(The Other Team Garmin members bundle up before last year's ride)
Bike MS is upon The Other Team Garmin (TOTG) once again, and
I have but two goals: 1) Raise $300 in fundraising for the National MS Society,
and 2) Complete the full century ride, 100 miles.
The fundraising goal is a mandatory for everyone that wants
to participate in this excellent and entertaining two day, fully supported,
heavily volunteered ride from Olathe to Lawrence. $200 is the minimum for the
race, however the folks from TOTG have upped the ante an extra hundred. There
are 60+ members riding with TOTG and our team goal is $40,000.
We’ll be doing auctions throughout the next few weeks - I’ve
saved a few items to provide for bidding – in an attempt to reach our lofty goal.
It’s nice to be a part of something so substantial, and it makes it easier to
reach out to friends, family and strangers when everyone on the team is
encouraging us to find inventive and creative manners in which to raise funds.
More on that in a bit…
I fully expect to complete the century ride this time,
weather provided. For a recap on the harrowing journey that saw my 100 mile
hopes cut off at 78, check out my very first blog post:
Over the years, my friends and family have been fully
supportive of all of my endeavors, whether it’s been a trip to Ireland, a
longer stay in Nicaragua or some of the charities I’ve been involved with, such
as Kiva and Bike MS. To reward you for your loyalty and graciousness, and also to
firmly commit myself to the cause, I’ve added a new aspect to my donation request
this year.
There will be a raffle at the end of the fundraising period,
where you (the donor) have the chance to win one of two prizes. The more you
donate, the better chance you have of winning. These are gifts I could have
given to TOTG for the auction, however I view this as one way to thank you for
your continued support.
For every Jayhawk alumni or family of a Jayhawk student,
there’s a chance you’ll win a grab-bag of KU School of Business swag. This includes,
but is not limited to, a soft logo shirt, a sweet pen, a hard plastic cup with
straw, mouse pad and the white bag with two Jayhawk stickers that they came in.
Very official.
(Jayhawk bag of goodies)
The other prize is an autographed copy of Argyle Armada,
written by Mark Johnson. Even if you’re not into cycling, it’s an amazing
glimpse into the demands and rigor a pro team goes through as they travel the
world competing in international events. There’s a ton of wonderful photography,
athlete interviews, and first-hand accounts by everyone from the team chef to
seasoned veterans of the cycling circuit. And it’s autographed by, like, five
guys from the team. Not really sure who. But it’s probably the good ones.
(Learn about the Pro's)
Finally, if you don’t want to play the odds, for anyone who
donates $50 or greater to my team, I will send you a fancy TOTG mug or pint
glass free of charge. The design was done by my riding partner Tommy (from the
original Bike MS post), and every mug or glass purchased sends even more cash
to the National MS Society. It’s a small expense for me to incur to (attempt to)
properly thank you for supporting my interests, because I’m extremely fortunate
to count on my great family and friends year after year. And in the end, more
money goes to this wonderful cause.
You are free to send this link to your friends or anyone else
you feel might be interested in donating to the cause. Every donation helps our
team get closer to achieving our ultimate goal of $40,000. Something I’ll be
thinking about as I tick off the miles in the saddle, training for this century
ride, my first.
Thank you in advance!
To Donate: Access the link below, which takes you directly to my page. Select "Donate to Greg" and follow the prompts to fill in the amount. You can display the amount publicly, or if you prefer, choose not to do so. In that case, simply email the amount you donated and I'll get you in the raffle and send you a mug or glass if need be.
(Pretty much straight out of North American Hunter)
In a good week, I’ll do two manly things. The trending
average, though, likely hovers around half to a quarter of a manly thing per
week. And oftentimes there are caveats. I bike…but I wear mandex. I shred sand
dunes on four-wheeler’s…but I also wear mandex (under my pants, because the
motor vibrations hurt my butt). I went to the hardware shop last week…to buy
aromatic candles that shoo away mosquitoes. I call it a hardware shop instead
of a hardware store – that can’t be manly.
It’s not that I don’t want to be manly – it just seems like
a lot of effort. If I really enjoyed push-ups or didn’t want to keep my
high-school biceps, I’d be motivated to make some changes. But I’m fine with my
biceps, even if they’re the same size as when I was taking driver’s ed. Besides,
both my younger brothers are both bigger than me now, so I’ve run out of people
to punch.
And for some unexplainable reason, Greg at 31 retains the
same level of interest in soccer, Star Trek, mustaches, wearing socks in the Summertime and dinosaurs as did his
21 year-old counterpart. And we’re pretty cool with that.
Sometimes manliness is forced upon me or there for the
taking, and the outcome is what you would expect: Awesomely disastrous. Here
are some examples:
One of the last times I was on a speedboat, I
thought it’d look cool to jump from the boat to the dock before the formal
docking process was completed. It did look cool. Not landing the jump – what
looked cool was that I was somehow able to remove my hat, grab my wallet from
my pocket and stuff it inside the hat, then safely chuck it onto the dock.
Seconds before my ribs hit the wood and I fell in. And my friends had to pull
me out of the water.
I’ve been to the sand dunes three times,
spending hours each day thrashing sand at others at speeds of up to (probably)
50mph. Throughout all that awesomeness, I have flipped the ATV just once…not
when attempting a jump or angling up a sharp incline. I turned it over in an
attempt to create a “perfect circle” in the sand, going roughly the pace of
unicycle.
At a “whoot-e-nanny” shootout (I believe that’s
the proper phrasing), my buddy Jaron peer-pressured me into firing his assault
rifle. Because I don’t watch shows centered on firearms, of course I don’t
remember the alpha-numerical denotation for the gun. You can only guess at what
happened before I pulled the trigger. I turned off the safetyand aimed at the target,
only to slow-mo-movie watch the clip eject towards the ground, sending a few
rounds in the air. Or are they shells? I know they’re one of the two. (I think
I won back some man-points, however, when I positioned myself behind the
free-standing door in front of the range, stuck a handgun through the glassless
window and shouted “Officer Mulder” at the dirt before unloading
some venom in the general vicinity of the metal targets).
In spite of these hiccups, I still make it a point to be a
man every now and then. Which is why my initial reaction to Melody telling me
that her dad was taking us shooting was excitement. Shortly thereafter followed
by a disturbingly vivid premonition that I’d find a way to eject a clip, shoot
someone I’m not supposed to, get a flat tire on the way to the farm and not hit
a single clay pigeon. Or something along those lines…
(Blast from the past)
Ominously, we drove for over an hour before we came upon the
rustic farmhouse that would serve as our range. Belonging to family friends,
the place itself, which once housed multiple generations of family, had the
beautiful and quaint appeal of a house that belongs in the type of movie that I
probably didn’t appreciate as a kid (but my parents made me watch anyway).
It’s not entirely accurate to say that it feels like you’re
stepping back in time, though with its collection-based decorum, the
overwhelming number of family photos on the walls and a noticeable lack of
technology, it feels calmer inside than anywhere I’ve been in a while. It’s the
sort of place that you feel comfortable in, even if it’s your first visit. Like
you’ll learn something interesting – something to prevent losing momentum
during a fading bar conversation – if you put some effort reading what they’ve
taken the time to hang up on the walls.
(The barn that creepily watched us shoot)
And because the house had A/C, part of me wanted to hang out
inside all afternoon, brushing up on its history. But we were there to shoot
guns, and I had a reputation to forge.
First Neil, Nick and I pieced together the 10x10 canopy that
was so old, there were multiple layers of labeling to help us erect it. There
were numbers, colors, arrows and different kinds of tape. Yes, it took all
three of us to complete the task. Sweat forced me to remove my short-sleeve
cowboy shirt, a pearl-snapped plaid number which seemed cool at 8 in the
morning, eschewing it for my simple white tank top, which always seems like a
good idea.
(Some assembly required)
Ken provided us with the full setup. The various guns were
laid out on the table, which was situated next to the grandparents, who were in
lawn chairs attempting to stay ahead of the shifting sun, robbing them of shade
by the hour. Under the canopy was a clay pigeon chucking machine (definitely
the correct term); outside of the canopy was an orange traffic cone marking the
shooting area; boxes of ammo and pigeons were kept at first on the tables, then
brought to the canopy. Earplugs, glasses and a shell-bag (also the appropriate
term) that provided convenient access to the rounds were dished out, as were
safety instructions and on-the-fly shooting lessons.
(It was approximately 124 degrees in the shade)
Ken certainly had a captive audience – he was a real
insert-famous-marksman-here. Neil and Nick seemed to know what they were doing,
and since they play video games, they probably did. Still, they listened
dutifully and took Ken’s every word to heart. Celia, Melody and I seemed a bit
more tentative, but were reassured by Ken’s calm and obvious knowledge of the
entire situation. It didn’t mean we were any more likely to hit the pigeons,
though.
The dudes stepped up first and crushed it. Neil and Nick and
their video-game-calloused fingers made it look easy. Melody and I went on the
second go-round and proved that it was not. No goal I’ve ever scored in soccer
felt better than when I lightly grazed the fourth pigeon, registering my first
official “hit”. Finger quotes required. Amazingly, after we all had a crack at
it, no one had come back goose-egg.
(Awesome Shooting Gallery)
Ken would calmly coach us as we stepped up: “Aim a bit
lower”…”You see how you shot just to the left”…”You want to pick it up quickly,
or it becomes harder to spot”. We would all nod, and though I can only speak
for myself here, try our best to take what he said into consideration, seeing
as every turn up was as uncertain as the first day in college…just a different
class. Until the very end, I found no easy manner in which to replicate any
previous shot’s success.
(Learning)
Even grandpa Butch got into the action, though he out
manly-ied all of us by refusing to put in his earplugs. He was shooting back-up
to us kids, though during this stint I somehow managed to absolutely obliterate
three targets in a row, dead center. For those not familiar with my dry humor,
I was not responsible for the kills. Butch holding a shotgun was like Emeril
wielding a spatula – it just seemed right.
(Three generations of Stratman men. Can you guess which one was the theater major?)
After thoroughly embarrassing the others, then taking some
awesome posed pictures, Nick and Neil had to head out. Myself, Melody, Celia
and even Ken continued on, shredding some clay pigeons, dinging others, and
flat-out missing a bunch. We had a blast. Grandma Alita was there to cheer us
on and put cookies in our hands. That was nice.
After depleting our ammo, we called it a day. We took down
the tent and table, and then started hauling the day’s supplies to the cars.
The house provided a brief respite from the heat as we attempted to freshen up
before heading out. It was a boiler of a day, and we spent its hottest hours
under the sun, relatively stationary, firing bullets at the Sun Gods. It was no
wonder my shoulders were redder than the state of Texas on a political map.
(Check out our amazing posed shots)
What was not red was the banana-crumble milkshake that
Melody and I shared on our way home from the range. Oh yeah, in addition to
dominating some clay pigeons, we dispossessed Chic-Fil-A of some delicious
chicken sandwiches. Even if I had come up empty during the shoot, it would have
been worth it to end the day at America’s favorite chicken sandwich restaurant,
gobbling up not one, but two chicken sandwiches all by myself. How’s that for
manly! (Added to the list).
It was a wonderful day for the family, an okay day for my
self-perception of my manliness, and a great day for a good number of clay
pigeons that escaped our attempted shellacking. There is no cooler feeling than
cocking a shotgun, ejecting the shell and imaging that you’re on the hunt for bad
guys (and/or space aliens). Because that’s what I did.
Many thanks to the Stratman fam for overseeing my safety
during my latest quest to be manly.
For more pics, check out the entire shooting album: GUNS!!!
(For you science nerds, check out the awesome pics of the cicada we found molting on the house's front steps)
To see Ken destroy five discs in a row, check out this video:
