I spent last Friday at my daughters’ school sing along and had the good fortune to claim the seat next to the grandmother that coughed on my head throughout the entire performance. The "granny germs" have been passed to me, and I have spent the past few days perfecting my granny cough through constant practice. This, combined with the holiday season, means that there’s very little to write about being a pretend bike racer.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

Today was the 10th anniversary of the death of Joe Strummer, a fact that makes me simultaneously feel very sad and very old. For those that don’t know, Joe Strummer was a member of the band The Clash, and his music, along with the music of the Sex Pistols, occupied my mind for hours and hours during my formative years. In Iowa in 1982, music from the Sex Pistol and The Clash was contraband. The punk explosion of 1977 was five years old and the resulting concussive wave from the bomb blast had only just hit my corner of Iowa—the force was barely enough to make the corn stalks wave in the breeze—but like a earthquake-sensing hamster, I felt the earth shake ever so slightly.

I followed the tremors to the few record shops that carried albums by the bands I was searching for. This may seem hard to believe in this day of instant downloads and youtube searches, but finding music to listen to in 1982 was like going on a sonic scavenger hunt. I scavenged, developed my contacts and acquired cassette copies of The Clash’s eponymous album and Never Mind the Bollocks. I bought a cheap Walkman knock-off and spent my freshman bus rides listening to my stash of scavenger hunt treasures. The sounds inspired by a London sex shop flowed through my mind, and I remember my eyes opening wide as I looked around the bus and thought to myself, "Well, this place is very nice, but it might not exactly be the place for me." I wasn’t resentful at being born in a place like Dubuque, I was quite grateful for what it offered me—but I knew my home would be somewhere else.

Four states and a million songs later and my scavenger hunt has landed me in New Jersey, a state I had only known through Bruce Springsteen songs and terrible late night monologue jokes. It’s a fine place to live, and I cycle upon its roads with a maniacal consistency. I took to the roads on Saturday morning at 7:30 after plans to ride earlier with some of the local companions fell through. It was a cold morning, but I dressed appropriately, and was not feeling the chill. I loaded Earthquake Weather onto my phone and indulged in riding along as Joe Strummer’s voice again echoed through my mind. A light snow began to fall and I was treated to a preview of what heaven may be like.

Roman’s Beer Corner

After last week’s tasting and the partially inebriated words that it inspired, I have a "dry" recommendation from Roman this week. His recommendation is North Coast Brewing Company’s Barrel-Aged Old Rasputin XV, which is not to be confused with the Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout that he recommended two weeks ago. This week’s selection is another barrel-aged concoction with an alcohol content of 11.9%. Which puts it in the squinting region of the potential blindness scale.

And if you think that I am not trying to guilt Roman into providing samples by mentioning that there is no taster beer available, you think I am a much better person than I am.