The Best Fifteen Hundred Bucks I've Ever Spent

I love Amsterdam. Mention the destination in mixed company and there will undoubtedly be snickers about hazy cafes and the red light district, but what really titillates me are the many modes of transport that the Dutch enjoy. Reaching your destination in Amsterdam can involve any number of wheeled or floating apparatuses. It is also quite flat, so even on trains (all above ground) you can simply identify the destination and aim accordingly. Drive a car if you dare, but the humble bicycle rules the streets of Amsterdam. As far as I’m concerned, that’s pretty great.

The automobile is a wonderful invention, but it has brought with it a slew of unintended consequences here in America - notably heart disease, traffic jams and sports talk radio. Suburbs springing up in the heyday of cheap gasoline didn’t even bother catering to pedestrians or cyclists. ‘To heck with them and their tight clothes!’ For why would anyone ever want to move about in such a laborious fashion?

I happen to live in a community that was designed for Buicks, not bicycles. In a more brazen time, I attempted cycling downtown to work. Instead of a relaxing way to bookend the day, it was a highly dangerous, sweaty and demoralizing affair. The route, a mere six miles, went over both Shades Mountain and Red Mountain. That sounds picturesque, but instead of chirping birds and the smell of fresh air, I was privy to dawn breaking over discount seafood restaurants, Big Lots and a strip club. Though I stuck entirely to sidewalks or designated lanes (thus impeding no one), the occasional driver couldn’t help but lob a comment my way in between drags off their morning cigarette. 

Call me a quitter but I gave up on the dream after several attempts. We Chapmans also didn’t up and move to Amsterdam because their words are too long. Aside from infrequent neighborhood pedals (requiring a two hundred foot climb back up), I crumpled into a man who loads his bicycle onto a rack and drives it to places. In what seems in retrospect like a cry for help, I became a self-described “golf-cart person” the same year I turned forty. Concerned friends reached out to see if I was doing okay.

Admittedly, the golf cart did help shift our emphasis more to the journey. Every day for us was so destination-centric (what’s next on the schedule?) that it genuinely helped to make space for meandering. We four Chapmans made a pact to load up as a family after dinner, head down the hill, and simply putter around without an agenda. Our days were noticeably more sociable and pleasant. It was bike-ish.

Then technology offered up a solution to these key problems that have long been a barrier. If you want to safely blend with vehicular traffic and avoid becoming the subject of another angry Facebook post, it’s in your best interest to travel at a reasonable speed. Pedaling that swiftly up the hills around here would be impossible, even for professionals. With the recent advancements in battery science, however, one can now effortlessly ride a bike as fast as Lance Armstrong (in his juicing days) while carrying a case of Budweiser, a golden retriever and a bluetooth speaker blasting yacht rock. 

It all felt too good to be true when I started checking prices this past spring. After years considering every costly gram of bicycle purchased throughout my lifetime, I became intoxicated with the idea of what I could accomplish with such a versatile and reasonably-priced machine.

The only question was which ebike to purchase. There was the electrified version of a mountain bike, which would be fun and capable, but not awesome for smooth road riding. I looked hard at commuters, which are the most popular choice. Then a particular cargo bike caught my eye, as did its carrying capacity of a whopping 450 lbs. The promo pictures featured happy families, loaded to the gills with all their stuff and joyously pedaling their way to a picnic or something equally endearing. More than anything I saw giant racks, a huge wheelbase and a butt load of potential. Oh and it was on sale!

The first thing I noticed when my new bike arrived was its sheer size. Conventional bike racks would splinter under her largess. Instead of the attentive riding position I’ve become so used to, the long wheelbase allows me to stretch out a bit. When you hit the throttle and stop pedaling, it almost feels like a motorcycle. Visions of Easy Rider played in my mind, but only the one clip I’ve actually seen.

My maiden voyage around the neighborhood was the stuff of dreams. Waving and smiling like the luckiest idiot in the world, I passed all kinds of curious onlookers. Mr. Rob, a fun neighbor and local pizza magnate, flagged me down to talk specs. We vowed to go for an ebike ride together. Flying back up the hill with ease, I contemplated what standard protocol even is for an ebike ride. With a full battery and a smidge of gumption, the world is your oyster. 

Back at the shop, it was business time. Not a moment to waste showing ROI on this beast. With all my accessories firmly affixed and ambitions raised, it was time to make a grocery store run.

The trip is a shade over two miles through the neighborhood. Using the kickstart of our hill, I easily kept the speed limit while descending to the creekside shopping center. A strategic list of groceries had been curated to both occupy every bit of surface area (for the pics) and see how carrying capacity equates to handling on this bike. For those of you who don’t know me personally, I’m a “fill it up to the top” kinda guy. That’s why I grabbed the twenty pound box of cat litter. 

With the help of some clever gadgets, I properly secured my cargo and powered up for the return journey. Gravity’s blessings from a while earlier were to be reversed, laying down a substantial gauntlet for what was feeling to be a pretty top-heavy craft. Tentatively, I navigated the parking lot, noting that the steering had a bit more wobble this time around. If there is one thing engineering school taught me, however, is that you can solve a lot of problems with speed and power. 

I pedaled with intention but let the motor give me full beans in turbo mode. The sizable hill up past our  local High School lay ahead. Normally, I would pop onto the sidewalk for this bit, but there were some kids walking down. As I zipped into view, it appeared as if these youths were marveling at my forward-thinkingness. They had stopped on the sidewalk and several in the group of girls were pointing at me. As it turns out, they were doubled over in hysterics laughing.

I was still rather proud to return home successfully with all goods accounted for. Instead of fearing further ridicule on the mean streets of Vestavia Hills, I found myself even more driven to get back out there. There would be a new goal that I hadn’t even considered initially - embarrassing the hell out of my family.

As weeks passed in splendor and I made short work of the first hundred miles, that idiot grin held steadfast. My radius of exploration expanded, as did the bulk items I attempted to transport (mulch day was next level). At the end of each day, I secretly delighted in Allison’s summary of who texted in to say they saw me, riding my bike, looking like a total goober. 

If you see me out there, wave and holler. And yes, I am having that much fun.

The Meat Waits for Nobody

Do you walk around with a constant sense of guilt, or is it just me? I don’t know if it’s attributed to my raising, genetics, or hearing the Old Testament read aloud too many times. If I have a bad day, I feel guilty for feeling bad. What reasons have I to be terrible? If life continually comes up roses, there’s this nagging voice saying that I’m winning only because someone else is losing. There is seemingly no guilt-free awesomeness to be had.  

In a first for us Chapmans, there are two shower heads in our master bath. When we initially moved in, it didn’t even dawn on me that the two could be pointed toward one person standing between them. I tried double blasting, and had a lovely time, but really felt it was too indulgent for daily use. So, only on Saturdays, I’ll treat myself to an awesome double shower. Then I’ll spend a few solemn moments thinking about all the folks in the world who have no access to clean, running water.

It should come as no surprise then that my lifelong infatuation with food has seen regular periods of introspection. My intake will start to feel overly indulgent and I’ll naturally want a  sweeping change in response. People around me will kindly play along as I attempt to appease my soul with yet another more thoughtful approach to eating. Fueled by the rallying cry of yet another documentary on our challenged foodways, I’ll make a declaration that things are changing henceforth. How can I ever go back knowing what I know now?

Prior to sharing meals with our children, Allison enthusiastically joined me in juicing after watching Fat, Sick & Nearly Dead. We gave middle fingers to processed foods for one or two meals a day. I would zoom my Mini Cooper down to Costco every week and spend four hundred dollars on crates of produce we could hopefully squeeze a few quarts from. Our kitchen was sticky all over. Flies abounded. Our growling tummies would interrupt the quiet tranquility of our pre-parental bliss while friends enjoyed their fun brunches. That $300 juicer was quickly offloaded. 

My attempts at plain old vegetarianism were much more sustainable. The first stint was motivated by a Netflix documentary showing all of us dum-dums how we’ve been poisoning ourselves this whole time with meat-based diets. The scene that still stays with me is a visual of how much better the blood flow is (allegedly) to one’s genitals at night without the added viscosity from all that animal fat.

Anyway, that’s all I needed. Sign me and little Chappy up. Every time I watched some poor soul engrossed in a greasy burger, my arteries just felt so flippin’ clean. I’d smugly ruminate on bland mouthfuls of vegetables knowing I was beautiful on the inside. Eyes of passing animals sparkled with gratitude as I enjoyed Chipotle burritos full of whatever a sofrita is. 

Next, it came to me that there is no better way to save the planet than by simply not eating meals. Call it intermittent fasting if you will, but it was really just a fancy way to say I skipped breakfast entirely. Unsure if it was really meant to be done every day, I persisted. I was too busy enjoying how pointy my cheeks looked on zoom calls. There was, however, the nagging problem of not getting enough calories to maintain an active lifestyle. What little butt I possessed nearly disappeared. I was tired and generally sad. My workouts lacked ambition.

In my most recent diet makeover, I decided to go pescatarian. I had to explain this to quite a few people from my high horse, so in case you don’t know that’s eating only fish as far as animals go. My reasoning being that I have indeed milked a cow, collected eggs, and caught seafood that I have then consumed. At no time have I personally slaughtered a cow, pig, goat, or chicken. Yet I have eaten thousands. That’s an out of balance equation in this head of mine. Instead of going on a barnyard killing spree, I decided to cook myself a healthy plate of fish instead of whatever the girls were getting each night. 

On the plus side, I did get much better at serving up tasty sea creatures. We usually only eat seafood in view of where it came from, at least since I ruined every type of fish you can think of in my early kitchen days. Don’t ever ask Allison about the time I tried slow smoking scallops. 

I had a decent run and made it three months as a pescatarian. But once again my will power faltered. For starters, we were spending an obscene pile of cash on something that invites rapid decay. 

Regardless of where I bought our seafood from (and how much I spent), there was always a persistent gamble on the fishy element crashing our dinner party. I tried all kinds of marinades, milk baths, defrosting protocols and preparations. But if there were two fillets, the one with a surprise bite of nasty was inevitably gonna end up on Allison’s plate. These moments did not serve to enhance my marriage. Before you could say microplastics, I saw where this was headed.

Some would say all of these were doomed operations from the start. After all, there’s a prominent sign hanging in my basement (Chappy’s Pub) featuring a flying pig and an inscription that reads “The Meat Waits for Nobody.” But rather than treat each experiment as a failure, I appreciate the perspectives they brought. The meat, and all of your food, should be savored and treated with dignity. The times of going without will help you relish those moments of plenty.

Change is hard, and it has gotten so tough to know if you are even making the right choices for your fellow earth inhabitants when browsing the supermarket. But I do know this: Taking a second to honor where your food comes from and its journey to the plate would help every single person. The mindless distance of modern living has fooled us into thinking we can have exactly what we want when we want it without consequence. Maybe there should be a tinge of guilt when those grapes from Peru spoil untouched in your refrigerator. 

It’s warming up outside. Throw some seeds in the dirt and grow your own food instead of relying on planes, trains and automobiles to bring it to you. Find a local farmer or rancher who will familiarize you with the good, local and seasonal stuff. If you only eat the choices of steaks, check out a butcher’s cut sheet and see how much cow is leftover. A little guilt and perspective might help us all to truly enjoy what we are blessed to have on our plates.

And if you are coming over for dinner, best be on time. The meat waits for nobody.

DJ Chappalicious: A Day in The Life

5:32 am

Hoover, Alabama

The sun has yet to come up over Veterans Park, but on the day of a big event, I find it best to be early. Spirits were high as my early morning stealth had not allowed any alarms of the furry or normal variety to disturb my slumbering ladies. Something was strange, however. On a day where thousands of people would be running a variety of races from a 5k all the way up to a full marathon, this location that hosted last year’s event was devoid of any of the usual infrastructure. 

With shaky hands I grabbed my phone and went to the race home page, which maybe I should have done prior to this moment. While the host city remained the same, I quickly realized that our 2024 start line was now twenty minutes across town. With a bit of hustle and knowledge that Hoover’s police force was largely tied up at my destination, I spirited the Subaru westward. I could still make it on time and my boss would never know. 

Anna had most certainly told me about the change. The race director, not by coincidence, is my Italian cousin by marriage. We see each other regularly and team up each Christmas to turn out heaping pans of handmade raviolis. In life and especially on race day, Anna does not suffer fools. 

5:56 am

I arrive as the sound crew is wrapping up their setup. Crisis averted. Still, no need to tell anyone who the big dummy is this morning. The scene is already frantic enough, light barely peeking through to illuminate tents, equipment, barricades, banners and faces of the usual suspects. This is the eighth edition of our mini-reunion, where we are all accustomed to our part in the show. Anna’s dad fronts the post-race band. Her college friends manage volunteers. Representatives from the charity smile warmly and greet everyone as they dart about in their name badges. And me? Well, I’m DJ Chappalicious. 

The short explanation of how I got to this point is that I throw a pretty excellent party. Entertaining other humans is my sacred duty in life. With that kind of mindset, how can you not own a very outsized PA system for your band that only plays house parties that you throw? While also being involved with events not held at my bachelor pad, it became apparent that people put an outrageous premium on background music. I could engineer diligently for two days at my normal job and make less than it paid to sit in a parking lot on a Saturday morning for a few hours and set my playlist in motion. No record scratching for this guy. If there was any concern over job security, however, it evaporated in the nervy moments where someone must own the mic and communicate to the eager throngs who await instruction. It was a good ride, but now my alter-ego only makes an appearance once per year as a volunteer. I still feel the butterflies though.

5:58 am

The AV crew wants a final check on assorted sound inputs, which is why I’m making OSHA jokes and fiddling with the latch on a scissor lift. A group warmup, our first scheduled activity of the morning, is to be led from an elevated position next to the start line. I’m impersonating the CrossFit trainer who is not yet present so we can get a level on his hands-free mic. My voice echoes through the recreational complex. Birds scatter. Startled volunteers do their early morning best to turn “who’s this obnoxious idiot?!” faces into those of understanding. Once solidly back on earth, I feel much more comfortable with a trusty corded number that I can follow all the way to the sound board. When you have seven hours to go, it is best not to be worrying about batteries. 

6:00 am 

Anna has provided two copies of the announcement bullet points, which sit atop my designated table under my designated tent. I have a chair too. Much has changed since year one, like how we’ve outgrown my personal sound system. No matter what, we both know the next hour is going to be nuts. With thousands of humans about to flood in and get their endorphin fix, you can only embrace that there will be chaos. That’s why there are two copies and the paper is card stock.

6:04 am

I take a quick lap to inventory the various stations required at every event (medical, timing, bag check, etc.). Inevitably, I will be asked about all of them. My closest neighbor introduces herself as Mrs. Kim, who looks like the active grandmother everyone wants to have. We chat briefly before she directs her energy to the pile of freshly printed t-shirts before her. I vow to find a song that gets Mrs. Kim dancing before the day is out. 

6:10 am

Time to start the music. When you are breaking the ice, it’s best to come in at a low volume and build. For this reason, and because it’s my guiltiest pleasure song, I selfishly chose Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” Reason would suggest that you simply create a playlist and let it ride in this situation, but my preference is to read the room. I might amass a four or five-song buffer, but those hundred or so decisions are all intentional. Oh, you want to hear more of my professional DJ tips!? I’m so flattered.

DJ Chappalicious’ first rule of deejaying is to not oversaturate with the same artist. Absolutely no repeats of the same song, no matter how long you are playing. This also applies to car rides. As in public speaking, you must always consider the audience. Do not force your niche introspective indie tracks on a crowd who’s simply there to run as fast as they can. As much as it may pain you, pander to the demographics represented. There is good music to be found in every genre and generation that will make those toes tap. Lastly, and more recent in establishment: Zach Bryan is not party music. If you want to ride around in your truck alone and be sad, by all means go ahead. 

6:15 am

I’ve just made the first announcement to a few hundred who mill about nervously. The downside to calling all of this attention my direction is that now anyone with a doubt in their mind is thinking about coming to me with a question. I can see it in their eyes. My table becomes an impromptu lost & found as someone has already misplaced their keys. Another, their debit card. We’re off to a hot start.

6:40 am

Yoga is more often my go-to these days, but I’m still a runner. The energy before a race is palpable. I get a little anxious even as a spectator. Any distance on our agenda would require a legit level of willingly applied discomfort, but the marathon is a silly undertaking. I’ve weathered a few and it simply feels like you run, and run, and run for an entire day. Time slows to a crawl as you strip away every motivation save sheer stubbornness, nay well-informed stupidity. Forgive my language, but when I see the faces of these brave souls walking up, I just want to yell “hell yeah dudes and lady dudes!” straight into that microphone. Instead, I dutifully mention our sponsors. Early and often!

The masses were hoving into view, and they had needs, occasionally of the ridiculous variety. There will always be a few. I fielded as many questions as I could without escalating up the chain of command. Most were easy changes at the timing tent, some requests were not deliverable even with the help of science. Mental reminder of Anna’s motto: “This is all for charity.” 

6:45 am

Pressure builds as we begin clipping through the posted schedule. I pass along operating instructions for the mic, which clips out a few times during warm-up. No biggie. Participants are bouncing around, the blood is flowing and they are slowly migrating toward the start line. But wait! We’ve hit a snag.

Traffic. I guess it’s a good sign when your event draws a headcount that can clog roads built to withstand the SEC Championship. Anna calls an audible and we push the start back by five minutes. All good. The timing company and I have a visual/verbal confirmation routine that can adapt to such a situation. We’re not launching a missile, just pressing start on a fancy clock.

6:52 am

I resolve to draw things out a bit by letting the prayer and Pledge of Allegiance breathe a bit. Chelsie then did her patriotic duty with a soulful extended rendition of the national anthem. An awkward lull could have followed, but I was ready with Wannabe by Spice Girls. Then why not thank those sponsors again.

7:04 am

I do not thirst for power. When it is handed to me, however, I’m a bit more cautious than I used to be. As mentioned previously, getting this thing going should have been as easy as an amplified countdown of “3-2-1, Go!” but I could not see a soul from the timing team. Without the high sign, I could not willingly lose the full corral of runners who eyed me with waning patience. The fifteen seconds that followed just about made my heart explode, but protocol was followed. I enthusiastically set marathon, half-marathon and ten-mile participants in motion with the howling intro of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song. It feels good.

7:18 am

On to the next wave, which contains all of the 5k and 10k runners. With this many races happening all at once, I offer a reminder that everyone needs to pay attention or else they might end up running further than they had bargained for. Once you reach a critical mass, someone is bound to go off course. You can throw up a barricade, put a police officer at the intersection and paint directions on the road, but at least one goober will inevitably defy logic. I’ve witnessed top-tier professionals run past dozens of “Half marathon finish straight ahead” signs only to turn with the marathon route and lose. This time, when I do the countdown, there is no awkward pause. The crowd streams by in a wave of smiles. I breathe a sigh of relief.

We’ve reached the much-appreciated lull.

7: 30 am

At this point, I’m glad to be where I am and not trotting along the pavement. It’s going to be a hot day, which is a bit worrying for anyone expecting Alabama to be mild in October. The hardest thing I have to do now is decide what artists from my well-oiled playlist are off-limits this year. Dave Grohl is currently in the news for making a baby with not his wife. Diddy is probably going to jail for a long time, but hasn’t officially been convicted yet. Molly, a long-time volunteer, is my sounding board as we collectively decide that it’s ok to drop some Notorious BIG on ‘em with Diddy doing whatever he does in the background.

“Poppa been smooth since days of Underoos”

7:35 am

With everyone out on course, I’m searching for a volumetric sweet spot that entertains without deafening patrons. Before me is a herd of volunteers who will be handing out medals to every finisher today. This is a thankless job. Standing in the unrelenting sun for many hours, they play a high stakes game of roulette that involves navigating sweat, wobbly legs and even puke. Given their proximity and the fact Mrs. Kim has joined their ranks, I decide to use this group of ladies as my litmus test for the groove I’m laying down.

8:22 am

After announcing winners coming down the chute for our shorter races, I get to put the microphone down. We started off by calling every name of every runner in the early years, but I’m super thankful that is no longer the case. With timing and scoring updates, I get a precious second or two to make my best guess at a pronunciation and then own it at 100 decibels. You very quickly start to hate the sound of your own voice. Plus, people will stop you on the street to tell you how bad you messed up their name.

8:50 am

After verbally directing about a hundred people to the timing and scoring tent and explaining that my Spotify playlist did not contain their race results, I took some managerial initiative. With the aforementioned extra agenda, I fashioned a makeshift sign that read “Timing & Scoring that way” with an arrow to make it obvious. Albeit, I still had a friendly face so there were interlopers occasionally needing a finger point to the sign. These are the liberties one acquires after years of dedicated service

9:15 am

A good race director knows not to remain still for too long. The queue will form out of nowhere as people word vomit their own personal emergencies at you. Anna was simply checking on me when an older gentleman cornered her with a “greetings young lady” vibe. She was helpful and patient, but I did laugh pretty good when her response to “Do you know anything about the course?” was “A little.” My dad always allowed me to say the word “ass” in polite company as long as it sat in the riddle of what ASSUME really stands for. 

10:00 am

The winner of the marathon would have gotten arrested for public intoxication if he were in a normal setting, but you almost expect that level of fatigue with 84 degrees and high humidity. A brave soul steps in to keep him upright. All communication is exaggerated, and one imagines they are checking to see if he knows what day it is. October 6th. No it isn’t always this hot, but you are tempting fate here in Alabama with a furry Halloween costume.

Our last running event of the day kicks off and I’m reminded of the year that Anna asked me to lead the kid’s fun run. I don’t mean in a controlled pace car sense. The duty notably required that I be faster than the children while also steering the mob down a clear and correct path. It was total chaos but a freakin’ rush I tell you.

10:35 am

There comes a point where most participants have finished, chugged some after-party brews and are already on their way to church. But the team and volunteers, who have long since lost their early morning buzz, know we still have a closed course until the six hour time cutoff. This is where you find something to occupy your mind, otherwise the minutes will tick by at a snail’s pace. Runners have a similar experience manipulating time. The group aiming to barely make it will have spent almost an entire work day putting one foot in front of another on warming tarmac. It is a soul exploration that can feel like an eternity. 

10:42 am

Mrs. Kim has shimmied. She’s in a chair handing out medals when Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus awakens the crowd a bit. It never fails. Noting that the vast majority of my audience are ladies, I decide to pull a thread that’s familiar in the Chapman house. Time to show off some of my girl dad skills.

10:57 am

Yeah we’re getting it now. Pitbull & Kesha get the crowd going with Timber. Friends grab one another to swing their partner round and round. My own rule is tested as I spin Only the Young by Taylor Swift, her second contribution (So it Goes was first). That song totally slaps on a big sound system. Water bottles are being used as pretend microphones at this point. I’m killing it. 

And then Mrs. Kim really joins in. Lauryn Hill finally got her over the edge. Mission accomplished!

11:24 am

My extra special wristband will get me anywhere I want to go. It also comes with free food and drink. I queue up songs for a much-needed break and humbly defer to the donut vendor on which icing is best. Chef recommended strawberry, which was curiously well stocked this late in the day. A hidden treasure!

Having passed through the food line, I stood perplexed for a moment as to where the napkins resided. My eating habits are not civilized. Condiments are always falling out everywhere. It was a bit concerning that I was staring down a saucy sandwich without protection.

But as I aimlessly scanned the room, it occurred to me that a napkin was actually the least of my worries. When thinking about what was set to play in my stead, the lyrics for House of Pain’s seminal hit Jump Around came flashing back, especially the part about “I never eat a pig, cause a pig is a cop.”

One of the first people to greet me in the still dark hours of the morning had been the police captain. With at least twenty of his finest involved in our event, and the fact that they had Anna patched directly into their radio channel, I thought it best to high step it back and change the future.  

12:05 pm

It’s a good time to stretch and catch up with everyone. Runners are coming every few minutes at this point. The heat has taken its toll on a few out of state marathoners. I also hear that a local along the route backed their car into a runner. You never want any of this to happen, but it is virtually impossible to shut off an entire 26.2 miles. Just as runners will get lost, civilians along the route sometimes display the worst sides of humanity. If you ever find yourself impeded for a bit because of a well-intentioned event, please be nice. It’s for charity.

12:45 pm

We’re almost there. I’m indulging in a frosty Coors Light and no longer defend my rules as friendly requests fly in. The battle hardened few that remain demand their Taylor Swift and they shall have it. An enthusiastic group reaches full fever pitch during Style. The song lifts their exhausted friend across the line and they all swarm her for what must be months worth of instagram content. 

The whole scene is a pleasant reminder of what music can do and what people can accomplish. Don’t you love being genuinely happy for someone?

1:05 pm

I ask for an extra moment to let some Adele play out before the sound crew flips a switch on my day. The load-out will continue for many hours, but my cargo thankfully is just a laptop. With another successful gig in the books, I slip back into a blazing hot car seat and life as boring regular Chappy.

You're Really Growing On Me

Thanks to the internet, I can tell you exactly what I was doing on the evening of April 8, 2004. My college roommate and I ditched afternoon classes so we could drive up to the Tabernacle in Atlanta and attend one of the most entertaining concerts of all time. 

The Darkness was a hot new British glam rock band with one album to their name, but oh what an album it was. Among their hit singles on Permission to Land was a song titled “Growing On Me,” a super catchy tune. It also served as a rather honest real life account of lead singer and guitarist Jonathan Hawkins’ troubles with herpes. 

While a raucous crowd sang along with the choral call and response of “You’re really growing on me. Or am I growing on you!?” the zipper on Hawkins’ leather jumpsuit malfunctioned and we were all witness to the tattooed flames emanating from his crotchal region. A Union Jack was swiftly pulled from atop the speakers and stuffed down in the offending area, but we were already rolling in the aisles already with laughter.

I don’t hear Growing on Me often these days. When it does pop up on an old playlist, I’m teleported back to that night in 2004 and crack a smile. But I also still appreciate the age-old philosophical ponderance of the song. Who really is in charge? And when does the parasite become the host?

In April I left a job that served to largely define who I was and had been for over a decade. If my team was getting acquainted with a potential partner or customer, my bosses wouldn’t hesitate to introduce me simply as Chappy (many thought that was actually my first name) and drop a nugget about my involvement since the very early days. I can’t say I minded this. People love a good origin story, and I was proud to be a part of it.

But here we are four months later and that former life is feeling a bit distant. While I’m tempted to say something cliche like “that part of me is missing” I’d be better served to ask “Who am I, really?” If you pull back the superficial egoic layers that have accumulated over time, what is left? Simply put, what ideas do I cling to so tightly that they have started getting in the way of personal growth?    

I lean heavily on consistency and predictability. A well-maintained schedule is my jam. We Chapmans eat dinner at exactly 6pm every night. Why? A long time ago, my wife casually indicated that time sounded good to her. After years of dogged adherence, this evening routine is now ingrained in my bones - to the point where food regularly hits the table at six and zero seconds, even without the aid of a clock.

While you might place such obsessive dedication in the good column, I could share plenty of examples of where this need for comfort and consistency quickly turns unhealthy. A type of madness develops where my mind is constantly yearning for that next warm embrace of familiarity in the day, that little hit of adrenaline when I check another predictable box. I also hardly ever pivot with a positive attitude. Throw a change into my snug little world and you’ll get a look that says “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?”

Bob Goff is an author, lawyer and humanitarian who is one of my favorite personalities. Bob has a few interesting quirks. For instance, he always wears a Boston Red Sox cap (for a friend that died of cancer) and lists his personal phone number publicly so people can call him (I actually did this and had a lovely chat). Another is that every Thursday, Bob chooses something to give up. This could be literally anything - from a personal habit to a project, involvement or business venture.

Why does Bob insist on this constant change? Because he understands the impact that attachment can have. The love and want of material things is a pretty noticeable indiscretion. We can see that impact on our bank accounts, as well as our closets and storage units. But what about the simple ideas that start to trap us over time? I’ve had a bit of fun channeling this mindset - indulging in a bit of self reflection and simply asking why I do pretty much everything. Let’s rip off that band-aid. 

Exhibit 1: So Long, Large Hunk of Meat

Food has always had an outsized presence in my life. I will spend hours a day planning future meals and reliving the delights of dishes past. As much as I love it, though, we’re still talking about “feces in waiting” as a famous Canadian chef put it on Parts Unknown. It’s perfectly OK to celebrate food, but in a measured and intelligent way.

The American plate, like many things in this country, is a bit over the top compared to the rest of the world. I find that to be quite selfish of us, especially since it doesn’t seem to be working for our waistlines. My entire consumptive life has featured a sizable hunk of meat with a little bit of vegetables (usually from a can or fried) thrown in to fill the remaining space. If the rest of the world carried on like this, there wouldn’t be enough dead animals to go around. 

I could continue along, putting this thought in the far reaches of my mindspace, leading my family down an unsustainable (and pretty unhealthy) path of endless chicken tenders and cheeseburgers. Or, I could put on my big boy pants and get to cooking a more comprehensive offering of vegetables, grains, fruits and nuts. Anything coming fresh out of the garden gets priority vs. what our discriminating palates might have historically found on Doordash.

I’m a month into this new routine and it has made a big difference in my overall energy, along with growing our family recipe library. This simple change has reawakened my imagination a bit, while simultaneously helping fuel…

Exhibit 2: Outside Time

Having moved across state lines at the age of 14, I don’t have many people in my current life that understand how different things were for young Chappy. While goobers who haven’t visited Alabama may assume the inverse, I went from a very rural situation to the type of suburbia where they give you floor plans to choose from. For ten years in the tiny town of Senoia, Georgia, my parents would encourage us to get lost in the fifty acres we shared with my Grandmother. There was a pond, trails, wide open fields and all kinds of wildlife. I loved it. 

There are people who take comfort in the hum of city life and proximity to their human neighbors, but it still gets to me occasionally. I’ll pass another huge parking lot with two cars in it and get pissy about how much better that would have been as a park. But this is the same guy who has started to count watching soccer on our screened in porch as “nature time.” I live in fear that Patagonia is going to come for all the stuff I’ve bought and REI will revoke my membership for being a fraud.

It makes sense that so much of our days are spent in the comfort of the indoors. We’ve outsmarted bugs, inhospitable temperatures, rain and such. If comfort is the sole aim, however, we’re on a fast track to Wall-E playing out in real life. 

In an effort to get reacquainted with the out-of-doors, I have been leaving the house in search of trails and hills. I participated in my first legit trail race in over five years this Saturday - a test here in the summer heat of Alabama called Ridge to Blazing Ridge. I got so close to nature during my quiet two hours in the woods that I was digging bits of it out of my shoulder afterward.

It has also helped my sanity to simply walk out the front door and down the street whenever I have a break in the schedule or need a reset moment. Rather than putting exercise and nature in their own little boxes to check, I’m getting reacquainted with the idea that one can simply go outside for fun and get lost in it.

Exhibit 3: Why So Serious?

We had a few whole family beach trips this summer that churned up my childhood nostalgia. I can’t recall exactly when it stopped, but I recall goofing off as much with the adults as I did the kids in our family. We played sports, had rollicking adventures and were constantly on the move. There wasn’t a screen anywhere.

Nobody knows how, but eventually I transitioned from adolescent to adult. All fine and good there, but the shenanigans largely stopped. On our more recent trip, I put the beach beers aside and delved into the activities that I had long since ascribed to the younguns. Boogie boarding is dope, as are scooters, sandcastles, beach bikes and games. Despite the heat and bugs, I successfully drug the entire family outside for an evening croquet match.

As the person who generally does not have a hard and fast obligation with the workweek rolls around, it should be my civic duty to get the party going for everyone else. As a solid first step, I’m now the social chair for our neighborhood organization. They gave me a very respectable budget and plenty of autonomy to get real weird with it.

Exhibit 4: Wabi Sabi

There’s a natural rhythm and flow to life. Though I consider myself a competent percussionist, it seems I often miss the beat because I’m forcing my own tempo. This is why I can’t bear to serve up a 6:30 dinner, go on a spontaneous trip or try out a different hairstyle. I like controlling my own little world. It makes me feel safe and snug living in this illusion that I am in charge.  

This nagging need historically manifests itself in anger when things don’t go my way. My head explodes, leading to worry that needn’t exist in the first place. More than anything, I want to savor the moment for whatever that moment brings. Tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. I want my kids to learn to live that way too. 

It hurts my heart a little when the girls say things like “I can’t wait to be older.” My thoughts were the same at their age and the mentality has never stopped. Here I am at forty, finally realizing each day is a blessing. Meanwhile, I’m walking circles around the kitchen island trying to get my steps in while the girls lounge away watching cartoons. It’s time to break the cycle.

The stories, experiences and growth opportunities are here for the taking. It’s time to shed some compulsive layers - finding freedom in loosening the grip a bit.

Life is never going to be perfect, but it always has a sense of humor. Allow the real you to shine and have a good laugh about it all.

The Summer of Sandwich

Our family likes to play a fun game when we’re all together and rehashing old times. They turn to me with a gleam in their eyes and ask “Matt, what did we eat that day?” This rarely provides a challenge, because my memory bank files everything away as an extended meal. We were simply doing other things in the time between filling our bellies. I’d say it’s my one weird thing, but you’ve probably figured out that’s a rather long list.

My wife is an artist at heart. She processes and interprets the world as a vivid color palette, occasionally pausing to accuse me of colorblindness (why isn’t “greenish blue” an acceptable description?). On the other hand, my lens is that of an omnivore. The spectrum illuminating my thoughts is that of deliciousness.  

Meals are one of the most immersive experiences one can have. Not to get too gross, but food makes your acquaintance from first sight, smell, temperature and taste all the way to…the sewer system. I can’t completely review a dinner until I’ve hosted the afterparty. Food is more than just fuel to me, it’s approaching religion.

When something occupies your thoughts to the point of obsession, it can be difficult to manage appropriately. I’ll read through menus like they are holy texts conveying a higher meaning. The thought of a perfectly cooked brisket makes my loins quiver. How then am I expected to behave appropriately at a classy brunch buffet?

That’s really where the rub comes in. I’ve been active since birth, but the aging process has finally caught up with me. My metabolism used to be a thing of pride, but lately has become a real drag. There was a fateful period I refer to longingly as “The Summer of Sandwich” where I really doubled-down calorically speaking on lunch. The bread I homemade with love, but the sheer quantity of meat, double cheese and external coating of mayonnaise (makes it perfect on the griddle) were not great for my waistline. But my word, those were some delicious sandwiches.

At the time, I was hitting my ambitious fitness goals every single day, maintaining an unbroken streak of insanity that lasted for over two years. That is a topic for another article, but needless to say I had absolute proof that you can’t outrun a poor diet. My weight was the highest on record, even as I regularly eclipsed twenty thousand steps a day. As fate would have it, my license, passport and two family christmas cards captured the perfect moment in time where my face achieved maximum squish. People still do a double take when checking my ID.

So what changed? This answer may seem overwhelmingly obvious, but here it goes. How about less mayo-slathered meaty and cheesy sandwiches. Fewer “snack pizzas,” as I like to call my Saturday late night indulgences. Y’all, I’ve never been accused of being a genius.

It took almost forty years to balance a very simple equation. I was just working it from the wrong variable. Turns out you can just eat better and less. Then you don’t have to exercise like your life depends on it. What comes in can simply get burned efficiently because that’s what is appropriate to run this factory. Call it hubris, but many humans (myself included) give themselves way too much credit for a workout when they sit down to that next meal. Our indulgent pat on the back can easily negate the calories we burned. 

When you do the math on processed food and our daily recommendations, it is pretty eye opening what the average American is willfully shoveling into their bodies. Evolved tactics for storing up sustenance in preparation for scarcity never see that lean period our ancestors would inevitably endure. The brain’s preference for sugary input wasn’t tuned to handle an era of thirty ounce soft drinks. 

This might be an odd marker in history, but I can remember when professional golfers were still downing a couple of hot dogs and chips at the turn. These were people doing athletic and mentally challenging tasks with millions of dollars on the line. Yet they were refueling with about the least healthy thing per pound that you can eat. Then Tiger Woods came along and proved the seemingly obvious case that being physically fit and eating strategically gives you a competitive edge, even in the more pedestrian of sports. The next thing you know, even NASCAR drivers are adopting nutrition plans between their swigs of Busch Light. 

I know what you are thinking. These people are rich and their livelihood depends on such a miserable in-season lifestyle. You don’t have the time or money and would be hungry all the time for nothing. I used to be in this camp and thought cheeseburgers would always be worth it, but I found some great advice and it has stuck with me since.

If you contemplate your next potential meal long enough, your vagus nerve and brain will stew on the outcome and reach a logical resolution about how to proceed. It’s the impulsivity that tends to take us down the wrong path. I’ve had stomach issues for years, which have helped refine the “is it going to make me feel terrible” sense, but I was largely ignoring my body. We are at our worst when we act impulsively and outpace that 15 minute delay on our fullness meter. If you start making methodical and informed decisions about what you eat, then that’s step one.

Once I took to eating more salads, nuts and vegetables, my day was less of a rollercoaster. It became easier to find the sweet spot where I still dabble in the less healthy stuff from time to time (you know I had to try that new stuffed-crust Donatos pizza) but the balance is more easily restored.

Growing at least some of my own food has helped a bunch. It’s one thing to toss out some grocery store produce that went bad immediately, and another disappointment entirely to miss the perfect window of freshness from a vegetable you have planted and tended since it was a seed. You tend to work these items into the family menu.

I used to think that culinary happiness was a dish that had to be served with heaps of butter, sugar, fat and salt (with a dash of hot sauce). Once you wean your taste buds off of that boisterous ride, then the subtlety and nuance of natural flavors start to shine through. Raw pecans are flippin delicious. Sweet peppers are my jam. Believe it or not, leafy greens do have taste under that mountain of ranch and bacon.

There’s meaning to be found in everything we do, but I can’t find a more meaningful idea than cultivating a more conscious consumer of our only energy source. Until we can biohack our bodies for photosynthesis, we’re stuck eating and drinking our way to survival. How many of us lose countless hours of sleep worrying through the myriad ways we and our loved ones could meet an early end, meanwhile the prime suspect is sitting in front us three-ish times per day if you are living in the United States of America (Anthony Bourdain would have added “greatest country in the world, by God.”).

I’m quite jazzed about building new food memories that start all the way from a tiny little seed that my daughters and I planted together. We’ll share colorful plates and lively conversations, all while being more rooted to the world around us, even if I grew that salad in my bathroom.