The Written Word

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 2 Comments
Worth checking out for a little bit of perspective.
The written word is a funny thing. I’ve been reading more than I sometimes do, and the mood of eloquent men is infectious. I’m coming now from a brief two weeks in the basin and range and am engrossed in the canonical letters of Hunter S Thompson’s formative years. His desperate, proud disdain for the quiet life is consuming my schemes and private thoughts. I’ve been susceptible to this; I’ve been in a vulnerable place. The desert resonates with dreamers, and only a wretched soul, too far lost to the linear parcours and stagnant inertia of 40 hours and a cold pint on Friday can wake to crisp frigid air and towering, scarlet, dawn-touched walls without starving for something else. But this is different. This transcends the romance of Desert Solitaire,that melancholy and naïve nostalgia for a time and place that I didn’t know. Thompson lets my daydreams find me manic and addled and unsettled. When it becomes too much I turn to those modernist expatriates to sooth my chaotic fervor with a cool and comforting depression, but the longing persists and I glance again towards what might be.
These men effect a new world view, in in substance and in form. McCarthy has me using “and” a lot, in print and in speech and in thought. And the deeper I reach into the private letters of HST I can’t help but confront that great question, if superficially, of whether we’ve been taking All This far too seriously or not nearly seriously enough. Is This some great existential comedy, to which we’ve ascribed all worth out of insecurity and fear, and extrapolated from these insipid constructs our values and the reactionary meaning that they imply? Is it some vapid curtain of distractions that we’ve knit for ourselves, that should be torn down and mocked with angst and disgust? Are we all just exonerated sinners, going about our lives under watchful, faded eyes on a highway billboard? If this is the case it seems that beyond simple creature comforts, that this life is a joke; something to be laughed at and to draw scorn when it receives undue respect or the notion that any truth beyond the calculus can exist.
On the other hand, this is all we have. Why not cast aside the discussion of value and meaning and accept that while here for this brief time, it is our responsibility, if to no one but ourselves, to experience and appreciate and create everything that we can. To acknowledge that cynicism is an ugly kind of narcissism and allow ourselves to be amazed by the spectacle unfolding before us. We have one go at This, and it seems a dreadful waste of time to sit brooding about meaning or cosmic intent, because, well, for one reason or another, here we are.
And so these are optimistic and pessimistic views of that basic observation: here we are. Ultimately I expect that whichever lens through which you choose to view the world the conclusions might be the same. That whether you’re lashing back against that societal corral which would have you at the feed lot into your 60’s, only to be dispatched to a home and quietly out of sight once you’ve fattened some coffer and been used up, or whether you’re hungry for the new and untasted. Whether you scoff at the effort of irrelevant improvement or prefer to pine for wild and untamed experiences, it seems as though the only option is to cut and run: because it doesn’t matter at all, or it’s the only thing that matters.
Of course none of this really makes any sense. We have to eat, and we like to be warm, and we owe it to ourselves and to our loved ones to plan on waking up again tomorrow. We need to work and to save and to understand that someday we won’t have the means to earn, and will want to be comfortable. And so we sin. We make sacrifices now for the benefit of our futures, and it’s hard to argue that that’s the wrong thing to do. So I’ll return, now, from those magical red cliffs and staggering starry nights to greet shirked duties and grimace, but the gypsy blood is stirring inside of me again.

Disaster Strikes

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 5 Comments

During my time in Guatemala, I have fallen victim to a number of setbacks. My luggage was run over by an airplane and subsequently destroyed, my checking account was reduced to $1.49 by an ATM scam, and I’ve spent numerous hours recovering from imprudent street food decisions. I’ve managed to recover from these inconveniences gracefully, but none so far can compare to the Universe’s most recent affront. Last night my flip flops were eaten and rendered unwearable by the neighbors poorly disciplined and unruly pair of dachshund puppies.

This may seem petty and inconsequential when viewed in light of the crippling poverty that envelopes this country, and the cheerfulness with which its inhabitants lead their lives. Maybe it is petty and inconsequential, but I hate shoes. Even more than I hate shoes, I hate socks. In a way, it started generations ago; I have had the good fortune to inherit my parents’ good breeding. But just as purebred showdogs are sometimes prone to hip dysplasia, I have very sweaty feet. In this tropical climate in which I live the regular donning of shoes and socks is simply unacceptable. I have visited various shops as well as the open air market in search of a suitable replacement, but my feet are four sizes larger than those of the largest Guatemalan. Cursed again by my champion pedigree.
This injustice will not rest until the culprit is broken upon the wheel or otherwise castigated. The trick will be to identify which rodent was responsible. I have a great deal of respect for the right to due process, and have confirmed that it was one of the two neighbor dogs by two concrete pieces of evidence: They are the only dogs who ever have access to my apartment, and they left their criminal signature: they also ate my dirty underwear. They’ve been sneaking into my apartment to eat my underwear for months now, and their indulgence this time will be there downfall.
I guess this is another lesson in the impermanence of material things.

“Bonk-Thirty: The Guatemala Edition” or “A missed opportunity”

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 1 Comment
As a recreational cyclist, one who moved to Guatemala to pursue a job that relies heavily on cycling, I’m probably due for a post that assumes cycling as its foremost topic. This realization coincides nicely with my first Central American bonk, which is convenient for making a decent story.
The day began innocently enough as I set off in the back of a pick-up truck towards the small town of Santa Maria de Jesus, on Volcan de Agua. My goal was to learn a route that had been scouted several months ago by a different guide and marked with red paint. Kevin, another guide, joined me as far as the trailhead but returned with the truck, as he hates bikes. I dropped into the beginning of the descent extremely skeptically. Up to this point the riding has been decent but by no means noteworthy. The trails are not designed or maintained for riding, and are used almost exclusively by local farmers as modes of transportation between their homes and their fields. Furthermore, the beginning of this ride was littered with household trash that was staggering even for rural Guatemala, and I was already crabby because I was sure that riding in this area alone I would be robbed and have to walk home in riding shoes and a montanacyclocross.com kit. My mood degenerated more when I came to the first split in the trail and found that while the turn was, in fact, marked with red paint, that that paint mark was located directly in the center of a rock that laid directly between the two trails. Rats. Fortunately, two farmers were resting in the shade nearby and through limited frustration, broken Spanish, and enthusiastic gesticulation I determined the proper way. My skepticism of this trail continued for another minute as I was stuck behind two Mayan ladies carrying twice their body weight in corn. However, it lasted only a minute and as soon as I made my pass I was unleashed upon an Eden of singletrack bliss. I was far enough from the town, now, that the litter had diminished to the infrequent discarded Tortrix bag, and there was absolutely zero indication from the quality of riding that this trail wasn’t designed, engineered, and built exclusively for riding mountain bikes. Flowing banked corners were punctuated by root drops and rock gardens before entering into a river of cooled pahoehoe, which through a geologic lens was nothing short of awe inspiring. Short, technical climbs sustained elevation throughout the descent, making the ride almost tantric as it continued despite relativley modest change in elevation. Eventually the singletrack flowed into a dirt mountain road, which through years of neglect and torrential rain had managed to form a series of doubles which were easily cleanable even by my modest (read: essentially non-existant) capacity to leave the ground. Road gave way to road, and by the time I returned to Antigua I was on cloud nine, reveling in this discovery of decent trail. In my euphoria, I set off immediately towards another small mountain town, El Hato, to investigate reports of trail there.
My plan for the day had been to research and learn the ride from Santa Maria. Check. It had taken less time than anticipated, however, and my plan expanded to ride to above El Hato, find a trail to another town, San Mateo, and ride the road back from San Mateo to Antigua. It seemed simple enough, I was feeling good, and my breakfast of two pieces of banana bread and two endurolytes seemed ample to continue fighting the good fight. Incorrect. Perhaps this is a good time to discuss road building trends in Guatemala. The mountains here are very steep, and the “engineers” seem to have been focused on getting the most bang for their buck when it came to paving supplies. There are no switchbacks to speak of, and almost no roads that follow the contour of the hillside. The roads here go straight up, and straight down. The first climb out of Antigua to El Hato is challenging but not entirely uncivilized, and having ridden it before I was
mentally prepared. It’s about a 5k climb and only the first 1.5-2k are very steep. After that it settles into a difficult and consistent grade that is well suited to riders who prefer to settle into a tempo and go. I’m one of those riders, and I generally enjoy this climb. I arrived without Incident in El Hato, which was pretty much the end of the fun part. Recalling instructions from another rider, I continued around a bend and was greeted by a cobblestone hill that I can, with a clean conscience, describe in the same breath as the word “Koppenberg.” I composed myself briefly and assaulted this stone wall with the full utility of my small chainring. I had considered switching my bike to a single speed before moving down here for ease of maintenance. That would have been imprudent. After summiting this road I was battered down for another ten minutes by equally steep, albeit paved climbing. I eventually found what turned out to be about 3k of singletrack which can at best be described as mediocre. A much more interesting discovery happened halfway through this traverse to San Mateo when I realized that I was about fifteen minutes shy of a bonk. Double Rats. I rolled into San Mateo as the lethargy and moodiness began to take hold, and sought out a tienda to replenish myself before the cruise home. As soon as I purchased my Pepsi and fried pigskins, I was accosted by a number of grown men who started asking for money. I gave them the second half of my snack and headed back to Antigua. Then shit got real. The road out of San Mateo, it turns out, is not a simple cruise along the ridge to El Hato. It is a 6k climb of above 20% that frequently exceeds 30%. It did not take long to be become quite clear that the Pepsi was not going to cut it. After what seemed like an eternity of climbing in my granny gear and doing those pitiful little switchbacks from curb to curb (the ones that silently yell, “please run me over with that bus and end this miserable disgrace to my Coat of Arms.”), I made it to the ridge and descended with irresponsible alacrity through through El Hato and back to Antigua. Once there I wallowed for a while in self-pity before ordering two lunches from the nice ladies across the street, devouring those, and passing out with Xela in her bed. It wasn’t until I awoke that I learned of my greatest regret since arriving here.
That regret, of course, is missing a horse race on All Saints Day a few towns over. This is not your regular Kentucky Derby slosh fest, but something special. The sort of thing that might have convinced Hemingway to hold out long enough to have a look. My details of this race are sketchy at best: told third hand over a bar, but are ample to ignite any imagination with a pulse. Imagine, for a moment, that you could combine the Beer Mile with the Italian Palio. Now add that lawless, chaotic din and the irreverent disregard for the provision of life and limb that typifies the Central American third world. Now, you have the All Saints Day horserace. The premise goes something like this: local contestants toe the line next to their horse on one side of town. The gun goes off and the men drink a beer as fast as they can, mount their steeds, and race across town to the other side, where another beer is waiting. The race goes back and forth across town until a winner emerges. And that’s the beauty of this race. I don’t know what sort of time constraints there are on the competitors, but there must be some, because unlike the Beer Mile, or the Palio, or almost any other race out there, the winner is the last man standing/riding. It goes until all but one individual has incapacitated himself and withdrawn, which is a truly beautiful concept. With this race in mind, you can count on my returning to Guatemala during the first week in November at some point in the future. Any takers?

Big City

~ TheGentlemanAtLarge ~ 5 Comments
Photos by Kevin Horan.
I’m safely back in Antigua now, made it a few days ago. The weather is hot again, and work has slowed slightly but is still consistent. I’ve also been doing a little bit of riding on my own, which will receive more attention in a later post. No, today I’d like to reflect a little bit on my time in Chicago. Not the whole time, mind you, that would be as excruciating to write as it would be to read, and I will spare all of us. Last Friday night I had a rare opportunity to spend a night in theTrump International Hotel & Tower in Chicago. This was an incredible experience, one that I don’t imagine I will repeat any time soon, and I would hate to give the impression that I am in any way ungrateful. That said, I couldn’t help but make a few observations.
The Trump Towers are at once a symbol of the enterprise and success that has accompanied development in the United States since it’s inception, and yet another cobble in the road of excess that will eventually be her downfall. Before I begin, there were a few small, unavoidable things that rubbed me the wrong way. For instance, I don’t like having the door held for me. It makes me feel weird. Certainly, if I’m carrying an armoire or something of the like it’s a welcome courtesy, but if I’m simply coming or going, I would just as soon do it myself. I feel the same way escalators and those moving walkways in the airport. Perhaps they have an application, but for me it’s not right. Aside from a loving and well-bred family and a devoted corps of friends, I don’t really have anything going for me. That is, I’m penniless and virtually unemployed. But I do have my health, and until I join the ranks of the invalid and the dilapidated, I will walk, I will open my own doors, and I will put on and take off my own jacket, thank you very much. I digress, and I apologize. The Trump Towers website describes their rooms as “sumptuous,” and if I tried I could not conceive of a better choice. The room was an intricate mesh of glamour and gluttony, and I’ve done my best here to unweave it for you here:
Glamour This is the view from our room, overlooking the Tribune Building, the Chicago River (in your eye, nature), and Lake Michigan:

Here is the view from the other side of the hotel:

Excess: Here is the bottled water selection in the room:


And here is the pamphlet that describes the options:
It’s slightly difficult to tell from the photo, but the page is entitled “water library” in trendy font and all lower case letters, as if the bourgeois proprietors are above grammar and capitalization. It goes on to detail the selections, which range from $10-25 per bottle. The most expensive option is Bling, with which the bottle comes bedazzled with “genuine Swarovski crystals.”
Glamour: The rooms did come complete with a cocktail shaker and stainless ice bucket, which is, in a word, incredible.

Excess: This final point comes without a photo accompaniment, but can be adequately addressed in text. While perusing the (exquisite) room service book, I came upon a tab entitled, “Pillow Menu.” Being of a romantic and culinary mind, my imagination quickly went to a list of chocolate dipped fruits and aphrodisiac finger food. Incorrect. It was, quite literally, a selection of the different pillow options that are available to hotel guests. The list is . . . comprehensive. Fortunately a copy of this menu managed to find its way into my carry-on, and I’ve seen fit to furnish this post with a selection or two. Check that, I haven’t got a tour until this afternoon, so I will transcribe the entire menu. Presumably, this is the intellectual property of the Trump fortune, but I will justify this to myself as advertisement. Here it goes:
Pillow Menu
Your room is appointed with luxurious pillows comprised of a 50/50 blend of Goose Down and White Goose Feathers. Incased [sic] in a 300 thread count fabric, our pillows are light and lofty for your comfort.
Trump International Hotel & Tower is pleased to offer the following pillows to make you more comfortable while away from home.
AIRWAY PILLOW
This pillow reducing snoring by preventing the airway to the throat from closing, while also minimizing neck and shoulder soreness.
BODY PILLOW
When placed along the contours of th body while sleeping, a body pillow provides upper support for the shoulders. By placing the pillow between your knees, it will help relieve pressure on the hips.
DENSITY PREFERENCE
Feather or synthetic pillows are available in a SOFTER or FIRMER density to match your preference. We would be delighted to deliver either to your guest room.
JUNIOR BODY PILLOW
This is a smaller version of the body pillow, which is next best thing to snuggling with a favorite stuffed animal, for our younger guests.
LEG BOLSTER
Provides relief to the lower back and help promotes [sic] circulation by providing an incline on which to prop up the knees and legs.
SYNTHETIC PILLOW
A “down alternative” and completely non-allergenic, can be delivered immediately to your room.
AROMATIC PILLOWS
Authentically hand picked and handcrafted, these Himalayan herbal blended pillows reflect rich indigenous healing by incorporating Ayurvedic knowledge, Tibetan therapies, and the wisdom of mountain healers. Free of pesticides and fortified with natural, organic fertilizers, our five signature pillows have been created to parallel your choice of a personal intention which can be experience first hand at The Spa at Trump. Silk wrapped, these aromatic pillows are the perfect addition to help enhance your wellbeing throughout your stay.
Calm
“Experience Stillness and Quiet Thoughts”
Hand picked in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains, Camphor, Sage, Safflower and Orange Blossom are blended into this pillow to relax, soothe and prepare your body for a restful evening of deep, peaceful sleep.
Balance
“Integrate harmony, Compassion & Well Being”
Allow the healing properties of Yland Ylang, Geranium, Licorice, Fennel and Nettle to stabilize your mood, activate courage, strengthen and enhance the relaxation process.
Purify
“Cleanse Body & Spirit”
Genuine Himalayan herbs and essential oils such as Juniper, Grapefruit, Sandalwood, Artemesia and Mentha will foster mental clarity, inspiration and enlightenment to enhance awareness, fuel the mind and stimulate peaceful dreams.
Heal
“Relax the Mind & De-Stress”
The Himalayan herbs contained in this pillow help to reduce th symptoms of headaches, minimize mental distress and nervous tension. A combination of refreshing essential oil scents and hers of Chamomile, Bergamot, Lemongrass and Sandalwood deliver the ultimate in relaxation.
Revitalize
“Restore Depleted Energy and Stimulate Creativity”
A mixture of Rosemary, Basil, and Lemongrass has been chosen to aid in clearing the mind, sharpen memory, promote increased energy levels, to reveal an uplifted inner self.
So that was pretty much the gist of my Trump Towers experience. I made it back to Antigua safely (after taking a cab to O’Hare directly from the bar at 0330 to catch a flight at 0530), to be greeted by a curious sight on the soccer field near my apartment. The event was apparently sponsored by Gallo Beer and a beverage called Super Cola. Several large tents were present, as well as plastic chairs for several hundred. Simply based on my impressions as I walked by this was either some sort of regional break-dance competition, set to American Top 40 music, or a really fun wedding. At least it seemed that way before the evening ended abruptly at 9pm with an English language performance of “Silent Night.” Curious.