.

For the past ten days, I had made the worthy attempt to condense my life from a four-bedroom, 1800 sq. foot house to a tiny 380 sq. foot city apartment. My parents were instrumental helping me pack, aiding me in making hard decisions as to what to keep, what to store and what to donate. My living room because an organized mess of box piles and narrow walkways in the attempt to divide what was was coming with me and what was staying behind. A few days before my departure, I rented a U-haul truck and with the help of my my buddy Garrett, loaded it up with my couch, tables, boxes, files and miscellaneous artwork to drop off at the Storage unit that I rented for the things I wouldn't have room for in Portland. The unit loaded up extremely efficiently (it was like playing a life-sized game of Tetris) and before we knew it, the door was secured and locked, my possessions stored away in darkness until I returned to claim it again, whenever that would be.

The night before I was to leave, I took a few silent moments, lit a fire in the chiminea and leaned back in one of my patio chairs, eyes closed and attempting to take in the effects of my last night in Cleveland. I then, with Kino by my side, opened up a bottle of Guinness and poured myself a glass. That bottle, the last to be leftover from a six pack I was given as a housewarming present by my buddy Greg and his wife Katie, was a ritual I was looking forward to for years. The first bottle was opened shortly after I moved in, toasting to the success of finally being a homeowner. I told myself that night that I would save the last bottle for the night before I was leave. Here I was, eight years later, fulfilling that promise to myself and savoring every last drop...even if eight-year old Guinness actually does taste like cat urine.

Kino's last moments at the house were strangely lethargic. I honestly believe that he was fully aware of the fact that he was saying good-bye to pretty much the only reality he's ever known. That last morning, I would find him wandering through the backyard, occasionally laying in the sunlit grass and absorbing each bit of stimuli that the delicate breeze around him brought his way. It was as if he was trying to savor those last few moments, most likely knowing that he'd never graze over that grass again.

Just having turned an active nine years old, Kino was officially in the senior years of his life. The rest of his days would probably be spent in Oregon, a transition that I'm sure he'll be fully content with once we got ourselves settled. This would turn out to be as much as an adventure for him as it would be for me. After all, how many dogs are offered the opportunity to see our country from coast to coast? His farewell to our house would turn out to be as bittersweet as mine.

Just as everything was ready to be loaded into the moving truck, some of my closest friends in Cleveland filtered in and out of the house throughout the day, offering their final farewells and best wishes upon my life in Portland. I could tell that they were all genuinely happy for me and each made a comment about how it would be great to come out and pay me a visit, as most of them had never been to that area of the country. After getting one last photo with the guys, they each, one by one, shook my hand, gave me a brotherly hug and went on their way. In the hours that followed, I would say my farewells to a few other close friends before the movers arrived and started to work on making sure my things all got packed away and off to Portland in one piece.

With nearly everything loaded away into the truck and the majority of the moving papers signed, the last few minutes at the house suddenly became fairly emotional. My car was packed. Kino was waiting patiently on his side of the car, made up of a hefty pile of cushions and blankets that ran the full length of the cabin. The moving truck was getting ready to pull away. And my Dad and I got to the point where we had to say good-bye. I couldn't get the words out. He had this look on his face...it was devastating. He looked as if he were loosing his best friend and was only able to get out a difficult six words;

"I'm going to miss my boy."

I crumbled. I couldn't help it, I just crumbled. My dad is among the best of my friends and the recent years I've spent in Cleveland have only brought us closer. Gone would be the monthly home improvement projects and happy hour beers that we would share with one another. Gone would be the random visits and impromptu dinners, when one of us needed a pick-me-up from the other. Gone would be the moments of reflection and physical pats on the back. I didn't know when I would see him again and the reality of these circumstances had hit me full force. Whatever composure I had held together throughout the day melted off in an instant and I found that saying good-bye to my dad was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do in my life. I was going to miss him like hell.

Moments later, after having forced myself into the car, I would see my dad's reflection in my rearview mirror; silently waving good-bye, tears still running down his face. I will never forget that image as long as I live.

A strange thing happened then, however. I turned the corner. And then I turned another. Then another. My dad was no longer in my rearview, gradually replaced by my neighborhood. Then Cleveland. A few hours later...Ohio. I was on my way west, and my first stop for the evening would be Chicago, where I would stay with my buddy Brad and his wife Josie for the evening before continuing towards the Dakotas the following morning. The date was May 5, 2011 and I was officially on the road to change my life forever.

Preparing for the Future

In late February of 2011, I committed myself to an ideal. In less than four months time, I would living in Portland, OR.

Things were happening in my life that was forcing me to sit back and recognize them as signs...silent and subtle messages that were telling me I was ready to move on. In late November, there were some executive changes made at my office that heavily forced me to sit back and reevaluate my relevance there. Until that point, it had been a fairly symbiotic relationship; I was saving them money by producing everything in-house and they were helping me pay my mortgage. However, for quite some time leading up to this moment, I had wanted more. I was well-aware that it was just a job and not a career path for me. There would be no more upward movement, and with a key advocate for my position's security now let go from the company, a decision for my professional career had to be made.

There were other reasons as well. Near obsessive thoughts about simplifying my life were distracting me from everyday routines. A recent fallout with some close friends had become devastatingly tolling. My home had continued to sit on the market, untouched, after two years. ...I loved my house, but I no longer wanted its burden. There were too many memories there that I had to face each day and the thought of reducing my living space to a small apartment felt like bliss. Following a random conversation during the morning commute to work, I was approached by my buddy Mark about possibly renting it out for he and his family. They had just had their second baby and the apartment they were living in suddenly became too small. Within days we worked out a deal and before I knew it, they agreed to move into my home in May. I had three short months to prepare.

At first, I only told about six people, including my parents. Obviously Mark knew. I filled my work-partner Sarah in on my plans, as my leaving the company would directly impact her everyday routine. And then I told my good friends Dawson and Garrett, who were incredibly supportive and encouraging over my decision to finally pick up and follow my dream. The wheels were in motion. Now I just needed to find a place to live.

I arrived in Portland on April 1st. As my plane landed just after midnight, I had made the decision to actually bunk down in the airport terminal for that first night, as it almost seemed like a waste of time and money to head into Portland at that late of an hour. On the suggestion of a website that listed "the best airports to sleep in" (PDX was ranked in the top 5), I found a quiet little corner in the north end of the terminal and, doing my best to ignore the repetitive safety announcements, fell into a sound sleep.

Still on east coast time, I awoke around 4:30 am and killed the next three hours by reading, preparing a game plan for the day and grabbing a quick breakfast. I then jumped on the MAX train and traveled into the NW quadrant of the city, where I would be staying for the next few nights. I couldn't check in until after 11am, so I took refuge in a quiet little coffee shop on NW21st Ave & Irving and started making calls. Within an hour, I had reserved three afternoon appointments for apartment rentals.

After walking around a bit and familiarizing myself again with the NW23rd area of Portland (also called Nob Hill and The Alphabet District), I made my way over to NW18th and Glisan where I would be staying at the local hostel for the next three nights. The idea to do so came from my buddy Garrett who stayed in hostels all around the country during a road trip he had taken about two years before. It was a huge money saver and as the weekend would prove, a great way to meet new people traveling through town.

Upon checking in, my host led me into a cluster of bunking rooms on the lower floor. My space was not yet ready, but they gave me a locker and a quick tour of the place so I knew where everything was during my stay. This being my first experience with an American hostel, I have to say I was incredibly impressed. I'm thoroughly aware that not every hostel in our country is this well-looked after, but the co-habitative system it relies on felt somewhat...refreshing. Aside from the fact that it was located within the magnificence of a turn-of-the-century Victorian home, there was a full kitchen, with each resident having a dedicated shelf space for food, would they decide to cook in-house. All bathrooms were shared and there were about six different common spaces to read, browse the internet, or just socialize with the other residents. Right from the start, it was a fantastic experience.

Throughout the next four days, I found myself wandering Portland from the moment I woke up until the sun began to set, searching meticulously for where I would end up living when I arrived into town. As most apartments operate on the refusal to "rent sight-unseen" policy, I had a mere three days to nail down a place. The next time i would be back in Portland would be when I was actually moving in, so treating this like a vacation wasn't an option. On top of that, because of my limited timeline, I made an agreement with myself that I couldn't be picky. Whichever place I choose, I would make it work. I always had.

Most of the apartments I looked at in the beginning were large studios. This seemed to be most of what was available where I was searching and I remember there were two in particular that really stood out as apartments that I could see myself living in, regardless of the lack of walls. In between my appointments, I took in as much of the area as I could, slightly reminiscing over the quiet moments I had spent in Portland just three years before. On the suggestion of a late friend, I had arrived in the Northwest with my then-girlfriend to scope out the area as a potential spot to settle down in. Almost as an afterthought, we were advised to visit Portland as opposed to Vancouver (we were mainly staying in Seattle for the duration of the trip) because it seemed to be more my style. He was right. From the moment we arrived, I fell for the city's charm and idealistic lifestyle. Portland has its problems, that's for certain, but everyone here seemed happy and alive. Suddenly, I couldn't see myself anywhere else. The idea of returning hadn't left my mind since.

Saturday night, I took a break from my search to hang out around town with a few guys from the hostel. Money in hand, my temporary roommates Brenden, Ken from Korea and I headed out and explored the bar options, finally settling on a sports bar on the corner of NW21st and Glisan. (I have since walked by this place upmpteen thousand times and I still don't know the name of it). There we ran into Mark from Australia, one of other weekend bunkmates, who was currently in the midst of a conversation with one of the worst girls I had met in my life. The one he was focusing his attention on was nice, but her friend...wow. It got to the point where I could no longer be his wingman, and even as this was a direct violation of the wingman code, he actually gave me credit for sticking around as long as I did. That poor man.

Later that night after we had all returned to the hostel, I decided to read a few chapters out of my book before I went off to bed and proceeded to fall asleep, alone, on the couch in the lower common room. I was awoken about an hour later to find three girls and a guy (all of whom I had never seen before) sitting at the table playing cards. They must've read the apparent confusion on my face and decided to remedy the situation by inviting me to a party. So off we went, piled into their friend's car and off to some apartment in the hills. Although I never saw those girls again, we all ended up having a great time. It was all completely innocent, but just the random jolt that I needed to keep me motivated in my search throughout my last day in town. I got back to the hostel at 4am and fell asleep immediately.

As time was closing in on me and I wasn't yet able to procure an apartment, I began to panic, just slightly. Following a late breakfast with Mark in the attempt to reduce our pounding hangovers, I hit the pavement again with the determination to sign a lease by 4:00pm, no matter what. With blue azure skies above me, nearly the first I had seen since my arrival into town, I took this as a sign of a good omen and once again, started to call all of the numbers on my list. It was Monday morning and most of the rental agencies would be open now, as opposed to their limited hours of operation over the weekend, especially Sunday. Shortly thereafter, on the advice of a random girl on the street, I decided to stop into a rental agency around the corner called Bristol Equities. There, they directed me to an historic and charming building called the Villa Jené, where I would meet Burton, the building manager. As it turns out, they had one unit available and was perfectly within my price range. Unfortunately, because they couldn't get ahold of the tenant, I wasn't allowed into the apartment. Burton however, who was one of the nicest building managers I had met in my search thus far, promised to email me pictures and a floor plan layout of the available unit. It was practically a no-brainer. At 3:30pm, I headed back and handed him a retainer check. The apartment was mine, and I hadn't even seen it yet. My move-in date was set for 5-10-11. I had a little less than a month to prepare.

I spent my last few hours in Portland relaxing and enjoying those stress-free moments by hiking up to the International Rose Garden, grabbing a bite to eat at a local pub and exploring a few hidden corners of the Nob Hill neighborhood that I hadn't seen before. Just after dark, I boarded the train back to the airport, where I would catch the red-eye flight back to Cleveland. While in the air, I crafted my resignation letter that I would deliver to HR upon my return the next morning. Upon touching down in Cleveland at 8am, I jumped on the train into downtown's Tower City Center, walked into my office, changed into my professional attire and made an appointment to meet with Human Resources regarding my resignation. Life was about to start over and a new beginning was about to occur. I was making a drastic life change that some would label as stupid, brave, irrational and courageous. For the first time in nearly three years, I felt alive.

The Weekend Getaway

Sometimes, you have to do something a little nuts and unconventional so that you start to feel alive. This was my personal mantra going into 2011, and it all started with a random, spontaneous cabin retreat.

Around Thanksgiving of 2010, I met a girl. Needless to say, I wasn't looking as I had just been wholloped by a summer romance and hadn't quite come back into consciousness just yet, but these things always seem to happen when you're least expecting them. Go figure.

I liked her right away. She was sweet, smart, pretty and had a sincere kindness about her that seems to be extremely rare these days. We met briefly for the first time at Lakewood Dog Park, where I had to let Kino burn off some energy as he was driving me particularly crazy that day. Always the reliable wingman, Kino found an immediate friend in her Siberian, which naturally opened up the door for what ended up being an extremely memorable conversation. I couldn't tell you how long we talked, but I can say that I couldn't ask to see her again soon enough. And when I finally did, I could see her smile fade a bit, at which point she broke the news to me that she was leaving straight from the dog park and heading home...back to North Carolina where she had recently moved. From Cleveland. About four months prior. Once again, life's little sense of humor decides to wave its flag of irony in front of my face. As she got into her car, we agreed to look each other up on Facebook and try to keep in touch. In all honesty, I never expected to hear from her again. The very next day, a friend request showed up in my inbox.

Online chats led to lengthy phone calls, every one of which had us laughing in tears at each other's rye wit and sarcastic humor. Between the laughs however, she would tell me about her unsatisfactory days of teaching down in Virginia (she lived in northern NC, but taught elementary school just across the VA border) and I would vent to her about my unhappiness with my living/professional/all-around situation in Cleveland. Eventually, each time we would have one of these conversations, they would all end on the same idea, fantasizing about just running away for a weekend to hide from everyday life, if not just for a short time. We were joking around about how crazy of an idea it would be to actually do that together when suddenly, there was a pause...and I think the craziness of that notion didn't actually sound so crazy anymore. We obviously really enjoyed each other and both wanted to see one another again, fairly desperately. We could meet in the middle, namely central West Virginia, a six hour drive for each of us. We could both bring our dogs, go hiking...just take a weekend off from life. It was perfect.

Two months later with Kino by my side, I was driving out of Cleveland and heading south to the edges of Monongahela National Forest during one of the worst snowstorms of the season. As far as my family and friends knew, I was skipping town to concentrate on accomplishing a bit of work on my book in the remoteness of the Appalachian Mountains. I'm sure had I told them the truth, I would've been met with a mixed reaction of "you're out of your flippin' mind." or "chances are, she's a psychopath," or even a slew of approvals, and to be completely honest, I really didn't want to hear it. I was well aware that what she and I were doing was a bit unconventional. I didn't need anyone else to remind me of that and possibly put a hex on something I was really excited about. So, I kept the rendezvous aspects of the trip to myself. They'll get over it.

It wasn't until I emerged into Pennsylvania did the weather let up a bit, but every hour or so I would hit a fairly violent squall along the way, slowing down my pace and nearly blowing me off the road more than once. Six hours later of white knuckle driving and maneuvering my Jeep through the remote reaches of Appalachia, I pulled up to our weekend home. She had found a nice little cluster of private property log-cabin rentals about two hours south of the Maryland panhandle. It was remote, strikingly beautiful for late-February and absolutely perfect for what we had envisioned.

The cabin itself was incredibly cozy. With a stove fireplace accenting the corner, the living room/kitchen area stretched up the entirety of the two floors, with a set of exposed stairs climbing up to a landing leading into the master bedroom above. Underneath the steps was the entrance to the first floor bedroom and the sole bathroom, complete with a large jacuzzi tub and stall shower. As I slowly started to unload my weekend bags into the cabin, I was greeted with the comforting smell of chicken pot pie baking in the oven. We had decided beforehand to each take a meal to cook for one another over the weekend and as my partner in crime had arrived a solid two hours before me, she had plenty of time to grab a head start on the food situation.

If the goal was to emerge from this weekend retreat relaxed, soothed and ready for what was inevitably about to come, goal accomplished. Between the hiking, exploring, cooking, laughing, and ideal level of comfort that we shared with one another, I headed home feeling ready to accomplish the world. Here we were, two near strangers, taking the chance of spending a solid 48 hours with one another in a fairly intimate setting...it could've been a disaster. We could've realized straight off the bat that whatever chemistry we experienced in the dog park a few months prior was simply a product of the moment and nothing more. We could've failed to meet the high expectations we subconsciously placed on one another. We could've, we could've, we could've...had a lot of negatives to rule against us, but not a single one of them occurred. Instead, and I can't speak for her personally, but that weekend ended up being one of the best weekends I've ever shared with anyone. We took a risk and it payed off. And I missed her terribly the moment I left.

Sunday afternoon, we headed our separate ways. I went North, back to Cleveland. She went South, down towards North Carolina. Over the next few months, we would continue our phone calls, but we wouldn't see one another again. As irony decides to rear its ugly head once again, I would commit myself to move to Portland, OR the moment she decides to move back to her old life in Cleveland, OH. ...We would miss each other's departure by mere days.

Some things just aren't meant to be. Or maybe they are and we just need to be patient for them, regardless of the time-consuming obstacles that stand in our way. Regardless, we'll always have that weekend in West Virginia. That, I will never forget.

Kino's Chicago Adventure

I have quite a few friends living in Chicago, one of which being my buddy Brad, one of my best friends from college. About six years ago, he and his then-girlfriend/now-wife Josie moved out of my house in Cleveland to pursue a bigger life in Chicago. Had I not owned a home in Cleveland, I most likely would have followed shortly behind them.

Over the years, we've paid each other quite a few visits, but I can't say I've ever had one with them quite like the weekend of January 21st, 2011. Just a month or two prior, while Brad and Josie were visiting home for either Thanksgiving or Christmas, Brad mentioned to me that he may need some help in the upcoming months with the renovation of their home. Brad's a certified architect and was currently in the process of rebuilding some of the space their new home had to offer. Always eager to help out my architect buddies with their home improvement projects, I told him just to let me know when he needed me and I'd drive out and spend the weekend. I could even bring Kino along to hang out with their dogs Phantom and Tucker. We decided on said weekend at the end of January, arranging it so that I would drive from Cleveland to the outskirts of Toledo where Brad and his brother Tommy would meet me on the turnpike, as Brad had just spent the week helping Tommy handling a few things with his house around Bowling Green. We rendezvoused at the first exit as you cross over the Indiana border, grabbed a quick bite to eat and caravanned west towards Chicago, arriving back at Brad and Josie's house just around 10:00pm.

The next few hours were a mix of pizza, a short house tour, a bit of bourbon and literally hours of Arkham Asylum (which, by the way is completely addicting...days will pass from your life with little notice, and this comes from someone who is by no means a gamer in the least). We had taken a few trips up to second floor to determine what tomorrow's workload would bring us and what goals we planned on accomplishing. Just around 3am, when we decided that it would be best to get a full night's sleep, chaos ensued.

We decided earlier in the evening so separate the dogs' food as Kino and Phantom, being opposite sexes and clearly both alpha dogs, didn't show too much fondness to each other when both had access to the same bowl.

It was a total accident. Brad suggested letting Kino eat before we went to bed, which Kino never really ever does, but for whatever reason I agreed, so his bowl was put out in the dining room. We both thought the kitchen gate, which would keep both Phantom and Tucker out of conflict with Kino, was shut tight. We were tired. It was 3am. There was an oversight, a momentary lapse in reason. Somehow Phantom got out of the gate. She tried to approach Kino's food. He snapped at her to tell her no. She snapped back. A fight begins. I hear a cry. A wail. A canine howl of sheer pain and panic. I reach in. No pain. I pull Phantom back. A louder wail. Brad grabs Kino. His teeth are bared. His eyes are wild. We trade, Kino now in my arms, Brad dragging Phantom into the main room. Both, still thrashing, gnashing teeth. There is blood on my hand. I grab Kino. He goes limp, knowing he's safe in my arms.

At first I didn't see it. I looked at the right side of his face, which was completely unmarked. I look at the left side, and I nearly panic. Where his left eye should be is now raw meat, the excess skin from a gaping gash in his forehead so large it appears as if he's been halfway scalped. My stomach jumps into my throat as I immediately clamp my hand over his eye. I heard him wail. I heard him cry, begging for my help during the attack. I'll never, as long as I live, forget that sound. Pressure is the key. I pray that he hasn't lost his eye. He sits there, stoic and poised...shaking, but embracing the pain. Brad marvels at the lack of blood that seems to be emanating from the wound.

Thanks to my friend Jessi Pizzouli, DVM, we found a 24-hour veterinary clinic just a few miles away. When it was all said and done, he didn't lose his eye, and he only walked away with 16 stitches. He would be pretty sore these next few weeks, but he would get through it. He's been through worse. He's a ninja. A canine ninja. ...That gets his ass kicked by "Jack Russell Terrier" mixes.

The rest of the weekend? It doesn't matter, but i'll provide the outline.

Saturday consisted of Batman, Batman, Destruction, Labor, Batman, Lunch, Batman, Destruction, Hauling wood, Power Vacuuming, Roof Destruction (this was the most exciting part, upon finding that the attic we were tearing apart was insulated with 120 year-old Chicago Tribunes.) Showers. Batman. A Quest for food, which upon nearly finding none, was met with Tommy's frank, but spot-on rationale; "Not serving food past 11? Great. Back at the house we have cold pizza and Batman." ...Tommy makes a good point.

On Sunday, mid-afternoon, I piled Tommy and my crippled, satellite-enhanced dog into the car and started driving east back towards Cleveland After an eventful and hilarity-fulfilled ride, (as I will contest that Tommy is by far one of the funniest people I know), I dropped Tommy off back at his house outside of Bowling Green University and continued on my way back home. My poor dog...swollen, wearing a huge plastic collar on his head to keep from tearing out the stitches...it wasn't more than a few minutes before I nicknamed him Frankenstein. Fortunately, the name didn't stick.

Nine months later, Kino's doing fine and I haven't served him food in the presence of another animal since. And outside of a single, small scar on his left eyelid, he's completely unscarred and okay. There was no sight loss. There was no surgery. And right now, he's sitting, calm as ever, underneath me at a corner cafe while I finish up dinner. It was a quick scare, but it was a scare. I'm just glad he's okay. At the least, I got one of the best family portraits ever taken out of the whole event. ...And you can be damn sure that it's going to be my Christmas Card.

A Swim, A Bike Ride and a Run all Walk Into a Bar...

In 2009, I ran my first 10k. Although I had always kept myself in pretty decent shape, I had never really been a distance runner of any sort, and this was a fairly big deal for me. Before then, running more than two miles was almost unheard of. Fortunately, a close group of friends were heavily into running and long conditioning and convinced me that I could tackle it with no problem, I just needed to build up to it. I accomplished the race in just under an hour and I felt amazing, knowing that I was nowhere near my potential. Encouraged by my friends, we continued to motivate one another to pursue similar events, mostly 5k's, but eventually, the bar was raised.

My friend Leila had put the bug in my head that a Triathlon was close within my reach. Both being competitive swimmers in another life, she and I each had an upper hand in the third of the event that discourages most racers from participating. In the spring of 2010, Leila propositioned to me the consideration of seriously participating in the Chicago Tri, a race she had participated in at least once before, possibly twice if memory serves correctly. With a bit of thought, I accepted the challenge. Training was about to begin.

For the two months before the race, I was putting myself through a fairly rigorous training schedule. Five days a week, I built myself up to either swimming a full mile in the open waters of Lake Erie, biking 15 miles along the Cuyahoga Valley Towpath or running between 3-6 miles between the neighborhoods of Cleveland proper. Three of those days, I did two circuits of training. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, or sometimes even doing both consecutively. I can't say that I kept this disciplined schedule 100% of the time, but I did my best. With the exception of life occasionally getting in the way, this was my life for a full 60 days before the race. I felt myself getting stronger and more resistant to fatigue. I hadn't felt this good in years.

On August 27th, following a short detour to attend my high school best friend's wedding in Youngstown, Leila and I loaded up our bikes and headed west towards Chicago. Six hours later, we checked into The Palmer House Hilton Hotel, dropped off our bags and walked a few blocks down Michigan Ave. to check into registration for the race. Excited, buzzing and anxious, it wasn't until here that I actually became a bit overwhelmed. For the first time, I saw a photo of the immense crowds that were lined up in heats for the starting line along the lake's promenade. It was just...intense. I stared at that photo for a good five minutes thinking to myself, "What the hell did I get myself into?" Surprisingly, being in that line itself is only a fraction as intimidating as the photo turned out to be. Or maybe by that time I had just gotten myself into a much deeper mental zone of preparation.

Following registration and a bit of wandering around the pre-race expo, Leila and I carbed ourselves up by heading a few blocks down Monroe to the Italian Village, a convenient cluster of restaurants that offered endless options for pasta and bread, a pre-race meal requirement that would help us efficiently store our energy for the next day's events. We chose the basement venue La Cantina Enoteca, a restaurant modeled after a Tuscan wine cellar and decorated with large, built-in fish tanks, narrow aisles and tucked-away booths. As we gobbled down enormous plates of linguine, lasagna, garlic bread and gnocchi, there evolved a growing fatigue between us that I had begun to sense almost immediately after registration. It was if our bodies and minds were sensing the culmination of all we had trained for and began to force us into automatic shutdown for the evening. We both recognized the signs and after paying the bill and taking a few minutes to explore the rest of the "village," we headed down the street for a few minutes to take in some fresh air and calm our nerves. This helped immensely, as summer night-life in Chicago thrived around us. Less than an hour later, we were back in our room, preparing our equipment and necessary clothing with our racing numbers to store in the transition zone during the race. Lights out was at 10:00 sharp. Exhausted, I had absolutely no trouble drifting off into sleep.

By 5:15am, Leila and I were on our way out the door, joining the army of silent bikers making their way down Michigan and Monroe Avenues to prepare their spot in the transition zone. My heat was supposed to be in the water at 6:38 for a 6:39am start. With about an hour to spare, , we sat on the hill after we had made our necessary morning preparations and watched as the Chicago Triathlon kicked off, the eastern dawn breaching the surface of Lake Michigan on the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of people were lined up on the promenade, recognizable by heat by the color of their swim cap. Knowing that in a few short minutes I would be among their ranks was surprisingly calming to me at that point in time. I wasn't nervous anymore, just anxious to begin. I felt completely and utterly ready...and the next thing I knew, we were in line, inching our way up to the drop point. Leila's start time was about five heats after mine and as I approached the scaffolding, we wished each other good luck and she disappeared behind me, swallowed completely by the crowd.

Swim: .75k. I remember it like this: I was treading water, shoulder to shoulder with about 100 other men my age for about 30 seconds before the gun went off. Planking my body, I erupted into a strong front crawl, only to get immediately kicked in the face by the swimmer in front of me. Numbed by adrenaline, I eased to my right and found myself passing around him. I had a half mile to go and with every stroke, the density of the crowd dissipated. Soon I found myself able to freely swim at full stride without a single hindrance of the swimmers around me. The water was crystal clear and I remember thinking it odd that I could almost reach down and grab the columns of seaweed that was rising from the rocky bottom of the marina below me. If I grew tired, I would switch to breaststroke, but for no more than 10 strokes before switching back to crawl again. I never broke my pace and I kept my eye on the finish line the entire time, even passing those in the heat ahead of me and pushing myself harder than I ever had in the water before. Next thing I know, I'm rounding the buoy and climbing the scaffolding into the Chicago Yacht Club. I had a quarter mile run to the transition zone to prepare for the biking event. My legs felt like gelatin. I never ran full sprint directly after a distance swim before...I wish I had.

Bike: 22k. My helmet was on and after a quick four minutes in the transition zone, I was mounted on my bike and headed north up upper Lake Shore Drive. Well, actually...it wasn't my bike. Just days before, someone had broken into my garage and stolen a number of things, including the bike I was preparing to use in the Triathlon. Panicked, I put out a call on Facebook to ask if any of my friends in Chicago or Cleveland would be kind enough to loan me their bike for the weekend. More than enough answered, but it was my friend Jeff that really came through. He lent me his finely tuned and hardly used road bike, which I only had a day to train on as I was used to riding a hybrid at this point. Almost immediately, I could feel the difference. Within a few minutes, I was riding along the Parkway, the fresh morning sun only inches above the horizon line of Lake Michigan, with complete confidence and efficiently shifting my gears to match the slight inclines ahead of me. Six and a half miles in, I hit the turnaround and pedaled back south towards downtown Chicago. Less than a mile after that, I saw Leila, still northbound, pass me on my left. I dug into my toe grips and picked up speed. In what seemed like a fraction of the time that I took me to complete the first half of the bike route, I followed the signs down the ramp and found myself pulling back into the transition zone to prepare myself for the final leg of the race; a 5k run.

Run: 5k. It wasn't 100 feet into the run where I silently uttered my first "uh-oh." My body was fatigued beyond anything I had ever experienced before. The lactic acid in my legs felt like I was dragging 50lb dumbbells behind me. Every step was a complete struggle and every breath was a sharp, blinding pain in my side. I tramped, sluggishly down the hill and across Grant Park where just 90 minutes before, Leila and I were sitting, watching the beginning of the race kick off. Suddenly, as my feet found pavement and I hit the concrete walkway that led past Buckingham Fountain and around the John G. Shedd Aquarium, I amazingly rediscovered my stride. The pain and sluggishness disappeared. I was able to quicken my pace. My breathing returned to its normal rhythm. I hit a quick turnaround and headed down the hill and towards the finish line, which was growing louder with each and every step I pushed myself. Soon, just as I hit the three mile mark, I could see the finish. I was almost there, and whatever I had left inside me, I used. I broke into a full out sprint and crossed the finish line strong, hearing them announce my name as my pace slowed into a tepid walk...the first moment of negative momentum that I had allowed myself in nearly one hour and forty five minutes.

About four minutes later, I watched Leila cross the finish line as well. After a much deserved and sweaty congratulations, we both collapsed on the shady grass behind the food court, willing our bodies to recover just enough so that we could find the strength to eat a full meal provided to us by the race committee.

The rest of the morning, we spent exploring the extra curricular activities that the event had to offer. We marveled at the the competitors of the International Race (which was over twice the length that we competed in). We listened to a few bands get up and perform for the energized crowds. We ate, took pictures and finally, as noon was steadily approaching, gathered together our things and marched our way back towards the hotel for long showers and a change of clothes. As we left Chicago and made our way back to Cleveland, the events of that morning seemed to suddenly slip towards the back of my mind, coming to me in what seemed like a dream. It was almost surreal to me, as I pulled into my driveway a mere eight hours later, to think that only that morning, I was competing in the Chicago Triathlon with some of the best tri-athletes in the world. As I look back at that day, I can say that with sincerity that the bug has been contracted. There will be many more to come. Due to the encouragement of a good friend, my Triathlon experience has only just begun.