Eden Prairie, MN

I wish I could tell you it was monumental. That this moment, these seven years of build up, came to a breaking point where crowds gathered, or clouds parted, where a line of buckets were each filled in succession with the proud vomit of my endeavor. Sadly, this is not the case.

This started six weeks ago. In Utah. Under a large red tent with fifteen or so other brothers in bike, we were slinging to the masses when a van pulled up and unloaded forty bagged lunches. Turkey or ham. I picked up a turkey bag and made my way back to my station near the back of the tent, parked myself on an orange plastic construction bucket and unwrapped the plastic wrap from the layers of turkey, mayo and lettuce. I lifted the right half of the sandwich towards my mouth, pausing to check for observers around me, the turkey surprising my nostrils. I went for it. The first bite dripped in delightful expectation. Glimpses of my childhood spent in wayside rest stops on family vacation flashed into mind; the midnight viewing of The Longest Day from behind humid slices of wheat bread encompassing the mound of layered turkey and Dijon mustard, my brother on the couch. This was it; this is what I’d been missing. Four bites in, the gleam from my eyes began to fade, the excitement of the first bite was lost in the second and third and by the time half the sandwich was gone I was yearning for the rush of the first hit. I tucked the remaining half of my crushed dreams back into the paper bag and tucked it under the table holding my tool box. And that was that. As some whispered traitor and other carnivorous bystanders exchanged proud nods, I dug back into my tool box searching for a 4mm bit for my torque wrench, washing away the last of my efforts with an orange soda.

Then there was Ragbrai. The six hours of heat and banter that led up to the lunch hour. The hoards of people passing by with porkchops and footlongs. The hotdogs being cautiously dipped into yellow corn batter across from our tent. I caved. With no emotion or reservation, I caved. Wiping the remains of ketchup from the corners of my mouth, I slumped into a foldable lawn chair under the shade of our tent, my belly feeling giddy and dense.

"Well clearly I can't be considered a vegetarian anymore, but I dont think I'll be at Ribfest anytime soon. I just felt... heavy. This rock, this settling in my stomach. I felt slow."

"That's called being full, and you haven't felt it in seven years." my younger brother jabbed from across a slice of sausage and pepperoni pizza.

Week's brought on the satisfaction of sausage, the gluttony of gravy. And today, jam packed into a wooden booth, in an out of the way roadside diner, with the selection of six options stenciled on the wall, the contentment of cheeseburgers.