Category Archives: outdoor activities

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I was a Crash Test Dummy ( and lived to tell the tale)

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IMG-20130111-00083IIHS_crash_test_dummy_in_Hyundai_Tucsonalpine-slideDSC_0314_350_420Alpine slide - Wikipedia, the free encyclopediaIngrid_Hirschhofer_Grass_Skiing_World_Championships_2009_Grass_skis There has been a lot of talk about global warming lately and the ski areas are concerned about shorter ski seasons and the revenue concerns that are a result of this weather phenomena. A lot of areas have been promoting summer activities like golf, conventions, hiking, lift served mountain biking, bike parks and other ways of bringing the public to the mountains in the summer to boost bottom lines at resorts.

Back in the day, my buddy Mike Smith, who I have referenced in this blog as my ski buddy from Lake George, NY, was the mountain manager at Seven Springs Resort in Pennsylvania’s Laurel Highlands. Mike was instrumental in designing and installing one of the first Alpine Slides in the country and Anni Dupre Santry and I were his crash test dummies during the installation. The slide basically was a concrete slide which made its way down the mountain and the rider would utilize a cart with wheels and a brake lever for speed control. By leaning left or right, one could ride the slide and control the cart at a speed that was dictated by the bravado and the skill of the rider. During installation, Mike would ask Anni and I to try different sections and see how fast we could go without flipping out of the concrete track. Based on our success or failure, he would adjust the bends and reduce the amount of straightaways. Anni and I ended up with some amazing crash rash on our elbows, thighs and various other body parts due to this experimentation and Mike would laugh hysterically at our failures which resulted in some colossal crashes on the adjacent ski slope. ” You better put a bend in there Mike”, I would yell out as I tended to my wounds while riding the chairlift up the mountain for another run at it. Mike would make an adjustment and tell Anni and I to go for it again with “no brakes”. Like the dummies that we were, we would comply and either make it or fly out of the track rolling in the grass down the hill with another failed attempt. Mike would put another bend in the track until we all could ride it successfully at high speed. I was never sure whether this type of testing was in the installation manual but it worked for Mike, and Anni and I had a blast doing it weathering the bleeding, scrapes, and blunt force trauma of it all.

Another form of summer carnage was the sport of grass skiing. These tank treads which had ski bindings mounted to them were an accident waiting to happen at picnics, and other weekend afternoons on grassy ski slopes. I had some of the first ones and many a friend at a picnic nearly killed themselves trying to maneuver these grass skis by physically making baby steps in the direction of the turn. Even with ski poles, the turns were not pretty and if you hit a rock or a stump, you went flying into the pucker brush with crash rash galore. You could get your bell rung real well with grass skiing. At Ski Liberty in Pennsylvania, they even had giant slalom courses set up in the summer for grass skiing and at the top of the mountain was a large pan of soapy water to lube the grass skis for your attempt at the course. As the competitiveness of summer skiers heated up, the crashes were spectacular with many an ending in the local clinic tending to rashes and broken wrists and arms. I was fortunate enough to only secure cuts and bruises but the thrill of downhill skiing in the summer was intoxicating enough to bring us back for more and more at our local areas and parks as well as the mountain resorts. The grass skis were eventually given to some poor unsuspecting younger friend as I got older and wiser, but I sure got good use out of those ungodly machines of destruction.

Mountain bike crashes, road bike crashes in criteriums and road races and behind leaky garbage trucks have come and gone. In the winter, there have been many an edge caught with a resulting crash of spectacular form. But nothing like the raw egg beaters of working the Alpine Slide or racing on the grass skis. As I get older, some of those old egg beaters have begun to take their toll in stiffness upon waking. But I always look back and laugh at the bravado and the sheer insanity of utilizing the slide and the grass skis. No wonder I got clots and have to take a blood thinner. When you have no respect for your body and hurl yourself into the abyss, things happen and they aren’t always pretty. But you have to have some fun in your life right? Nowadays, I take it a little easier. Not sure about Anni. Thanks for reading.

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Greenlees Mountain Bikes

From the Best of http://www.chroniclesofmccloskey.com

NiteRider2photophotophotophotophoto There is a statistic floating around out there that claims that 90 percent of all mountain bikes sold are never taken off road. Consider what percentage are utilized on rocky, rooty, muddy, eastern trails coupled with doing it at night with lights and you have a small percentage of bicycles and riders. Back in the 90s, I had the good fortune of becoming associated with a group of individuals that took the sport of mountain biking very seriously and became almost legendary in their victories in local mountain bike races in West Virginia and Pennsylvania. Their use of these off road machines put the manufacturers to the test every time they had a training ride and some of the best riders and racers at the time belonged to a group started by Chuck Greenlee of Prospect Pa.

Chuck had a small shop and prided himself on carrying the best equipment that could be tested on the rocks of the terminal moraine. The frame to have at the time was either a Merlin titanium or a Yeti and Chuck quickly assembled a group of individuals who supported his shop and ultimately made up his race team. Jonathan Moran, Ricky Haas, Eric Sauereisen, Bob Anderson, E.J Sigety, Steve Wahlenmeyer,Frankie Ross, and Bill Alcorn were all incredibly good riders and the balance of the group were in the older category as veterans which included Chuck, Mike Reidinger, Tim Sweeney and yours truly – truly bringing up the rear. Diane Blackburn was our lone woman rider who could ride most guys into the ground. I first got to respect Diane when she gave me a real ration of grief for getting lost on a Month of Mud course. She was in our group at the time and I ziggged instead of zagged and heard it from Diane for weeks. Jonathan and the boys rode the Pro Expert Division and their rides and routes taught me a lot about riding on the rocks. Of course, I was not able to keep up with this group but they all were kind enough to spend the time to teach me the finer points of riding in this treacherous terrain. Often there were several groups riding at Moraine State Park in those days that were associated with Chuck’s team and the fast guys were able to do their thing with the slower guys bringing up the rear and learning all along the way. I had many over the bars experiences much to the amusement of the “A” team but being part of that team of folks was not only an education, but immersing into a culture of ride or be left behind. ” What doesn’t kill you makes you strong” was certainly on display on those rides and the fruits of the work displayed itself in the podium finishes for the Expert Group. Our Vet group held our own and oftentimes won our divisions in races like the 24 Hours of Canaan( see May 15th, 2013 post). The NORBA Nationals, 24 Hour races, Hidden Valley Fat Tire Fallouts and Stampedes, Month of Mud races, WVMBA Series races, all had podium representation by the Greenlee crew in all age divisions. Even our older guys like Tim, Chuck and Mike were always competitive overall as well as winning in the Vet and Master division. Like a blind squirrel who finds an acorn once in a while, I even had some good finishes at the time that showed me that with a little hard work and keeping momentum on rocks and roots, even a schlubb like me can be successful. I was happy to be a Greenlee Mountain Bike Team member.

Besides the victories, the better part of being associated with Greenlee’s Mountain Bikes was the culture created by Chuck and also the team itself. E.J and his wife Sharon would always welcome us back to their home for cookouts after rides and races. Steve’s girlfriend Julie ( now his wife) would always get her parent’s motor home to be the base of support at the races and her immediate family was always welcoming with a great place to rest and have something to eat. The mechanics from the local shops would all set up outside the RV and if there were any issues at the races, it was a communal repair pit for anyone who needed it.

I loved traveling to the events in West Virginia with Chuck and perhaps some of the more harrowing rides in the country were with Chuck trying to catch Sam Dyke and the “Parrot Man” with his super suspended van on the back roads of the Monongahela National Forest. We made it to Davis, Slaty Fork, and other locations in record time. Chuck was always a pedal to the metal guy not only in his riding but in his driving. But the best part of hanging with Chuck was that if we needed anything by way of equipment, parts, etc, Chuck was always there at all times to provide and would work on broken bikes well into the night. When you are passionate about something, it becomes part of your life. You are not just someone who rides a bicycle, you are a mountain biker. It becomes part of your persona. It seems like a long time ago, but a lot of the skills and more importantly friendships have lasted to this day and my passion for riding a mountain bike was first fueled by a fun loving crew from the wilds of Butler County.

These days, my old Merlin hangs from a hook in my garage. If that bike could talk, it would certainly tell some great stories. There are many groups and teams like the old Greenlee’s Team and they all have several things in common- passion for a sport, camaraderie ,laughs, accountability, and great memories that last a lifetime. Unfortunately, Chuck is no longer with us.  He was taken a couple of years ago with heart failure and he is sorely missed.   Cherish your friends.  Thanks for reading.  

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Know the Rules!

From the Best of http://www.chroniclesofmccloskey.com

AP570722027_t62014d7c856-bf4a-4b95-ada5-4359dd6b415cGOClogo-shannopin-country-club Its funny, people come up to me and ask if I play golf? I respond,” only if I have to.” I am a little too nervous and jerky for golf and I always remark that if they could pitch the golf ball to me, I might do better. In any event, outside of the occasional 9 holes for fun with Janet(my wife), I really don’t play much golf. However, I do have a history of sorts with the sport. I rented clubs at Ballybunion, the famous course on the west coast of Ireland, and promptly lost 6 balls on the first 6 holes because the rough was so high. I ended up returning the clubs because the shop was closed and walked the rest of the course just to see it. Very scenic but not a place for me to play golf.

When I was a kid, my dad played golf at Shannopin Country Club in Pittsburgh and being a child of the depression, he was father enough to say that,” I play golf here- you can work here.” Which is what I did, parking cars, working in the kitchen, and most of all caddying. Being a caddy was an enlightening endeavor in that you met the most interesting people and see how they react under competitive circumstances. Take the good guys- Gene Sutherland, Don McClelland, Bill McClelland, and whatever victim they could find as their fourth. My friend Tom Herder and I would park in the lot at about 3:00 AM so we could be the first on the list to assure two rounds of doubles on any given Saturday. If we were given these guys, we were assured of balls right down the middle and hilarious comments in the midst of a very competitive and financially lucrative competition. These guys would try to beat each other each weekend, get a shot and a beer at the turn, press the bets, and then continue the competition at the card table playing gin late into the night. If I was on the winning side, I got a nice tip. If not, they were still generous but not happy.

The other caddying experiences were not as fun with the hackers spewing drives and errant iron shots into the woods. If I found one close to the out of bounds marker, I would kick it back in bounds to keep the round going and also assure a nice tip because of the pleasant experience of finding a surely out of bounds ball miraculously in bounds. Smiles abounding and a nice financial reward at the end of the day. The ladies days were another story. There were the good ones like Carol Semple who was a national amateur champion but most of the ladies who participated were, shall we say, challenged. I was always polite but when they asked me what to hit on their 19th shot on the hole, did it really matter? Oh well.

All of the time spent at Shannopin yielded me a nice benefit one year. John Conley, who was the golf professional, asked me if I wanted to work in his place as a marshal on one of the holes at the US Open at Oakmont in 1973. That was the year Johnny Miller set the course record with 63 on the final round. I marveled at his focus as he seemed to float through my hole just staring into the distance and visually acknowledging no one. He was in the “zone” and the 63 was remarkable. As a marshal, I was representing the local chapter of the PGA and had a PGA hat on my head along with an official Oakmont US Open 1973 shirt and slacks. I sure looked official even though I was 18 and didn’t look anything like a golf professional. The moment of truth came about when Lionel Hebert, a veteran tour professional, hit his ball into the sand trap right in front of me. As he approached, my blood pressure started to escalate as he asked me if he could get some relief seeing that there was water in the trap. I looked for the USGA guy who was not in sight and fortunately I remembered the Rule Number 25 in the USGA Rules that addressed casual water. I remember from my caddy days that if you could bring up water by pushing your foot near the ball, it was considered “casual water” and the golfer would be granted a club length relief. I stated this and Lionel Hebert stepped near the ball, brought up water, and looked at me. Fortunately the blue jacket and the gray pants of the USGA Official came into sight as I gave my opinion, he nodded that this was the right call and granted Hebert a club length relief. Lionel placed the ball in a dry spot, took out an iron and sent the ball flying and thanked me for the ruling. I was relieved and the USGA guy nodded his approval and moved on. I couldn’t get off that course fast enough but what an experience for an 18 year old caddy and car parker from Shannopin. Whew!!!

Good thing my dad made me work as much as he did. It built character and understanding of life that I took with me to the box factory where I worked summers in my college years. It honed a work ethic that I have tried to pass on to my son Jack who is carrying the McCloskey torch with employment. It all seems so long ago but Shannopin and the US Open at Oakmont are etched in my brain forever. Thanks for reading.  Back to the trail and woodsy stuff next week. Fore!!!!!

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Flying Solo

From the Best of http://www.chroniclesofmccloskey.com

photophotoMount_Rainier_from_west So here I am out in the Pacific Northwest for a meeting in Sumner, Washington. As is my custom,I take a personal day to do something fun as well and today, as I am driving up the rural road to Crystal Mountain, I thought of my dad. It was 52 years ago that he and my mom took my sister and I skiing for the first time in a raging snowstorm in Pa. What a great gift he gave us and look what he started. The gift that kept giving all of these years. I had a chance to think about it on the drive because I was by myself and had time to think and enjoy the drive through the Cascades. I was supposed to connect with a friend who lives out here but she and her daughter were still in Vail and we could not coordinate schedules. But, you know what, that’s ok. I don’t mind being by myself and I don’t mind skiing by myself. Not to appear conceited but I do enjoy my own company. I have the time to talk to myself and sometimes I get answers. But all in all, when you are flying solo, you get to do whatever you want, ski whatever slope or trail strikes your fancy, you can stop for that relaxing cup of coffee or stop by the local ski shop and browse without having to meet someone or others. There are no conversations that say,” what do you want to ski? I don’t know, what do you want to ski? I don’t know?” You just ……do it. I was the first guy up the gondola today and the skies cleared for a moment as if my dad was looking down and had a conversation with the Big Guy up there and asked for a break from the rain. In the Pacific Northwest you can get anything at any time but that is what Gore Tex is for and that is why the locals don’t even think about weather. They just put on the Gore Tex and ski. The mountains are beautiful and even though Mt. Ranier hid from me today like a shy kid, I still saw wonderful scenery, had a great day of skiing…………flying solo.

I have a friend who owns a marina up on Lake George in the Adirondacks and he hates to ski by himself. I was always puzzled about this. Lots of times you can meet the nicest and most interesting people on a chair lift ride. There is a lot of lift time during a day of skiing and if you are the least bit personable, you can strike up a conversation if you like or you can keep your head down and nobody blames you in the least because they figure you are keeping to yourself. But the opportunity is there if you want it. I am a social guy and all the disclaimers to my friends and family, I like to do things with them. Especially fun things like skiing. But there are days like today where you have the whole day to yourself without any obligations and dagnabbit…..it is enjoyable sometimes. As much as I say I enjoy being by myself, it is still amazing how many people I still engage in conversation. It started with the coffee ladies at one of the many coffee shacks here in the Northwest. They are neat little places that say,” Coffee with a Purpose” or ” The Best Coffee in Enumclaw,Wa” The ladies are friendly and I converse with them and then I am on my way. I talk to the lift attendants and thank them for their attention in loading the chair. I rode up with the ski patrol on several runs and also skied with a bunch of hairbag locals who engaged me in conversation, although my lingo and theirs are a little different. But the language of skiing is universal if you can turn em both ways. So, as much as I say I was by myself flying solo, I really was not if you consider talking to complete strangers and feeling comfortable.

Mountain Biking is my other passion and as much as I like to ride with my friends( and I do!!), those days when you hit the trails solo are really enjoyable. No pressure to keep up or decide on which trails to take. Just ride and enjoy the day. If you can get a day where you see no one, it is ok. It is just you, the trails, the woods and ……………the silence. Sometimes you see people on the trail and you say hello, but it is a brief moment in time and then you are flying solo again. Sunshine, rain, whatever…..the days are enjoyable when you don’t have to make any decisions. Sometimes you need that. We all have stress in our lives and sometimes you just have to get away. Nothing like a solo chairlift ride or a solo ride that can recharge your batteries and get you back to feeling positive again.

So, today was a gift in the Cascades. I can thank my dad for starting it all. I had time to think about that. I thought about my family back home and shared some text thoughts with them. I met some nice folks and we had a lot of conversations about how bad the weather was and how good the snow was and really…who cares anyways. We were having fun. I arrived early and left late and enjoyed the day…..flying solo. Thanks for reading and enjoy your own company will ya?

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In Search of Winter

IMG00053dcnr_008372imagehandler I always liked the change of seasons here in Pennsylvania. The changing leaves of the fall were alwyays a sign that winter was on its way and for some strange reason, I have always loved the snow and the winter. I still do to this day in spite of the fact that most people my age are looking to go south to get out of the cold. From the time I was a boy, when the first snows came, I was the first kid out the door with the pan or the Flexible Flyer to the Stowell’s back yard for a sled ride until my dad rang the bell for me to come home for dinner. Oftentimes it was not enough snow and too much mud and the sledding was a little rough. But as the winter progressed, those early outings and the exuberance of the early season was rewarded with deeper snows and better sledding.

As I started to ski in earnest, I would listen to the ski reports and hope that the phone would ring and Bob Rose would tell me to get ready for the trip to the mountains for the first skiing at our local area, Seven Springs. When I could drive, my folks were pretty understanding of my passion for winter and when we had a snow day off for school, my mom’s car was packed and I was on my way to the mountains. They told me to be careful which I was as I had some harrowing rides on the PA Turnpike, but I always arrived in one piece and left the same. Weekends were the same way with Friday afternoon drives after school to the mountains and the return on Sunday after bunking at the Rich family house on County Line Road near Seven Springs. I loved the winter. I loved the snow. I loved the wool hats and clothes. I still love everything about winter.

One of the more interesting and humorous outings was a while back with my friend Mike Hudson. I had taken Mike to Tuckerman Ravine and showed him big time winter camping and skiing. We had done several road trips and Mike was relegated to hearing my enthusiasm about winter for hours at a time. One time we were at a party together in early winter and I told him that it was going to snow up north of Pittsburgh. For those of you who are not from this area, we have this bigtime snow machine called Lake Erie and when the clippers come across the lake from Canada, it can dump unusual amounts of snow in northern PA. and Western New York State. I went to college not far from the lake and it was winter for most of the year in that neck of the woods. I said,” Hud- we need to go cross country skiing tomorrow and I will pick you up at the crack of dawn.” He was game and we took my International Scout northward towards the snow belt. We started to see snow around Oil City and decided that we would start at Drake’s Well which is in Oil Creek State Park. It was the site of the first oil well in Pa. and as we observed the well while suiting up, the snow was coming down hard and we were excited for an early winter outing. What we didn’t realize was that the ground was still fairly warm and as we broke the fresh snow with our skis, it was sticking to the bottoms of the skis and we were leaving green tracks all over the place. We tried waxing and scraping the snow but the frustrations were mounting and I told Hud,” We are out of here.”

We drove up to the Allegheny National Forest and settled on some trails that were close to the roadway. Same situation occurred. The ground was too warm and the snow was too wet. We were getting soaked and Hud’s enthusiasm was waning. I liked being out in the weather but Hud was getting frustrated with the weather, the conditions, and me. Had I been by myself, I would have enjoyed the day, regardless of what had happened but I was intent on making sure Hud was having a good time. I convinced him that we needed to get closer to the lake because it would be colder with more snow. That was a huge shot in the dark. We ended up at a cross country area near Erie and the conditions were a little better but the snow was still sticking to the skis. I kept plodding onward and Hud was finished. He begged me to get in the car and drive home. I reluctantly said ok and off we went down I-79 in a snowstorm.

I dropped Hud off and told him thanks for the company. He laughed and said,” McCloskey- I have spent 12 hours with you and I need to recuperate. I am not going out now and probably will not leave my house for days after that outing.” Hud is a character and I didn’t take it too personally but it just goes to show you that some people are more enthused about the winter than others. I have been known to drive to Vermont to ski upper Cascade at Killington in October and return several weeks later in bullet proof conditions with the snow guns blowing full force. I like snow storms. I like the muffled sounds that occur when the snow piles up in the trees and on the roads. It is a soft experience and if you can enjoy it on skis, snowshoes, pan, Flexible Flyer, it is all the same. Fresh air in the depths of the winter. Why sit on your couch and wait for spring? Embrace the winter. I have a post from last winter entitled the same. Check it out. I even turned my beach loving wife into a winter participant. She still likes the warm weather and the beach, but she has embraced the winter and has been drawn into the ethusiasm of her husband who may not have all his oars in the water. It’s coming. Enjoy it. Thanks for reading.

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Get to know an Austrian

From the Best of http://www.chroniclesofmccloskey.com

Trans Can HigwayGoogle Image Result for http--www.flags.net-images-largeflags-AUST0002.GIF (2)photophotophotorodeln01 If you check out my Janury 23rd blog post about my time in Austria called “The Rodelrennen” you will see some funny things that happened along the way there. If you are a skier, at some point you will meet an Austrian. Even if you are not a skier, you will still like the stories of a very passionate and humorous people whose lives revolve around winter sports. As I said in the post, my first experience with the Austrians was on an exchange trip between U.S. and Austrian ski instructors. I was a guest for two weeks in that country and participated in the Rodelrennen(read about it), skied in many areas including the Soelden glacier where the recent World Cup opening races were held, and taught for a week in Kuhtai- a small resort near the Italian border. Witnessing the Hahnnenkamm World Cup Downhill Race, I got to see the passion of the Austrians up close and personal as 100,000+ people line the “Streif” to see their heroes rocket down the slope at nearly 90 MPH into the finish area. This race is like the Super Bowl in Austria and the whole town of Kitzbuhel buzzes with the energy of the world’s greatest ski race.

In my teaching experience over there at Kuhtai, I was reminded that the origin of ski instruction was in St. Anton, Austria. The technique of the Austrians was never questioned and the introduction of the wider stance by the PSIA American Technique was seen with a wary eye by the patrons of the Kuhtai resort. I was trying to teach them the wider, more athletic stance that the racers were using, but the ladies and gentlemen who were taking the mandatory lesson at the time would hear none of that. They wanted me to guide them basically around the resort and not try to teach them anything new especially the current teachings of the PSIA. I drank their plum schnapps and reveled with them as they all enjoyed their time in Kuhtai, but make no mistake, we were in the land of skiing- Austria. Anyone else who thought differently was a usurper to the ultimate degree.

Personally, I have met many Austrians in my skiing adventures and as much as they are a proud people who take their winter sports very seriously, they are a fun lot. Take my friend Max Katzenberger. Max was a pilot for USAirways and was proud of the fact that he was a captain and worked his way up through the Austrian military. He always walked in front of his crew and remarked to me one time that whenever he was in a holding pattern and wanted to land, he just thickened up his accent a bit and they got him down in a hurry. Another time, some guys were ignoring the flight attendants on the plane and their instructions. Max called the security at the gate and had them removed from the plane. He remarked,” I tell you guys to behave, you don’t behave, now you go to the Klink!!!” You don’t mess with an Austrian. Max was fun to ski with and was a very enjoyable host on my honeymoon with Janet. We met Max and his wife Barb in Austria and toured the country with them. They showed us his home town of Moedling and we spent some time in the Austrian wine country in the foothills of the Alps in a town named Gumpleskirchen. Max had that joyous love of life. He passed away a few years ago and he is sorely missed among the local ski community.

Josef Cabe was the ski school director at Hidden Valley Resort here in Pa. for many years. Josef and I would travel to PSIA update clinics and it was so funny to hear his big hearty laugh and his very thick accent. He constantly criticized the clinic leaders and insisted on showing them the right way to ski. He was strong as a bull and could ski most people into the ground, including the clinic leaders. In the evenings, he led the group in song with Austrian anthems and everybody loved Josef on the slope and off the slopes.

Another Austrian that I spent some fun time with was Rolf Sigmund who owned a ski shop in town at the time. Rolf was a solid skier in the Austrian mold and we went heli-skiing one time in British Columbia together. He didn’t like the off piste skiing in the trees, and in the wind packed conditions that you get sometimes before you hit the deep powder that is always shown in the movies for heli-skiing. Sometimes it gets pretty rugged and Rolf always remarked to me on that trip that,” thees is pullsheet McClaaaahskey. We should go to Tahoe. The slopes are smooth and the chicks look at you in da lines and it is way more fun than theeees pullllsheet McClaaahhhhskey.” I laughed as he tried to bribe the helicopter pilot into flying us back to the lodge so we could watch the Super Bowl. Rolf was hilarious as he drank his schnapps and abused some loud obnoxious New Yorkers who were along on the trip.

I got my rear end chewed pretty well one time by a rather intimidating Austrian named Rudi Kuersteiner. I was with a group of guys skiing rather fast through a beginner area at Whiteface in the Adirondacks. We were there for a clinic and Rudi saw us and skied up to us at the bottom of the hill and demanded that we all follow him to the side of the slope. There he told us in no uncertain terms how rude we were and how dangerous it was to ski that fast where beginners are learning to ski. He was right!! We were wrong and were told so by an old pro. Again, you don’t mess with an Austrian. Fun loving people but don’t get on their bad side.

The Austrians are passionate people and if you get the chance to ski with them, talk with them, drink beers with them, you will surely have a good time and you will be told how skiing really is and how you must go to Austria to ski where it all began. I always laugh when I think of their universal famous line to me…………” you don’t know sheeeeet McClaaaahhhskey.” They are right. Thanks for reading.

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The Toilet Bowl

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QCBFL_-_Snow_Game_2011_Vander_Veer_Park%2C_Davenport_IowaYou know ,we all are really like a piece of malleable iron. Life’s experiences mold us, shape us, prod us, squeeze us, as we go through the refiner’s fire of life. This shaping process makes us what we are as adults and forms our basic personalities. A lot of this happens during the formative years of our lives. Take for instance when I learned to swim as a boy. I took lessons and was pretty good in the shallow end. When it came time for the test, I was afraid of the deep water. My mother who was sitting in the lounges with all of her girlfriends in hysterectomy row, as the lifeguards called it, was observing the proceedings. She instructed Don Geyer the pool manager to throw me in much to the horror of her friends. She said,” ladies- that water is going to get deeper and deeper every year.” Don threw me in and I swam to the side and with jubilation I said to my mom, I did it! My mom said,” Patrick- you can do anything you want to do in life.” With that, Don dropped me off the low board and eventually the high board and I passed the test.

A few years later, I swam in the winter for a team at the Northside YMCA and witnessed a lot of interesting happenings in the bowels of the city. One night while we were waiting to be picked up, two guys came running into the lobby where we were, wielding knives as two city police officers chased and eventually apprehended them. I told my parents what went on that night and my mom said,” Patrick- life is not the suburbs. It is good for you to see the other side of life and how tough it is in the city.” I would learn to appreciate that as I was bullied and had to defend myself with city kids. I held my own and usually was invited to their birthday parties after a few punches and pushes in the pool gained their respect. I was not a fighter but the refiner’s fire of the Northside forced me to defend my adolescent position in life. I worked most of my young life because my dad thought it was important for me to learn to be responsible to a job. Lots of molding, shaping, prodding, squeezing in those days.

Other lessons were learned by our daily routine at this time of year. Touch football on the Nicolette’s front lawn in our neighborhood. We had a posse of kids. Richard and John Nicolette, Cliff Forrest, Glen and Ron Zankey, Carl Shultz, and our hero- Rick Cuneo who was dating Jane Nicolette at the time and was headed off soon to Vietnam. Rick was an amazing athlete and every day after school, we all would play on the slanted, tight field which was the front yard of the Nicolette family. There we tested our athletic prowess every day with Rick proving to us all that he was the superior athlete much to the admiration of Jane as she watched the games. So, one day Rick goes off to Vietnam and we were a little shaken until we got a letter back from him stating that he was teaching surfing in Chu Lai which was a base on the ocean. Not too bad a duty for our star athlete. But Rick had prepared us for the annual challenge of the older kids from Woodland Road across the street from our neighborhood. Every Thanksgiving, we had the Toilet Bowl and the challenge was always paramount in the minds of all of us. The guys from across the street included the Rose brothers who skateboarded down a very steep Woodland Road on each other’s shoulders. They had a little screw loose which made them dangerous at bowl time. The Fisher brothers were good athletes, Michael Martin,  and some of the other guys brought their friends who were freshman football players from Slippery Rock University. I remember clearly after all the trash talking, having a clear shot at the quarterback only to be knocked into the middle of next week by the pulling guard from SRU. As I sat dazed and confused, the plays went on and once again the boys of Richmond Circle were defeated by the Woodland Road gang. As we made our way back across Siebert Road, we were taunted by a couple of hoods- Buster Livingston and his sister. Both sported leather jackets and those cyclone fence climbing pointy shoes with the Cuban heels. They didn’t play but they made sure we knew they were badasses and that thier posse had beaten our posse.

The Toilet Bowl went on for a few years and then faded into the memory of all of us as we made our way to college.Thanksgiving football games are really popular and these days there are even official tournaments for Turkey Bowls and Toilet Bowls as we all prepare for the eating and the subsequent snoozefest that is the Thanksgiving feast. A lot of the games are a little too organized for me as I see these types of official tournaments, teams and leagues that are common among the youth of America. What happened to the old pickup games? Everybody today has to get a trophy, a uniform, and accolades from adoring parents and coaches. The old days of the pickup baseball games and football games seem to be fading like the setting sun. Some of that refining fire took place when you picked teams, learned how to take it if you were the last guy picked, got into scuffles, and played all day until your parents went crazy calling you home for dinner. Touch football in the neighborhood taught me how to take a hit, how to grin and bear it when you cut yourself and got stitches, and basically got clean fresh air until the time change forced the early ending of the neighborhood clashes on the Nicolette front lawn.Those guys from Woodland Road always got the best of us but we always were up for the challenge which taught us how to compete with older kids who relished taking their aggressions out on the younger guys from Richmond Circle. We gave them a run for their money one year after Rick returned from his tour of duty and they balked at his participaton. But all was fair when we brought Rick and they brought their testosterone heads from SRU to play. Even the hoods shut up on those days. Yes- the Toilet Bowl and the neighborhood games were another part of my molding.I wouldn’t change a thing and I am happy the way that the refiner’s fire spit me out. Thanks for reading and get ready for the Bird. He is coming soon.

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The Craziest Fourth of July Weekend Ever

From The Best of http://www.chroniclesofmccloskey.com

photo The picture you see above is yours truly as a young lad at Tuckerman Ravine on July the 3rd. My friend Eric called me from Vermont and said that they still had snow at Tuckerman Ravine up in New Hampshire( see my earlier posts on this place). So being the adventurous, no obligations, do whatever I wanted guy( this was BJBJ-Before Janet Before Jack), I decided to make the trip and spend the Fourth of July in New England. I packed up my skis, boots, poles, spring skiing gear, pack, hiking boots, road bike, golf clubs, tennis racquet, bathing suit, and basically all the recreation equipment that I had at the time. My neighbors thought I was moving. They were shocked when I told them I would be using all of these items that weekend.

So, fast forward, I leave work at 5:00 and head north on 79 and East on I-90 for the familiar trek to Vermont. I could probably drive that in my sleep but nonetheless it is a hike and I arrived in Bethel, Vermont at 3:00 AM. I crashed at the Durfees and Eric woke me up three hours later. He laughed because he said I was saying something about not being able to go because the concrete was not yet dry. Now I have never poured concrete in my life but for some reason I was having a real nice dream about manual labor. We drove the three hours plus over to Pinkham Notch, New Hampshire where we loaded the skis and boots into the pack along with some food and beverages for the day and began the hike to the floor of the Ravine. It was pretty neat to hike up there and see folks skiing in their shorts and T-shirts and the party on the Lunch Rocks was going strong early in the morning with the hooting and hollering and heckling going full tilt when skiers bit it on the steep descents. Eric and I got a lot of runs that day and after a quick swig of a beverage,, we headed back down the mountain trail to the parking lot. The drive back to Vermont was filled with laughter about the great time and the fact that we got two visits to the hallowed Tuckerman Ravine in one season.

The next morning, we headed out on the road bikes for a “short” 60 mile ride. Eric, as I have told you before, is the master of the understatement and as we headed out of Bethel to Killington, I knew this would be a torturefest because my pal here was and is a very fit guy. On the descent into Woodstock, we hit 60 MPH because a truck driver hollered to us our speed as he passed us on the downhill. That was kind of crazy and the sidewinds were a little shaky for me. I was glad to hit the valley and head up the steep hill back to Bethel. I limped into the Durfee garage and we got out of the bike duds and into the golf gear. T- shorts and shorts were the apparel of the day as we hit The Montague golf course. I laughed when I saw a hat, sunglasses, and Hush Puppy shoes staring at me out of the ground with a tombsone at the head of the display. The tombstone said, ” this is what happens when you don’t replace your divots.” A classy place to say the least and we made our mark when Eric rocketed a drive under the bumper of a car in the parking lot. Needless to say, our skill level on the course is not what it is like on the slopes and we cheated and hacked our way around 18 holes and laughed the whole time. From there, we went to a swimming hole with Eric’s wife Helen and cooled off after the raucous round of golf at the famed Montague. The tennis racquets came out next with some doubles with Helen and Eric and after a great barbque, I crashed again dreaming of the infernal concrete job that had not been finished.

The final morning, Eric and I woke early, and I bid my goodbyes to Helen as we headed to the Adirondacks to meet our friend Mike Smith( Post- The Older We Get- The Better We Were.) Mike has the marina at Pilot Knob on Lake George and we were towed around all day on Mike’s rocket boat. We water skied a lot that day and the sunburn was memorable as we ended the day with a sandwich and a cold one before I packed all the stuff up once again for the trek back to the burg. Eric and I thanked Mike and he headed back to the Green Mountains and I headed west towards the land of taxes and potholes. As I arrived back at my place at 3:00 AM, I unloaded all the gear in the garage and once again crashed in my own sack. Funny how that wheelbarrow full of concrete appeared again just as the alarm went off for the start of a new work day. With all that we had done, my dad’s famous quote came to fruition,” Work- is the curse of the leisure class.” I am not sure I could keep that pace every weekend but for one Fourth of July Weekend a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, it is a great memory even to this day.

As we remember our Founding Fathers on the Fourth, think about what they did, read about what they did, appreciate all that they did. When I look at that flag on the Fourth, I certainly am thankful to them and the good Lord for living in a great country. Thanks for reading and have a happy holiday. Carpe Deium- seize the day. Thanks for reading.

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A True Gentleman

From the Best of Chroniclesofmccloskey.com

DSC00468 I am going to “shift gears” here for a moment( no pun intended) and talk about a true American sports icon. The picture you see here is of yours truly in the foreground and a gentleman you might not instantly recognize if you are not a cyclist. This man is currently the only American to officially win the Tour De France. In fact he won it 3 times. His run was interrupted by an unfortunate hunting accident with his brother in law where he was accidently shot. He recovered and went on to win the Tour again. An astounding feat considering the scope of his injuries. I am speaking of none other than Greg LeMond.
I have had the good fortune to be invited to a charity bicycle ride in Maryland for the last three years where Greg was the featured guest. JR Ellis, Ken Krieger and I were invited each year by our friend Scott Weiner who is on the board of 1 in 6. 1-in 6 is an organization that was formed to help men who were abused as children. Greg is also on the board with Scott and devotes countless hours in serving the needs of men all over the country. The significance of 1 in 6 is that one out of every six men have been abused as a child. An astounding statistic that makes one take notice. Greg is not only involved in the organization but spends a considerable amount of time every year with many charitable organizations as well as his many businesses which are related to the bicycle industry. LeMond is an innovator. For instance, he was a seminal founder of the technology that inspired Giro Helmets. He worked with Boone Lennon, a former US Ski Team coach, to develop the aero bar which puts a bicycle rider in an aerodynamic position during a time trial in a bike race. In the 1987 Tour, Greg used the aero bar and his position allowed him to ride between 35-37 MPH during the final time trial of the Tour that year. Greg won by 8 seconds over Laurent Fignon, a Tour winner from France and very competitive rider. One of the interesting things that Greg recounted on our ride was that he was criticized for using the bar almost as if he was cheating. But Greg said that Fignon had the opportunity to use the bar but he and his coach Cyrille Guimard refused to use it. Over a 2500 mile race that averaged 25 MPH over three weeks, the race came down to 8 seconds. Had Fignon opted to use the bars, who knows what the result would have been but Greg was the innovative winner.
JR, Scott, Ken and I rode many miles with the Tour champion during these events and the interesting thing is that most of the people in the ride either were concentrating on their own ride or they don’t really know what Greg has accomplished in his 52 years. As you can see from the picture, he is older but the guy can still ride. You will also note that he has a camera around his neck. He is so comfortable on the bike that he can ride for long periods of time without his hands on the bars and take pictures of the Maryland countryside. Amazing!!
Again, LeMond is an innovator and his stories of the industry and his involvement are riveting and makes riding with him educational as well as very pleasurable. The nice thing about LeMond is that he is personable, will sign autographs for hours at a time and spends long hours after the ride talking to anyone who approaches him. A truly admirable way to live for a world renowned celebrity. No question is left unanswered and his passion for the sport of cycling has not dwindled one bit since his Tour days. As you take another look at this picture, you will see that I am saying something to him and he is amused. Imagine the patience of this man listening to my stories for 85 miles. But, this is LeMond. Professional, caring, innovative, and entrepreneurial. A true gentleman.
You will hear a lot about another Tour champion who has been disgraced. There have been many allegations and truths that have come out which contrast the career of Greg LeMond. In keeping with the guiding precepts of my blog, I always concentrate on the positive and the lighthearted stories. No matter what you hear, always know that there is at least one guy in the sport of bicycle racing who has always been a clean competitor and a true representative of the American spirit that went to Europe and competed against the worlds best on their stage. LeMond was a pioneer breaking into the old world network of European Road Racing. I am so fortunate to have made his acquaintance and look forward to riding with him again this summer. If I am invited Scott( hint, hint). If you would like more information on the 1 in 6 organization, you can view their web site at  http://www.1in6.org. Thanks for reading.

Vive Le Tour
The Tour Champion and a Wannabe.