Hockey Part 3

Hockey is, in many places in this world, a religion every bit as revered as Islam, Catholicism or Football (Texas style).

And when you see it played, you can understand why. Is there any truer thing of beauty than a bone jarring open ice hit? The kind that can be heard all the way up in the nosebleeds? The "whoomp" of collapsing lungs and body armor clashing?

One player accelerates on his skates, pumping heavily muscled quads driving the steam engine-like mass, pistoning, homing in on the target, crouched low, like a 240 pound battering ram. And, right before contact, the juggernaut springs up and forward, hands clenched together on hockey shaft, shoulders down but moving up towards the target's midsection. Contact. Superior momentum and low center of gravity assure complete and total annihilation.

On a good hit, helmet, stick, gloves will all go flying willy nilly across the ice, skittering in all directions like shrapnel from a bomb blast. And there will be a brief pause as every eyeball in the place takes in the hit, the crumpled mass of the victim - a collective - "ooh" as much a silent cry of anguish as an actual aural sensation.

And then the crowd will cheer, or boo, or makes one noise in appreciation of this thing of beauty, this primeval clash of titans, the winner skating on, the loser crushed, immobile, defeated. This outpouring is more than mere crowd reaction; this is an "amen" from the flock, signifying "we are cleansed" by this raw display of unmitigated agression. This moment of real.

Hockey Part 2

There was a time when Hockey was played without helmets.

Think about that for a moment. Not only are we talking about a full contact sport, hurdling across the hard ice at breakneck (intersting word, breakneck) with fighting and bone jarring hits...but the puck itself is made from vulcanized rubber, hard as steel, and prone to taking flight at the least flick of the wrist.

So you can imagine the days of old school hockey - talk about men. When I moved to New Jersey in 1986, my friend down the block had season tickets. So we'd go to games all the time (I will always maintain that I have had a blessed life). And back then, the NHL had only recently instituted a mandatory helmet rule - for new players. All the old and current players went without. And man, we are talking about 2- 3 bench clearing brawls a game. Especially brutal when the Philadelphia Flyers were in town (lookout - it's Marty McTavish!) or the Washington Captitals. Either team provided ample fisticuffs, bad attitudes and brutal mid-ice body checks. Ah, the good times I had at Brendan Byrne Arena.

But, even further back, hockey goalies didn't wear helmets or face masks. In the days of legendary Hobie Baker (a fellow St. Paul's alumnus) goalies faced slapshots with a padded sweater and a steely eyed stare. No protective fiberglass helmet, no metal grill, no mouth guard. One supersonic black puck of death, covering hundreds of feet in a fraction of a second. And no protection but the quick reflexes and utter certainty of bad-ass-ness.

Hockey...A great game

Growing up as a kid in Northern New Jersey, my parent's refused to join the local country club because the had restrictive policies about who could join; i.e. no blacks, Jews or other undesirables. Which, to this day, is something I applauded. Evil, after all, is often times petty, banal and mundane. And we all have to do our part to do the right thing.

But, not belonging to the country club meant, ultimately, that I was unable to learn how to ice skate, so no ice hockey for me. Which is something that makes me a little sad.

In high school, then in college, I became a dedicated club hockey regular. Any opportunity to strap on my fifth generation hockey pants, mis-matched stockings held up by a rusty garter belt, yellowed jersey and sea-brine stinky shoulder pads, topped with a green Jofa helmet was a chance I could not miss. Even now, I can smell the musty odor of sweat stain hockey gear, mouldering away in an overstuffed black duffle bag. Powerful stuff.

It's a strange sensation; underneath the body armor, you're half naked, and skating across an expanse of frozen ice. And yet, you are working so hard to pick up speed, careen after the puck, push it from side to side, make passes, hockey stop, and then do it all over again, that sweat pours off of you, steam literally coalescing in the air around your head. Never before had I had so much fun working so damn hard.

And the thing about a game of hockey is that it barely ever stops. You change lines on the fly. Should you be so lucky as to lay a bone crushing hit on an opponent, ideally against the boards (his lunges compressing "Whoosh!", the glass clattering with the intesity, the satisfaction of skating off as he crumples in pain, going down) the game doesn' stop unless you really hurt them. Like one way ticket to the hospital turn on the flashing lights and siren hurt. Otherwise, it's on with the game.

They say Puckheads are hard. Well, it's true. Those dudes have a massive tolerance for pain. It's not like being a soccer player, where you play to the referee, over emphasize the least phyiscal transgression. No. In Hockey, nobody cares. Nobody wants to know how much that hurt. It's all about taking it. It's like the Marine Corp. There's a healthy dose of masochism involved. Which I can respect.

Transportation, cont'd

Alright.

So there your are. It's six'o'clock by your in-dash clock. Being German, it is totally correct.

And you are stuck in the feeder traffic on 10th Ave, in the rain. With thousands of other motorists, trying to get into the Lincoln Tunnel. It's been grey all day, and now it's getting dark. And your flight leaves from Teterboro. In one hour.

You pump your clutch for thirty minutes, never getting into 2nd gear. But throughout all of this, as you sit in your volkswagon GTI, you don't lose your shit. The seats are confortable. You, having had the presence of mind to keep good music in the car, listen to an excellent mix on the very capable monsoon stereo. You tell your girl "It's all going to be fine."

A small, sleek center of well designed calm amidst a sea of frustrated humanity.

And then it's New Jersey - heavy traffic, local roads, crappy rain and slick pavement. It's Friday night in the meadowlands.

But we make great time, chaning lanes passing, navigating to somewhat reputable handwritten directions, one eye on the clock, the sense of urgency made worse by a dire need to urinate.

The GTI was a champion. Sailed over the railroad tracks, left onto industrial ave and there we were. 7:10 p.m. Made the flight - in the air by 7:22 p,m.

Booyah.

Morning Commute

Terrorists threaten the subways of New York. That sucks.

But, selfishly, it won't ruin my day. Because most days, barring heavy rain or snowstorm, I get on my bike and ride. And save those four dollars there and back.

Every morning, I hate getting out of bed. I pound down two cups of coffee just to get my eyes open, throw myself in the shower, and get dressed. Probably much like every other New Yorker. Just out of bed, and already thinking out the details of the day, making lists, remembering all those details: Phone calls, emails, packages to send out, reservations to make, yadda yadda. The banalities that make up life.

But then, I kiss my girl goodbye, and I'm out the door. And things start to look up. Because I head down to the basement, and unlock my bike. Carry it one flight up to the lobby and out the front door. And now, I am ready.

I look at the sky, check the wind, look for oncoming traffic, and I'm off. Morning excercise doubling handily as my commute. With the flow of traffic West on Delancey - across Grand, left on Lafayette, right on Howard, and hop the curb at Broadway, dismount. Seven minutes, tops.

And when the elevator doors open, I roll to my desk, awake and ready.

While my coworkers grunt monosyllabically at each other "How are you?" "Grunt." "Good Morning!" "Grunt." My brain is ready for the fresh perspectives of the day. My best thouhgts, shaken lose by my quick transit and raised heart rate, tumble out of my now limber mind. If I have writing to do, or some serious reading and analysis, there is no better time than that first hour of the morning when I am quick, and they are slow.

Chapter 1

When the world runs dry, when the last drop of black gold/dinosaur juice is wrenched from the earth, the machines will grind to a halt. All of the easy motoring days, drive through burger joint strip malls and far flung suburban enclaves will be useless. Irrelevant. The discman will stop spinning, and you will not be able to hop in your car, burn a cretaceous hindquarter there and back, and buy new disposable double aa batteries.

No. Disposable will end.

And who will come pedalling out of this dark future?

Kid Feral, astride his tatinium framed custom cruiser, knobby tires for caressing the harsh concrete and countless, gnarly off-roads. For, in truth, this is a world of off-road.

No more smooth pavement, endless blacktop over which to roll, smoothly and silently.

Welcome to the New World Order.

Slick track is reserved for the Velo Drome Matches. The ultimate test of the fastest and the mightest of the Nuevo Plains Riders. In a world where everyone rides bicycles, these are the champions. The best. The ones to worship. A caste of lawgivers and messengers in the new dark age. An age of enclaves, small communities, isolated by long distances. People who live as a village, with little outside communication.

Into which step the mighty warriors.

You can imagine the excitement. As a young child, you are very much aware of your world. And there you are, sitting. Watching. Waiting. The crows eye your crop. Perhaps, watching sheep grazing. Slowly. And then -

there, on the horizon - a small speck against the post ozone horizon. Brutal.

A rider.

Bike Crazy

Write, he said.

About a form of transportation that inspires us, moves and shakes us to the very core of our being. This would be for my Adhouse class, and he would my instructor, Nat Whitten, a very cool dude and inspiring teacher in the ways of creative thinking thus far.

So he says "Pick the mode of transport that inpires you, or you love, and write about for thirty minutes each day."

Right, I said. Easy. A no brainer.

I like cars. Actually, I obsess about them. I've always loved driving - someday, I will have a muscle a car of my own. And 1973 Datsun 240Z. And, in the realm of the here and now, I love my Volkswagon GTI with unbounded love. It's sleek leather interior, the sunroof that opens all the way, and just pops for circulation, the five speed manual transmission, it's speedy 180 horsepower, the way it takes off like a shot from the toll, it's fat racing tires. The way it looks just sitting by the curb, expectantly.

But I love - beyond reason - bicycles. Mountain bikes, racing bikes, freestyle bikes, cyclocross bikes. At one point or another, I have had at least one of each of them (except the for a cyclocross bike, but just you wait) - usually several at a time. I slow down and check out bikes locked to meters. I salivate when I bike (or occasionally - oh the shame! walk) past Velo Bikes on 2nd avenue, with their sublime Bianchi's and solid Kona's. Scoff at the losers with their downhill jobs that cruise central park - yeah, you really need over ten inches of travel to negotiate the horse path. Wankers. And most of all, I look for those great early 90's hand built steel frames from Gary Fisher and Specialized, the one's that are immaculately maintained and totally personalized by bike dorks like myself. Guys who love to be in the saddle more than (almost) anything in the world. And unlike sex, there's no limit. You can just keep going and going. And you don't need anybody else's permission. Nobody else's feelings matter. It's just you and the bike and the wind and the pavement. You are as close to free as you can get in this world.

No matter how shitty a day it has been, it all starts looking a lot better as soon as I get on to my Trek. (I used to ride my beast of mountain bike, but lately I've switched over to this Frankenstein, free wheeling single geared Trek I bought for 150 bucks from some guy in Cliffside Park, NJ. Gotta love Craigslist).

So the trek is light. So light, maybe 17 pounds, if that. And as soon as I put one foot on the pedal and swing up into the saddle, I'm gone. My mind buoys up and away, and I can't help but smile as the pavement falls away beneath me, pedestrians glancing with jealously as I leave their mortal trudging behind. Working to an even pace, the bike is cruising now, my hands gently resting on the front grips, my hips shifting easily from side to side. On the avenues and wide streets, I am even with the flow of traffic. As things get snarled, or a redlight looms, I slip from side to side, looking for an opening - if I run a light, I slow and cross to the far side of the street, allowing me to see as much of the oncoming traffic as possible, judging speed, distance, stopping times, light changes. Pedestrians are a good measure - watch them jaywalk, follow their line of sight if you can't yet see down the side street. Saves time and energy - no need to waste precious inertia. Life is. I am. Alive.

Sure, you can go faster in a car, or ripping it up on a motorcycle. And a cab will get you there without the sweat. But this is why I live in manhattan. A little sweat reminds me that I am here to compete, to play the game, to press my luck, to beat the odds. I don't gamble - but I love to bike. It reminds me of what I am here for.