Chris Decarlo: This One Hurt

For those of you in the Boston ad community who haven’t heard, the incomparable Chris DeCarlo passed away this Sunday after a bout with melanoma at the age of 42. Needless to say, the news rocked us all, because not only did the industry lose a great writer, but those of us who knew him lost a good friend.

You can read his obituary here.

http://obits.masslive.com/obituaries/masslive/obituary.aspx?n=christopher-j-de-carlo&pid=146785465

The news just reached his friends in Boston yesterday and we’re still trying to get out heads around it. Personally, I can’t bring myself to believe he’s actually gone.

His funeral services are this morning in Springfield, MA, however a local memorial is in the works. It most likely will be in the weeks after everyone gets back from Thanksgiving. Needless to say, this really knocked the wind out of all of us.

In the past year there have been a lot of questions about where he disappeared to, and after talking to his parents , it seems like Chris didn’t want to burden anyone with his problems. So he moved home to fight the cancer and literally told no one where he was. What can you say? That was just the kind of guy he was. Of course, it’s heartbreaking to think he went through this whole ordeal alone. However, he did have his family with him who loved him very much, and they were by his side when he passed away.

If you’re just learning about this for the first time, I’m so sorry you have to hear it like this. Just know we’re going to have a proper Boston celebration for him soon.

In the meantime, if you have a moment over Thanksgiving, think about the good times you had with him and raise a glass.

That’s what I’ll be doing, anyway.

This one hurt.

Video from my first day with The Masshole.  It’s hard to believe I didn’t win The Scooter Cannonball Run.

3 Notes
British Columbia Idaho Montana North Dakota South Dakota Minnesota Wisconsin Michigan Ontario Ottowa Ontario (again) New York Vermont New Hampshire Maine New Hampshire (again) Massachusetts Bed Then End.

British Columbia

Idaho

Montana

North Dakota

South Dakota

Minnesota

Wisconsin

Michigan

Ontario

Ottowa

Ontario (again)

New York

Vermont

New Hampshire

Maine

New Hampshire (again)

Massachusetts

Bed

Then End.

2 Notes
The 2010 Scooter Cannonball Run is over! Repeat: The 2010 Scooter Cannonball Run is OVER! In a nutshell, my race ended Saturday at 6:30 in Portland, Maine. All told, The Masshole has 3,818 more miles on it since I dipped its tiny, little tires in the Pacific Ocean. I apologize for taking this long to post everything, but between the 10-hour rides and the fact that our route ran through the 3% of the country AT&T doesn’t cover, blogging from the road turned out to be a lot more difficult than I imagined. I have some photos and other thoughts to post, but before that happens my ass needs a massage. Literally.  My bum needs to be rubbed by a professional. Thanks for following this mess. More to come.

The 2010 Scooter Cannonball Run is over!

Repeat: The 2010 Scooter Cannonball Run is OVER!

In a nutshell, my race ended Saturday at 6:30 in Portland, Maine. All told, The Masshole has 3,818 more miles on it since I dipped its tiny, little tires in the Pacific Ocean.

I apologize for taking this long to post everything, but between the 10-hour rides and the fact that our route ran through the 3% of the country AT&T doesn’t cover, blogging from the road turned out to be a lot more difficult than I imagined.

I have some photos and other thoughts to post, but before that happens my ass needs a massage. Literally.  My bum needs to be rubbed by a professional.

Thanks for following this mess.

More to come.

2 Notes
Today is the last day of the Scooter Cannonball Run. So what was it all for?   Yes, I wanted to chase one last, ridiculous adventure before my odometer rolls over to 40, but I was also raising money for Parkinson’s research.  Why? Well, this past year my Aunt Brigit lost her husband, Bo, after his long bought with the insidious disease.  If you’ve ever known someone who has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, you can understand how cruel it can be.  However in the case of Bo Smith I found it to be particularly unfair, because to have seen him before he was struck by this neurological disorder was to watch a giant walk the Earth. My brother and I met Bo before we were teenagers, which, in retrospect, was perhaps the perfect time for us to meet someone so fascinating. You cannot begin to imagine the awe Bo Smith inspired in a child.   Like most boys our age, we were obsessed with the Second World War. As kids we would ride our bikes to the library to pour over old Time-Life picture books documenting the great battles of the day.  When we were done there, we’d peddle home and beg our mother to buy us model kits of Wildcats and Corsairs which we would stare at and imagine ourselves banking tight turns over the Pacific with the canopy open.   And then something amazing happened. Our Aunt Brigit brought Bo Smith into our lives.   At first we were told he was a retired high school vice principle.  But something about that didn’t exactly sit right with us.  For starters, he didn’t look like any vice principal we had ever seen.  He was tall, athletic and ruggedly good-looking, even with a head full of white hair. And he glided through the house like a movie star.   No, there was something special about this man, but we just couldn’t put our fingers on it.   And then it came out.      He was a World War II veteran. But not just any vet - an honest to goodness fighter pilot who battled Japanese Zeros over Guadalcanal and flew the very planes we attempted to glue together in our kitchen.   But it didn’t end there.     Brigit had photos of Bo.  Photos of him doing extraordinary things.   There was Bo riding a long board in the Southern Californian surf.  In his 60’s.   There was Bo with a 300-pound sea bass he speared himself, free diving with just a mask and a snorkel.   We even heard Bo used to be John Wayne’s body double.  But while John Wayne only pretended to fly fighter planes and explore the deep, Bo was the real McCoy.   As far as I was concerned, Bo was the most fascinating individual who had ever stepped foot in our little home in Hingham, Massachusetts.   Meeting him made me suddenly realize how sheltered and uneventful my life had been up until that moment.   Although, truth be told, Bo probably had that effect on most people he met.   He was larger than life itself.  And yet, there was a tender, gentle quality about him that made him instantly loveable. We had just met him, but before the day was over he made us feel as if he had been a part of the family for years. Just being in the same room with Bo made you feel as if you were on the precipice of some grand escapade that could whisk you into the wilds of far off lands where survival skills and a good pocket knife would both come in handy. And then one day, while we were visiting them at their home in Washington, Bo showed us how his hands had developed a slight twitch. At the time he was concerned he may have done some nerve damage after working with paint solvents the week before.  But the sad truth was Bo had Parkinson’s Disease. He still had his adventures.  He went fishing whenever possible and snuck in a free dive every now and then, but as the disease progressed it sadistically robbed him of his joys one by one.   He fought it as long and as hard as a man could fight anything, but in time even a giant can be worn down. Bo passed away a few days after my son was born in November, which means we’re forced to make our own adventures now. Riding a scooter across an entire continent was the best I could do. I just wish I could see Bo at the finish line.  

Today is the last day of the Scooter Cannonball Run.

So what was it all for?   Yes, I wanted to chase one last, ridiculous adventure before my odometer rolls over to 40, but I was also raising money for Parkinson’s research. 

Why?

Well, this past year my Aunt Brigit lost her husband, Bo, after his long bought with the insidious disease.  If you’ve ever known someone who has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s, you can understand how cruel it can be.  However in the case of Bo Smith I found it to be particularly unfair, because to have seen him before he was struck by this neurological disorder was to watch a giant walk the Earth.

My brother and I met Bo before we were teenagers, which, in retrospect, was perhaps the perfect time for us to meet someone so fascinating.

You cannot begin to imagine the awe Bo Smith inspired in a child.
 
Like most boys our age, we were obsessed with the Second World War. As kids we would ride our bikes to the library to pour over old Time-Life picture books documenting the great battles of the day.  When we were done there, we’d peddle home and beg our mother to buy us model kits of Wildcats and Corsairs which we would stare at and imagine ourselves banking tight turns over the Pacific with the canopy open.
 
And then something amazing happened. Our Aunt Brigit brought Bo Smith into our lives.
 
At first we were told he was a retired high school vice principle.  But something about that didn’t exactly sit right with us.  For starters, he didn’t look like any vice principal we had ever seen.  He was tall, athletic and ruggedly good-looking, even with a head full of white hair. And he glided through the house like a movie star.
 
No, there was something special about this man, but we just couldn’t put our fingers on it.
 
And then it came out.   
 
He was a World War II veteran. But not just any vet - an honest to goodness fighter pilot who battled Japanese Zeros over Guadalcanal and flew the very planes we attempted to glue together in our kitchen.
 
But it didn’t end there.  
 
Brigit had photos of Bo.  Photos of him doing extraordinary things.
 
There was Bo riding a long board in the Southern Californian surf.  In his 60’s.
 
There was Bo with a 300-pound sea bass he speared himself, free diving with just a mask and a snorkel.
 
We even heard Bo used to be John Wayne’s body double.  But while John Wayne only pretended to fly fighter planes and explore the deep, Bo was the real McCoy.
 
As far as I was concerned, Bo was the most fascinating individual who had ever stepped foot in our little home in Hingham, Massachusetts.
 
Meeting him made me suddenly realize how sheltered and uneventful my life had been up until that moment.   Although, truth be told, Bo probably had that effect on most people he met.
 
He was larger than life itself.  And yet, there was a tender, gentle quality about him that made him instantly loveable. We had just met him, but before the day was over he made us feel as if he had been a part of the family for years.

Just being in the same room with Bo made you feel as if you were on the precipice of some grand escapade that could whisk you into the wilds of far off lands where survival skills and a good pocket knife would both come in handy.

And then one day, while we were visiting them at their home in Washington, Bo showed us how his hands had developed a slight twitch. At the time he was concerned he may have done some nerve damage after working with paint solvents the week before.  But the sad truth was Bo had Parkinson’s Disease.

He still had his adventures.  He went fishing whenever possible and snuck in a free dive every now and then, but as the disease progressed it sadistically robbed him of his joys one by one.
  

He fought it as long and as hard as a man could fight anything, but in time even a giant can be worn down.

Bo passed away a few days after my son was born in November, which means we’re forced to make our own adventures now.

Riding a scooter across an entire continent was the best I could do.

I just wish I could see Bo at the finish line.

 

Greetings From Canada. Again.

Judging by the polite people and expensive drinks, we’re apparently back in Canada.  The border crossing from Michigan to Ontario was so casual, one could easily mistake the guard for a tollbooth attendant.

The only downside so far is the weather, but you can’t really fault the Canadians for that.  Personally, I blame the organizers of the Cannonball who bragged that in 30 days of riding in all the Scooter Cannonballs combined there hadn’t been one day of rain. That’s like talking about a no hitter in the middle the eighth inning.

So what happens?  You guessed it.  Rain.  But not just any kind of rain — a steady, cold, Canadian rain.  And at 50 miles per hour that rain has a way of working its way into every seem of your “all-weather” clothing.  And while today was by all definitions the shortest and easiest day of the entire race, the rain somehow made it feel like the longest.

The fact that we had to share the road with logging trucks hauling full loads of fresh timber didn’t help matters.  The way they roar down the highway, seemingly without any regard to any other vehicle around them, you would think each truck is loaded then parked outside a prison with the keys in the ignition.

On a good day, when the sun is shining, the back draft is enough to push a 250-pound scooter several feet in either direction laterally – an unnerving proposition to say the least.  But in the middle of a rainstorm, it’s more like getting hit with a concussion grenade and a fire hose at the same time.

But I’m still alive, so how bad could it have possibly been, right?

Meanwhile, the sleep deprivation is definitely taking its toll.  Things are starting to break down.  Physically speaking, I woke up minutes before the alarm clock with a Charlie Horse in my calf so bad I had to pick up my leg like it belonged to a cadaver, place it on the floor so I could attempt to put some weight on it.  That was immediately followed by a back spasm which forced me to bring an end to my man-on-man massage ban.

The fact that we’re averaging approximately 4-6 hours of sleep a night and 10-12 hours of riding couldn’t possibly be helping.  The past few days have been particularly tough as far as energy level is concerned. To keep from falling asleep on the road, I’ve been hitting the 5-Hour Energy Shots. Now, in a normal office environment, if I have so much as a cap full of this liquid methamphetamine I get so overly stimulated all I want to do is crawl under my desk and suck my thumb.  But in the past few days I’ve put enough of them down to keep a narcoleptic up for a week, and they’re barely putting a dent in my fatigue.

The good news is we only have two more days to go.  The bad news is we’ll mostly like be on the road for 20 hours. 

20 hours.

Why the Hell am I still typing?

North Dakota to Michigan: Two days. Two wheels. One cylinder.

This is, without a doubt, the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.  And at the risk of sounding like that guy who says, “Dude, you have no idea what I’m going through,” let me just say, “Dude, you really don’t.”

The average day consists of dragging yourself out of bed before the sun comes up, stuffing some calories into your food hole, grinding out 300 plus miles in approximately 10-12 hours, trying not to fall asleep while riding, getting to the next motel at sundown, fixing whatever broke on your scooter, then going to bed and getting another inadequate night’s sleep so you can start the Hellish process all over the next day.

Right now, we’re averaging about 4-5 hours a night.  It’s obviously an untenable situation, so tonight we’re attempting to get a good rest.  You know, like, say, 6 hours.

Monday was a disaster.

After crossing the Missouri River in South Dakota, my drive belt disintegrated on US-12 with only 2024 miles on it.  As a point of reference, every mechanic I talked to said the belt should last at least 5,000 miles.  But that’s the Scooter Cannonball Run for you.  A veteran of the race compared Cannonball miles to dog years, and they couldn’t be more accurate.

I’m told I got off easy when the drive belt went because it’s not too uncommon for the bike to completely seize up and throw it’s rider from the seat.  Seeing as how I was on a two-lane highway frequented by trucks hauling farm equipment, I can see how I dodged a bullet on that one.  But my GPS also decided to stop working that same afternoon, so it all evens out in the end I suppose.

The GPS bed-shitting actually resulted in the nadir of my Cannonball experience thus far, which was getting lost on a country road in the middle of a moonless night with no cell phone signal or flashlight.

There a moments in life when we touch the void and snatch a glimpse of our true selves.  If that night was an indication, apparently I am a panic prone child who’s afraid of being alone in the dark.

I only made it back after waving down a guy in a pickup truck, a move which I knew would either result in getting proper directions to my motel or man-raped.  As luck would have it, that coin flip came up heads and I made it back to safety and comfort of the Valley View Motel in Ortonville, Minnesota, where I was able to steal a solid four hours of sleep before I was back on the road again at 6:00 this morning.

Speaking of which, I’m supposed to be on the road in less than 7 hours. We’re headed back into Canada tomorrow for the coldest day yet.

Like I said, this is toughest thing I’ve ever done.

For God’s sake, please donate to my Parkinson’s Research Fund so I don’t have to do this again.

Just click here.

We stayed in Bowman, North Dakota last night. I’d tell you where, but the motel didn’t have a sign.

We stayed in Bowman, North Dakota last night. I’d tell you where, but the motel didn’t have a sign.

2 Notes
It took three days to get through Montana.  She took her best shot at knocking me down, but I’m still standing.  Well, actually, I’m comfortably reclined and hopped up on a candy dish of Canadian muscle relaxants, but I’m still categorizing it as a win. Even though I’m currently in last place and getting beaten by two guys on 50cc scooters. Only for the moment.  Only for the moment. I need to pound this out before the muscle relaxants kick in, so here it goes. The world hates a scooter.  And Montana seems to bare them an especially nasty grudge.   The cross winds roll off the Rockies and hit the plains looking to pick a fight with the smallest person they can find.  And when they find you on a moving scooter you essentially become the puck in a game of air hockey. Deer. If there’s a soft spot in your heart for cute, big-eyed deer, all you have to do is drive through Montana in September and be cured of that nonesense.  It’s smack-dab in the middle of the rut right now, which means the highways turn into petting zoos where the animals are completely suicidal.  One dude wrecked pretty badly when a deer jumped out in front of him and he went into a ditch to avoid hitting it.  I’ve had at least three deer launch themselves in front of me, but my cat like reflexes (and the fact that I ride like a complete pussy) prevented me from getting close enough to do any real damage.  Oh, and I wiped out pretty badly on my scooter, but that was completely non-deer related. Like I said, she took her best shot and I’m still standing. Falling asleep in North Dakota tonight.   Minnesota tomorrow. Muscle relaxants: 1. Lawson: 0

It took three days to get through Montana. 

She took her best shot at knocking me down, but I’m still standing.  Well, actually, I’m comfortably reclined and hopped up on a candy dish of Canadian muscle relaxants, but I’m still categorizing it as a win. Even though I’m currently in last place and getting beaten by two guys on 50cc scooters.

Only for the moment.  Only for the moment.

I need to pound this out before the muscle relaxants kick in, so here it goes.

The world hates a scooter.  And Montana seems to bare them an especially nasty grudge.  

The cross winds roll off the Rockies and hit the plains looking to pick a fight with the smallest person they can find.  And when they find you on a moving scooter you essentially become the puck in a game of air hockey.

Deer. If there’s a soft spot in your heart for cute, big-eyed deer, all you have to do is drive through Montana in September and be cured of that nonesense.  It’s smack-dab in the middle of the rut right now, which means the highways turn into petting zoos where the animals are completely suicidal.  One dude wrecked pretty badly when a deer jumped out in front of him and he went into a ditch to avoid hitting it.  I’ve had at least three deer launch themselves in front of me, but my cat like reflexes (and the fact that I ride like a complete pussy) prevented me from getting close enough to do any real damage. 

Oh, and I wiped out pretty badly on my scooter, but that was completely non-deer related.

Like I said, she took her best shot and I’m still standing.

Falling asleep in North Dakota tonight.  

Minnesota tomorrow.

Muscle relaxants: 1. Lawson: 0

2 Notes
Asses all over America sat on comfortable couches and watched football today. Meanwhile, mine was stuck on this.  

Asses all over America sat on comfortable couches and watched football today. Meanwhile, mine was stuck on this.  

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