Just Chillin'?

 Hmmmm. Guess what's been on my mind ...

Thank You, Dr. Nelson

Ironically, it was around this past Thanksgiving that I received a jarring message from my former journalism profession/mentor/friend Dr. Nelson. He informed me that he had cancer, and not much time left.

We reunited online many years ago after too many years apart. I managed to tell him what he meant to me, and also included my Thank You letter to him in my ebook A Bucket List for Thank Yous.

Dr. Nelson passed away Tuesday, January 23, 2024.

Rest in peace, Doc Nellie.

Here is my Thank You letter to him, with the song that always reminds me of him.

To Dr. Richard Nelson
“King Tut,” Steve Martin

I’d be lying if I said our relationship started off on a positive note. I sat as a freshman in Newswriting 101, ready to embark on my journalism journey at the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater. 

You strolled in with your rigid gait wearing a suit and fedora. I didn’t know much about you aside from the most important fact to me: You were the head of the Kettle Moraine Press Association — an association of high school newspaper and yearbook advisers — and thus the point man for my ire.

Just a few months earlier I applied for the first KEMPA scholarship, awarded to an incoming high school senior. I didn’t get it. 

I studied the profile of the person who did receive the scholarship and, for the life of me, couldn’t fathom any reason I was not superior in my journalism training. Forget the typical high school newspaper and yearbook experience. I worked for the community newspaper, too, writing one or two stories each week!

So I sat there with the proverbial chip on my shoulder. Oh, Dr. Richard Nelson, I have something to prove to you. 

That’s what ran through my head on an endless loop as you stood before us and spoke about the basic elements of journalism that shape the foundation. Knowing AP style, how to spell, and correct grammar are the key to good reporting and writing.

Truth Revealed

I scoffed. Are you kidding me? Writing is writing. Editing is editing. Is this editing or writing?

 Before I could debate the topic too much in my head, you handed out a test. It was an AP Style and spelling test. We would take it at the beginning of the class to see where we stood. We’d take it again as the final exam to see if we improved, and thus learned anything from you.

As with most tests, I zipped through it. Never one to hem and haw, I’d always jump at my first instinct and stick with it.

The next class we got the results. You did manage to single out the highest score, one Art Kabelowsky, who already had a reputation as a sports writer well ahead of his time. Art’s score was one of the top first try scores ever. You also pointed out, without naming names, there were some absolutely atrocious scores.

That would be me.

I paged through a test awash with red, embarrassed that anyone might be looking over my shoulder. Truth was, most tests looked the same.

Devastated would be an understatement. From the time I began writing for my Dad in grade school, I knew this is all I ever wanted to do: write for a newspaper.

As the term marched on, we had an assignment each week. Sometimes we’d cover a city council meeting, or a student council meeting, or a mock police report.

Each time, my prose sang, yet atop the paper I’d see D or worse. You lost a half grade for each editing error. Misspell a word and your A became A-. Forget an AP Style rule and that A- became a B+. And on and on.

Spelling never was a strength of mine. And I never knew what kind of editing my stories received at the local newspaper. I’d just see them in print and know that they pretty much matched what I sent in, at least in tone.

I kept hammering hard, attempting to spell better. But the old adage of “He don’t know what he don’t know” applied to me in spades.

Shattered Dreams

By midterm, I was failing in the only class that really mattered to me. All my dreams were crashing down around me.

Just about that time, my assignments started coming back with more comments written at the top. “Great story that would make any newspaper proud, but style holding you back.” Things like that.

At the time I planned to be a double-major in Journalism and Secondary Education. As such, you were my advisor, since you headed the education side of journalism. We met to prepare my second term schedule, with me desperately hoping it did not include a second run in Newswriting 101.

That’s when you told me that I finished as runner-up for the KEMPA scholarship. That I was talented, but had a lot to learn. If could get a handle on style and spelling, there was no telling how far I could go in the field.

As I recall, the scholarship was a whopping $500. I told you how disappointed I was that I didn’t get that.

That’s when you told me you had a better option. I could work for you in the Journalism department, specifically for KEMPA. I’d write, edit and layout the KEMPA newsletter. Work on the high school conferences held on campus, as well as the summer camps as a counselor. I’d come to Board of Director meetings to record the proceedings.

Besides, you said, you’ll end up making a lot more than $500.

Teachers Can

That, in a nutshell, was the reason I wanted to teach. None of my teachers in high school seemed to notice my passion for writing. My high school was renowned as one of the top schools in the nation. The overachievers received all the attention. The underachievers had triage teachers looking out for them. The majority in the middle were invisible. I wouldn’t let any student be invisible. You wouldn’t allow that, either.

I never slacked off when it came to writing, but after that meeting my determination elevated exponentially. I couldn’t wait for the final exam. And when it came, I was ready.

When you handed out the results, you noted that in addition to Art’s stellar score, there was another just as good. And, it represented the greatest improvement from the first test you had ever seen.

That’s when I knew I could make it, and I knew how to make it. With hard work, determination and humility.

I worked for you for four years. As my sophomore year ended, although I wrote for The Royal Purple, the student newspaper, I wasn’t really “in” with the upper class students who ran the show.

When Barb Uebelacher decided to run for editor, she didn’t know any of the sports writing underclassmen. You introduced her to me. I became her sports editor.

When I graduated, I searched the nation for a job. Then, surprisingly enough, in your hometown, just a few miles from Whitewater, the sports editor position opened up. You put in a good word for me.

When I interviewed there, the editor basically said, if Dr. Nelson recommends you, that’s all I need to hear.

So thank you, for believing in me when I had doubts and for challenging me when I needed it most. While I abandoned the teaching dreams, I’ve always relied on those tenets as a manager to get the most out of my staff. And that always reaps rewards, for my staff, and me.

Memorials and Memorial Day

By John Rezell

When we moved to Brookfield way, way back in the day, family and friends coming to our house on Memorial Day for a picnic became a tradition.

Typically the day began with the Indy 500 blaring on a transistor radio sitting on the front steps — listening to Al and Bobby Unser, AJ Foyt and Mario Andretti scream around the Brickyard.  We washed the cars on the front lawn, as long as it wasn't a rainy day.

We'd scoot down to Elm Grove to catch the parade with my older siblings' kids; I was an uncle by 6th grade!

Typically my brother-in-law Dennis would take center stage as the games began, Dennis always hungry for competition. We'd play football, volleyball and badminton in the front yard while Mom grilled brats, hamburgers and hot dogs. We'd drink Wins soda by the gallon while beers flowed for adults.

At some point we'd relax and talk about the true meaning of the day as the flag flew on the breeze, thankful that we had no family members who earned the day's respect by giving their lives during their service. Typical of so many veterans of World Wars, Grandpa and Dad never told stories. But you could catch their minds drift off for a moment or two with private memories and tributes.

More than anything, it was a just a day of fun hanging with family and friends, the kind of times you imagine lasting forever when you're a kid taking for granted the aura of closeness an intimacy that blankets a home.

Life moves on, and we moved on. Some family moved and eventually came back — Texas, Nevada, Colorado and even Belgium. We left for California, Colorado, Texas, Tennessee and Oregon — not making it back on a regular basis.

The Memorial Day picnics continued without us, though we'd typically call and talk to everyone. Eventually in 2003 we managed to get the entire extended family together, sans my Dad, who passed away in 2000.

That was the last time my nephew from California and my family were together. Until last week. 

We all returned to pay tribute to Dennis. His Memorial was set for Sunday, but we all gathered at the house on Friday for a reunion. My brother Tom now lives there, my Mom having passed away in 2013.

The family's next generation is even more spread out — California, New York, Oregon, Washington and soon Pennsylvania. My daughters and I met my California nephew's kids for the first time. Cousins now have boyfriends and girlfriends, who somehow fit in just perfectly, just like Dennis did. Everyone just melted together like cheddar on a burger.

I watched in awe how seamlessly familiarity and comfort set in with more than 20 people packed inside thanks to rain.

I was reminded of a story my brother told when Mom passed away and he met with a lawyer about the will and estate. With five kids, the lawyer wanted to know up front who would be the problem child? Who's the bad apple who will cause troubles? Every family has one. 

Tom told her we didn't have one.

He was right. Our apples haven't fallen far from the tree, either. It's one, big family to be proud of — the biggest branch on hand coming from Barb and Dennis's limb — three daughters, four grandkids and their partners.

Just as we began to say our good-byes, my California nephew shouted out: GROUP HUG.

The mass huddled and squished together in the center of the living room, the feeling of connection — of family — nearly overwhelming.

Hardest Working Man I Know

 

Dennis and me, way back when

By John Rezell

Most days I glide on my bike through the Baskett Slough headed to farther points of interest in search of a good workout, but the other day I felt the urge for a more pedestrian pace through this local National Wildlife Refuge.

I took my time, relaxing to soak in the beauty of thousands of Canada Geese in the field, Ducks skipping across the ponds taking flight, Red-tailed hawks pouncing on tiny feasts in the grass, Kestrels sitting on the phone lines and a majestic Bald Eagle atop a dead tree.

I embraced a break from my workout to savor the lesson of the art of slowing down, something I learned from the hardest working man I know.

Nothing more than a pipsqueak when this larger-than-life 5-foot-11, 275-pound former college lineman entered my life, I probably shouldn’t have even showed up as a tiny blip on his radar.

I was 11 when I strutted down the aisle with his niece as he married my sister.

I had no idea how he would fit into my life. I already had two older brothers — one eight years older and one six years older. Dennis? He was even older than that.

But somehow over the next few years, he found plenty of time to cart around my little brother and me on various adventures, often after spending the night at my sister’s house. We had riots with this huge teddy bear of a guy whose contagious laugh that spawns bright red rosy cheeks can crack up a room.

Making Dennis laugh became a priority. So often, as adolescence kicked in, my efforts were, ah, more crass than not. Victim humor, if you will.

Of course, Dennis had a good memory — revenge came swift and sweet.

He took us to see the towering bluffs above Lake Michigan one Saturday morning, driving us down the road toward the dead end barricade at the edge of the abyss, where waves crashed into the rocky shoreline far, far below.

Suddenly he began pumping one of the pedals frantically screaming, “THE BRAKES ARE OUT! THE BRAKES ARE OUT!” 

We were overcome with terror. I leaped into the backseat. My little brother reached to open the door. Just before we hit the barricade, Dennis burst into laughter. That was the day I learned about the clutch pedal.

As I hit 14 and 15, I sprouted up to about 5-8, all of about 97 pounds. Every holiday and in-between visits we’d play football or basketball in the yard, Dennis bouncing me around like a rag doll, and laughing wildly as I went flying.

He also took me on some odd jobs. He worked for Marquette University and managed the greenhouse. On the side he worked to start a landscape business, naming it Eden II.

As I mentioned, he is the hardest-working individual I’ve ever been around. He instilled that work ethic in me. But on our drives to and from long, hard jobs, we’d get lost for a while. 

We’d explore. 

We’d chill. 

We’d slow down. 

His nickname was Cool Hand Luke because he’s also one of the easiest going, laid back mellow dudes I’ve known.

Once I got a driver’s license, I spent much more time with Dennis. I’d pop into the greenhouse on Fridays and talk well into the night. 

We’d steal away Saturdays. 

He took me fossil hunting, mushroom hunting, fishing, out to Horicon Marsh to see epic waves of Geese, much like those that swirl about the Baskett Slough, and countless other adventures just road tripping to anywhere and seemingly everywhere.

We had a simple rule when we’d roll out on a drive. You had to search out a road you’ve been on before, and you must stop for every Historical Marker. I can’t remember if we ever made it home on time for dinner. I’m pretty sure we never did. We spent endless hours talking about sports and life.

A few years after college and getting married, Debbie and I rolled out of Wisconsin on a drive in a brand new sporty car, hitting a lot of roads we had never been on, as we escaped to Southern California with no jobs lined up — a true leap of faith. While I have a natural curiosity embedded in my DNA as a writer, Dennis elevated my zest for adventure to another level. I’m not sure that move would have happened without his influence.

I offered him a ride in the new car, a farewell drive. We hit the expressway in downtown Milwaukee. I casually asked if he remembered the drive to the bluffs. He immediately began laughing, cheeks exploding red. I planted my foot to the floor, and as we blasted past 100 mph I calmly mentioned the car only had a driver’s side airbag. His nervous laughter soared to a new level. Revenge is sweet.

That was a long, long time ago. I’ve made it back for an adventure or two over the years, but none lately.

Dennis went to the ER a few days ago, under the weather, wondering if he and my sister had contracted Covid. Nope. Instead they found a brain tumor.

The hardest working man I know will fight this while he peacefully will accept his fate. He scheduled surgery saying, “They’re gonna dig some stuff out.”

We chatted on the phone a few nights before his surgery. He shrugged that he has no regrets. I agreed, I have no regrets in life, either. He said, “Well, yeah, you’ve always gone out and done what you’ve wanted. I’ve always admired that about you.”

I was a little too choked up to remind him who taught me that.

He did, however, mention that he kinda hoped for one more road trip. He traveled to the Northwest long before we moved here, and mentioned how much he loves it. He hoped to make it out one more time.

“Well,” I told him, "you get that stuff dug out, get your strength back this spring, and I’ll come back and drive you out here myself.”

He said, “I’m in!”

No truer words have been spoke. He’s in, all right. He’s in my heart and soul, as deep as one can be. It’s a shame that sooner rather than later he’ll take that final road that none of us have ever been on.

EDITOR'S NOTE: Dennis passed away January 9, 2022

Countless Memories Pop Up

 Copyright Photo by John Rezell

By John Rezell

I'm not sure if my neighbors were watching, but if they were, they saw a grown man cry.

Monday morning a single mother with three daughters hitched our longtime chariot of adventure to her truck and rolled away with the Starcraft pop-up camper that brought us to Oregon 15 years ago.

That summer of 2005 created so many memories that I wrote a book about it: You Cook a Dead Crab and Eat It. We lived in that 12-foot camper (A whopping 17 when folded out) for 85 days as we wandered through 8,000 miles in search of a place to call home,

But the adventures did not stop there.

Each summer we hitched up the trailer and explored the American West in good old fashion  family summer vacations.

For two weeks we would leave the world behind an immerse ourselves in nature. Yellowstone, Glacier, Zion, Grand Tetons, Mesa Verde, Arches, Lake Tahoe, Lassen, Crater Lake, Diamond Lake, Mount Rainier ... the list goes on and on and on.

Our summer road trips were so epic our daughters tagged along well into college. Year after year they would pepper me — sometimes as early as January — with the burning question: Where are we going this year?

Just a year ago on Memorial Day weekend, the four of us were together in the Starcraft for the last time, camping in the Columbia River Gorge. One daughter is a college grad, the other will be shortly.

The stories are endless, but one stands out for me as vindication that the lessons we hoped to impart on our daughters weren't lost.

Once we decided we would plant our roots in Eugene, Oregon we began to look for a place to live. We were downsizing significantly from our spacious home in Tennessee.

As we sat in the Starcraft pondering our next move, Debbie voiced concern that the house we were about to make our home might not be big enough for us.

My older daughter Sierra  swung her arms wide showing off the Starcraft and said, "Is it bigger than this? Because this is all we need."

Oh, the adventures won't end for Debbie and me. We have a new toy. Had to make sure we got one with enough room for the girls to pop in for a visit. Plans already in the making.

Sure, Progress is nice.

But memories are priceless.

True Adventure Began 15 Years Ago

 Copyright Photo by John Rezell

By John Rezell

Strange how dates are aligning this year — that the 15th anniversary of our driving out of Strawberry Plains, Tennessee on the summer adventure of a lifetime would fall perfectly for a Saturday Morning Blog.

The year 2020 means 15 years ago we found Oregon.

As I've been posting, 20 years ago I enjoyed my final season covering bike racing.

Heck, 30 years ago I dove headfirst into cycling with my first coverage of the Redlands Classic.

If you haven't figured out I'm an old fart yet, I graduated college 40 years ago ...

Today, however, we celebrate the amazing journey chronicled in my memoir You Can't Cook a Dead Crab and Eat It.

It was 2005, and our daughters were finishing first and third grades. Debbie and I were married 14 years before we started a family. We got all the career ME stuff out of the way so we could focus on our family.

I hit the zenith of my journalism career in 2000, when the girls were toddlers. In 2005 they were coming of age. That is, they were hitting the age when they could watch their parents and see the example of how you live life.

We enjoyed a good, yet strangely unfulfilling life in Tennessee. So Debbie and I decided to quit our jobs, sell our house, pack what we couldn't sell in a month-long moving sale into storage, and embark on a quest to find our home for next 12 years until the girls finished high school.

Our motivation was quite simple. We wanted to show our daughters that you can make your life what you want it to be. If it isn't working out, embrace change. Take on adventure.

Today I'll just share one tidbit from the book:

As we rolled out, Taylor blew us away with the wisdom of life through the innocent eyes of a 6-year-old.

"We're like a baby chick, inside an egg, getting ready to hatch out of the shell," she says. "We don't know what the chick will look like. It's just starting."

We took a leap and landed with a big splash in Oregon, the girls hitting Dexter Lake in late August. Copyright Photo by John Rezell

Sabado Raz: How it All Started

The photo I ran 20 years ago. Guess which one I am?

RAZ'S NOTE: My Saturday Morning blog began 20 years ago, on April 24, 2000. As Director of Content for the Internet startup bike.com, I introduced the column and the inspiration behind it. Thought I'd share the original column today. Enjoy.

By John Rezell

Saturday mornings. Nothing else like 'em.

My love affair with Saturday mornings started during childhood. It was the time that my little brother and I got to drink coffee. Lord knows what my parents were thinking. Sleeping late certainly wasn't on their minds.
 
There we were, each Saturday morning, barely double-digit age, if that. Drinking sugar-coffee-and-milk and watching "The Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Hour." 

Needless to say we didn't just sit and watch cartoons. Oh, we started just sitting, but soon we'd be bouncing off the walls. Sugar-Coffee-AND-Milk! Breakfast of champions. 

The early pick-me-up was followed with the nearly religious trip to the Bakery. Bright and early, Dad would round us up and head to the Bakery. He'd drop the paycheck there.

"A dozen long johns, a dozen crullers, a dozen French doughnuts, two dozen kaiser rolls, that cheesecake over there, a couple Elephant ears, ooooh, that apple strudel looks good, and how about streusel cake ..."

We'd leave with a couple of bags in each hand. Hit the car and bags were open. By the time we got home, well, time for more SUGAR-COFFEE-AND-MILK! 

Mom cooked brats for lunch. Life in Milwaukee. It's the best.

Graduation
 
Things changed in college. Saturday mornings were either for extreme recovery or, in the case of football Saturdays, a little of the hair-that-bit-ya. No matter what the course of action, it all started with, you guessed it, SugarCoffeeAndMilk. 

Once real life took hold, Saturday mornings evolved. As a sports writer, Friday evenings mean high school football or basketball, depending on the season. Saturday morning was in the office, rounding it all up. In the quiet newspaper offices that buzzed like a hornet's nest all week long, Saturday morning was special. Time to write. Time to relax. Time for SugarCoffeeAndMilk.

Now I have kids. Two little gals. Saturday mornings are our time. 

They give morning kisses that are sweet as sugar. 

They sniff — NOT SIP — Daddy's coffee. 

They drink milk, and we have a blast.

What's all this have to do with anything? Well, Saturday mornings will be quiet time for bike.com. Family time. And time for Raz. This is the debut of my weekly column. Check it out, Saturday mornings. Maybe over some coffee. 

Jack and Raz still hitting trails after 50 years.

Now it's storytime…
 
All in a name

Most of the people I know call me Raz. It's a nickname from childhood that sticks, mainly because everywhere I go there are always a couple of extra Johns around making life confusing.

A lot of nicknames have cool stories behind them. The story behind Raz is more embarrassing than anything. It all started with hero worship of runner Steve "Pre" Prefontaine.

He stood for everything I wanted to be. I wanted a nickname. My buddy Jack and I spent a whole summer working on it, bouncing on our trampoline. 

We tried a number of different options. With school around the corner, it came down to two finalists: Raz and Re.

I like to think that was my first brilliant editing choice. It would suck to have the nickname Re.

The long road

One more tidbit about background, and that's it. Next week we get into serious storytime.

How'd I get here, the ultimate cycling stop in the dot-com world?

It all started with newspapers and sports writing. First in the Midwest, then California. Did an eight-year stint with The Orange County Register. I covered all levels of sports, but watched a lot of young uns.

Orange County ain't a bad place to cover young athletes. I saw Tiger Woods swinging the clubs at 12, soccer star Juli Foudy at 13, Rob Johnson slinging the football and Miles Simon banging the hardwoods in their high school years.

I got to meet and got to know Hank Gathers. Saw Tommy Hearns box at the Forum. Interviewed the San Diego Chicken. And surfer Dino Andino. Watched Ty Detmer go crazy in the Holiday Bowl.

Basically, though, I had the best beat on the staff. I'd cover beach volleyball, surfing, triathlons and cycling. Great stuff.

I started a weekly cycling column at the OCR and went from there to freelance for three years covering cycling. It was a lot of time on the road, scrapping to get by, but some of the best memories I have of working days. 

Then I took the gig at VeloNews for three years, did the Colorado scene, and now I'm here.

My title is Director of the Sandbox. This is where we have fun, enjoy cycling and want to get you on your bike. Let me know what you think about anything, at anytime.

See ya Saturday morning.

RAZ'S PS: The column has morphed over the years. My ONWard columns like this one on OutdoorsNW.com were the latest incarnation, aside from what I've written on my own blogs. Those little gals I wrote about 20 years ago have flew the coop. But Saturday Mornings remain a special time I share with others.

Got No Job, But I've Got My Health

Four Veggies (left to right), me, Hoffie, Bergie and Bobo.

By John Rezell

An old high school friend popped up on Facebook the other day, in the midst of this craziness and uncertainty the world faces. He asked how I'm doing.

Without hesitation and a smile creeping across my face I replied, "Doing great here in Oregon!"

Hey, I'm an optimist. I actually call myself an obsessive optimist.

Like most I'm hunkered down at home with my wife and younger daughter. My older daughter thrives up in Washington. We're all in great health. In my mind, that equals doing great.

Then I thought about it a day or so later.

Truth is, the latest economic hiccup has spit me out again.

Lay Lady Layoff

I've been laid off as editor of an outdoor magazine that might survive through online life support for a few more weeks before it succumbs. A year ago the magazine cut its issues — and my salary — in half.

I started substitute teaching to fill the income gap, becoming one of those "need two jobs to earn the equivalent of one regular one." At this point Oregon schools are shutdown until April 28. Even the optimist in me believes schools won't reopen until September.

So my reality is that I'm unemployed, once again. No need to panic. We've been here before. My wife still has a good job. Like I said, I feel like we're doing great.

Now I'm 4-for-4 with financial crises. I've been victim of each of our economic upheavals in the past 20 years — each one kicking me to the curb from a great job that I loved.

It began with the dotcom crash of '00, which forced our internet startup to shutter. That one year in the trenches creating something from nothing was probably the greatest year of fun, growth and challenges in my working life.

I bounced back rather quickly with a neat job in corporate communications, hoping to get out of the sports writer pigeon hole where I spent most of my career. Our biggest client was a government contract. The economic aftermath of 9/11 forced them to eliminate my position.

The beauty of that job loss blossomed when my wife and I switched roles and I became Mr. Mom, a stay-at-home Dad. Without question that was the greatest job I'll ever have.

I managed to get back into the workforce with a nifty gig that allowed me to be Mr. Mom all day and work some nights as a copy editor for the local newspaper, while also writing a weekly outdoor column. Even though I was part-time, as a guild paper, the pay was sweet — and also the reason I was the first to hit the streets when the Great Recession fell upon us in '08.

That was a nasty one. My daughters just hit the age when we planned for both my wife and I to get to work with a double income. Instead, I spent two years unemployed. My wife also lost her job for a stint in there, leaving us with no jobs. But we survived just fine.

Never in Doubt

In all those cases it never felt like a desperate situation, much like today. Unless, of course, my wife loses her job, too. Then I might tone down the cheery disposition a pinch.

That, however, has been a theme throughout my life. Disappointment here, frustration there, but never enough to really dampen my spirit. As I titled my editor's note in my magazine: ONWard!

Take, for instance, when I published three ebooks in 2014. My goal was to supplement my income since I would soon face two daughters in college. I did my best to set myself up for some success, although I expected it to be modest.

Just as I released the books, not one but two editors of magazines who were going to publish excerpts as a favor to me and expose my books to a rather large audience left their positions. By the time replacements came aboard the window had passed and the new editors weren't interested in old favors.

So if you're bored as you hunker down, and are looking for some reading material, might I suggest my three ebooks?

If you think my strange career odyssey is an interesting read, you'll enjoy any of the three.

Combined they manage to chronicle my life, each a memoir piecing together relevant tales of my past. So here's a little summary in case you might be interested in reading one, two or all three (I'm assuming no one is that interested).

You Can't Cook a Dead Crab and Eat It

Wondering if this latest world crisis will inspire you to live the life you dream of? Then dig into this book.

It's the tale of how we decided for once to chart our own course instead of having job opportunities dictate where we live.

My wife and I quit our jobs (I was Mr. Mom, but also substitute teaching at my daughters' grade school), sold our house, had a month long moving sale to downsize, put the rest in storage and bought a 10-foot popup tent camper.

We spent the next 85 days living in that camper with our daughters ages 6 and 8. We toured the American West deciding where to plant our roots. It turned into as much of a National Parks tour as anything, but my daily journal chronicles the growth of all four of us across 8,000 miles and includes many a morning reminiscing about my past and how it made me who I am today.

More than anything, it taught my daughters that everyone has the ability to make your life what you want it to be. And it gave them fodder for every school essay for the rest of their lives.

Taken for a Ride: Chasing a Young Lance Armstrong

If you have ever wondered about the essence of the relationship between a sports reporter and an athlete — and the impact of it — this one's for you.

Frankly, this is a book that every first-year journalism student should read to understand the challenges of maintaining a professional relationship under the most trying circumstances.

It also gives an inside look into Armstrong as he emerged as one of the great American cyclists. It takes you into his battle with cancer — I was one of only three journalists granted an interview during chemotherapy — and his return.

It's not all seashells and balloons.

I did land on Armstrong's dark side, which means you no longer exist in his reality. He didn't talk to me for a year.

But I did find a way to return to the light — at the time his agent telling me I was the only person to ever manage that feat.

Not only that, Armstrong once actually told me during an interview when I was a freelancer on the road, "We shouldn’t be doing a story on me, we should be doing a story on you."

Whatever you think of Armstrong now that we know most of the truth, my relationship with him had a huge impact on my life and that's something that rewriting history can't change.

A More Simple Time: How Cycling Saved My Soul

This is my tribute to amazing people who made the sport of cycling what it was in what I consider its Golden Age, from 1989-1996.

I managed to get close to two incredible humans, Linda Brenneman and Steve Hegg, and their journeys to the 1996 Olympics parallel my growth as a reporter, husband and man.

I started covering cycling at a time when my foundation as an optimist and dreamer had been severely challenged by the tragic death of another athlete I covered and knew quite well, Hank Gathers. Eventually the cycling community filled with athletes competing for love of the sport, not insane riches, saved me.

It also stands as a historical look at racing in America during that time with accounts from many of the top races and insight into many of the top men and women cyclists of the time with particular focus on the battles to earn spots on the 1996 Olympic team to compete in Atlanta. And it reveals the only athlete I ever asked for an autograph. I'm sure who it is will surprise most readers.

In its original form, the Lance Armstrong story was in this book, but I decided that his story shouldn't overshadow the real story of how the rest of the wonderful cyclists in America saved my soul.

They are available at BarnesandNoble.com, Smashwords and iTunes

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Raz's Decoder Episode 1

 Raz's Decoder Episode 1

The Reality of a Lockdown

By John Rezell

The classroom fell deathly quiet as I quickly moved to the door, the roomful of usually boisterous sixth graders silently shuffling into the corner while I scanned the empty hallway for a moment before locking the door and turning off the lights.

I took a few steps over and crouched down, like the kids, huddled in the dark. Silently waiting.

The minutes dragged on like hours. I made eye contact with a few kids. Instead of a typical smiling response they peered back emotionless.

I turned back to look at the door and lost myself in the reality of this typical school Lockdown Drill. If this were the real deal, what would I do?

I’m already positioned between the students and door, human shield by default.

What happens if that door opens? If this ever really goes down, here’s my opportunity to think about it a bit so my reaction is swift.

Nearly five long minutes crawl by, second by second.

Suddenly the doorknob rattles.

Some kids gasp.

Some jump.

Some freeze.

The door opens and the principal sticks her head into the room.

“Good job,” she says as I exhale and realize I’ve been holding my breath. “You were real quiet. The lights are out. It’s like there isn’t anyone in here.”

She reminds us that in a real situation, we would remain in this state of limbo until first responders open the door and lead us out. We shouldn’t speak nor move for any other reason. Today we should stay put until the announcement comes that the drill is over.

We sit for another 10 minutes, sixth graders unable to keep silent, but at least keeping to very quiet whispers with occasionally giggles. I wonder, in a real situation, how long they could keep silent or if they could. Who would cry. Who would panic.

The announcement comes and they return to their desks, talking again, making noise, not hearing the additional briefing about using furniture to block the door, and if you decide to do that it must be done quickly and quietly.

I get them quieted down and repeat the information, thinking back to the first few minutes when I decided exactly how to stack the tables in this room at the door for maximum protection.

This is my first Lockdown Drill. I began substitute teaching again last spring, and I knew sooner or later I’d experience one. Heck, I seriously took a moment to determine if I really wanted to return to the classroom, it being a much different place than that last time I subbed years ago.

I understand that the odds are higher for me to die on the drive to a school than in the classroom. Tell that to any grieving parent or shell-shocked survivor.

We hear about these drills. Our children come home from school and share their experiences. We say it’s a shame. They lose their innocence.

We remember bomb drills during our own school days, and kind of shrug it off.

Until you hear that sound of silence in the typically lively setting of a classroom, the door lock and the lights go dark …