You Stay Strange, Boulder..

My new job has brought new influences new faces, renewed inspiration, and most importantly, new and abstract experiences. On friday I wrap up a ten week road trip that has brought me to call the desert and the rocky mountains home. My struggles to answer the seemingly omnipotent query of where I call home has become increasingly difficult, as these temporary left coast stays add to a resume of locations that have shed their hospitality on this Northeast native.

These new atmospheres provide for infinite opportunities, and I have pleaded with my sleep cycle to make cultural submersion a priority at each new home. During our family vacations my parents always made sure that we experienced some aspect of the local culture during our stay. When I was younger this was often unwillingly forced upon me, as Dad usually felt that we should experience both the good and bad pieces that made up local folklore and cultural norms. My Dad has some unexplainable sense for sniffing out the dive bars and tourist free restaurants which offered the most authentic cuisine and conversation in the area. I feel blessed as that same curiosity and desire to engage has given birth to a new generation of wandering and exploring.

I find the best answers to the 'how come's' are experiences not explanations; and the catalyst of cultural clarity is diving head first in to the waters and body surfing the local tides to the shores of influence, perspective, and inspiration.

Boulder, Colorado is a warm dish composed of local ingredients. It best served by the ambience of the reflections of the moon off the flat irons that pierce out of the sides of the foothills like the jagged teeth of a jack-o-lantern. Boulder is a trendy kind of simple which is almost undefinable. Upon my arrival I was continually notified of the significance of the area, however after five weeks here I can personally contest that no preparation will do your experience justice.

As I reached the top of the final hill on Interstate 36, the city of Boulder came in to view for the first time. The large stone buildings of the University appeared miniature against the backdrop of Foothills, and the white tips of the Rockies undermined those same Flatirons. As I exited the Denver Boulder connector two homeless men stood next to the stoplight with cardboard signs. The first sign read, "Unemployed Deadhead, anything will help", and the other read, "4:20 pm, God Bless".

When I think about Boulder I can't help but to draw upon my experiences in Tucson, Arizona for the five weeks before it. While both exist as towns that play host to a college, it is difficult for me to define both as college towns. While Tucson exists almost as a community to serve the college, Boulder exists as a town with a college in it, undefined by the fact that 34,000 college aged students reside within it's city limits. Boulder the city has it's own vibe, it's own culture, it's own swagger.

The restaurant was dimly light at the corner of Pennsylvania and 13th. When I asked the bartender if he had anything local he immediately replied, "everything's made with local ingredients". When he realized I was asking about the beer he replied with a slightly different answer, "we only serve local beer." Of course you do, this is Boulder. The neighboring mountains seem to shield the local culture and atmosphere from the craziness of the outside world. Even with Denver less than thirty miles away, the buzz of the big city seems distant and abstract. The towns and cities of Colorado exist as identities seemingly larger than that of the state, and this is especially true in Boulder. When I asked my friend, an Oregon native residing in Boulder to rank whether the city was overrated or underrated her answer spoke volumes. "Both" she said, "it's underrated to everyone else in the world, but overrated locally because everyone who lives here thinks it's the greatest place in the world."

Boulder has been called the most liberal City in America, and the fact that marijuana dispensaries outnumber Starbucks may very well lay some foundation to this claim. The politely carefree attitude that exists below the peaks harbors a easy-going vibe that is unrivaled anywhere else I've been. The store fronts are littered with Garcia tapestries, eat local stickers, and posters for concerts.

Despite the liberal feel, the city has an eerily conservative undertone to it. Kegs are not allowed to be seen from the street, even in "The Hill" community that serves as the primary off-campus housing site for CU Students. This conservative nature exists in compliance with the identity of Boulderites, a community which refuses to be nailed down as just a college town. A few years back a proposal came in front of the town to take the open fields leading in to Boulder and fill them with Buffalo herd, paying tribute to the long running mascot of CU. The town ultimately shot this down with no real reason as to why. However, if you have the pleasure of staying in Boulder for a few days it is obvious why.

With the Universities recent decision to leave the Big 12 for the Pac 12, CU will be forced to move the Buffalo statues around campus. I found it most fitting that these statues were positioned so that their butt's faced the direction of their past conference rivals, because it almost seems like the entire town's rear end faces that of the rest of the world. It's a polite and unique kind of arrogance which is rightfully earned.

The significance of Boulder can be summed up with the experience I had at a bar way outside of the city. When I asked the Bartender about Boulder she explained that it was "a distance away" and "a weird, hippy town". When I asked her if she had a local beer on tap she answered me with, "have you had Coors?"

The community is extremely welcoming, and I am confident that it is impossible to visit without Boulder leaving an imprint on some aspect of your existence. The cities unparalleled beauty is only a small aspect of it's indescribable appeal. In two day's I'll be leaving Boulder, with three CD's of local musicians, two concerts under my belt, and one unforgettable experience. 'Til next time, you stay strange, Boulder.

Recommendations:
Upslope Brewery: "Cabernet IPA", (currently only distributed in CO).
The drive from Denver to Breckenridge (passing the Continental Divide).
Twisted Pine Brewery: Jalapeño Beer
A football game at CU (One of the Nation's prettiest stadiums)
Mountain Sun Brewery: "Illusion Dweller IPA"

Times they are a-changin'

It's been a long time since my last post.. embarrassingly long in fact. When we last connected I was fully submerged in the blissfulness of a South Carolina summer with a part time job. My day's consisted of exploring the cobblestone of downtown Charleston followed by sunset swims in the bath-like waters of Folly Beach. Life was easy, and I'll be damned if it wasn't enjoyable as well. But like the branches of a New England Maple in late fall, change was in my future. Like the leaf peepers themselves, my car was packed and my compass pointed North... Northwest to be exact.

It was fitting that the most beautiful South Carolina sunrise I had ever seen would be visible only in my rear view mirror as I began the descent down the James Island Connector for the final time.The rippled reflections of orange and yellow off the Ashley crept lower and lower as the pavement behind me hogged the reflection and reminded me of the 600 miles more of it that lie ahead.

The end of Highway 26 marked the end of the Lowcountry I had come to know and love over the past year. Palm trees turned to pines, and the long flats gave way to windy hills that would lead me through the Palmetto State's older sister. In the distance the Blue Ridge mountain's mocked me as I drew upon the only comparison I had over the past year, the adjacent towers of the Arthur Ravenell bridge.

My ear's popped as I climbed the intricately paved path to the clouds and the morning temperature dropped from eighty-two to seventy-three in half of an hour. My visions of marshes were replaced by creeks that wound through the tangled forest which stretched over the two lane road. The billboards of Lowcountry seafood became markings for local moonshine, and as I neared the border of the Volunteer State low fuel and hunger brought me to stop at a small gas station which looked like it had been placed in the hills by God himself.

As I pulled to the pump I found the couple next to me gassing up their motorcycle which hung an Indiana Hoosiers flag from the back. Curiosity and quick conversation led me to see that I was not alone on my path, asthey had mapped out the exact path that I had... only in reverse. I couldn't help but find it ironic that retirement would bring them to Charleston and employment would bring me to Indiana.

Highway signs pointed me towards Knoxville, and as I crossed over the state line I could not help but to note the significant difference between the hills of East Tennessee and the plains of the West. As I pushed on I recalled the story of General Burnside scaling these same mountains to relieve Chattanooga and I couldn't help to feel blessed that I was pulled by the power of 290 horses and not just one.

The highway split outside Knoxville just as my first book on tape ended. I headed North towards Lexington and it was now apparent to mewhy they call UT "rocky top". Waterfalls appeared to fall from the sky as they scaled the mountainside beside me. A dense fog hung above the blacktop and made every turn an adventure. My next stop was in Kentucky where the landscape change served as an entranceway to the highway towards the Midwest.

With the mountains behind me and the straight and narrow ahead I noticed that this was a whole different kind of low country. It appeared as if it had been raining for weeks as the sprawling cornfields on both sides were flooded up to the roadway. Western Ohio was an unnoticed segway to Indiana as the farmlands appeared to be borderless. Each farmhouse seemed to serve as the postcard for my midwest stereotypes, reminiscent of "Hoosiers" and bad tornado movies.

The long lonely highway intersected with what seemed to be every other highway in the world as I reached the outskirts of Indianapolis. Twenty miles and three right turns would put me in the parking lot of my new apartment. With memories of great friends and a hell of a year in the back of my mind I had officially begun my newest adventure in Carmel, Indiana, a beautiful community twelve miles north of downtown Indianapolis. As I entered the offices and signed my lease it occurred to me that this would serve as solidifying my residency in the sixth state in as many years.

While I'm excited and thankful for my next step, I can't help but acknowledge the profound impact each of these provinces has had on who I am today. I continue to be thankful for every blessing along the way, and I look forward to sharing my next big adventure with anyone who will listen... or read.

'Til next time...

The Estranged Harmonious Muse

I envy those with the ability to express themselves through the beauty of notes through airwaves. I always have, and I certainly always will. And despite the fact that I am musically disabled to a harmonica, I have an indescribable connection to those who broadcast brilliance by emotions through a connection between their hearts, minds, fingers, and lungs.

And it's a curious matter too. I've been given every musical advantage any child could possibly be presented with. My father is obsessed with harmony and displayed this attraction in every possible amplifier throughout my life. This passion was transferred through the crackle of a James Taylor record on Rumford Street, to an obscure folk CD on the way to a youth hockey game, and on to my mothers request of "Fields Of Gold" through the towering speakers that spewed an unutterable connection on to the floors of our kitchen. With my brother thousands of miles away, our late night chats often revolve around our feelings that were so better represented in the words of others.

The modern day music atmosphere presents an entirely different means of finding the lyrics to match our emotion. Pandora and Itunes "Genius" allow for an entire night of searching to be reduced to one click. While I love the ability to locate a song a the drop of a hat, technology has almost taken away the beauty of the unexpected. Thank God my father refuses to upgrade to the newest technology. Dad is still willing to navigate through his 100 disc CD player with a compass that consists of an outdated typed-up list of album titles. Every time I come home we as a family spend the late hours of the night singing, dancing, making requests, and trying to guess which Artist will come up next. And despite the hundreds of thousands of options, somehow my father still remembers the exact track number of the song he is looking for.
This is something that transcends every branch of my family. With each Aunt, Uncle, Cousin, Grandmother and Grandfather I can find a connection through much more than just family genes; through the rhythms and sound waves that played a part in making me the person I am now, and play an even bigger part in ensuring I don't forget where I have come from.

Even this past weekend when I visited my cousin Sarah in Charlotte; when the night was winding down and we were collectively heading towards our sleeping arrangements, there was a desire for a mutual request that need not to be voiced, and I knew this to be true when I laid down to James Taylor. We both had the pleasure of growing up to the rhythms that helped to bring us all together and to help to project the strong feelings we all had for each other in the collective singing and smiling to the next song selection. So while at times pop seems too obscene, folk seems to abstract, and country seems all too familiar, it is both the familiar and incidental aspects of songs that bring us exactly to where we want to be.


And in a shameless plug, check out somehow who does an incredible job of expressing himself musically! "Like" my cousin Frank Hurd on Facebook, (http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/FrankHurdMusic), or check out his page on Youtube by searching, "Frank Hurd".

The Pink Sox

An excerpt from an email from my Father to myself, dated April 6, 2011. One day before the Red Sox and their high payroll would lose their six straight game, dropping them to 0-6 on the year.

"Theo, boy blunder, the architect of this dysfunctional mess. I cannot support a franchise that insists on Neil Diamond between innings, and pink-hatted sycophants who robotically sing along. Tradition? It’s all so bloodless. Tasteless purveyors of overpriced, over hyped schlock in the house of the splendid splinter. Bring back Haywood, Buddy and the Yawkster. I liked it better when they were lovable losers, and henceforth am switching my allegiance to the Cubbies and the romance of the curse of the billy goat. Gentleman Lou Gorman is spinning in his freshly-dug grave as Henry attempts to find a solution in his algorithms, and Epstein consults with Bill James and interns from MIT. No baseball men in a front office and owners’ suite populated by celebrities, merchandisers, quants and financiers. Open distain for you, the unwashed fan, from the ultimate gated community. They make even the Kraft family look conscientious. I, for one, cannot continue to drink that toxic cool aid. I urge an immediate boycott of Fenway and the martinis, escargot and brie they peddle to the big firm lawyers, venture capitalists, hedgies and investment bankers who can afford to join this exclusive club. And those hapless cheerleaders on captive NESN keep pumping out the happy-talk. Red Sox nation? My ass."

New England sports fans by nature overemphasize each individual win or loss.. This passion is evident in the harsh New England accents pouring their heart and souls over the airwaves of 850 AM each morning and evening commute. One day the Celtics are playoff bound and the best coached team in the league, and the next day we are calling for Doc Rivers' job. This is the nature of the beast, and every coach and player understand the dynamic of playing professional athletics in New England before they take their first swing, their first snap, or walk the tunnel on to the Garden's historic surface.

The background of each New England team is very different, however they have all converged in the same decade to demand the same outlandish results. For the longest time New England sports fans were a product of their own self fulfilling prophecies. Through the late eighties, nineties, and early two-thousands our franchises were the lovable losers. This was back when tickets to Fenway could actually be purchased for face value, Drew Bledsoe was the face of the hard nosed New England Patriots, and the Garden struggled each night to even come close to filling the stands to watch their sinking teams with little playoff hopes. The Red Sox had not won a World Championship since 1918, and the Celtics were merely mice covered by the shadow of the Giant that was the franchise only a decade or two ago.

So while we as New England sports fans do our best to justify our recent success by explaining that we suffered for far too long, it is important to remember that in fact the current longest tenured New England Athletes, Paul Pierce and Jason Varitek, both arrived in Bean Town in 1998 and 1997 respectively. So we must face it, the current look of our beloved organizations do not even resemble those of the years when Championships were scarce. We as a town love the idea of being underdogs, the lovable losers; but for the last decade New England has earned it's reputation as "Title Town". Since 2000 New England has earned six World Championships. Three for the Patriots, two for the Red Sox, and One for the Celtics. We have been spoiled! Those who can claim my generation or younger have known nothing but success. After an eigthy-six year drought the Red Sox won two World Championships in four years! Many die hard Sox fans lived without witnessing a single Red Sox World Series victory.... I witnessed two in my four years of College alone. The Celtics went from worst to first in a single season by signing three of the top fifteen players in the entire league. The Patriots made four Super Bowl appearances in eight years, and I am almost embarrassed by the payroll of this years Red Sox team.

But we've come to expect it. We think we deserve it, and we really have not had to face adversity over the last decade. The 2004 ALCS would mark the end of the era of the lovable loser yet persistent franchise, and the beginning of the new look professional sports makeup of New England. The Red Sox off season acquisitions mirrored everything I hated about the late 90's and early 2000 Yankees teams. The Red Sox ownership runs a NASCAR racing team, and recently purchased a European soccer team that is also now partly owned by Lebron James. Lebron James! The face of everything that an old school New England sports fan hates. At a Sox game you can spot more pink hats than scuffed up worn out and faded caps. Being a Red Sox fan has become trendy and hip. It's only a matter of time until tickets come with your choice of the most recent Financial Times or Maxim magazine to read while you suck down the Starbucks you bought at Gate E.

So I exaggerate a bit, what can I say, that's the old school New England sports fan in me that lives and dies by every victory and loss. So while this 0 and 6 start does not necessarily mean we are already out of the playoff race, it does provide some insight into the old days. The pre-Brady/Belicheck/Garnett/Papelbon days. This is the very reason that Bruins fans are the purest of all New England fans. We still live in a world where the playoffs are not a given, every game is an adventure, and we are still suffering through a thirty-nine year Championship drought.

And look at me now, complaining about our recent success! Only a New England fan could complain that their own success has brought them to conflict with their affiliation. The Bruins grasp on to the one remaining aspect of what it means to be a New England sports fan; the idea that maybe this could be the year.

Not for the short winded...

Editors note- Only after writing this was I aware of how long it actually was, sorry!

Hi, my name is Geoff McDonald, and I have a problem. It's chaotic, it's sporadic, it's unpredictable..... it's inconsistency. My apologies for the lack of a post this year, (see what I did there? Did you get it?) A wise man once told me, "excuses are not reasons", so here is my.... reason?

I was saving up for a blog of epic proportion. What was my thesis? That after the Patriots fourth superbowl since the age of fluidless carry-on flights, they are not only the team of the decade, but the team of the century. That there are only three guarantees in life, death, taxes, and a Patriots Superbowl win every few years. Well, after an unfortuJet event (you didn't know it was a comedy blog, did you), twenty four hours of a self-imposed bedroom lock in with my buddies Jack Daniels and Johnny Cash, and maybe a few tears, that blog was no more. I've already taken the first step in recovery. It took me a few days to realize I wasn't waking up from this nightmare, but now I can admit that it happened. The second step? I think that's moving on. With that being said, let's talk about something completely unrelated, my tumultuous relationship with running.

For so many years the sport of endurance running was a major piece of my life. I loved running for the exact reasons that I hated it. Running, is more than any other activity, performanced based and soley dependant on yourself; your training, your toughness, your passion. From a emotional standpoint, I've experienced some of my best high's and worst low's after some of my performances. You get out of running exactly what you put in to it, at times for myself it was greatness, and at times it was horrendous.

However, at every point in my life I have maintained one of the three elements of running that I consider necessary for success. Namely, passion, toughness, and dedication. The greats in the sport are able to balance these three necessities out for the majority of their careers. Unfortunately, I really only fused the forces once, and it was swiftly interrupted by mono and anemia. However short it was, I'm blessed to possess them deep down, and I'm confident one day they will come together again in some manner. I can credit these three traits to three major influences in my life, my father, my high school coach Dyrace, and my college coach Tread.

The passion came from Dyrace. Dyrace came to Bow High School my Junior year and convinced me that running track would ultimately help me with my real passion, cross country. Dyrace nurtured a culture on our team that was centered on a passion for the sport. You could hear it in his voice when he would talk about our races, and you could feel in the races, when he would read splits at every mile mark. My senior year Dyrace brought a few of us to the Boston Indoor Games, the premier indoor track and field meet. The program from the event signed by Stacy Dragilla still sits on my bookshelf. This is where the passion was born.

The passion was incorporated with the dedication aspect in College. Tread made sure that his athletes understood the difference between tired and fatigued. Tired meant you needed to stop complaining and finish the workout, and fatigued meant you'd need some time off. Tread made it clear that throughout most of my collegiate career I was tired, not fatigued. While puking three times a week sometimes can wear on you, I'm forever thankful that I have Tread as a mentor. During my toughest hours I constantly remind myself that I'm far from fatigued. Tread ran for the Nike Farm Team for a number of years, and he was one tough son of a gun. When you respect someone as much as I do, that toughness is contagious. Tread groomed the toughness that my father gave life to.

Dad was right by my side the first time I pushed myself to puking. Anyone who has seen me train or compete will tell you that there better be a bucket nearby. Understandably, this concept is absolutely foreign to anyone not familiar with the idea of pushing themselves beyond the point where your body tells you to stop. I first witnessed this phenomenon when I was around eight years old watching my dad in a road race. When he crossed the finish line I ran up to see him. What I saw was him with his hands on his knees dry heaving. The sound effects would have made Emily Rose blush. After he explained that he did it to himself I had but one thought, when can I do that.

Well the time came and it was glorious. It was the first time I ran the Saunders 10k race in Rye, New Hampshire. For those not fortunate enough to witness this let me describe the scene. A Bridge covering a creek that twisted inland from the ocean that was sporting high tide in the distance. Standing between the background and the sea-grass filled foreground was me. Shirtless, mid-stride with my head tilted to the right, and a steady stream of yellow projectile style vomit spewing from my dried-spit stained mouth. Stride-in-stride next to me was my father, head also titled to the right except instead of puke was merely a smile, the torch had been passed. Dad and I would go on to run many races together, puke included, and we have many more to go. Today on my right leg you'll find a tattoo that I designed, blending the Chinese symbols for "father" and "courage" to resemble a stick figure runner.

That tattoo was instrumental in finding that concept of pushing myself beyond my comfortable limits. I had lost it for a while; actually until today. "Crossfit" is form of training that has been around for quite some time, however in recent years it has gained almost a cult like following from a grassroots standpoint. Crossfit is the execution of "H.I.T", high intensity training. When compared to weight lifting, the idea is lighter weight, more repetitions, and combining exercises that target different muscles in drop sets, all with the purpose of keeping your heart rate elevated.

I saw that down the road from me there was a new gym that was dedicated to Crossfit. With the evening off from my night job I decided I would give it a shot. The building is a long structure with four garage doors on the front. Each garage door was up about two feet, exposing the painted concrete floor from the outside. I opened the old beat up door and as it creaked and slammed shut I took the corner. With the idea of a gym I was expecting dumbbells, benches, squat racks and leg sleds. What I saw was a rack of medicine balls, two flat bars, a metal structure with taped up bars at varying levels, three heavy bags hanging from the rafters amidst AC pipes, and one speed bag. The two garage doors in the back were opened up revealing a fenced in grassy area overlooking the sunset over the marsh. In front of it all? Four college aged girls and the instructor, Ryan. At this point I'm thinking maybe I'm at the wrong place, seeing as I'm the only guys. We wait five minutes until 6:00 when the class starts. In these five minutes Ryan leads the introductions, and quickly see that not only am I the only male, but I'm the only rookie as well.

After a stretch we do our warmup. Ryan explains that the warm up will be a combination of jump rope and push ups. The structure is as follows, 50 jumps 5 pushups, 40 jumps 5 pushups, 30 jumps 5 pushups. Mind you I haven't done cardio in about five months, so I'm hurting after the warmup. Ryan explains that there are various types of H.I.T. workouts, all named after girls. Today's lady is named Fran, but I'd soon find out that she is no Lady. Bitch would be a drastic understatement. The workout breaks down to deadlifts combined with military presses in one fluid motion, followed by a brief sprint to the metal structure for pull ups; 21 lift/presses followed by 21 pullups, then 15 of each, then 9. Ryan passes out medicine balls to the girls varying in weight from five pounds to twelve. He then explains to me that based on my size and appearance, I should be able to do the exercise with 95 pounds on the bar. I accept the challenge and we begin the workout.

The first set goes alright, although I start to struggle around number 15 of each. I run back for the second set and really struggle to hit 15, and the pullups after are embarrassing. At this point I'm starting to get that familiar feeling as I run back for my set of 9. Ryan mentions how well I'm doing time wise as I struggle to lift my first rep. As I bring it down I say, "you got any buckets". Ryan is a tough fitness guy, and recognizes the look in my eye as he fumbles to fully open the back door. I drop the weight and run out. That bitch Fran, here I am ruining a perfectly good sunset with my uncontrollable vomit that echos through the marsh. Ryan comes out and mentions how I am the first one to puke from the workout since they opened. I was also reminded that anyone who pukes gets a free t-shirt, at least there is some upside. Ryan gives me a water bottle and a few minutes to collect myself, however the puking does not slow. Ryan tells me that the clock is still running and I only have 9 more left, he asks me if I can finish. I am determined to finish so I walked back in only to immediately turn around and dry heave some more. As much as I hate to say it, my workout is done. Ryan gives me a few more minutes before coming out again to ask if, "i need to go to the emergency room", although I decline it makes me realize what sort of performance I must have been putting on.

Anyone who tells you that they feel good after a workout is not doing it right. Some people believe that during enlightenment you see God. Well after a workout I see the Devil, and his firey claws are deep in my lungs pulling them out through my throat. I often convince myself after that I will never do this again, this is how you know it's a good one. Because a few hours later I'm back on their website looking for the next weeks schedule.

Long story short, I think it might be back. I was able to combine those three elements that hadn't been united in so long. It hurts but it's incredible. And while I write this I keep thinking of those three mentors who taught me these three principles. When all three elements are working together, great results are in the near future.