Chicago

Great Urban Racers (June 8, 2014)

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For the past decade, I’ve tried to entice certain members of the friend and family circle to audition for The Amazing Race with me. Repeated pleas were issued to those with whom I’d work best, with lesser (but still important) consideration given to teammates with the potential to give good TV. Initial enthusiasm runs high….but then a would-be partner encounters the actual application, a behemoth of a document that calls for more evidence and stamina than the state Bar exam, with a lower pass rate. At that point, the initial “Hell yeah! Let’s do this!” turns into a “Well, maybe later.”

In 2011, unable to tamp down competitive scavenger hunt urges any longer, Gary and I registered for the Chicago heat of the Great Urban Race. The event’s website describes the race as, “a fun and challenging puzzle where your city holds the pieces. Teams solve clues, tackle challenges and race for cash prizes in this all-out test of smarts and speed…hundreds of Masterminds take to the streets to complete a variety of exciting mental and physical challenges at unique stops throughout the city. Your team is free to choose your own route as you hustle from clue to clue on foot or by using public transportation.”

Yep, that’s about it. GUR has three major mental and physical components: a initial set of 12 clues and puzzles used to determine race destinations, quick instincts and research leveraged to create a course map, then speed and skills to execute, hopefully fast enough to finish in the Top 25. Teams in that elite bracket are invited to compete against the other top racers from that year’s host cities in a contest for the national championship. In 2014 qualifying heats occurred in: Los Angeles, San Diego, Austin, San Francisco, Tampa, Jacksonville, Houston, Washington DC, Atlanta, Portland, Philadelphia, Boston, New York City, Chicago and Toronto.

In 2011, at 32 years of age, Gary and I ran our first race and enjoyed some beginner’s luck. We finished 41st – respectable enough to whet our appetites for more. We saw that with improved running speed (from me) and a few other tinkers, we had the goods. 2012 would be our qualifying year! …Only it wasn’t – not by a long shot. A more challenging course, more teams and some key errors on our part resulted in a completion time nearly 45 minutes behind the previous one.

In 2013, an unnaturally chilly July day in Chicago, we fared much better, only to be undone near the end by The Clark Bus That Never Came. Team Monsters Are Real was getting older, wiser, and settling into its niche of near-miss tragedy.

Saturday, May 31, 2014 was about as perfect as one could ask: warm sunshine without humidity, not a cloud in the sky. One half of Monsters Are Real awoke that morning full of optimism. Not six weeks before, the deteriorating and painful state of my hands made the consideration of withdrawal a serious one. Gary deserved a real shot at achieving our mutual dream of qualifying for the finals, and I no longer believed I was the partner to help him get there. But that was all before the miracle of beet juice. I’d slept well and hydrated the night before and arrived at the GUR starting point, Lizzie McNeil’s, with a sense of performance promise. I shared as much with Gary, not that I had to. Over the course of 22 years of friendship, we’ve developed a seamless ability to read each other and collaborate without explication.

We ran a great race. There was more walking in certain parts (from me) than I would have liked and I’ll never love Kraft Singles again the way I did before. But once we completed our first task nearly 45 minutes into the competition, we checked them off fast and furiously until we crossed the finish line.

It was clear we’d done well. There were very few teams checked in, enjoying their free-for-racing bottles of Miller Lite. However, while Team Monsters Are Real is in possession of a collectively healthy ego, it stops short of delusion. At best we hoped to match our finish from 2011. Hundreds of groups of competitors kept expectations low. We didn’t even stick around for the award ceremony.

In hindsight, I don’t know what would have been more delicious: hearing live and sweaty that we’d finally done it, we’d cracked the Top 25, or the Jesse Pinkman “Yeah bitch!” moment I experienced in an office conference room the following Monday morning – in front of my new boss and a senior graphic designer. When Gary sent the text message that we’d reached our goal, the euphoria overtook any semblance of professional decorum.

This afternoon, we booked our trip to Vancouver. We fly from Chicago on August 8, the day of my 36th birthday. The GUR national championship kicks off the following morning at 9:00 am in the downtown area of the city nicknamed, “Vansterdam.” This has all the makings of a most triumphant birthday weekend, no matter where Monsters Are Real ultimately finishes. In the ensuing weeks, I’ll be working on my speed sprints while Gary and I research Vancouver’s public transit, major landmarks and streets.

Six weeks ago I couldn’t dance vigorously without cracking, bleeding, burning hands. Today I am planning a training schedule for a competitive Canadian adventure with one of the people I love most. I’ve already won.

On the Road Again (May 25, 2014)

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On election day 2012, I ran a yellow light in the rain at a six corner Chicago intersection where three busy streets converge. I got the business end of a giant SUV for the recklessness, not to mention the complete inability to enjoy Karl Rove’s Fox News meltdown. I had bounced off the pavement and broken my tailbone and sacrum. The tailbone was in a particularly bad way.

I spent the next three solid months on Tramadol, a strong painkiller, just to get through the necessities of life. During business hours I whimpered through and tried to stand as often as possible. I did a lot of wall leaning in meetings. It made me look authoritative. The drugs were blissfully effective – too much so for the office.

For nine months I sat on this soft black doughnut cushion that doubled as an excellent commuter train pillow. When I accidentally left her in Salt Lake City, I decided it was time to try sitting naturally again. However, it was only the beginning of this calendar year that I could resume Pilates or sit on a CTA train without leaning to the side. And I wasn’t the only injured party.

Poor L’il Red. Not only had she suffered a popped tire, bent wheel, busted brake hinge and misaligned handle bars, but she’d also been the victim of my neglect. I daresay scorn. As I have told several friends, my attitude toward Red after the smash up was similar to that of Daniel LaRusso after Johnny and the other Cobra Kai douchebags ran him off the road with their motorcycles. In the immediate aftermath of scraping myself off the pavement, I was ready to toss my girl into the dumpster. For 18 months, she sat behind the couch collecting dust.

But as you may have heard, Chicago is emerging from a painful and cruel winter even measured against its own diabolical standards. And my keister is feeling better. I also have eczema tamed well enough (thank you raw, organic beet juice!) to contemplate holding the handlebars again. So it was time to take Baby out of the corner, put the blame for the incident where it really belongs (on me) and get her the required medical attention.

Two weeks and $110 later, I walked a little over a mile in anticipation of a reunion with a clean, rehabbed Red. I had not ridden a bike for awhile. Last Fall I took a spin class with my little sister during a weekend in Wisconsin and I mostly did the whole thing standing. And I admit to being a little afraid to get back on the road again. I had already resolved that henceforth I’d confine cycling as much as possible to the safer lakefront area, rather than the city streets. I’ve had one incident too many, the last only being the most extreme in a fairly regular series. But to get L’il Red back home from the shop, the roads were the only option.

I started by strolling her to the corner of the nearest intersection and waiting for the pedestrian walk signal. I like to think I am capable of learning. As I took those first tentative few pedal strokes, a rhythm was sought. Cycling leverages different muscle groups than running, my habitual form of cardio. I know I have to ease in slowly. I stuck to side streets and began to relax. It was a beautiful day, the sort of spring perfection we’ve been denied until recently. I think we can finally put our winter coats away?

I also eased back into something else I’d forgotten I’d missed – traveling by life happening at medium speed. In the span of a short 10-block ride I saw: a woman briskly pushing a cat in a baby carriage, a middle aged man absolutely blasting the Scorpions “Winds of Change” out of the windows of his worn Toyota Corolla, beautifully dressed people streaming from a community church. Sunday in the city. I missed viewing the world from the bike seat.

The second act of my relationship with L’il Red reflects a revised 2014 approach to life in general. A little more cautious, a little more in the moment, but also a little less frenzied. What’s the hurry?

Whack-a-Molar (May 9, 2014)

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During the summer of 1984, at six years old, I experienced a second life-changing event that would forever alter the course of my personal history. The first such moment arrived in August 1980 with the birth of my younger sister Jennifer, a gift that felt very much mine, then as now. I took immediate responsibility for the baby, though I was barely two years old, pushing her stroller and introducing her to folks as “MY sister Jennifer.” Without conscious awareness, I established a dynamic that persisted more or less until Jenny met and married her wonderful husband: “When (other kids/our parents/the world) hurt and fail you, you’ve got me. I’ll do anything I can to make it better.”

This second transformative event was of a more tragic variety. The summer morning started simply enough: Jenny and I bumming around our grandparents apartment in the Ravenswood neighborhood of Chicago, watching Sesame Street. Grover and some of the other puppets appeared in a segment called “Let’s All Exercise,” a worthy piece of child propaganda responding to the early 1980s home fitness craze and its ambassadors such as Richard Simmons and Jane Fonda. As you can tell from the hyperlink, I found an upload of this bit on YouTube. I watched just enough of it to ascertain that it was the segment I sought, but I couldn’t bear to sit through the whole thing.

For it was during this bit that Jenny and I began to jump around the living room boisterously, as kids of six and four need little encouragement to do. Before the end of the two minute, 20 second clip, there was an accident that left me face first in the living room radiator. Quite immediately, I lost several teeth. There was a lot of blood. There was crying. But mostly, there was pain and shock.

At the time of the incident, I had but one adult tooth and it was spared. However, several baby teeth were gone and the impact of the fall dislodged many others in the ensuing months. Most of the adult teeth that were to replace them were a long time coming, and when they arrived, they often did so unanchored by neighbors. The result was a irregular mess that followed me throughout grade school, high school, college and most of my 20s.

I’ve not-so-subtly written about the neglectful parentage experienced by Jenny and I, and so it was at the age of 25, I found myself with four impacted, rotting wisdom teeth, a wildly disjointed set of chompers and a huge dearth of self-esteem. By that point, my teeth had been a subject of peer torture and private shame for nearly two decades. I ran from cameras. I covered my mouth when I laughed. I avoided any situation, even ones in which I very much wanted to participate, where I would be judged by my appearance. I knew how I looked.

Now an adult with my own job, and more importantly, my own dental and orthodontic insurance, the wisdom teeth, a general health ticking time bomb, were removed. For the next two years, I had cavities filled, deep cleanings and started paying more attention to my oral health in general. Finally at the age of 29, I broke down in tears as another transformative event occurred: braces. I was de-bonded in January on 2010 at the age of 31, literally a new woman. One who could stand to look in the mirror for the first time in 25 years.

Throughout the long-running oral health misery that consumed my youth, I had but one variable of pride: those adult teeth may have grown in askew, but they were all mine. I’d never had one pulled (many who receive orthodontic care lose a tooth or two to make space for the others), a root canal, a bridge, crown – you get the idea. Before the braces were put on, my long-time dentist was fond of saying, “Honey, you have beautiful teeth. They’re just so crowded.”

It took a couple years to break old habits. Reflexively a hand would fly to my mouth when I laughed or smiled, though it was no longer necessary. I had to retrain my brain to comprehend that it was quite alright to show my pearly whites at picture time. It was a new world and I was loving it. I was me again, a grown version of the self-confident little girl I’d left planted in a radiator.

Early last week on a quiet Tuesday night, I was sitting upright in my bed, watching TV and snacking on some frozen almonds. I bit into one awkwardly and heard a sickening crack that, although painless, could not have been the crunching of the nut. I spit into my hand and alongside the shards of almond that emerged lay a big old piece of tooth, rear molar to be more precise.

I made an immediate call to my dentist and am in possession of solid insurance coverage. While certainly foolish and annoying (Whose idea was it to freeze those almonds anyway?), anyone else might have been cool. As I said, there was no physical pain. Instead however, a palpable physical dread set in. There were tears and the first words that came to mind, “Here we go again.”

The splintered molar of 2014 had very little in common with the dental debacle of 30 years prior. I’m an adult now, capable of arranging care and figuring out how to pay for it. $350 and two hours later, I’m wearing a temporary crown. The permanent porcelain one will be placed next week. Not a huge deal in the grand scheme. Yet there I was in Dr. Shahin’s chair, reading the loss of that tooth as both a personal failing and a harbinger of things to come. I’m only going to get older. More teeth may be replaced. The brief four-year run with perfectly straight, original adult ivories was over. I was angry and sad to an unexpected degree.

Then I realized that it was not 35 year-old Becky for whom I mourned. The delayed grief was for that helpless six year-old who experienced a quarter century’s worth of humiliation and torture because of one arbitrary, avoidable event. With a mouth half-dead from the effects of Novocaine, I said aloud, “A cracked almond is not a radiator.” I repeated it again, and again and again.

Polar Vortextual Mood Swings (January 31, 2014)

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“Yesterday, I stood outside waiting for the Chicago Avenue bus. I saw one approaching and my heart leapt. Then the bastard drove right by us, resulting in another 30 minutes of trying to withstand the wind. I just started crying. I am so sick of being cold.”

-Conversational anecdote from personal trainer friend

“Oh my God. More snow. I want to die. Can’t take anymore. Stabby stab.”

-Text message from a buddy who thought this might make for a catchy, if lengthy, Twitter hashtag

“Sometimes I just sit at my post at the reception desk and wistfully stare out the window, trying to summon memories of less dark and miserable days. Lately I am just pretending to be a nice person. So much hate in my heart.”

-Forlorn colleague

“Hey Mother Nature and God… this is a memo to you. WE ARE GOING TO GET ON THAT PLANE TOMORROW MORNING to get to New Orleans for our cruise. I don’t care WHAT you say. We deserve a vacation after the crap you’ve thrown our way these last few weeks. 8″ of snow on Friday night before our trip starts? REALLY? NO. I’m telling you RIGHT NOW. WE WILL GET ON THAT PLANE TOMORROW MORNING. #PolarVortexCanSuckIt”

-Agitated Facebook rant courtesy of my best friend’s partner

“Dear Alaska and Chicago, Illinois:

We need to immediately work out a weather exchange here. Anchorage, Alaska, Colorado wants its weather back. I am going to arrange for Chicago to send you yours. And I’m going to send this s**t to Chicago. Chicago should be fine with that, since the 22° we had today is much warmer than what they had.

Every time I have to break out my ‘Chicago clothes’ a baby kitten cries. True Story.”

-Native Chicagoan who relocated to Colorado several years ago

“Winter 2014 sucks more than anything that has ever sucked before.”

-A poetic Becky Sarwate, channeling “Beavis & Butthead”

These are quotes sampled from a smattering of hardened Midwestern weather survivors. It felt appropriate to publish this roundup on this, the last day of January 2014. A punishing 31 days indeed, the month will forever be remembered as usurper of April as the cruelest. If T.S. Eliot was still alive and forced to wear two pairs of pants every day just to survive the commute to work, I am certain he’d agree.

In aggregating the misery of my acquaintance, I accomplish two goals. The first is to feel slightly less isolated throughout my own increasingly despondent winter experience. The second is to answer critics who have diagnosed Windy City residents with an acute case of Cry Babyitis. We should be used to this, the thinking goes. What more do we expect from January adjacent to one of the Great Lakes?

Perhaps just a small, teeny tiny respite from the cycle of white out blizzard conditions followed by Arctic deep freeze. In years past, winter could be counted upon to furnish the occasional 30 or 40-degree day which made daily life navigable, even if the sun remained stubbornly hidden. This is expected and infinitely preferable to the trick of blazing sunshine that requires industrial strength shades, a cruel irony contradicting the soul deadening chore of trudging through multiple feet of snow-turned-block ice.

But I believe the current variable that is really dragging down morale is the calendar. Tomorrow is just February 1. We have so much farther to go before there’s any real hope of hospitable climate change. Let us not forget that we received nearly an inch of snowfall in mid-April 2013. With a number of meteorologists predicting “Polar Vortex: Part 3” during the early days of February, it’s not a stretch to wonder if a hat trick of tragic weather (predictably on the heels of what’s expected to be another 10” of accumulated snow through the weekend) might not just be enough to turn us all into Jack Nicholson from The Shining.

A Season of Creative Destruction (December 26, 2013)

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Over the year-end holidays, as a society, we tend to take a break from things. The endless rat race of work, household chores, dinner, sleep and repeat is interspersed with welcome down time to focus on the important things. Broadcast television programs go on hiatus in deference to the absent viewer, away from the idiot box living life. Children are granted a reprieve from the structured format of the school day, and many of us quite willfully bedeck our living spaces with items we’d never consider aesthetically desirable the rest of the year – like fake trees.

But for yours truly, there’s one habit that never falls out of favor, no matter what date is displayed on the calendar. And that is clumsiness, or to capture it more broadly and accurately, I am drawn like a magnet to the snafu, even if I’m not the explicit instigator. So as I review the lovely holiday gifts I received from friends, family and co-workers, I must also take stock of items and intangibles I’ll strive to replenish in 2014, all the victims of unforeseen calamity.

The Top Layer of Skin on My Hands

A combination of lackadaisical maintenance and epically shitty winter weather, even by Chicago’s infamous standards, has conspired to completely zombify the palms of both hands. Of course the only way to minimize the suffering of pompholyx eczema is dedication and consistency. Generally I do both of these things well, but since I no longer have anyone’s hand to hold or a body to snuggle at night, I let things slide. However I wish not to remain a tactile pariah in 2014. So I’m backing to working on management in earnest.

Widmer Brothers Tulip Glass

In April of 2011, I visited a friend of mine who was, at the time, living in Portland, Oregon. Big fan of the weird, liberal vibe of that town (and its art deco, vintage signage) and one of the activities planned that weekend by my pal – a tour of the Widmer Brewery. Most people acquainted with me understand I am normally Team Wine, but when beer is a) local and b) free, who am I to stay “no, thanks?” My buddy was kind enough to let me take both souvenir Tulip Glasses back to Chicago with me. They survived a ride in my suitcase, various types of beverages and a near-miss or two from the antics of my furry babies.

One of the set however was no match for my anger at last Sunday’s utterly deplorable play from the Chicago Bears in a 54-11 road loss against the Philadelphia Eagles. The long-gestating rage I have borne against limp quarterback Jay Cutler came to a head (again), resulting in an ill-timed arm flailing which sent the glass sailing from my nightstand, crashing against a wall. Were I the crafty sort (I am not), I might have considered a sentimental repair job. However the 5,001 pieces that littered the hardwood floor of my bedroom hinted that I should just grab a broom and dustpan and get on with it.

New Pair of Jeans

Early yesterday afternoon as I rolled up my cousin’s suburban Lincolnwood driveway, I thought briefly to myself: this is the year. 2013 will be the first when nothing unusually ghetto occurs at the extended family Christmas celebration. Certain problem people chose to abstain from the gathering. No one’s marriage was in trouble of which I was aware, and the litter of cousins in my generation has accrued careers, stable homes and in some cases, highly advanced degrees. There was every reason for optimism.

I underestimated the sudden, extreme microbursts of acrimony that often accompany sibling rivalry, however, and my relatively new, dark grey skinny jeans paid the price. My sister Jenny, a champion baker, contributed to the holiday table, among other goodies, some delicious vanilla cupcakes topped with fresh strawberry buttercream icing. They were as lovely to behold as they were tasty to consume. It turns out the cupcakes will also do as assault weapons in a pinch.

On a return to my chosen seat after victoriously scoring a bottle of red wine and a movie ticket in the annual white elephant gift exchange, I was caught in the wrong place at the wrong time between two first cousins waging sudden battle in an angry frosting fight. I heard the sickening tear of stressed denim on the left knee as I turned away. I was not quick enough. The elder of the dueling cousins stepped on my boot, causing my leg to lock. The battle yielded various admonitions, the loudest emanating from my 62 year-old Uncle, father to the warring cousins. As it happens, it was time for me to leave in order to return the rental car. Indeed.

Fresh Perspective

Early December witnessed the sudden (although perhaps not completely unpredictable) implosion of a long-term romantic relationship. The circumstances and details surrounding the breakup are murky, painful and in the end, largely inexplicable. I will never have the explanations and answers I desire.

Unfortunately, I succumbed to the logical fallacy into which I have habitually fallen in times of personal crisis: the inability to resolve serious conflict, the rejection from another wrestling with demons I will never fully understand means….there is something utterly, terribly wrong with ME. I put everything I had and more into this. I am unlovable. I am hopeless.

I am farther along in my learning in this regard, difficult as that may be to see, than I once was. I struggle to understand in a real way that I cannot control everything. Other people and their baggage are not my fault. There’s nothing I could have done “right” enough to make someone change if they are comfortable as they are. And most importantly: to be solo and experience pockets of loneliness is infinitely preferable to constant anxiety, dysfunction and drama. When I was a child growing up in a chaotic home, all I wished for was independence and a clean, quiet place to enjoy it. And now I have it. I won’t give that away on the cheap in 2014 – or ever again.