AS SEEN ON TV!

Apparently I am the one person in the known world who is incapable of successfully operating anything that is sold on via television.  The words “As seen on TV” usually warn me to steer clear of whatever product carries the label, but recently on a trip to The Christmas Tree Shop, I discover that I am weak.  I see those fateful words “As seen on TV” and I fall hard.

Yes, I buy myself the Veggetti Spiral Vegetable Slicer. 

I should know better.  After all, the brand name on the Veggetti Spiral isn’t Ronco or one of those other sell-it-on-television fake names.  This one is actually called The As Seen On TV Veggetti Spiral.  But, it is cheap money, and people rave about the damn thing, so why not, right?

I openly admit that I am a Veggetti Spiral failure.  I must be the only person in the known universe who cannot successfully spiral a damn vegetable.

Oh, you cannot say that I don’t try!  The Veggetti Spiral came without directions.  Apparently, those must be seen on TV, as well.  I search the Internet, even going so far as to watch a video on how to operate the contraption.  It’s mindless, really: Stick a vegetable in the open end, spin it around, and the blades create noodle-like cuts.  Voila!

Unfortunately, nothing is easy, and the zucchini I am attempting to spiral starts chunking and breaking into miserable pieces.  Just to make sure I’m not a complete imbecile, I break out the metal grater.  Nope, the zucchini is fine, and I seem to be fine.  I try the Veggetti Spiral once, twice, three more times before removing the remainder of zucchini and throwing the useless machine into the garbage. 

In the end, I julienne slice the zucchini by hand, saute it with onions and garlic and peppers, toss it with some balsamic vinaigrette, add tomatoes, feta cheese, and some fresh basil, and I have the most incredible dinner.

Damn the Veggie Spiral!  Damn anything As Seen On TV!  The forces are against me, but I still manage to make the vegetable dish I set out to in the first place.  I may be the only person who is Veggie Spiral idiotic, but I’m smart enough to accomplish two things this evening:  #1- I make a tasty dinner; #2 –I vow never to buy anything touted “As Seen On TV” ever again.

ART WALK

Today’s adventure involves a trip to Brookline, New Hampshire, to hike Bear Mountain. 

Getting there is no easy trick as I encounter a roadblock not even a mile and a half out of my driveway.  I keep forgetting that there is road construction near the high school, my cut-through to the major highways, but also my way to avoid the interstates and pretend I’m on a leisurely road trip. 

My brilliant idea to cut through back roads sours when I hit every flipping red light from here to Lowell (feels like every red light in the whole world).  Driving down the boulevard along the Merrimack River, the only “highway-like” part of the ride, some thug in a black Cadillac keeps running into my lane at fifty miles per hour almost as if he is purposefully trying to run me off the road.  He’s a city dweller, though, and I lose him as I drive across the bridge and embark on my country jaunt.

The most entertaining thing about driving through Tyngsboro and Dunstable and Pepperell would be the speed limit gamut.  In the course of mere miles, the speed limit changes from 45 to 25 to 35 to 30 to 40 to 45 and back to 25.  Some of these changes are not even posted, and I have to trust my GPS, and the cars both in front of and behind me riding my ass to help me gauge the correct speed.  And, please, don’t even try and push these limits because there are cops in every nook and cranny, and out here in the sticks, there are a lot of nooks and a lot of crannies. 

For some strange reason, every town along this two-state trip has built its fire station on route 113, my main thoroughfare to Brookline, NH.  Of course, wherever there is a fire station, the speed limit drops back to 25 mph.  Apparently the key to any good fire station is a slow passing zone.  I believe that I am still in Massachusetts when I see construction on the side of the road being overseen by a flagman.  Honest to goodness, a genuine flagman!  I didn’t realize I’d already jumped the state line, but I am wrong.  I am still in Massachusetts.  The police do every single minor and major public works assignment in Massachusetts because it’s a giant scam.  Then I remember that there are no available cops to be flagmen because they are all sitting in brand new cruisers along route 113 waiting to bag an old guy driving 27 in a 25 mph speed zone.

Driving along my merry way, I somehow get myself momentarily lost.  Honestly, this isn’t my first trip out here; I’ve gone this way several times on my way to and from Franklin Pierce College for lacrosse games.  I also need to admit that it’s an easy plan to get where I’m going: 113 to 119 to 13.  It’s not fucking brain surgery.  I end up cutting through farmland to route 130.  Okay, not on my planned directions, but it spills out right near my destination, so it’s all good, and I accidentally cut ten minutes off the commute.

The marvelous twist to this hike is that nearly two decades ago, Paul Andres purchased Bear Mountain, moved into a house at the summit, then turned the rest of the mountain into trails full of art.  More than seventy-five sculptures cover 140 acres of old ski slopes, new bike trails, and a combination of old and new walking trails.

The place is, in one simple word: amazing.

The contributing artists are from all over the world, but that’s not the most interesting fact.  The art is created out of granite and steel, all done during yearly symposiums right here on the mountain.  How they manage to get the stuff where it needs to go along the trails is a conundrum of epic proportions.  Some of the trails are remarkably tight, so even small cranes couldn’t fit.

These sculptures are weighty.  The largest, The Phoenix, weighs something crazy like eleven tons, and it appears as we break through the tree line from a trail right at the summit.  The views from here, even this far south of the Presidential Range (for we are barely over the Massachusetts border), are breathtaking.  I used to live in a nearby New Hampshire town (okay … village), and intermittent views of the mountains aren’t unusual, but this is simply spectacular. 

After hiking for about three hours and weaving in and out of trails, we still have not seen every single sculpture.  We have, though, seen many, perhaps even most, of the sculptures as I have taken one hundred photos by the time I reach my car in the lower lot.  We’ve also seen the owner’s house (from the outside) sitting as King of the Mountain amongst the sculptures, and we’ve seen the artist’s studio (from the outside – no artists are in residence right now). 

Near the studio a little way into the woods, a modern take on sculpture features a naked man in a fetal position.  Hey!, I think to myself remembering my weekend adventure to Walden Pond, it’s naked Henry!  We have found Henry David Thoreau fresh out of Walden Pond.  Okay, so maybe it isn’t Henry David, but it’s a little like déjà vu and is both hysterical and disturbing all at the same moment.

Joined by some people with small children, we stop to eat wild blueberries, and to examine mushrooms and moss.  The children and I touch the different statues, noting the strange textures and designs.  (No, I do not know these children, but, true to my Pied Piper self, I am a bit of a magnet.) Thanks to the addition of these little people with three-year-old legs, we stroll down the old summit road to get back to the lot, opting to avoid the steep trails down that somehow didn’t seem so bad coming up.

All of our cell phones are nearly dead, which is ironic since there is a cell tower on the top of Bear Mountain, a structure we passed twice on our hike.  I reach the car just in time to plug in as I have less than 7% battery life left.  Despite having two navigational systems, I still get lost on the way home, heading down 111 instead of 119.  No biggie.  Again, I accidentally cut time off my trip.  I only pull over once to allow a truck to barrel past me – I mean, I’m doing 32 mph in a 25 mph speed zone where I have already spotted multiple police cruisers; let the truck get the ticket.

Not four miles from my house, I consider shutting down the WAZE app on my phone but think better of it.  The app pre-warns me to police reported ahead, and I am able to avoid a ticket as he has bagged himself a primo hiding spot in a cul-de-sac.   

The hike is amazing, the art is better, and spending time with friends is the best.  These things are also exhausting.  It’s mid-afternoon when I pull into my driveway, and the only things on my mind are showering off the bug spray and taking a nap.  I can think of worse ways to end an adventure, but I cannot think of any better.

LONE PADDLER

My new kayak is the bomb. 

A modular design, I split it in half to cart it around since it fits right into my car.  To put it together, I maneuver the two parts together, feed the connecting flap through on either side, lift the back of the kayak ever-so gently, and tighten the clamps.  The whole process takes about thirty seconds on either end of the trip.

I have only used the new kayak twice: once when my son came with me and helped go through the motions and test its seaworthiness on a local pond, and once when I met friends and took the kayak out on the mighty Merrimack River.

Today, I am determined to do this alone.  After all, I have every intention of kayaking some afternoons after work (I pass the pond with easy access every day on my way home). 

I am relieved when I arrive in the dirt lot along the pond to find one empty car and a guy sitting on a motorcycle.  No matter if I look like an idiot trying to do this by myself; only one or two people will witness my shame and embarrassment.

Turns out my limited practice has paid off.  I only worry when I see the two-foot drop I have to conquer, and I do this easily since the kayak must be in two pieces for transport.  Once I have the pieces down to the water, they fit together quickly.  I grab my sunglasses, the paddles, put on my funky and incredibly old water shoes, zip my car key into the waterproof pouch I have attached to my life vest, then zip myself into the life vest.

Holy crap.  Within minutes I’m ready to go.  I cannot believe nothing has gone wrong yet.

I don’t even make an ass out of myself when I push off and drag my sopping wet feet into the kayak with me.  I start out keeping close to shore and within sight of the small area where I put in, but this is not the confidence booster for which I am searching.  I paddle on and start exploring all the coves and open areas of the pond, which is pretty big, to be honest.  I see a lone fisherman on shore, presumably the lone car owner, and am exhilarated to be the only paddler out on the pond today. 

I truly am all alone.

It takes me forty-five minutes to complete my exploration of the open water and around the islands, finding places to stop and drag the kayak up if I ever decide to come out here with others and eat lunch in the middle of the trip.  By now the parking lot is filling up with people walking the trails, more fishermen and families, and one more kayaker.  It’s unfathomable to me that more people are not out here on such a wonderful day.

I steer into the sandy area where I put the kayak in, reversing the entire procedure and having no problem taking the kayak apart, which shocks me since it gave me a bit of trouble in its maiden voyage.  Three minutes later, I am packed up and ready to leave.

This is day three of this kayak’s grand adventures and only the fourth time I’ve ever kayaked in my life.  I’m not an expert by any means, but I feel a sense of accomplishment and independence knowing that I can do this all by myself – I don’t dump it, I don’t break it, I don’t lose anything, I don’t get soaked, I don’t have any trouble with the general management of the trip, and, most importantly, I don’t look like a total asshole.

Just when I’m feeling somewhat smug and confident, I hear a song rolling around in my head.  It’s a commercial jingle for pull-up diapers of all damn things:  I’m a big girl now!

Oh, well.  So the only humiliation today is internal.  I can deal with that.

JOGGING WITH THE PIED PIPER

Apparently, I am the Pied Piper.

I like to walk and sometimes jog.  Between my messed up feet and my poor stamina, I’m curious to see if I’ve made any progress whatsoever with my routine, so today I skip the circuitous route and go straight for the track.  It’s still relatively early and it’s a weekday.  How many people are really going to be there?

When I arrive, the parking lot (small as it is) is already full.  There appears to be some kind of class going on, some kind of training blocking an entire section of the track, and there are little kids running everywhere.  This does not bode well with me.  Share the track.  It’s public property.

I walk a little bit then start jogging, barreling right through the boot camp trainers, and I continue to do so as I jog around.  This is the amazing part.  Last summer I could barely make it halfway around the track.  Today I make it all the way around the track not just once but twice before needing a walk break.  Two times around.

On my second time around, though, a little kid is running to keep up with me.  I have picked up a straggler.  I am jogging, and his teeny little legs are pumping full force, running at a full out gait to catch up to me. 

Um.  Okay.

I reach the parents again, and Jack’s (for I have learned his name and his age, which is four) mother tells him not to bother me.  “It’s all right,” I reply, “he’s pacing me.”  Actually, he’s passing me.  I continue on, making it around the track with my walk-then-jog routine many more times.  Now that I’ve picked up Jack, I lost count of my progress.

Suddenly a girl on a bicycle joins in, telling us to keep running because Loki is after us.  Loki?  How the hell does this six year old (for Kiley introduces herself) know about Loki?  I peek behind us and see an older gentleman who is wearing a white shirt and blue shorts.  He alternates between walking and jogging, much like I do, and is half a lap behind us.  Hmmmm.  I’m the one dressed totally in black.  I’m the one who’d be typecast as the villain.

No sooner do I pick up Kiley when Jack’s three-year-old sister joins in.  Her stubby legs cannot keep pace so I slow us all down to a walk.  I look like the damn Pied Piper with this trail of children growing behind me.  I guess we should’ve kept running because walking is not the little girl’s forte, and she wipes out hard on the tar track.  I try to console her, but I am a stranger, after all.  She won’t take my hand to help, either, so Jack must try and drag her all the way to the other side of the track to where Mom is taking her training class.

I think, Good, mayhem means the kids will stop following me.

Wrong.  Kiley urges me to join her mother’s class, and also recommends that I show up every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning so we can hang out together.  This might be fun for her and Jack (probably not for Jack’s sister), but I’m not so sure about this whole kid magnet thing.  I explain that on Friday I’m going hiking in New Hampshire, but maybe I’ll see her next week. 

After a short while she and Jack go to play at the nearby playground, forgetting all about me.  I make my final turn around the track, marking thirty-five minutes and rejoicing that today I have jogged more than I walked.  Much more.  I glance around and see that I, the Track Stranger, The Pied Piper of Shawsheen, am a distant memory if any memory at all.  I walk to my car, which I parked around the corner from the full lot, as alone as I had been when I arrived.

Bye-bye, Hamelin, I think as I drive away.  Maybe next Monday?  We shall see.