The Hilly Hundred

If I may be allowed a conceit, I would like to pat myself on the back. I am pretty darn proud of myself. This past weekend, I biked the Hilly Hundred.

For those of you outside the fair state of Indiana, the Hilly Hundred is a bike tour of south central Indiana that covers 100 miles of hilly terrain over 2 days. It is a gorgeous ride, a wonderful way to meet new friends, and an incredibly grueling event.

Allow me to put this into perspective for you. I am 41.2 years old, and I make my living by sitting at a desk and typing. Before 2 years ago, the farthest I had ever ridden in a single day was 10 miles. Before 4 days ago, the farthest I had ever ridden in a single day was 40 miles. And to top it off, I own a Schwinn Criss Cross hybrid bike. Think of it as the Subaru Outback of bikes (sturdy, reliable, poor gas mileage, and definitely not a Ferrari). At best, I am an Aspiring Cyclist. By that, I mean that I am definitely a step above the general cyclists who only bike occasionally or for fun around their neighborhood, but I am not yet a Pserious Psychlist. I am sure you all recognize the Pserious Psychlists. They have the equipment, the uniform, and above all, the attitude. They zip by you on the Monon Trail at 200 miles an hour on their Trek bikes with pencil-thin tires and seven bottles of water clipped to the undercarriage. They wear skin tight biking pants, and they sport biking jerseys advertising their favorite sponsored biking team including (I'm not making this up, I really saw it) TIAA-CREF.

With mid-life staring me in the face, I needed a new physical challenge in my life. The Hilly Hundred was just beckoning. I thought, "What the heck?"

When I arrived at Ellettsville High School Friday night to register, I fully expected to be surrounded by 25 year old hardbodies with bad attitudes. Instead, I found myself surrounded by thousands of friendly people, ranging in size from skinny to portly, ranging in age from 8 to 85. Maybe, the Hilly Hundred isn't so tough, I thought to myself. Sure, it's 100 miles, but look at all these "normal" people. Heck, if they can do it, I can do it. I even rented a spot in the gym to throw my sleeping bag to show everyone that I was a normal person just like them. Just a bunch of normal Aspiring Cyclists out to have fun.

The next morning, as I was pulling on my eclectic biking gear gathered over two years of sporadic spending (bike helmet, $80 biking shorts, $10 sweat pants, $2 gloves covered by what I think were old gardening gloves, two sweatshirts, a fleece jacket, and three pairs of socks), I noticed that everyone around me...and I mean EVERYONE...was putting on quite a different uniform. Everyone had biking tights, nearly everyone had windbreakers, and most had biking jerseys. I felt like an outsider at a superhero convention. I started to feel just a weeee bit out of my depth. And this was before we started biking.

The first couple of miles were uneventful, although they were misty and cold. I got used to people zipping by me with a friendly, "On your left." What they were really saying was, "On your left, but aren't you cute for trying!" At about 7 miles in, I decided that I needed someone to bike with, someone to help me keep my pacing. I saw a gentleman in front of me who seemed to be going my speed. I sped up a bit to introduce myself and see if he minded some company. Just as I got close enough to see his face, I realized that man was about 80 years old. There is nothing more demoralizing than realizing that the one person you can keep pace with is an old guy of 80. "On your left," I said and forced myself to pass him.

Luckily, I did eventually meet a lady who was there with her family. Her family members, who had all zoomed ahead of her, met up with her at the first rest stop. "This is Zev," she told them. "He's by himself." Thankfully, she didn't add, "And isn't he cute for trying." The group immediately adopted me as one of their own and became my cheering section. I would like to give a shout out to Mary Therese, Bill, Kevin, Andrew, and Joe. Thank you. You kept me going.

Saturday, the first day of the tour, was all about survival. My goal was to get through the tour without requiring the assistance of an oxygen tank or rescue from a pick-up truck. I made it up as many hills as I could but walked part way up some of the steeper ones. Mary Therese naturally rode up every hill at 4 miles an hour. "That's OK," she said. "Many people walk up the hills at their first Hilly. I don't anymore, of course. My family would give a hard time if I did."

In other words, she was saying, "Don't you worry your pretty little head about those big hills. When you grow up, you'll be man enough to ride them all the way." Grrr. So, naturally, Sunday I had to ride up every stinking hill. And the hardest hills...they were all on Sunday. When I hit Mount Tabor (0.2 miles but a 20% grade), I found myself ascending at a glacial speed, repeating my new mantra, "I paid for this...I paid for this..."

The important thing is that I signed up, I showed up, I rode it, and I loved it. The Hilly Hundred is not just a bike tour. It is truly an event unto itself. They feed you, they entertain you, and they thrill you. You meet Aspiring Cyclists, Pserious Touring Psychlists, and yes, occasionally some Psuper Pserious Psports Psychlists. The guy who slept next to me in the gym rode 100 miles on Saturday...and THEN rode the 50 miles on Sunday. Why? Because he could. And good for him.

The funny thing is that I thought the Hilly would be an endpoint, a single tally on my bucket list. I thought I would finish the ride, flip the bird to the universe, and get back to my office and computer. But even as I sit here nursing my hobbled legs, I am planning for next year's Hilly. I am hooked, and there is no turning back.

Of course, I hope to meet up with Mary Therese and her family again. We'll ride together, eat lunch together, and laugh about the wimps carrying their bikes up the hill. And of course, there's an old guy I need to burn past. Hopefully he'll be back. He is so cute for trying.

The Healing Power of Denial

My mother tells a wonderful story about a friend of hers back in graduate school who once explained how he dealt with a cold. He explained that he crawled into bed with a bottle of tequila.
"Does that help?" my mother asked.
"Oh, Sandra," he answered, "who the hell cares?"

A stroll through the self-help section of any major bookstore leaves us with an unescapable conclusion: we have not given nearly enough recognition to the healing power of denial. In fact, denial is passed over as a psychological modality. Personally, I think that positive thinking is an outdated schema. Have we not yet learned that thinking good thoughts day in and day out is taxing to our psyche, whereas denial and negative thinking is simple and cathartic? When someone tells you to, "Have a nice day," do you actually start to think about how you can have a nice day, or do you think about how you can do bodily harm to the well-wisher?

I am going to write a book titled Who the Hell Cares?: The Healing Power of Denial and Negative Thinking. It will have its own place of honor in the self-help section of the bookstore. It will have a place of honor because none of the other self-help books will talk to it. This, of course, won't bother my book, because it will spend every evening coming up with new ways to deface Wayne Dyer's cover jacket photo.

See, I'm feeling more relaxed already.

Speaking of denial therapy, my wife had a dance performance last Saturday night. She did a bang up job (of course), but she was concerned about feeling congested the morning before the performance. "It's just allergies," she told me. And it was just allergies, all the way through the performance Saturday night, after which, on Sunday morning, it turned into a whopping case of the flu.

This coming Saturday, I am biking the Hilly Hundred. I am doing everything possible to shield myself from my wife's flu (getting a flu shot, sleeping in another bed, spraying my surroundings with disinfectant, dosing on vitamin C and elderberry extract, chewing whole cloves of garlic...). I even have been drinking my new favorite vitamin C drink, which is kind of like a poor man's Tequila Sunrise. I call it a Tequila C.

Tequila C

1 highball glass
3 ice cubes
1 jigger tequila
juice of one lime
3 oz orange juice (or enough to fill up the remaining space in the glass)

Mix all ingredients. Drink.

Every now and then, I started to feel a little tickle in my throat or a touch of congestion, but I know that because of all my preventative measures, anything I am feeling is simply allergies. And it will stay allergies through the end of the Hilly Hundred.

Of course, I fully expect to get one whopping case of the flu on Monday morning. But that's okay, because I can simply crawl into bed and cuddle with the remainder of the bottle of tequila. And will it help me recover? Who the hell cares.

There's a Sukkah Born Every Minute

You will not find it in the Hebrew Bible, you will not find it in any tractate of the Talmud, and you will probably not find it in any rabbinical responsa, but I am convinced...firmly convinced...that for a sukkah to be kosher, it needs to be kashered with the blood of the builder. A sukkah is not complete until you have picked up a splinter, cut your finger on a jagged edge, whacked your thumb with the hammer, dropped a 2x4 on your head, or - as was the case with me two years ago - broken your pinky while trying to readjust a sagging wall.

I am a little concerned that this year, I have yet to kasher the sukkah. In fact, unlike nearly every year in the past, the sukkah building went swimmingly well. IN FACT, I would go so far as to say that this year's sukkah is the most structurally stable, best decorated, and least injurious sukkah we have built to date. I am terribly worried that on the last night of Sukkot, a sudden wind storm is going to lift up my Ford Taurus, smash it into the sukkah, and spray the house with wood shards, the largest of which will embed itself into my forefinger when I leave the house the next morning and kiss the mezuzah.

So, maybe I had better enjoy the sukkah while I can.

I think I should write a book titled How Not to Build a Sukkah. Although I am in no way an expert on sukkah building, I am quite accomplished at finding ways to do it wrong. For example:

• Never store the wooden beams upright. Make sure they are flat. Otherwise, the boards will warp something terrible and make a "Sukkah with a Bad Attitude."




• Never use steel fence posts for your sukkah unless you have a post hole digger to sink the posts into the ground. Otherwise, the posts won't stand up by themselves and you will be forced to reinforce the structure with duct tape. You will have the only redneck sukkah in the neighborhood.




• Never build your sukkah so that one-quarter of it rests on the patch of lawn that suddenly slopes downward. Enough said.

This year, I decided to start over with a new design and new materials. I could go into details, but suffice it to say that the simple design took into account many of the "Don't Dos" that I described above. The final sukkah was just large enough for us to drag in three sling chairs so we could sit back and eat our pizza under the stars.

I say three chairs because Shirah made it perfectly clear that she was not going to sit out in the cold. Me, on the other hand, after everything I did to erect the stupid thing, I want to get my money's worth, even if it means brushing my teeth and getting in my pajamas in the sukkah. Now there's an image you didn't need.

Changing subjects quickly...I came across a wonderful activity to do with kids during Sukkot. I tried this out with my kindergarten religious school class, and it was a big hit.

I used graham crackers, cake icing (Duncan Hines or Betty Crocker), pretzels, and any vibrantly colored kids cereal (eg, Trix) and made sukkahs like the one in the picture. There are various tricks one can use to facilitate the building, but the basic idea is that you use the icing to stick everything together (wall to wall, pretzels to roof, cereal to walls, etc.). The construction requires a light touch (which may be challenging for young children), but the icing sticks everything together incredibly well.

Maybe I should start using cake icing on my real sukkah. I could have the only epicurean sukkah on the block. Well, maybe the only redneck epicurean sukkah.

G'mar Chatimah Tovah

Yesterday I completed, formatted, printed, and sent off The Yearly T'ruah, the Winicur family newsletter. I had set a goal of getting them in the mail before Yom Kippur, and I did it. Saturday afternoon, I stuffed about 25 High Holiday greeting cards in the mailbox. Never mind that they won't be sent out till Monday. I set my High Holidays goal and hit it.

I'm sure there is a greater lesson to be found here about waiting until the last minute to seek God's forgiveness on Yom Kippur when we had the entire year to make amends. If it weren't so late in the evening, I'm sure I could come up with a fascinating parable or amusing story to illustrate this.

Maybe the simple explanation is that Yom Kippur is our deadline for atonement and amends. Yom Kippur is the stop production, go to press, put your money down, show your cards moment when there are no more excuses. We have to face the new year with whatever we have. For one day, we stop all work, stop all pleasure, and reset our spiritual clocks. And then the deadline passes, and we can get on with our lives.

For all of you fasting, may you have an easy fast. For all of you reflecting, may you find peace in the new year.

And for all of you reading The Yearly T'ruah...may you not do any spit takes in public.

Shanah Tovah.

A Most Forgiving Honey Cake

Why is it that High Holidays always sneak up on me? How is it possible that year after year, I hit mid-September and suddenly realize that not only have I failed to write The Yearly T’ruah (our family newsletter), but the well of creativity has run dry? How is it conceivable that days before Rosh Hashanah, I suddenly realize that I have not yet baked any honeycakes or round challot? Where does the time go? It’s not as if Rosh Hashanah jumps around the Gregorian calendar. “What? Rosh Hashanah is in February this year? How odd, it was in late June last year.”

I have never been good with long-term planning. In fact, Shirah and I, after many years of marriage, finally discovered that our lives would be much easier if she took on the responsibility for long-term planning and I took on the responsibility for short-term planning. She is an excellent calendar keeper. She keeps all the family appointments, maintains our social calendar, and reminds me of upcoming events. I, on the other hand, make sure that we get to said events on time. It took us many years to hone this partnership, and we are considering trademarking our methodology, writing a self-help book, and selling it on late night TV.

If only I could finish writing this stupid family newsletter first.

Speaking of forgiveness (which we weren’t really, but segues take too much time), I have noticed that honey cake, a staple of Ashkenazic Jewish High Holiday tradition, is one of the most unforgiving cakes in the world. I have tried a variety of recipes, and they all follow the same theme…if you overbake this cake by 5 seconds, you might as well use it as a door stop or perhaps as some piece of minimalistic public art. How ironic that we celebrate a holiday about forgiveness with one of the more unforgiving delicacies. I have spent years hunting for a recipe that doesn’t prompt people to say, “Wow…that tastes…um...exotic. Especially the roasted flavor.”

After years of searching and experimenting, I present Zev’s Honey Cake recipe. I stole most of the recipe from Epicurious, but I have made enough changes that I now choose to claim it as my own. The biggest change is that I removed the mind altering drugs (coffee and brandy) and added carob powder and clove. Although clove has analgesic properties, I do not consider it a psychoactive drug like caffeine or alcohol. This is the perfect cake to serve to friends and family with alcohol or caffeine intolerances.

Of course, I eat my honey cake with a big cup of Irish coffee…but that’s just me.

Zev’s Honey Cake

1 ¾ cups all-purpose flour
1 tsp. cinnamon
½ tsp. ground ginger
¼ tsp. clove
¾ tsp. baking soda
½ tsp. baking powder
¾ tsp. salt
1 cup honey
2/3 cup vegetable oil
1 Tbs. carob powder mixed in ½ cup hot water
2 large eggs
¼ cup packed brown sugar

Prepare a 9” x 5” x 3” loaf pan by oiling the pan well, dusting it with flour, and knocking out the excess. Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Whisk together flour, cinnamon, ginger, clove, baking soda, baking powder, and salt in a small bowl. Whisk together honey, oil, and carob water in another bowl until well combined.

Beat together eggs and brown sugar in a large bowl with an electric mixer at high speed 3 minutes. Add honey mixture and mix just until blended at a medium speed, about 1 minute. Add the flour mixture and mix with a spoon until just combined. Finish mixing the batter with a rubber spatula, scraping the bottom of the bowl.

Pour batter into the loaf pan and bake for 30 minutes. Cover the top loosely with foil and continue to bake until the cake begins to pull away from the sides of the pan and a toothpick or skewer inserted in the center comes out clean, about 15 minutes. Cool on a rack 1 hour.

Run a knife around side of the cake, then invert plate over cake and invert cake onto plate. Turn cake right side up on cooling rack and cool completely.

Zev’s notes:

Cake keeps at room temperature 1 week if wrapped tightly in plastic wrap or in an airtight container.

Resist the urge to cut into the cake to taste it while it is still warm. This will release the steam, and the cake will dry out sooner.

Let the cake sit at least one day before serving. The cake gets moister after a few days…or at least that’s what I’ve read. I usually can’t wait that long.

Remember to err on the side of underbaking rather than overbaking. Once the cake has baked 45 minutes, check it ever 3 minutes or so. YOU CAN NOT UNDO AN OVERBAKED HONEYCAKE.

L'Shanah Tovah from the President

L'Shanah Tovah Tikateivu. May you all be inscribed for a good year in the Book of Life, and may you have a sweet new year.

President Obama's Rosh Hashanah message to the country (and the world) is a wonderful message. I think our Rabbis should play it before their sermons tomorrow morning (on a timer so as not to violate Shabbat...obviously).

Mimbibbit - Part 1

Thank you, all of you, who participated in the second annual Monon Milestone Birthday Bike Tour. That is now the official name, mostly because I want to see if I can get people to casually refer to it as the MMBBT (pronounced "mimbibbit"). Hey, if Hoosiers can refer to IUPUI as "ooey-pooey" without giggling or refer to Broad Ripple without saying, "Mmm...that sounds good. I'll have a scoop too," than mimbibbit seems like a small leap.

We had beautiful weather on Saturday. Eleven of us (including me) started out together on the Monon, and probably no more than three of us (including me) actually finished the 34 miles round trip including the newly opened Westfield leg of the Monon. It doesn't matter. The fact that I got ten other people to join me was a great belated birthday present. And the fact that the youngest member of our group, who is only 7 years old, managed to bike at least 9 miles, is nothing short of amazing. You know who you are, and you are my hero.

Only one of the group refused to wear a bike helmet. You know who you are, and your mother and I are about to give you some major aggravation. Be prepared.

I find the Monon trail to be a fascinating ride, mostly because it cuts a cultural swath through the Indy metro area. There is no better way to understand Indianapolis/Carmel than to ride the Monon.

At 16th Street, you start at the Frank and Judy O'Bannon Old Northside Soccer Park, where you are sure to find young, athletic African men playing soccer. The international flair provides an interesting multicultural start to the trail.

You immediately travels north past lumber, construction, and trucking companies to see the blue collar backbone of our city.

You pass several grassy parks and eventually crosses Fall Creek to see a more pastoral view of the city. There is a rough, unkempt, authentic feel to this part of the trail...a feeling that even in the midst of the urban city, nature can take care of itself for a while.

You ride up to 38th Street, and if you can cross the two-lane road without dying or (worse yet) soiling yourself, you can pass by the Indiana State Fairgrounds. You will not actually see the fairgrounds themselves, but you will see all the trailers parked outside the fairgrounds. This provides an interesting view of all the "real" people supporting the State Fair. Actually, this part of the ride is kind of boring.

You travel north to see the backyards of many lower class houses. Slow down to watch people fixing cars, playing basketball, cooing over babies, mowing lawns, and generally being real life people.

Look to the right to see the Indiana School for the Deaf. It is a beautiful campus. The sunflowers are in full bloom now.

Continue north to Broad Ripple. Here everything feels more overgrown but in a controlled way. Lush gardens pop up right and left. The houses are still small, but the gardens make them look more young professional and less working class. To the right, you will pass Canterbury Park where a volleyball game between attractive 20-somethings is almost always in session. Young parents are strolling about the playground with their infants and toddlers. Most of them eye me suspiciously. I speed up.

Be careful. The traffic is increasing on the path, although nearly all of the pedestrians and bikers are still pretty respectful of the rules of the road.

Eventually you get to Broad Ripple Avenue, the new hippie business district. Take a jaunt over to Good Earth Natural Foods to stock up on Tiger's Milk bars. Or better yet, stop over at Red Mango Frozen Yogurt, a trendy new yogurt restaurant. Try their Tangomonium with fresh mango topping or (better yet) fresh raspberries.

North of Broad Ripple Avenue, high school students, college students, and young professionals walk and ride up and down the path. This is a great place to hang out if you want to pretend that you are still young and hip. Just please don't use the term "hip". That and your receding hairline will give you away.

At 67th Street, you pass the Indianapolis Art Center. Stop at the sculpture garden if you have a minute. Some of the art is incredibly engaging, especially the giant balls woven out of wicker...assuming they haven't taken them down yet.

As you get closer to the White River, enjoy the greenery. This is one of the prettiest parts of the trail. However, be careful. You are now entering the Zone of Extreme Stupidity. Here is where you are most likely to meet wildly veering pedestrians on cell phones, little children vapidly exploring the wrong side of the path, and hard core bikers speeding past you at 25 miles per hour without announcing themselves. It is hear that you are most likely to lose an appendage or wrap your bike around a baby stroller.

Please be careful.

However, the greenery is stunning along Marott Park. Next to this stretch of path are dense patches of trees, thick vines hanging low, and lush ground cover. It's a bit spooky at dusk. Not that I ever ride at dusk since that's against the rules of the trail. Obviously.

However, just north of 75th Street, stop for a minute at the entrance to the Indiana School for the Blind. This is a great place to eat your Tiger's Milk Bar and feel the tiled bas-relief sculptures standing tall like turquoise crystals ready to orate a mysterious ancestral history. They are very cool.

You continue north to 86th Street where you stop at Chris's Mexican Food to get a scoop of ice cream (assuming you are not already full from the frozen yoghurt and Tiger's Milk Bars). Chris's Mexican Food used to be Chris's Ice Cream Shop, and the irony is that the ice cream is much better now that the place is under new Mexican management and no longer called an ice cream shop. It is worth the stop, even if only for a $2 child size cone.

North of 86th Street, the trail stretches out into long stretches of new development. I call this the badlands. The badlands continue to 96th Street, where the Indianapolis portion ends, and a friendly sign invites you to Carmel, "A bicycle-friendly community." Naturally, you continue on...

(To be continued)