"Interesting" is one way to describe the Twin Cities right now. Its hard to overstate the frenzied fever pitch that the Monday Night Game is generating. While some Vikings fans seem to have the correct antipathy towards Mr. Favre, most seem to have jettisoned any sort of reservations about the affair. Its as if there's been a collective moral loophole created to neatly dispose of the troublesome issues the QB switch brings up. The Vikings fans just seem content to buy newly minted #4 jerseys and other purple swag while enjoying their improbable 3-0 start. Truthfully, not much else is to be expected from such a young franchise without the benefit of a long history to guide them in matters of ethics and pride. This will be the crux of what I'll be drunkenly yelling later this evening.
After getting lost twice in the city, I arrive on the MPLS doorstep of my friend Watkins. In addition to being one the finest traveling companions you could have, Watkins is also one hell of a host. His encyclopedic knowledge of architecture, city history and heroic alcohol tolerance make him an invaluable partner in the search for good times and cheap thrills. As soon as I pull up, he's got a tallboy in my hand and is helping me dismantle my luggage. I'm a stuttering mess, and 5 different stories are trying to come out of my mouth at once. After a few beers, I calm down, and we attend to the task at hand of getting drunk and catching up.
First on the itinerary is a visit (by bus, BTW) to Palmer's, a delightful #$%*hole of a place that seems to cater to collegiate punks and uppity homeless people. It has a nice Grain Belt sign in front, as well some nice floor tile mosaics of the same brand logo. It likely was a tied house, meaning that long ago a brewery fronted the bar money for construction in exchange for serving only that brewery's beer. A three piece band is playing on a stage that measures 8' x 6', and within 5 minutes we see someone get 86'd for trying to start a fight. An older woman starts chatting with us, and pretty soon Watkins and her bond over stories about blizzards they've been through.
Apparently, drinking somewhere that legally serves alcohol is too classy for us, so the next stop is a BYOB art space where a bunch of bands are playing. Everybody here is easily 10+ years my junior, but everybody's drinking from cases of beer they brought in their messenger bags, and they're all pretty friendly sorts. The bands are a nice departure from 3rd generation punk rock, and there's even a band composed of godless longhairs trying to channel Roger McGuinn. Nice. I look around and get vague feelings of deja vu from basement shows I used to go to some 15+ years ago. But the energy is good, and in what must be an example of cultural evolution, they hardly wear any spikes or leather. And they all ride cruddy looking fixies, so good on them. Nice kids. I get whasted, and all is more or less right with the world.
The next day we head out to what Watkins describes as a "Boo-Ya Festival". "Boo-Ya" is apparently a type of soup that is made in 55 gallon drums with ox tail and other types of meat. Having previously thought Boo-Ya was a feeling or intangible sentiment or sorts, I am thrilled to be able to capture Boo-Ya on film as well as consume it. What a country. Also, I consume some fine Polskas and deep fried cheese curds, though I feel somehow like I'm cheating on my native cuisine by eating it in Minnesota. Weird, I know.
Its time to figure out what the #$%* is going on with my bike, and after a somewhat panicked post about finding new tappet covers, forum member srust58 contacts me and gives me a great tip about a bike junkyard in Jordan. He graciously offers to drive me there, even. I reassure him bike is not that badly off, but I do take him up on his offer to check my bike out and troubleshoot. Watkins and I ride out to his place, and soon we are chatting about sailboats, road trips and English bikes. srust58 is the owner of an immaculate '76 750F, which is 99% stock. It even has factory yellow dabs of paint on many of the bolts! We get to discussing what's wrong with my bike, and srust58 suggests that, in fact, nothing is wrong. He's probably right. My bike ran like #$%* because I was running open pods through 240 miles of rain. The knocking sound is well within the "sewing machine" chugging of a normally running engine. In truth, srust58 has effectively talked me off the ledge. His invaluable advice has made my day. So, here's to you srust58, a fine example of kinship among riders.
Its about time to take off and take care of some #$%*. After three days, my boots are finally dry again and in need of some new insoles. The weather isn't getting any warmer, so some of those hand warmers are also in order. If I'm going to have pleasant weather and riding, I'm going to have to switch states. Wednesday I take off, hopefully in the direction of Austin, TX. Not sure of the route I'll take, but the idea of heading west isn't a good idea at this point of the year. Oh well.
Time to get more beer and find a bar for tonight's game. If all goes well, there'll be a steady stream of purple and yellow heading to the locker room on stretchers tonight. Kill, Pack, kill.
