Groucho Gnome Series: Even dogs love us.

Thanks to @anaphase for the photo!

We LOVE this.

Probably one of the most inspiring videos we've seen all year.

Jim: My 2011 Diet Plan

Erin: Freedom & Bliss On Wheels

Flashback to Christmas 1991. I was apparently a really good girl that year because Santa brought me what I considered to be quite possibly the best gift ever.

Black with hot pink wheels and laces, Rollerblades were the only thing on my list. It didn’t matter that two feet of snow usually blankets northwest Minnesota until April and that there isn’t an indoor roller skating rink within 70 miles of Hallock. It made no difference that I couldn’t actually Rollerblade for months because I wanted those sassy wheels so badly I could barely stand it.

So what did I do? Well, before the reams of wrapping paper were even cleaned up on Christmas morning, I laced those babies up and skated circles in our one-car garage until I was dizzy. That and an occasional blade on the hardwood floors in our house (mom was never pleased when that happened… “Eeeeeeeriiiiiiiiin! You’re leaving marks all over the kitchen floor!”) tied me over until spring… barely.

When I wasn’t wearing them, the blades were sitting in my bedroom, taunting me, reminding me that it was 27 below outside and that I was exiled inside for what seemed like an eternity. Spring. Could. Not. Arrive. Fast. Enough!

And as soon as the streets were mostly clear and dry (this was probably in late March, right before another snow storm hit), I couldn’t wait any longer. Those streets – still covered with sand and gravel put down for traction during the winter – were mine. Not a day went by that I didn’t wear them. I glided up and down Douglas, forward and backward down Birch. I lived in those slick black and hot pink Rollerblades all summer long.

Fast forward to 2010. While not a Christmas gift (but, whoa, would this be an amazing gift), I am having similar (if not more antsy) feelings about my Trek Madone (hint-hint for next year, mom and dad: A tri bike would probably be the best gift ever, even better than Rollerblades).

It’s currently sitting in the hallway near my kitchen, simultaneously collecting dust and calling my name. It is begging to be pedaled. And I am dying to go for a spin.

So, unless I buy a trainer (but really, it would pale in comparison to riding outside), I will continue to count down the days until that inaugural 2011 ride.

Freedom and bliss on wheels…

Carly: Goooooooaaaaaaaaaallllllll(s)!

With the new year fast approaching, many of us are making a mental list of our flaws and vices, trying to come up with tangible things that we can easily change about ourselves. I personally think that new year's resolutions have gotten such a bad reputation for not being completed (psssh, who keeps those things anyway?) that I don't even bother with them. It's not that I'm perfect or that I'm not interested in self-improvement; I just take a different approach to the future, and with a little help from my family, I have a set of goals for 2011.

That's right, I said family. The people we are stuck with from birth, that nag us because they love us, and drive us absolutely crazy at times. It should come as no surprise that the people that have known you the longest are helpful at coming up with things you can work towards in the realm of self-improvement, but I have a sneaking suspicion that not every family is as willing as mine to embrace one another's advice.

Our tradition started a few years ago when we all sat down and tried to make our new year's resolutions. After some "I don't know what to put" and "do we really have to do this?" sentiments, I had an idea that we should help one another with our inward reflection. This year, after Christmas-day dinner, we got out our sheets of paper, put our names on the top and passed the sheet of paper to the right. There happened to be four of my other family members at this dinner, so by the time my sheet of paper got back to me, I had four really great ideas for how I could improve myself and my life for the better in 2011. Once you get your paper back, you're not necessarily stuck with the goals set in front of you. We are all given a chance to write our own personal goal, just in case someone missed something we really wanted to accomplish, and we are given the chance to disagree with or modify any goal we don't think we can accomplish or need to work on at all.

Now, proceed with caution, as this might not work for your family, but as for me, if I accomplish all of my 2011 goals set out for me by my family, I will have one great year. Everything on my list is well within my ability to achieve and well worth the effort. Good luck!

New Year Resolution.

If you happen to know Team Groucho personally, then you probably know that there's not much else we love more than setting (and accomplishing) fresh goals. Goals keep us focused, on fire, and looking forward to the future. Which is also why we always get pretty pumped about New Year Resolutions. Say what you will about them, but you gotta admit...the spirit of it is pretty stellar. A brand new start, a set date to try something new, a call for fresh challenges.

And we got one for you. This week we've set a goal of reaching 450 Groucho Sports Facebook Fans. We're at 241 right now. Yeah, yeah, we feel you...everyone and their mom tries to get more Facebook fans at least once a year, and we get a little tired of it, too. Our reasons for setting this goal, though, is a bit more complicated than just bragging rights.

Our main goal is being able to have a wider conversation with you all. We think our Facebook page is a pretty dope place to hang out - fun articles, cool videos, engaging intellectual discussions on favorite Christmas movies - and we're intent on making it even cooler in 2011. The way we would like to do that is to tie more community into our page. We want to make the Groucho Sports Facebook page a place where you can learn about the latest happenings in both the local and worldwide sports communities. We've got some cool friends, and we'd like you to be able to get to know them better...but we also know that - despite being extremely hip and socially-in-demand people - we don't know everybody. The best thing about Groucho is getting to know you guys, and learning more about what gets you amped when it comes to life, sports, community, and fun. So it comes down to this: The more people that join our conversation, the more interesting it becomes for everyone.

We're also planning on separating our content via Facebook and Twitter in 2011. While we've enjoyed the ability to have different discussions on the same topic via Facebook and Twitter, it's time to separate the two and give you something different on each platform. So we don't want you to miss out, yo.

If we reach our goal of 450 Facebook Fans, we'll be giving away a Super Sweet Giveaway Pack - a limited edition Groucho water bottle and a Street Origin T-Shirt - to a randomly-selected Facebook fan. None of this "450th follower gets the prize" stuff...we like new friends, but we love our old ones. If everyone is helping us reach our goal, everyone has a chance at the Super Sweet Giveaway Pack.

So that's the rap on that. Now get out there and spam your friends and family about joining us. Besides, it'll give you a good way to make Aunt Cathy feel like she's a bigger part of your life.

And then come back over here and give us the skinny on what your New Year Resolution is going to be...inspired by Erin to do a 30 Day Yoga Challenge? Or perhaps you're determined to eliminate a bad habit that's wreaking havoc on your life, like consuming sugar-laden drinks or watching "Keeping Up With The Kardashians"? C'mon! Tell us!

We can't support you unconditionally if you don't let us in, pal.

Luke: Your Mug on a Mug

“Your race pictures now available!!” The email said, alerting me to the fact that I could buy a 4x6 of myself looking like hell for the low, low price of $9.95. Or “Get Your Mug on a Mug!” for $24.95.

Does anyone actually buy these? I guess I could see if it was a bucket list marathon, or you ran dressed up as Yoda or something, but otherwise…what do you do with a picture of yourself with a patch of blood in your nippular region, leg hair matted and sticky from spilled Gatorade, a weird white substance that you really, really hope is Body Glide caked across your inner thigh, and your face looking like you're moments away from vomiting on your shoes or the shoes of the 75-year-old woman next to you, who looks positively gazelle-like in comparison?

And that was one of the good pictures.

(And don’t even get me started on the idea of pictures in 5k races. What is that about?)

It doesn’t help that I have horrible running form. Terrible. No good. Very bad. I blame it on having knee issues during my formative years, unable to run for extended periods of time without pain from the ages of about 12-19 thanks to Osgood-Schlatters or “Growing Pains.” As it was explained (“Show me that smile again.”)…uh, to me the bones in my leg (“Don’t waste another minute on your cryin’.”)…um, are fused together so there’s a (“The best is ready to begin”)…I’m sorry, that’s really distracting. Are you done yet? (“Yes”)

*pause*

So like I was saying, (“Ooooooh.....As long as we’ve got each other,”)…sigh…(“Baby rain or shine, all the time, we got each other, Sharing the laughter and loooooove.”) I hate you, you know that right? (“Sharing the laughter and looooove!”)

(Who would have ever guessed that Ben Seaver would turn out to be the only normal kid from that show?)

Aaaanyway, so I didn’t run track or cross country in high school, sticking to golf as my only school sanctioned sport, and bike racing during the summers (having a shoe box of medals is almost as cool as a letter jacket, right? Oh wait, I earned a letter for band. Yep. That. cool.) and so I never really learned “how” to run. I just ran.

Which probably explains why I run like...well, let’s take a look at a sample race picture, this from the 2009 Indianapolis Community Marathon...

Do you see it?

No? Really?

Okay what about now?

Yep, I run like a dinosaur.

With my arms carried too far back (No wonder I spill Gatorade on myself during races. It looks like I need to just toss the cup into the air and try to catch as much as I can in my mouth because there’s no way those stubby little things are getting anywhere near my mouth), a slight forward lean (which would be balanced by my tail, except for, you know, I don’t have a tail), and a relatively short stride for my height, I look like I should be going “Brrraaaaagggghhhh!” and chasing after a jeep being driven by Jeff Goldblum.

It’s okay though. I’ve come to accept it. There are people who look goofier than I do. Like…uh…Phoebe from that one episode of Friends. And Speedy Gonzalez, who despite being the fastest mouse in all of Me-hico doesn’t use his arms at all. And anybody doing the Running Man. (And to answer your question, yes, me doing the Running Man is just as hilarious/pitiful as you think it is).

And the fact that my dad runs the same way suggests that some ancestor must have been very good at hiding because genetically we’re not going to be outrunning any kind of predator.

Or catching Jeff Goldblum in Jurassic Park. *shakes fist * Next time Goldblum…next time…

Happy Holidays from our Groucho Blogger Team!

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

Happy Holidays from Team Groucho!...and George Michael!

Personalize funny videos and birthday eCards at JibJab!

We thought a little Holiday Hustle was the most appropriate way to spread our holiday spirit.

Jim: A Different Title.

“It’s okay to be boring”. This was the planned title for today’s post, until I received a healthy dose of perspective.

This weekend I was on the phone talking to my friend Darryl (@lovingthebike) explaining how we received SO much snow and that I wasn’t certain if it would allow me to get the run mileage needed for the Austin marathon in February.

Darryl mentioned all the cool things I would miss... the marathon, a tweet up with our #bikeschool buddies, visits to the local bike shops and the North American Handmade Bicycle Show. I didn’t want to let him down so I told him I’d try a 10 mile long run this weekend and see how it went.

In reality I haven’t been hungry enough to put in the miles for marathon training. I’ve been perfectly happy with my streak of low mileage runs. What’s wrong with a boring, predictable 5K or less every day? It’s okay to be boring and consistent, right?

The next morning instead of bolting out the door for a long run, I decided to slurp some coffee and watch the Ironman Triathlon. One amazing story after another unfolded... people becoming an Ironman after surviving cancer, with amputated limbs, at 80 years of age, the incredible stories just went on.

One lady walked the entire marathon in a supportive boot. Her doctors removed the casted stress fracture two weeks earlier. My take home message? The human body is capable of far more than we can imagine.

Sitting there on the couch with an empty coffee mug and a fresh perspective, I thought about all my lame excuses. Sure there’s a ton of snow out there and last week the thermometer had troubles hitting zero, but today was another day - sunny and almost 20 degrees.

My running haiku tells the rest of the story (for now).

Painted little tree

things we see under the bridge

planned 10 ran 13.

Groucho Gnome Series: Happy Holidays, Part 3!

Thanks to @bikerly for the pic!

Erin: Happy Holidays

So here it is: December 22. Two days until Christmas Eve. And I haven’t done one stitch of shopping. Lovely.

I have a lengthy list of ideas, yes, but between writing grad school final research papers and working a full-time job, squeezing in an excursion to the mall (and it is an excursion of epic proportions to maneuver minivan traffic in mall parking lots) hasn’t exactly been a top priority. Well, that, and working under a tight deadline has always been my forte.

Quite honestly, though, what I’d love to do for Christmas this year is not exchange any gifts.

That’s right. No. Gifts. Not a one.

The holiday season would be so much simpler and less stressful. Wouldn’t you agree?

No racing from store to store, buying unnecessary gifts and stocking-stuffers that end up in the garage sale pile or collecting dust. And no last minute shopping on December 24 to buy “just one more thing” because it just doesn’t feel like you bought enough for so-and-so.

Christmas after Christmas, I fret about finding the *perfect* gift for each of my loved ones. High-tech coffee/espresso grinder/maker/brewer for the parents. Antique dishes for mom’s ever-growing collection. Cycling gear for dad. That camera bag my sister has been wanting for her 30D for.ever.

Stuff, stuff and more stuff.

And stuff no one remembers they bought or got the next time December 25 rolls around (no lie, I cannot for the life of me remember what I bought or got last year).

So here’s a better idea: Spend time with your loved ones. Visit around the dining table after that once-a-year Christmas Eve dinner. Listen to your grandparents’ incredible words of wisdom. Play a game of Scrabble. Go skiing or snowshoeing through the woods at a state park.

The best holiday memories I have don’t involve gifts (though that Cabbage Patch doll I got in 1987 was pretty awesome, as were my first pair of inline skates in 1993… black with hot pink laces!), but instead revolve around time with my amazing family. We would race for hours around the elementary school gym (my grandpa worked there, so we had unlimited access during school break), busting out jump ropes, parachutes, scooters, basketballs and hockey sticks. We tunneled through snow banks, creating secret forts that we gallantly defended with snowballs. And after it all, we worked up just enough (key words here: just enough) of an appetite to try one tiny bite of grandma’s lutefisk.

So here’s to a blissful holiday filled with loads of family love, activities galore (get out and move after dinner!), and, of course, the perfect gifts (and yes, I’ll be braving the masses to find mine… this year anyway). :)

Happy holidays, dear readers.

Groucho Gnome Series: Happy Holidays, Part 2!

Thanks to @egggman for the pic!

Carly: I know why Gene Kelly is singin' in the rain, and it has nothing to do with Debbie Reynolds.

For many more years than I have been biking, falling over in yoga and pretending to run, I have been singing. I grew up in a very musical household, where my Dad and stepmom have their very own band (no, really…check it: www.marcyandthehighlights.com), and it was not uncommon for my family to break out into four-part harmony at the dinner table.

I like singing for many reasons, but the biggest one being that no matter where I am, I have my instrument with me. I tried orchestra and band, but my heart really wasn’t in it. There’s nothing like feeling the music resonate in your head as you make beautiful sounds with those around you. I just didn’t get the same feeling from a tenor saxophone.

Now, while you will probably never see me on American Idol or Glee, (mostly because singing pop songs in public terrifies me) my singing has led to some pretty great experiences and opportunities in my life. First and foremost, I have met and kept some of my best friends from high school and college choir. The rapport and bond you have with a choir can be as great as that of a sports team. Singing also has taken me across oceans and to exciting places. I will never forget singing Franz Biebl’s arrangement of Ave Maria with my high school concert choir in the cathedral of Köln, Germany.

I am writing about singing this week because I just wrapped up my winter concert series with the Minnetonka Symphony Chorus. This group consists of a bunch of choir-nerds from around my age to the age when a hip replacement was “so last year”. Our program consisted of the usual choir Christmas fare, and we were joined by the Minnetonka Chamber Orchestra and the Minnetonka Chamber Choir.

From my friends in the audience, the reviews I received were all positive, which of course was to be expected. ;) This is all fine and good, but my real sense of accomplishment comes from having stuck with singing this long. Singing can be compared to a sport in that you need to train your voice. If you don’t take care of it and you don’t properly warm it up, you can strain it and even permanently damage it. The more you work and condition, the better you should sound. And, similar to any sport, you should realize that even with all of the voice lessons in the world, not all of us are natural Josh Grobans. This realization can be a hard one to grasp though, I have just finally made peace with the fact that I will never be able to sing “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” the way Whitney can.

I could have stayed a shower performance artist, or a commute-to-work pop star, but I choose to put on an unattractive, itchy dress and sing songs that were written in a dead language. Why? Because it makes me extremely happy. You’ve heard of a runner’s high, right? Well nothing quite does it for me like 100 voices singing a capella in perfect harmony around me.

With that said, just like any athlete, I’m looking ahead and I’ve got a new goal in mind. It’s a bit terrifying, and it might take some liquid courage and a few good friends to get there (any volunteers?), but I am confident that before 2011 is out, I will be the master of the domain known as karaoke. Hold me to it, people; accountability is a great motivator.

Luke: Are Your Legs Tired? Because You've Been Running Through My Mind All Day...

We lay there panting, our bodies covered with sweat, her hair plastered to the back of her neck. I rolled onto my side and watched her chest heaving, neither of us wanting to break the silence of the moment as our hearts continued to pump and to thump a beat straight out of a Lady Gaga remix. This wasn't normally something I did on a first date, but it just felt so right, and frankly...it had been awhile since my last time. Finally she leaned forward supporting herself on her elbows as she tipped her head back, eyes half-closed, her breath steady enough to rasp out a few words at a time, "Oh...My...God...That...Was...Incredible." She smiled a toothy grin, her body glowing like one of the Cullens, "When can we do that again?"

"Well," I said, sprawled across the grass outside her apartment building, "I've got a 12 miler planned for Saturday, otherwise Tuesday is probably going to be a 25 minute tempo run." I checked my Garmin. "That was just over 5 miles. Nice!"

Hmm?

Well of course I was talking about running. What were you thinking about? Sheesh people, my parents read this, and that's NOT a conversation I want to be having around the table during Christmas dinner.

Until snOMG shut down the city last weekend, I was supposed to go on an "active" date - in this case snowshoeing - but alas and alack, we were forced to take a snowcheck. (Yes Alanis, it is ironic.)

Active dating can be tough though, especially during those first few awkward dates where you're trying to dress to impress. Forget picking out your favorite sweater or that one pair of jeans. You're going to be wearing spandex or running shorts (which leave nothing to the imagination), or bundled up in a zillion layers like the little kid in "A Christmas Story" (which leave everything to the imagination).

It changes the “flow" of dates too. I had a running date - a first date - with a friend of a friend. I started off peppering her with questions ("So how do you know Jen? What do your parents do?") but as the minutes ticked by, her breathing becoming labored (it didn't help that she was training for her first 5k and I was a month out from a marathon), I just started talking about myself, asking only questions that required her to gasp a single word answer ("Iowa." "Yes." "Ke$ha.")

Bike dates aren't much better. "Automobilus interruptus" forces you to constantly pull single-file, and shout attempts at conversation over your shoulder as the replies are lost to the wind, all the while realizing that she's stuck staring at your spandex-clad ass the whole time (could be pro, but more likely con). Even a leisurely ride around the lakes can be filled with more obstacles than the old school Nintendo "Paperboy" game.

So why do it?

Well, because they can be awesome. If you can't appreciate the sight of your running/biking/snowshoeing partner in motion, especially in glistening, short-shortsy motion, you probably shouldn't be going out with them. And once the relationship gets to that level, showering together is just the environmentally friendly, Captain Planet approved thing to do.

And there's something inherently sexy and fun about doing a shared activity that you both love (or at least tolerate enough to do with someone else. I'm lookin' at you ice skating). Most of my relationships have been with women who didn't run or bike, and yeah, it's cool to take them on their first bike ride in 15 years (or, because it goes both ways, to go with them to your first yoga class ever). But there's something even cooler – swoonier – about being with someone who shares your passions and the feeling of hope and possibility of building new shared memories together.

Running with someone - and I'm going to veer into generality here, not just getting into someone's pants - creates a closeness like nothing else. To butcher a phrase from Harper Lee, you don't really understand a man until you run a mile next to his shoes. When you're out there, side by side, step by step, you open yourself up, tipsy on endorphins to have a real conversation distracted by nothing else, your body on auto-pilot moving forward. It forces you to singletask in this multitasking world, acting and reacting in more than 140 characters and “Like” buttons.

It's why you can turn a stranger wearing bib #231 into a friend during a 10k race. It's why your lunchride bike buddies know what you got your mom for Christmas last year. It's why you can learn more about if a relationship is going to work from a half-hour showshoeing than an entire evening of dinner and drinks.

And if it means getting to shower together, well, that's not so bad either.

Groucho Gnome Series: Happy Holidays, Part 1!

Thanks to @JaneSomers for the awesome pic!

First Look Friday - The Heart-To-Heart Edition

Here at Groucho HQ, we're working fast and furiously on new designs, new colors, the whole gig. The best part of this whole process has been previewing some of the designs we've come up with on First Look Friday and getting your feedback. We know what we like and what we don't...but we also know that there's nothing like some fresh ideas and perspectives to liven it all back up.

So let us have it. What we want to do for this week's First Look Friday is open it up to you guys and give you a platform to voice and discuss what you're dying to see and what you never want to see again. For instance, we've heard you loud and clear on the no "Shrink It & Pink It" policy for women's clothing: Hearing that was immensely valuable and gratifying, as it confirmed to us that we were definitely on the right track in where we wanted to go in our offerings for the girl side of things.

But what else? For instance, stickers - does anybody out there really buy those things? And if you get 'em, do you use them? What about hoodies? And does anyone really like lime green? These are the questions that confound the wisest minds in the universe, my friends...and now here's your chance to have your say - and to have your input noted and applied - when it comes to what you like to wear and what you don't.

So spill it, yo! We want you to!

Groucho Gnome Series

Super sweet pic courtesy of @egggman!

Jim: Learning the way along the way. #bikeschool

Hi. This post is lengthy so I broke it into two parts: I) What is #bikeschool? and II) how to attend class.

Part I. What is #bikeschool? It’s a good question. In secret, I belong to this group of bike loving crazies. Darryl (@lovingthebike) and Mike (@egggman) are the craziest. We have been known to form secret evil plans, #bikeschool was the first.

In a nutshell, we planned on telling stories about lessons learned while riding bike - tagging them on twitter with the hashtag #bikeschool. We thought a fun community of bike loving people might soon develop.

Then came #bikeschool 2.0 which is essentially a live chat on Twitter every Thursday night at 9p EST. This is where things started to get fun. We didn’t expect it to take off like it has, and like all class rooms there are pranksters, teacher’s pets and people who sit in the front row wearing spandex. For more background info check out some of the responses to “What is #bikeschool?”

Part II ...enough of the didactic stuff. This is where you participate by attending class tonight. I’ll be moderating the session and we have a special guest asking questions. Santa Claus (@santabikes) will be schooling us tonight.

Santa will ask a question every 10 minutes. The class replies using the hashtag #bikeschool. More technical details can be found here: 10 steps to #bikeschool. If you get lost just raise your hand. Someone will be there to help you out.

If you’re not on Twitter there is still time to sign up. It’s easy and #bikeschool tweeps make for an excellent group to follow. If you’re not sure about it, you can always follow along on your web browser via tweetchat.

See you at class. ~ @bikerly

Erin: Rest Day.

Rest. Day.

Those two dirty little words make me cringe, and honestly, they don’t exist in my vocabulary. Rest day?! Rest day?! Really, you want me to whaaaaat?! No working out?! No yoga? No running, cycling or CrossFit? Sweat once a day is my mantra, so clearly, that’s just not possible.

However, thanks to Saturday’s #snOMG, it indeed was possible, and it actually happened.

Gasp! (I know a few of you – and you know who you are – are probably saying, “It’s about time!”)

It wasn’t by choice because if I had a choice, I would have been sweating it out at a hot yoga class, followed by a CrossFit butt kicking. But, seeing as I couldn’t get out of my parking ramp (and yes, I did try) and I wasn’t going to trudge two-plus miles in nearly two feet of snow, I was stuck.

A brief bout of anxiety and near hyperventilation ensued, but after it passed (thank you, yoga, for teaching me ujjayi breathing), I realized just how good my Saturday was going to be. I mean, an entire day – 24 hours – of being at home, catching up on everything neglected while racing around between yoga studios, the gym and work? Heck. Yes. I was going to own that lazy little Saturday, relish it… and ignore the treadmill in my building’s workout room that was calling my name.

Clean loft from top to bottom. Laundry. Grad school research and paper writing. Check, check and check. I even capped off the day with a movie.

I hate to admit it – and yes, you have permission to say, “I told you so” – but that day of relaxation wasn’t as horrible as I feared; it was actually kinda nice. Aside from all that productivity – you know how good it feels to have a spotless home? – I felt refreshed and sort-of rested (feeling 100 percent rested will probably never happen).

Much as it pains me – both to take one and to not take one – I’m making one rest day per week mandatory. Please, dear readers, hold me accountable. I need a little more downtime in my life.

Rest assured, however: The yoga streak lives on. I honored Saturday’s #snomageddon with 25 sun salutations and savasana in my living room.

*********

As an aside… I want to give a big thank you to Groucho Sports. I must say, the entire Groucho team and its followers are one amazing, inspiring crew; I am humbled to be a part of such awesomeness. And Friday’s happy hour? Incredible! Oddly enough, everyone there I knew because of twitter (and I even met a few fantastic peeps for the first time… so nice to finally meet you, Sonia, Jon and Nate!). The power of social media, huh?

Carly: SnOMG!

SnOMG!

I wasn’t going to write about the snow, but I can’t help it. It’s EVERYWHERE, and I still HURT from moving (seemingly) hundreds of pounds of it this weekend. So if you’re sick of hearing about snow, seeing snow, driving in snow or shoveling snow, this is your warning.

What is it about Minnesotans? What makes a society of seemingly well-educated, resourceful, proud people stay in a land where snowfall reaches such proportions that it can bring down the ceiling of a professional sports arena? Is there something in the water that makes us (I’ve lived here for almost 8 years, so I’d say I’m a Minnesotan now) forget how much winter sucks every year? It’s like spring and summer come along and we all say, “Oh, I guess that wasn’t so bad”. Then, before you know it, winter comes again and BAM, I’m wondering if I lost my marbles in a snow bank by staying here and despair that I won’t be able to find them again until spring.

Maybe it is the pride I mentioned before. The hours most of us undoubtedly put in shoveling this weekend is something worth bragging about to your thin-skinned friends in warmer climates. After all, those sissies that fled to Southern California sure missed out on one heck of a storm this weekend! We earned our aching muscles! I’m sure that chiropractors and massage therapists alike are rejoicing, as a 12+ inch snowfall is sure to bring them some business.

I am not entirely kidding though, I am mildly concerned. How is it that we’ve deluded ourselves into thinking that marching about town in 4 degrees is okay, just as long as the wind-chill is above 0? There’s got to be some clinical term for the denial that the entire state is in. I don’t know about you guys, but by the time the snot-freezing temperatures show up in January, I’m ready to quit and fly south.

Okay, so despite my whining, there is something I actually enjoy about winter here. That something is the sense of community that a huge snowfall or a bitterly cold day can bring. The neighborhood that pushes stuck cars together and lends a snow blower to less fortunate neighbors is the neighborhood I want to live in. It is an odd sensation, laughing and smiling while your face is freezing off and your back is aching with every shovel of powder you whip over your shoulder. I will admit to having “gone native” this weekend, and when I would have otherwise normally hibernated under a blanket, I was happy-houring, dancing with friends and helping strangers push their cars. I think that’s the only way we actually survive 5+ months of winter. We find our sisu, our chutzpa, and/or our Stärke (as well as our SmartWool accessories) and make the most of what we’re handed.

So cheers to you, you crazy Minnesotans! I may not entirely understand you yet, but I’m proud to be among your numbers.

Groucho Holiday Happy Hour: A Picture Says a Thousand Words...of Awesomeness

The Groucho Holiday Happy Hour on Friday was so radical we don't even have the words for it. Some familiar faces from around town - like Nate Kadlac, Danielle Pellicano of Pellicano Endurance Coaching, Allen Brisson-Smith of Brisson Photo, Zach Schaap of #30 Days of Biking, Ang Dezelske of Overheard In Minneapolis, Jon Vick, and Jason Albus of Jalbus Photography - were among the sizable crowd of party peeps, and it was a merry-making time of meeting, greeting, and just general carousing. Special thanks to every single person who came out - we at Team Groucho were beyond psyched to see every single one of you there. We hope you had as stellar of a time as we did, and we hope to see your bright and shining faces at the many more Groucho events to come.

Also, big ups to all of those who donated food items to Second Harvest Heartland, and a bow-down to Lyndale Tap House for setting us up right.

Luke: The Rain

It's those kind of moments that stick with me - tasting the metallic tang of the road spray in your mouth, a strip of dirt up your back like that cat in the Pepe LePew cartoons, fighting to keep the bicycle upright inches from another bike while going down a steep winding hill, sprinting to the finish line in the hopes of beating some 50 year old guy for 117th place (In your face Robert Jameson of Ashland, WI!). Forget the sunny days where the road seems to always go downhill. Forget riding up a hill into the fog as the morning breaks...It's those dark days, those days in the rain that really stick out for me.

It was two years after we moved to town - the summer before I’d be a freshman in high school - and I was still struggling to make friends, the aftermath of a severe childhood speech impediment leaving me introverted and awkward at an already awkward age. Then I met Matt.

I was trying to learn how to golf, and he was always up at the course. We started talking - he'd come by the driving range and tell me I should stop bending my left arm - and somehow we just kinda became friends. And in time he became my best friend...we'd spend hours going fishing, shooting hoops, or playing a round of golf. Matt had this amazing sense of humor and for whatever reason decided that some days he'd talk with a British accent all day long. Well, really it sounded more like Thurston Howell III from Giligan’s Island, but whatevs...when you’re 15, if someone says something with an accent, even a bad accent - way funny. He was one of the few people in school who could truly transcend cliques. I'd see him walking down the hallway before Social Studies with Dan, the captain of the football team, and then after class talking with the closest guy we had to a drug dealer, Chris.

I was getting heavily into biking at the time, riding over 200 miles a week on a borrowed racing bike - custom-built for someone several inches shorter than me. I'd invite Matty along on some of my slower rides, never more 20 miles. He struggled on his crappy Huffy Mt. Hood mountain bike with the slightly wonky back wheel, but he never complained.

Every year in early October my family would do a charity ride in a nearby town that was a fundraiser for the Marshfield Clinic, the largest hospital in the area, and the Children’s Cancer Fund. That particular year my parents suggested that I invite Matt along, and despite the fact that his longest ride had been only 20 miles, he signed up for the 64 mile option.

The day of the ride was one of those gorgeous early autumn mornings where you can smell Fall in the air. The leaves of central Wisconsin were at their peak and we rode over a kaleidoscope of fallen leaves crunching beneath our tires. As we neared one of the rest stops about halfway in, I watched the nearby fields drift in and out of shadow as the clouds danced in front of the sun. After stuffing our pockets with all the candy bars and granola bars that we could jam in there (Matt and I cracked each other up by making squirrel noises), by the time we were back on the road, there were longer and longer periods of darkness until the last sunbeam finally slipped away behind a cloud. As if matching the weather, the previously flat roads began to twist and turn upward leading us up hill after hill (stupid glaciers). The wind picked up and I smelled the rain before I felt it - the air taking on this heavy clean thickness like someone opening a giant dishwasher.

So just to recap: Here we are about 30 miles away from the mini-van (my parents, several miles behind us, have the keys) heading up the side of a steep hill into a vicious wind, the rain spitting down, splattering off of our helmets. I was cold, I was wet, and I was miserable. And oh god...poor Matt. I didn't even want to look at him, I was too afraid to see his face. Finally I glanced over and Matt had this crazy grin. "I say," he said slipping into his accent and pulling out one of his favorite phrases, "bloody wonderful weather isn't it?" and stomped on the pedals, zooming ahead, as I swerved into a ditch laughing so hard I couldn't keep my bike on the road.

That was the last time I rode with Matt. That winter he called me up to say that he was going to be missing some school because he had slipped on some ice and landed awkwardly and was going to have his knee looked at by a specialist and would I mind picking up his homework for him.

That's what he told me.

It wasn't until months later that I found out the truth. What he hadn't told me was that his knee felt fine, but that his doctor had found a tumor during a routine checkup. He hadn't fallen and twisted his knee. He had cancer.

Over the next few months Matt was hardly ever in school, spending most of his time in various hospitals. The Children's Cancer Fund - the same charity that Matt had helped raise money for on the bike ride, in a bit of cosmic irony - was providing emotional and financial support to his parents. After months of chemo and depressingly little progress the decision was made to amputate his leg above the knee.

But the doctors had waited too long, not wanting to rush that life-changing moment on a teenager, or maybe the cancer was just too fast - either way it had spread to his lymph nodes and eventually the diagnosis came down: It was now untreatable. The doctors sent him home to live out the rest of his life. He'd be lucky, they said, if that was three months.

A year and nine months later I wheeled my bicycle into his family's garage and out of the rain that had been pelting me for the past few hours. I had been putting off this visit, but knew I had to, shaking drops off my bike as I leaned it up against their minivan. Matt's Huffy sat in the corner of the garage now cobwebbed and dusty, both tires flat.

"So old chap" he rasped noticing my rain soaked hair as I walked into his room, "Bloody wonderful weather isn't it?" Despite the drugs surging through his body, the prosthetic leg propped up against the side of his bed, and the 50 pounds that had melted off his frame, he was still the same old Matty. We chatted for awhile and I filled him in on the cute girls he was missing at school, and the bike race that I had done that weekend. After about half an hour, he started getting really tired, and his head began to droop to one side like his neck couldn't bear to support it.

I got up to leave. "Stay strong Matty."

He grabbed my arm - his fingers bony, his grip weak - and pulled me close so I could hear his now barely audible voice. "No, you stay strong." I reached down to hug him, so light, his skin empty, and held it together long enough to make it out of his room. I said goodbye to his exhausted-looking parents, who could only nod in return, and walked out of the door knowing that I wouldn't ever see him again.

The cancer had taken his leg. Made him weak. Literally eaten him up from inside. But it didn’t take him, even at the end. He had fought; he had fought this disease refusing to give in to it for longer than anyone thought, or hoped, or prayed was possible. And yet he was telling me to stay strong, even as he was at his weakest.

I rode home slowly that night, stopping twice, my shoulders slumping over the handlebars as tears streamed down my face until I couldn’t see. It was dark by the time I finally pulled into the driveway, my parents thankfully gone, the house somehow comforting in its emptiness, silent except for my ragged sobs and curses at the unseen entity that had allowed...no - that had done this to him.

Without bothering to flip on a light, I grabbed a marker and wrote his initials (MJE) on the back of my cycling shoes - something I've done with every pair of cycling shoes since. It's not like I needed to do it to be reminded of his strength and determination, but it just felt right to know that every time I pulled on my cycling cleats, I'd think of his last words to me: No, you stay strong.

Please consider a donation to St. Jude this holiday season.

First Look Friday Edition: The work doesn't stop, because we don't stop...

New jersey designs, y'all -



Let us have it - thoughts? Opinions? Haterade? Love them so much that you're about sell all of your earthly possessions and trek across this great nation to give your life to Groucho? (we accept!)

And ladies, we especially want your opinions...as one of our Twitter friends predicted last week, we're not a "shrink it and pink it" company, and we never will be. But we do want to give you choices. Would you ever want to buy a pink jersey? A hot pink jersey? Is it something you'd like to have as an option, or does just the sight of one make you angry?