Ponderings

• March 23, 2024
• 4 weeks

An Adventure of Adventures

I recently caught up with my family friend, John Mann, over a beer in Colorado Springs. He was asking me what’s new, as he always does. I always seem a bit of a mess, too restless to ever stop flitting from one activity to another. I told him how some things had all come to a head this last month, and he responded, “Sounds like you were running so fast, you got caught.” I could not have said it better myself.

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Ryan likes to drive me crazy by saying ridiculous pithy statements. He’ll say something like, “What a time to have a time,” in a magnanimous dad voice, or, “Well, I guess it’s about that time we shut our eyes, don’t you think?” I think that despite my exasperation, I’m still slightly amused because these comments aren’t that rare for actual dads to say. As someone who has lots of “dad friends,” I hear these inane statements all the time. Even in my work, I review off-road trail submissions by dads across the country, writing the same practically meaningless comments. My favorite recently: “This trail is an adventure of adventures.”

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My friend Zach is one of the gnarliest hikers I know. On a weekly basis, he gets out and will go for a 10-mile+ hike in a foot of snow, frigid temperatures, and up serious elevation gain. Sometimes these hikes have some real technicality to them, too — they’re practically mountaineering routes. His level of dedication to and stoke for these hikes impress me tremendously. As a trail runner, I don’t think I have the mental willpower to be walking for as long as he does. If I were to run any of his routes, I would surely be done much sooner and not stuck in my own head for nearly as long.

Zach’s hiking also exemplifies how much more consequential hiking in the West is. Growing up on the East Coast, I was never “scared” of hiking. What’s there to be scared of? A black bear? Some bugs? But out here, some hikes are a completely different ball game. There are some traverses and Class 3-5 hikes out here that I am not even willing to attempt. Every time I wake up at 3 a.m. to try a 14er, I am filled with mild trepidation. Sure, I’m physically capable of most hikes, but the sheer exposure and risk involved scares the heck out of me. Find me a trail in the Northeast that can do the same.

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Back in January, Ryan went down a rabbit hole of IQ tests, concerned he was on the left side of the bell curve. “I’ve got to be at least average intelligence,” he asserted, opening a new link. I reassured him I was positive he was at least average, but likely above. It was cracking me up, his need to confirm. (He was in fact a slightly above-average IQ, for what that’s worth.)

A couple of weeks later, we were out snowshoeing with our friend Slade to his family’s remote cabin on Tomichi Pass. Slade, his friend India, and I were up ahead. I can’t remember how the topic came up, but Slade noted, “It’s insane how well Ryan remembers lyrics. Like, in the car, he was singing the words to that song from middle school — including all the rap lyrics — perfectly. And he said he hadn’t heard that song in a decade!” I laughed and agreed. His aptitude for picking up lyrics is kind of incredible. I proceeded to tell Slade and India that despite this capability, Ryan had gotten all concerned about having a low IQ just weeks earlier. It just goes to show you how many different forms of intelligence there are — there is no one-size-fits-all.

Once we were at the cabin and settled, drinking hot chocolate and warming by the wood burning stove, we got to chatting as a group. Slade posed a question: how many songs do you think you actually know? And by know, he meant, know 85% or more of the lyrics. Slade guessed 50 for himself.

“50?” I replied, incredulous. “It’s got to be way more than that, I think. I mean take a look at my Spotify. I have 4,000 Liked Songs. And those are just the songs I hit the heart button on — there are many, many other songs that I know that aren’t on that list. Even if I only know 10% of those songs, that’s 400 right there.”

Slade nodded, with a face that either said “good point” or “that’s ludicrous”; I couldn’t tell. I stand by my calculation, but I don’t think it works for Ryan. He probably knows many, many more.

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I heard a while back on a podcast that almost everyone has a way of visualizing time. I had posed the question to my parents, and sure enough, each of us saw the calendar year in our heads a bit differently. The fact is, we all have visualizations unique to us.

My climbing friend, Casey, told me one a few weeks ago that I found pretty amusing and specific. We were on the bouldering floor working on some new problems, trying a V4/5 that consisted mostly of slopers (round, bulbous holds — think of trying to grip a basketball on the wall).

“Ugh, I hate slopers,” she lamented. “Every time I’m on the wall trying to hold them and start slipping off, I feel like I’m in one of those old-school cartoons. You know, that scenario where the character is in a water tank that is filling up to their neck and about to drown them?” I chuckled. No, I have never felt that way while trying to hold a sloper, but maybe now I will.

Another great visual metaphor I’ve been considering came from my friend, Eric. It’s been useful to reconcile fading friendships. In this new year, I’ve come to realize that each one of my friends fulfills a part of my life, but not all of them have to be very deep to be worthwhile. Yes, some friends are the ones you call at 2 a.m. in an emergency, but other friends are perfect for the calmer sides of life: the friend who you watch basketball with, the friend you go for a run with, the friend who’s down to try that new donut shop with you. All are equally valid.

The way Eric sees it, your life is your house, and you have friends that belong in only certain rooms. Some friends only are invited into the kitchen and dining room. Closer friends likely occupy the living room too. If you’re like most people, ultimately only one person will come into your bedroom. And some friends may be limited to the back patio.

All of these friends are welcome in a part of your house. But it depends on the person and relationship how much of the house you are willing to share.

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You take for granted some things that people do for you when you’re a kid. I’ve talked about just how nice it is when someone prepares a meal for you, down to serving it on a plate and handing it over. It also is incredibly soothing when someone brushes your hair for you. The one I had forgotten until recently is the comfort of someone tying your shoes for you.

Ryan and I were doing a long hike through Bryce Canyon, slipping and sliding on 8 inches of snow that was rapidly melting. My shoelace came undone, and seeing me in gloves, Ryan ordered me to hold still while he tied my shoes. It reminded me of all the times my mom and dad would tie my shoes when I was a kid, and how it always felt like I’d never be able to secure them in place as tightly as them. They stayed tied the rest of the hike.

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Problem-solving together is something that’s fallen to the wayside since the pandemic. With our remote jobs and limited interaction, I find myself collaborating with people less than I used to — and also realizing how much I miss it.

Prior to a two-week road trip, Ryan had ordered a camp kitchen set-up to go in the back of his Subaru. It has two sliding drawers with a built-in sink and a utensil drawer, so you can store your two-burner stove, cooking materials, and clean-up supplies. When it arrived, we knew we’d need to set aside time to put it together. What a joy it was. As we watched the tutorial video, I’d identify pieces, hold them in place, and he’d drill in the screws. We had a genuinely fun time learning how to build this thing, and we felt pretty proud of the end product. The drawer worked like a charm on the trip.

I felt similarly fulfilled on the last full day of the trip, while bouldering outside of Grand Junction. Ryan had found a V6 called “Roulette Dares” that he wanted to try. Though he’d watched a video of someone on it, I had no idea what the problem entailed. Over the course of an hour, though, the two of us were able to unlock the beta for the full problem together. We took turns trying different handholds and feet until we’d determined the exact order and placement of each hand and foot. When I ultimately sent the problem, it was a direct result of our team work, identifying each bit of it, as well as Ryan encouraging and instructing me as I climbed.

Both of these experiences were so satisfying because we worked together. Sure, it would be satisfying to personally accomplish both feats by yourself; but then who do you share that satisfaction with?

Ponderings

• March 22, 2024
• 4 weeks

#Sponsored

Ever since working for Clif Bar & Company, I’ve had an obsession with the Consumer Packaged Goods (CPG) industry. At Clif, I’d read articles daily about flavor trends, new products, and consumer insights. I can’t say why I was so interested, but I got hooked. I’d look for specific releases at the store and tell people about the rise of probiotics and nostalgic flavors.

Concurrently, I was semi-jokingly trying to get “sponsored” by Clif. Really, I just wanted Clif (or any other admirable CPG brand) to send me free products that I would then post about on Instagram through silly videos and pictures. I didn’t want to be paid, necessarily; I just wanted to rep brands I liked and not pay for their products. I do a lot of fun outdoor activities — wouldn’t brands love to see me making posts about their products while I’m jogging down a mountain trail or hanging off a boulder?

Virtually any time I was doing an activity that involved snacking (trail running, climbing, biking, etc.), I would snap a selfie with some Clif products and caption it “@clifbar sponsor me”. The hilarious part about this is I knew the Clif social media manager at the time. It was driving me insane that he wouldn’t re-post me! Meanwhile, I was also often calling out Kodiak Cakes, my favorite pancake brand, to #sponsorme as well. Kodiak, for what it’s worth, would always respond to my callouts, but just in a direct message — not in a public fashion. Clif eventually did re-post me, but never extended the sponsorship deal.

Over the last two years, I’ve researched and/or applied to several other brands that may or may not be willing to sponsor me, but to no avail — until now. Yes, Slaico has finally attained sponsorship! Sort of.

In my research of CPGs, I am naturally drawn to bar brands after my time at Clif. There’s really no bar out there that I’m unwilling to try. Pretty much any time I’m at the grocery store or a co-op, I will gaze at the bar section, looking for deals and new brands. One brand that came across my radar was IQBar. These bars are marketed as having adaptogens that boost your brain power, in addition to a host of other benefits. With a little more perusing, I ended up following IQ’s CEO on LinkedIn, Will Nitze, and found his posts though-provoking and funny. I eventually bought their Almond Chocolate Chip bar and was super impressed. Not only is it really tasty and has great texture, it has a good source of fiber, 12 grams of protein, only 1 gram of sugar, and the added “brain nutrients” — magnesium, vitamin E, MCTs, flavonoids, and Lion’s Mane. Even if the brain benefits are gimmicky, the nutritional properties and taste alone are enough for me. It’s hard to find a bar that doesn’t contain added sugars and packs that much protein in.

I applied to be an ambassador for IQBar, but I thought I didn’t have the prerequisite 1,000 Instagram followers to be accepted (I’m sitting around 800-900 — #followme). Yet lo and behold, I got accepted as an affiliate marketer just a couple of weeks ago. Essentially, I can market IQBar for commissions; anyone buying the brand for the first time can use my code SLAICO at check-out to receive 15% off (www.eatiqbar.com/SLAICO). I bought myself a sampler pack, since I hadn’t found all the flavors in store (and didn’t know they sell instant coffee and electrolytes too!). What I especially loved about this was not only did I receive all of their products to try, but they also arrived in a super small box — for once, a CPG company cutting down on packaging!

I am by no means forcing anyone to buy IQBar now that I am quasi-#sponsored. However, I will say that I am a big fan of the product and highly recommend it. 🙂

Ponderings

• February 13, 2024
• 2 months

What do a t-shirt, car, and book have in common?

I was rummaging through the guest bathroom drawers when I found the white t-shirts. Wrapping up a short visit to my grandparents at their condo in Longboat Key, I was checking for any missing items to pack. It was a stack of undershirts. Nothing out of the ordinary – mostly Hanes brand – a few more rumpled than others. I knew immediately that they belonged to my grandfather. In an instant, I was sure I would take one. I inspected their sizes and fits (and honestly, their cleanliness – my grandfather is where I get my tendency to spill food on myself) and settled on a V-neck. Into the suitcase it went.

That same week, while getting ready to head to the climbing gym, I saw the shirt in my drawer and decided to put it on. Immediately, I was overwhelmed by the smell of it. It wasn’t a bad smell; it was nostalgic. It smelled exactly like my grandparents’ former house in New City, New York; it smelled like my grandparents. I felt simultaneously comforted and sad. I decided to throw it in the wash.

I had had a similar experience 4 years ago. On a visit to Longboat, I had lamented to my grandfather how I loved driving the family Honda Accord (affectionately named Wallace), but Wallace couldn’t handle driving to the slopes in the winter without 4-wheel drive. “You need the Subaru,” he declared. It was plain and simple. His 2009 Subaru Impreza would be mine. I would pay for it to be transported from New City to Colorado Springs, as well as all the registration fees and insurance. But that was it – his “mountain goat” car would save the day. I was beyond grateful.

About a month later, a semi-truck arrived at my house in downtown Colorado Springs and unloaded my new ride, Ogie (pronounced “Auggie”; don’t ask me why). My parents had filled Ogie with things from home, including nice dishware and my dad’s favorite New England Double IPA, Mega Boss. But after unpacking the car and finally starting the ignition, the excitement turned bittersweet. The car smelled so strongly of that scent – probably some mixture of my grandma’s perfume, soap, and my grandparents themselves – that I sat in silence for a while.

I wondered how long it would be before that scent would fade from Ogie. Friends would sometimes comment on it, those first few months. Four years now passed, I can safely say it’s gone. Which is precisely the fear I had had that day Ogie arrived: that I would lose the scent.

With the white t-shirt, I knew the same was inevitable. Maybe that’s why I threw it in the wash. But I was still hung up on The Murder Room.

While in Longboat this last visit, I finished my book. Needing some reading material for my flight home, I asked my grandfather, “Hey Doc, do you mind if I take this?”

It was a copy of P.D. James’ The Murder Room. I could tell Doc had read it already, as it was tucked on the bookshelf, unlike the numerous scattered books on the couch that he was presently reading. You could tell it had been a library book, with the sticker on the spine, and that he had used some of the blank pages in the front as chicken scratch. There were several names and phone numbers scrawled, as well as some other notes surely taken while on the phone.

“Of course,” Doc replied. “P.D. James is one of my favorite mystery writers.”

In the hubbub of travel, I never got the chance to read the book while in the air. Once nestled in bed in Colorado Springs, I thought I’d crack open the book to read a chapter to help me fall asleep. And it hit me again.

The smell was literally pressed into the book. As I began reading, I found myself distracted by it. I was enjoying James’ writing style and vocabulary in particular, but I kept thinking I should close the book. I should save the smell inside.

I tend to hoard things – another trait I earned from Doc. I am not quite equally sentimental, but sentimental enough to hold onto virtually every card I receive, whether it’s a birthday card or Christmas greeting or snail mail. As my dad noted, Doc’s letters are especially great to receive because his handwriting is so bad (he was an orthopedic surgeon for decades – technicians took his notes), that it takes you days to decipher everything he wrote. In a sense, each word or phrase you decode is like a little gift. Doc has taken to typing out his letters to me, which perhaps takes the fun away but allows him to write lengthier updates. I save them all the same.

Perhaps this clinginess is why I found myself tearfully explaining to Ryan my lack of inspiration at Crate & Barrel a week later, as I shakily prepared quesadillas for dinner.

Doc and Mim had given me a gift card as a housewarming present months earlier, and I had neglected to use it. Knowing I needed some direction, I recruited Ryan’s mom, Doris, to accompany me on a C&B expedition. With her love of interior design (and the store itself), Doris gave me all sorts of ideas and approaches I could take with the gift card. “You want to get something that every time you see it, it reminds you of your grandparents,” she advised.

She was right. And that’s why I felt paralyzed. As I stared forlornly at mirrors, lamps, plates, and wine glasses, I suddenly felt this enormous pressure to find the right thing. Like keeping P.D. James’ pages closed, I wanted something that would help me freeze time, with respect to my grandparents.

I walked out empty-handed. I increasingly tend to not force things, so I reassured myself that the right item would become clear to me, with time.

The last month was really challenging for me for a number of reasons. Some things are still left unresolved. For me, I think the best shift has been learning to let go of some things: expectations of others, negative self-talk, pressure to perform. But I think it’s also equally important to cling to those things that hold value to you. The birthday card from two years ago. The friends who fill you with energy, not deplete it. The smell of your grandfather’s mystery novel.

Ponderings

• January 17, 2024
• 3 months

Can you add just a little maple syrup?

New year, same me. 2024 arrived without any bells and whistles, and I’m alright with it. I don’t find myself accidentally writing or typing 2023, mercifully. 2023 was so tumultuous that 2024, in contrast, entered the room calm, cool, and collected.

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My new friend, Maddie, introduced me to the idea of your “magnetic” self. It’s a version of you that you haven’t quite reached, but it’s an elevated version — a version you are striving for. We were out climbing with her partner, Eric, who was struggling on his project (a 5.14, the animal that he is). She was explaining how Eric’s magnetic self could be the Eric that sends 5.14 with strength and grace, even though current Eric is doing a messy job of it right now.

My magnetic self? I think it’s less tangible. My magnetic self is the Sarah who has inner peace, at least most of the time. The Sarah who doesn’t worry about things she can’t control. The Sarah who’s a little less hard on herself.

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The day I was leaving for Christmas, I got bogged down with work and last-minute packing. I was trying to get out the door by midday and complete all of my final tasks. Luckily, Ryan offered to help.

I started giving him some basic assignments: “Can you check the mail?” “Can you turn down the thermostat?” “Can you take out the trash and recycling?”

“What else?” he asked, after knocking out these details. “OK, one last thing,” I said. “If you could just water my Christmas tree to about halfway up the tree stand, and then … can you add just like a little maple syrup or honey?”

“Maple syrup?” Ryan gave me a quizzical look. “Why? And how much?”

“You’ll just know,” I replied, coyly. “Just trust me on this.”

Ryan kept pressing the matter, so I finally threw up my hands and said, “I don’t know! My dad always waters the tree and adds maple syrup! I trust Steve on these things.”

Satisfied, Ryan did as instructed.

I was recounting this story to my brother, Fletcher, and he chuckled. “Isn’t it funny how we all have these wives’ tales that we believe, even though they’re founded on nothing?” (No offense, Steve.) But Fletch is right. I think about all the things we’re told that just aren’t true.

How many times did my old roommate freak out that I hadn’t unplugged the Christmas tree because I could have set the house on fire? Those bulbs are tiny. How on earth could they actually create a fire?

I also have always avoided drinking any canned beverages that have a dent, since my grandmother told me years ago that the soda was somehow contaminated if the can was dented.

My least favorite wives’ tale, though, is that by running or exercising outside in the cold, you’ll catch a cold. For the love of God, I wish my family would lay off when I decide to spend time in the cold. Cold exposure is good for the immune system!

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Maddie made a great point about dogs (and pets, generally). Why do they live such short lives? We become so emotionally attached to these animals, though they are in our lives so briefly. What if, Maddie suggests, our pets don’t live short lives but we live very long ones? What if we’re quasi-elves to our pets, not quite immortal like the ones of Lord of the Rings, but similarly built?

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Is “the tri-state area” strictly an east coast term? I can’t even imagine someone using that phrase out here.

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I feel it’s imperative that I report back on the oat milk party results, as it was a truly legendary gathering. I knew we’d have a fun time. But this was like … really fun.

Two days before the party, I went to King Soopers to procure all the oat beverages. The oat milk department was lacking, but I grabbed as many original oat milk varieties as I could: Simple Truth (Kroger’s organic brand), Silk, Chobani, Oatly, and Califia Farms. I would have included Planet Oat, another favorite, if there was any left. All that remained was sweetened vanilla, which simply wouldn’t do.

Everyone brought cookies, cereal, or muffins to pair with the oat milks. I spread out all the pairings on a card table and gave everyone their own handmade score card. Each milk was rated out of 5 on texture, flavor, creaminess, appearance, how well it paired with cookies, how well it paired with cereal, and overall experience.

I would shuttle a tray of Dixie cups out with each oat milk for people to taste and sample. After we did all 5 milks, everyone had the opportunity to re-visit the milks they were deciding between. Everyone took this quite seriously.

I had an Excel spreadsheet already built to calculate the averages, so I spent 10 minutes or so recording everyone’s ratings and then presented the overall winners.

Silk was the champion, on the whole; it won best flavor, texture, creaminess, appearance, and overall experience. However, Simple Truth won best cereal pairing, and Oatly won best cookie pairing.

I genuinely did not have any guesses as to which milk would win. The results truly surprised all of us. This party honestly just begged the question: what do we sample NEXT?

What was really surprising, though, was how many people not only were down for this charade, but also truly invested in it. It was kind of an oat milk party dream come true,

I still have 5 oat milks in my fridge (Casey and Tim brought Planet Oat Extra Creamy). I have only depleted Silk, as I figured I should experience the winner, as the host. That said, I have leaned toward Simple Truth for my cereal and Oatly for my cookies. I have spent the last week eating an obscene amount of both, in addition to the remaining muffins. If you are what you eat, I am one sugary carb.

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As a new homeowner, I now live in perpetual fear of something breaking or sh*t hitting the fan in some way. I have a propensity to be incredibly anxious, and home ownership is doing nothing to quell that propensity. I got particularly distraught a week ago, and for really no good reason.

I knew I needed to replace my furnace filter, so I had dutifully marked it on my calendar and ordered the right size from Home Depot. My HVAC guy, Luke, had texted me a video months back explaining how to replace it. The crux of the matter: I had to enter my basement, the scariest part of the house.

I steeled myself to go down into this dungeon, putting on boots and saying a small prayer I didn’t encounter spiders or some dead animal. I quickly swapped out the filters and got the hell out.

Patting myself on the back for this heroic act of responsible home ownership, I settled on the couch to watch Great British Bake-off. As soon as I got up to fix dinner, my kitchen lightbulb went out. With no replacement bulbs nor a step stool to really reach the light fixture, nor the finesse to actually remove said fixture to determine the correct bulb, I was out of luck. I’ve been in a dark kitchen since.

Later that night, I tried to blow off steam by playing the drums. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my automatic outdoor light flick on. Who was out there? I couldn’t see any movement, so I hoped it was just a squirrel. Back to drumming. But then minutes later, it happened again. Paranoia was really setting in. Ryan had gotten me pepper spray for Christmas, but would it be enough?

When it happened a third time, I got up from my kit and stomped over to my vestibule, determined to confront the source of movement. That’s when I realized: I had turned on a switch when I went to the basement that connected to some outdoor lights I presumed dead. They weren’t dead — they were straining for life — and were flickering on and off.

I decided this was enough homeowner BS for one day and went to bed.

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In a rare act of collective vigor, my family went bowling at 9 p.m. on December 26. Fletcher suggested that prior to arrival, we should all guess what our final scores would be. He’d then add them all up, and we’d aim for that group score. That way, he explained, we’re all rooting for each other, rather than playing competitively.

I was very much on board with this plan, as the severe competitiveness I developed as a child still rears its head from time to time. I foolishly declared I’d aim for 123, really because I thought it sounded nice. I had no idea how hard it would actually be to score that high. Once everyone had made their bet, Fletch declared that the total score we’d aim for was 525.

We started getting going, and it was clear that a few of us (including me) definitely had been too ambitious with our bets. Fletch, on the other hand, was outscoring himself consistently, hitting spares and strikes over and over. At the halfway mark, things weren’t looking great for the overall score However, a few key strikes and spares between Fletch and Steve, as well as fewer gutter balls on the whole, turned us around.

The final scores ended up being 51 (under), 87 (under), 109 (under), 170 (over), and 108 (under). You’d think we totally failed. But lo and behold, those five numbers added together are exactly 525.

If that’s not a Christmas miracle, I don’t know what is.