Hoop dreams

The surreal, insipid circus surrounding LeBron James and ESPN got me thinking about one of my favorite stories, penned a few years back for Continental Airlines, when I had a little more spring in my step and a little less silver atop my noggin. Hoops in its purest form ...

In Your Face
A native New Yorker returns to hallowed hoop ground

During the winters of my youth, on the frozen blacktop of my driveway, I played and replayed the last seconds of NBA championship games. My hometown Knicks versus the hated Lakers. Game Seven. Down one point. Beneath the glare of a single garage light, I would eye the basket over my shoulder like a miniature Walt "Clyde" Frazier, holding the defender at bay until the last moment before arcing a jump shot over his imaginary outstretched fingertips. If the shot went in, we won, and I ran around the perimeter of the pavement jubilant. If it missed, I got fouled, and could still salvage my heroics from the charity stripe.

It never occurred to me then what real pressure was, or what it took to play at that level. I didn't have thousands of leather-lung fans cascading cheers and jeers. I didn't even have a real defender. It was just me, a tall, gawky kid with fingertips split raw from the cold, firing away from the top of the key.

Thirty years later, I got the call to play ball at West Fourth Street, New York City's fabled blacktop court. West Fourth is known far and wide as a hoops mecca. It's a reputation built on the shoulders of larger-than-life players, those who made it to the NBA, such as Kareem Abdul Jabbar (Lew Alcindor in his pre-UCLA days) and Lloyd Daniels, and those who didn't despite eye-popping talent, such as Earl "The Goat" Manigault. It didn't matter that I left that driveway in New Jersey - a stone's throw from the George Washington Bridge - long before Michael Jordan became a household name. It didn't matter that my family and I moved to New England, where hockey is king. I continued to play basketball simply because I love the game, not because I'm particularly gifted at it. Now, after countless pick-up, recreation and over-35 league games, I was going to play against big-league talent.

I arrive in Upper Manhattan late one Friday night in May with my brother-in-law Rob in tow. We're staying at a friend of Rob's, Greg, who lives in a fourth floor walk-through above a sushi bar on East 70th. Rob is my ringer, the single-season scoring record holder for a New England university. A 6-foot-5 shooting guard who was just a step too slow to play in the top echelons of NCAA ball, Rob has the build, the walk and, perhaps most important, the talk of a real player.

Unfortunately, Rob also has a different agenda for the weekend. Our plan is to sample New York's nightlife on Saturday, after the games at West Fourth, but Rob is intent to get a jump-start on the festivities. Just before midnight Friday, I'm ready to call it a night. Rob, however, succumbs to the temptations of the Big Apple and disappears with Greg, promising that he'll be ready to go in the morning.

I sleep as soundly as a child on Christmas Eve. Every hour or so I wake up, check the clock, realize there's plenty of time before sunrise and return to a fitful sleep. My adrenaline is already pumping. Just before 6 a.m., Rob stumbles in, slumps onto the living room couch and starts snoring. I make one feeble effort to stir him, but he's hopeless. So much for my right-hand man. I grab my basketball and head off to West Fourth alone, a 6-foot-2, 200-pound bundle of nerves.

East 70th Street and Second Avenue on an early, sunny morning is a treat. Cyclists and in-line skaters share the wide thoroughfares with the occasional taxi and car. I grab the first cab that comes by. "You see Cone last night?" asks the gray-haired driver, referring to New York Yankees pitcher David Cone. "Man, was he something else? Only gave up two runs. Against the Red Sox! Man, if he gets going, fuggetaboutit. Know what I'm saying? We're talking dynasty here. Pettitte, Jeter, Wells. How about that Wells? No hitter the other night, perfect game. Something else. You a Yankees fan?"

The 15-minute ride reminds me of the enormity of this city. I hop out at West Fourth Street and Sixth Avenue, a block from Washington Square. The pungent smell of sun-baked trash on concrete hits me like a whiff of smelling salts. The wailing of a few neighborhood eccentrics, shouting at passersby or the heavens, is all but impossible to ignore. Two police officers stand by the subway entrance alongside the court. Neither blink. Welcome to Lower Manhattan.

I sit down by the 12-foot-high chain link fence that surrounds the court, and take in the "It's a Small World After All" parade of people walking by. Jittery after two large cups of coffee, I look for a bite to eat. Across the street, a Taco Bell is sandwiched between "Hope Floats" at the old Waverly Theater and Crazy Fantasy XXX Video, 25 cents. I opt for the McDonald's alongside the court, shelling out two bucks for a Sausage McMuffin and the privilege of using the bathroom (customers only).

The padlock at the court doesn't come off until 8 a.m. I'm 15 minutes early - by design. In the months before my visit, I couldn't reach anyone connected to the court. In desperation, I called Chris Ballard, author of Hoops Nation, an entertaining compendium of the country's best pickup basketball courts, for some advice. I wanted to make sure I could get into a few games.

"I'm assuming you're white," Ballard asked without hesitation.

"Um, yeah, no way around that," I replied.

"Then get there early," he said. "And look like you can play, even if you can't. Bring a league jersey, anything that says you've played before. Just don't show up with an NBA jersey - that's a sure sign of a poser."

After the padlock comes off, I walk onto the hallowed surface and can't help but notice how small and narrow the court is. And lopsided. And full of cracks. "It's not the playground, it's the players," one local, Ice, tells me later when I ask what makes West Fourth so special. The brand new white nets look distinctly out of place. I didn't expect any nets at all, chains at best.

Players start trickling in over the next hour. By 1 p.m., I'm told, it will be next to impossible to squeeze into a game. Even watching will be difficult, with midday crowds often running two and three deep along the outside fence.

This is urban Darwinism boiled down to its core. Shortly after noontime, the youngsters and elder statesmen are weeded out. Only the fittest survive - not necessarily the most skilled, but the toughest. The game is physical from half-court in, and brutal underneath the basket. Glares hit as hard as forearm shivers.

The names of the combatants - Hard Rock, Speed, Butter, Ice, Big Man, Crackhead - provide glimpses into their games or their lifestyles. Most everyone displays markings: scars, tattoos or a combination of both. Standard gear includes baggy shorts, hanging halfway down the players' backsides, and very, very expensive footwear. Talking trash is an art form. The language - colorful, loud and profane - would make a truck driver blush.

But for the crowd at West Fourth - hardened New Yorkers and savvy tourists - it is all part of the show.

"You can't guard me, motherf--ker!"
"Good ass D!"
"Bullshit call!"
"All day long, motherf--ker, all day long!"
"Rebound! Rebound!"
"If you make the basket, you don't got to worry about no rebound."

Basketball at West Fourth is stunning theater. Whether watching or playing, the arena is not for the timid. There are no refs. "I always said I'd like to see NBA players play with schoolyard rules," says onlooker Greg Miele of Brooklyn. "That would be interesting."

In my marquis match-up, I'm running against Lionel ("Like the train, man."), a square-shouldered, solid 6-foot-2 Kevin Garnett look-alike with a quick smile. Despite the late-morning heat, Lionel is sporting a black sweatshirt, jeans and a bandanna.

"You must be dying in this," I tell him, pulling on his sleeve.

"It's all in the mind, bro," he replies.

On my first touch, Lionel D's up hard - no hands, no pushing, just chest to shoulder, knees to thighs. I can barely see past his long arms. On one misguided foray to the basket, Lionel slams the ball back at me so hard I'm sure the NBA logo gets tattooed on my forehead.

"Don't give him that sh--!," yells one of my teammates who obviously thinks Lionel got more body than ball. "Call the foul."

I shrug it off, realizing I'm in for a long, long morning.

In a game to 16, our squad falls quickly behind, then digs in on defense. Slowly, we claw and scratch our way back. There's nothing working for me inside - I can't match Lionel's quickness. Even when I throw him with a good head or shoulder fake, he recovers before I can take advantage, blocking what had been a clear but fleeting path to the basket. Fortunately, the late morning air is still, and I stick a couple of jumpers from the perimeter.

At West Fourth, I learn quickly, the jump shot is regarded with suspicion. The first option is always to take it to the hole, strong. Sure, it's macho, but there's another good reason to play in the paint: The wind that swirls around the city's skyscrapers often makes a jump shot a leap of faith. Still, players who can hit the shot with any consistency earn a grudging respect. And I get Lionel's attention.

He pulls his sweater off, and I mention, with a laugh, that he's getting serious. "You don't have to worry until the scarf comes off," he says with only a trace of a grin, pointing to his bandanna.

We continue to bang as the game wears on. My legs are losing any snap they had earlier in the morning, and my shots start coming up short. My prep work started months before, with plans for the weight room, a strict running regimen and two to three lunchtime games at the local YMCA. But reality nudged in. I'm a homeowner, a husband and a dad, with a full-time job and full-time responsibilities. Somehow the weeks slipped by and, despite my best intentions, my game didn't round into form. Now I'm paying the price.

Lionel is getting the better of me on the offensive end, but my teammates are keeping us in the game. I do my best to help out on the boards, cover on defense, set picks and screens.

During one profanity-laced tirade over a foul ("He made the call!" "I don't f--king care, that was no foul!"), I wander off to the fence to catch my breath. Doubled-over, I ask a local just how out of place I look.

"You play a fundamentally sound game," he says in slow but approving tones. I take it as a supreme compliment that he even noticed "my game."

After his team hits double figures, Lionel starts passing up one open shot after another. "Keep it, keep it," he tells teammates. "I just want the last one."

Suddenly, the game is tied at 15. Next point wins. Hero time, just like the fantasy games played out on my driveway. The ball swings around to me and I give Lionel a quick up fake. He bites and I put the ball to the asphalt. I'm taking this one straight to the hole. I don't feel the quarter-sized blisters, the charley horse, the mashed big toe on my right foot. I get the half step I need and see daylight. But on the third hard dribble, the ball finds one of West Fourth's unforgiving crevices, and caroms off into the chain link fence. Turnover.

Lionel peels of his bandanna. Now he's serious. On the next possession, he slides to the top of the key, takes a crisp pass off his hip and before I can get close, launches a jumper. Nothing but net.

I turn to Lionel as the ball rips the cords and offer my hand. He shakes it, smiling wide. No last-second heroics this time. No reprieve. Nothing to do but suck it up, sit down and wait for next.

FINIS

Everyday epics!

Today's "revelations" about disgraced pro cyclist Floyd Landis and his overdue doping admissions got me thinking about a popular topic of mine, which is: We spend far too much time and energy (and ink) on "celebrity" athletes, and not nearly enough on everyday athletes. People like you and me! About a dozen years ago, when I first jumped into the freelance biz full-time, I did some work for a magazine called Outdoor Explorer. It was a first-rate publication, with a great tag line: "Real Adventure for Real People." Unfortunately, Outdoor Explorer didn't realize enough of a profit, and was sadly relegated to the scrap heap. But I've always loved the idea that people, while enjoying the vicarious thrill of reading about Mount Everest and other far-flung adventures, also really appreciate stories about events they can actually do themselves. Luckily, my good friend and editor Brian Cook at Pace Communications allowed me to do this piece for Toyota Connections magazine.

"Me Against Me"
For weekend athletes yearning to put body and spirit to the test like never before, it may be time to consider an “everyday epic”

I hear the finish line before I see it. A thick fog shrouds the rocky summit of New Hampshire’s 6,288-foot Mount Washington, the Northeast’s highest peak. I’ve been pedaling my bike, uphill, nonstop, through horizontal rain and nasty winds, for two hours, and my oxygen-depleted brain is wandering into dangerous places. Most of the 600 competitors in the annual Auto Road Hillclimb have finished, and many were on the roadside, cheering on the stragglers—like me.

With a final, excruciating sprint up a 22 percent incline over the last 100 yards, I teeter across the line. My wife, Lauri, and my two girls run to greet me. Eight-year-old Maddi flings her arms around my neck with unmitigated joy, while 6-year-old Brynne, worried that I'd been blown off the mountain, bursts into tears.

Those starkly incongruous reactions are a microcosm of my day, the perfect mix of pain and pleasure.

I’ve knocked off another task on my “Life’s ‘To Do’ List” and, now that it’s done, the accomplishment trumps all the suffering. I pull Brynne close, and tell her, “Don’t worry, honey. Daddy will ride much faster when we come back…next year.”

Lauri looks stunned. She shouldn’t be. This isn’t the first time she’s witnessed my suspect behavior. There was the Flint Hills Death Ride in eastern Kansas: five-plus hours pedaling more than 60 miles under a scorching sun. Or the eight hours of misery slogging through torrential rains and more than 8,000 feet of climbing during the Vermont 50 mountain bike race. Or the shoulder-searing task of The Blackburn Challenge, rowing 20 miles of open ocean around Massachusetts’ Cape Ann.

Each time, I swore I’d never do that to myself again. Inevitably, I do. Probably because I always end the day with a twisted, satisfied smile, and an unmatched sense of exhilaration. That’s what these “everyday epics” can do to people. Which is why you should try one.

Every weekend warrior dreams of a moment in the sun, of overcoming overwhelming obstacles. Whether your personal affliction is paddling, pedaling or running, there are events that will lay bare your fitness, your resolve, even your joie de vivre.

Laura Lavoie of Boulder, Colorado, was a competitive trail runner and mountain bike racer and a veteran of seven off-road marathons when two ruptured discs forced her to undergo spinal fusion surgery. Undaunted, Lavoie’s rehab pointed her to the infamous Leadville 100, a punishing off-road mountain bike race that starts at 10,000 feet, and climbs above 13,000. In the thin air of Colorado’s Rocky Mountains, Lavoie found a renewed focus.

“A few people really wanted to win it, but for the most part, everyone was out there saying ‘We’re going to do this for ourselves,’” says Lavoie, now 38. “For me, it was very much a proving point to say, ‘I can come back and I can do this.’ I don’t have to do it in a way that measures me against anybody else. It just measures me against me, and where I want to be.”

Though often disparaged, the “no pain, no gain” adage has merit. There’s something compelling about putting your body and spirit to the test, to see what their limits might be, and that typically invites suffering. But there’s also the undeniable endorphin rush of taxing your limbs—and surviving intact. The subsequent sense of achievement can be both sublime and spectacular. And addicting.

“These are iconic events,” says 34-year-old Nathan Rafferty, president of SkiUtah and a veteran of Mount Washington and the Leadville 100.

"It’s you against the course, and it’s the same course every year. It’s something you can go back and measure yourself against,” agrees Boston lawyer and cyclist Thomas Durkin. "I always wanted to run a marathon, but couldn’t, and I thought climbing Mount Washington would be the next most miserable thing,” he laughs. “This is a challenge, and for an aging athlete, those get fewer and fewer.”

That explains why almost two-thirds of the Mount Washington field is 40 or older. Durkin, 45 and a father of three boys, had hiked Mount Washington, and even skied the peak’s legendary Tuckerman Ravine. But the Hillclimb presented a unique trial. “Nobody’s getting any gold medals,” he says. “The goal is really to go home and have your kids say, ‘Dad, you kicked tail. While your pals just played 18 holes of golf, you biked up Mount Washington.’”

Need more reasons to try one of these epic events? First, most have a good-cause “beneficiary,” such as the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation for the annual American Birkebeiner cross-country ski marathon in Wisconsin. So there’s the consolation of knowing you’re helping others while you battle fatigue and leg cramps. Second is adventure. Many events are held in spectacular settings, from Vermont’s foliage-dappled hillsides to northern California’s Muir Woods, site of America’s oldest cross-country running race, the Dipsea.

There can also be the “guilty pleasure” draw, racing on trails or terrain that are normally off-limits. The Mount Washington Auto Road, for example, is only open to cyclists on race day in August (and a single practice run in July). Plus, you’ll meet hundreds of new friends who share your particular lunacy.

Finally, these events provide that all-too-elusive element for middle-age athletes: motivation. “They give you a goal for the season,” says Rafferty. “Every time you hop on your bike, you’re thinking, ‘I’d better push myself 10 percent harder, because I know Mount Washington is coming down the pike.’”

Dr. Penny Beach knows. A family physician in Boise, Idaho, the 40-year-old Beach targeted the Race to Robie Creek half-marathon when she decided to return to running. “I’ve never been a couch potato, but I was in less-than-ideal shape after I had my second child” she says. “Having an event as a goal definitely makes it much easier to train.” Not surprisingly, Beach strongly advocates pre-regimen physicals, heart-rate monitors and training partners for anyone looking to resume a more active lifestyle.

Ultimately, it’s all about having fun, and a chance to learn something about ourselves. That’s why I’m going back to Mount Washington this summer.

FINIS

Stand up in style

Here's my latest for Men's Fitness magazine, a piece on top Stand Up Paddling destinations. The published piece can be found here. The unabridged version is below. Many thanks to Luke Hopkins, founder of Ridestride.com, makers of Stride Stand Up Paddleboards, for the accompanying photo of the serene Potomac River outside Washington, DC!

Stand up in style

Stand Up Paddling is taking the water world by storm, and for good reason. It's a terrific full-body workout, it's versatile, and it bleeds adventure. But not everyone is ready to tackle Skookunchuck Narrows, British Columbia's massive tidal bore and one of the world's premier paddle spots, right out of the gates. Get acclimated to this emerging sport at any one of these top-notch locations. All have a variety of conditions, from flat water to whitewater, great amenities, and access to rentals and lessons. Then book a flight to BC.

Oahu, Hawaiian Islands
The Hawaiian Islands are a haven for paddleboarders, but one stands above the rest. "Oahu is a must paddle destination," says Liam Wilmott of C4 Waterman. "It is the birthplace of this sport." Long before Stand Up Paddling became the rage, the "Waikiki beach boys" would row their huge surfboards using outrigger canoe paddles to take photos of tourists, says Wilmott. Every side of Oahu is accessible in less than an hour's drive, and the conditions cater to every level of paddler, from the burly waves of the North Shore, the gentle rollers of Waikiki, and the quick downwind runs on the eastern and southern shores. Resources: C4 Waterman (c4waterman.com)

Summersville Lake, West Virginia
The Gauley River and New River Gorge get the lion's share of the whitewater press here, but a few miles to the north is a superb spot for novice paddlers. Summersville Lake was created by one of the world's largest earthen dams, and the water here is like silk. Even better, the surrounding walls are a rock climber's dream. "When they built the dam, they mined the walls of the lake, creating these enormous cliffs, all around the lake. It's incredibly photogenic, a really beautiful place," says Luke Hopkins, founder of Ridestride.com, makers of Stride Stand Up Paddleboards. "I've gone there, paddleboarding, and then free climbed the cliffs above the water. It's a very cool experience." More advanced paddlers can measure their skills against the rambunctious New River below the dam. Resources: Summersville Lake Retreat (summersvillelakeretreat.com)

Glenwood Canyon, Colorado
In whitewater circles, the Colorado River needs no introduction, with myriad conditions and unrivaled opportunities for two- and three-night trips as it rumbles through Colorado and Utah. But the 18-mile section running through Glenwood Canyon, just west of Vail, is especially attractive, due to its variety and predictable flow (thanks to the scheduled releases from the Shoshone Hydroelectric Dam). "It's the ultimate spot," says Ken Hoeve, a Surftech-sponsored rider. "You've got everything from Class II to Class V rapids in a five-mile stretch below the dam, and everything in the four miles above it is flat." The slow-moving lake is ideal for novices just starting out, and pro-level paddlers looking to train. Easy access right off Interstate 70, breathtaking scenery, and a phenomenal head-high, river-wide surf wave in Glenwood are three more reasons to visit. Resources: Colorado Kayak Supply (coloradokayak.com), Alpine Quest Sports (alpinquestsports.com)

Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge, Maryland
Situated in the heart of Chesapeake Bay crab country, on Maryland's eastern shores, the Blackwater Refuge is a paddler's utopia. Encompassing more than 25,000 acres, the refuge is a major stop on the Atlantic Flyway, guaranteeing paddlers an intimate look at waterfowl, as well as osprey and eagles. They'll also find a remarkable marshland ecosystem with countless paths criss-crossing the tidal marches, all begging to be explored. "It's really remote," says Hopkins. "And you have all these slow-moving channels that go all over the place, with blue crabs swimming under the boards, bluefish chasing softshell crabs." The refuge also features camping platforms for overnight stays, and guided canoe trips that paddlers can accompany. Resources: Easton Cycle and Sport (eastoncycleandsport.com).

Mission Bay and Dana Point, California
San Diego's Mission Bay is the Left Coast's answer to Blackwater, with its protected harbor surrounded by massive refuge. Mission Bay Park is the country's largest man-made aquatic park, at 4,235 acres. "Mission Bay is huge, but feels like a little slice of paradise," says Ryan Levinson (ryanlevinson.com), a C-4 Waterman ambassador. "You can paddle a small loop of four miles, or a big loop of almost 12 miles." During summer, Levinson recommends a moonlight paddle to catch the fireworks at nearby SeaWorld. For variety, check out Dana Point farther north. Both have quiet harbors with easy access to the ocean, without the surf swell that can make paddling precarious, and plenty of parking (helping paddlers avoid a long trek with their gear). Resources: Aqua Adventures (aqua-adventures.com) in Mission Bay, Westwind Sailing Center (westwindsailing.com) in Dana Point.

Dayton, Ohio
The Madd River translates to mad fun in this Midwest city, thanks to a dazzling, arching fountain network that erupts with the regularity of Old Faithful. This slow-moving river flows through an impressive man-made riverscape, highlighted by five giant fountains in an enormous pentagon shape that send sprays of water the length of a football field. "It is by far one of the coolest places to paddleboard, because you can paddle in the midst of some of the world's largest fountains," says Hopkins. "I was there at sunset. There was this beautiful glow in the sky, and when the fountains started, everything turned to mist. Then, 10 minutes later, it all goes silent. I wanted to wait another 50 minutes just to experience it again." Works for us. Resources: Whitewater Warehouse in Dayton (kayakdayton.com)

Potomac River, Washington, DC
Even Republicans and Democrats can agree that our nation's capital is becoming a hotbed for Stand Up Paddling, thanks to the Potomac, an old, Eastern-style river with smooth rocks and a number of standing waves that are ideal for the beginning surfer. The showcase setting is the Potomac tidal basin, which meanders through the capital district, giving paddlers an inimitable view of several historic sights, including the Jefferson Memorial and the National Mall. Another unique venue is the Cheasapeake & Ohio Canal National Historic Park, a 184-mile waterway running from Georgetown to western Maryland. Resources: Potomac Paddlesports (potomacpaddlesports.com)

FINIS

Pack it up ...

One of the best things about being a writer covering the "great outdoors" and "lifetime sports" is that I'm constantly learning about new gear and new pursuits. I recently did a fun story on packrafts for Men's Fitness magazine. The published version can be found here. Below is the unabridged version.

Whitewater rafting, solo-style

The packraft is so elegant, so versatile – so damn useful! – it's puzzling that it hasn't taken off sooner. It is, in essence, is a white-water raft built for one. Lightweight, nimble, rugged and portable, the go-anywhere do-everything packraft is "the whitewater equivalent to the mountain bike," says Roman Dial.

"It's so simple, so stable and forgiving," says Dial, a professor at Alaska Pacific University who literally wrote the book on packrafting (see sidebar). "It really put the joy back into boating. There's this big group of people who just want to paddle their own boat, and they want to do something new and fun."

The concept, like so many adventure-related brainstorms, has its roots in the wilds of Alaska. Dial has been packrafting since the early 1980s, when he and his friends ran adventure races between villages. They needed to cross water, but canoes and kayaks were too unwieldy. They first made due with earlier models such as World War II surplus emergency rafts once used by fighter pilots, and then superior but short-lived boats produced by American Safety, which was absorbed by Sherpa Snowshoes. When Sherpa stopped producing their rafts, Dial and his cronies "nursed our Sherpas along for about 10 years."

Then, a decade ago, a college student, Thor Tingey, went for a post-graduate jaunt across the Brooks Range in Alaska. His inferior raft got shredded. Thor's mom, Sheri, a former river runner and gear manufacturer, knew she could build something better. Drawing on the expertise of other rafters, she did, and the modern-day packraft was born. "All these earlier boats were designed to float on a lake, not run a river," said Sheri Tingey. "But if you want to make the backcountry accessible, you've got to be able to run rivers."

Tingey's Alpacka packrafts are now the industry standard. These boats are equally at home on the lake as the river, and can handle whitewater ranging up to Class IV and beyond in the hands of a skilled paddler. They boast dual air chambers encased by a tough-as-nails polyurethane-coated nylon covering, an upturned bow and, for rough water, a spray deck. Best of all, they weigh less than many backpacks. While researching her design, Tingey said paddlers insisted on two things. "Everyone said, 'I don't care what I have to spend, I just don't want to fix another tear.' And they said they didn't mind carrying five pounds, but they didn't want to carry much more than that."

"I absolutely agree with that. I'm the ounce-Nazi here. I keep chopping stuff off," she says. "At the same time, you can't sacrifice the integrity or the sturdiness that you've built in. People are really counting on those boats to get them down the river and get them home."

The result is a hand-made, easy-to-use solo raft that can withstand the rigors of whitewater without creating a burden on your shoulders. "One of these little Alpackas, you can actually fold up, put it into a fanny pack and wear it on your waist," says Dial, who is not affiliated with the company. Even with a paddle, throw rope, wet suit (or dry suit), a personal flotation device and helmet, the total weight penalty is still minimal. "If you're set up to run Class III whitewater, in cold water like Alaska or springtime in New England, all your stuff will weigh between 15 and 20 pounds," says Dial. "That's everything, and it's still less than the lightest inflatable kayak, which goes about 17 pounds."

Though Alpackas are pricey, at a shade under $800 (plus $200 for a spray deck), Tingey says she had no choice if she were to produce a truly lightweight, durable craft. "My goal was to build a $300 packraft, but there was no way," she says. "There's no difference between a $300 boat and a $69.95 Wal-Mart special. When you look at cheap boats, sometimes the fabric tears, but a lot of times the seams just fall apart."

The packraft is as utilitarian as it is convenient, allowing paddlers to get deeper into the woods, while carrying a bevy of gear for extra outdoor pursuits. In the winter, that could be skis, snowshoes, or ice climbing gear. In the summer, think rock climbing, camping, bouldering, mountain biking, even fishing (a favorite is a Japanese method of fly-fishing called "tenkara," which employs a rod but no reel).

"I see packrafting as a wilderness travel opportunity to get me off of my feet," says Ryan Jordan, CEO of Backpacking Light in Montana. "A group of friends and I completed a 100-plus-mile traverse of the Bob Marshall Wilderness this summer by foot and packraft. By the time we are at Mile 50, we'd only walked eight miles – we packrafted the rest – so by the time we started the mountaineering portion of our trek, we were acclimated, fit, and had light packs from the food weight we lost. And, we felt like we were starting the hardest, and remotest, part of the trek on fresh feet."

Though few outfitters offer packraft trips at the moment, these craft are on their radar. "I bet you, within five to 10 years, you'll see more and more trips with one guide, and two or three little ducklings coming along behind them," Dial says "Instead of piling a bunch of people into a big boat who need to go down a Class III or Class IV river to feel some excitement, outfitters can put customers in their own boats, send them down Class II, and they'll be in control of their own boats, and they're going to be having the time of their life, because they're running whitewater on their own."

SIDEBARS

Choice Raft: The Alpacka "Alpaca" – Light, durable, and responsive in turbulent whitewater ($790; four pounds, six ounces; alpackaraft.com).

Choice Paddle: The Sawyer Packraft Paddle – Adjustable, light, reliable, and packable ($270; 29 ounces).

Top Destinations: Remote – The Thorofare River, Bridger-Teton Wilderness, Wyoming. Urban – The Deerfield River, Massachusetts (near the Boston-New York-DC Metropolitan Belt) Fly-fishing – The South Fork Flathead River, Bob Marshall Wilderness, Montana. Rock-climbing – The New River Gorge, West Virginia. Multi-day – The Brooks Range, Alaska.

The Bible: "Packrafting! An Introduction & How-To Guide," by Roman Dial.

Learn more: Bozeman-based Backpacking Light, founded by Ryan Jordan, offers packraft classes for beginning and advanced paddlers alike. The company also sell Dial's book. Further both Jordan and Dial pen extensive blogs on the topic, Simplifatico (ryanjordan.com) and The Roaming Dials (packrafting.blogspot.com), respectively.

FINIS

Dropping the puck at the Frozen Four

Well, the time for talk is over, as the Frozen Four is set to get under way at Ford Field in Detroit. Here is the second of two Boston College previews done for ESPNBoston.com.

BC fine-tunes game during Frozen Four prep week
Against Miami, Eagles can't afford to make mistakes

BOSTON – If nothing else, Boston College has proved to be a remarkably versatile and resilient hockey team during its current run through the postseason. The Eagles put the clamps on an offensively gifted UMass Minutemen team, 5-2, in the second game of their Hockey East quarterfinals, shut out a determined Vermont squad, 3-0, in the Hockey East semifinals, and surrendered a single tally to rugged Alaska in the opening round of the NCAA tournament, winning 3-1.

But book-ending those games were a couple of old-time shoot-'em-up affairs; a 6-5 win over the Minutemen in the opening quarterfinal game at BC, and a 9-7 barn-burner against Yale in the NCAA Northeast Regional final. Toss in a pulsating 7-6 overtime win against Maine in the Hockey East final, and BC followers have to wonder which team is going to show up for the Frozen Four semifinal against No. 1-ranked Miami University RedHawks (29-7-7) on Thursday evening (8:30 p.m. ET start).

Eagles coach Jerry York has insisted he's only interested in the common denominator, which is that BC won all six games. In the playoffs, every team has talented shooters, York said, and goals are going to get scored. As long as the No. 3 Eagles (27-10-3) can notch another victory, York said he doesn't mind how it looks. Still, the last thing the Eagles want is to get into a track meet with their opponents this Thursday.

"We don't want to be playing a shoot-out kind of game" with Miami, said BC assistant coach Greg Brown before the team flew out to Detroit on Tuesday. "Some of the choices we made against Yale were too ambitious. We don't want to go into a prevent defense. We want to stay aggressive. But at the same time we want to make smart choices."

Here's why. If the Eagles make mistakes, the RedHawks have a slew of veteran snipers who can capitalize. They have seven forwards who registered 20 or more points, led by senior Jarod Palmer (18-27-45), and juniors Andy Miele (15-29-44), captain Tommy Wingels (17-25-42), and Carter Camper (15-27-42). Add several big-time defensemen with offensive pop – notably Chris Wideman (5-17-22), Cameron Shilling (4-15-19) and Joe Hartman (6-8-14) – and Miami, averaging 3.4 goals a game this year, looks like a team more than capable of running up the score.

Further, given coach Enrico Blasi's penchant for juggling his lines, Miami is a very difficult team to scout, and to match up against. Which explains why BC is more concerned about its own game.

"There's no question they're an extremely talented team," said Eagle captain Matt Price of the RedHawks. "We don't expect to go into Miami and play a 9-7 game."

Against Yale in the regional finals, the Eagles "started running around a little bit" after streaking to a 9-4 lead, and got careless, said Price. The Bulldogs took advantage, roaring back with three unanswered goals to cut the BC lead to 9-7 before the clock ran out.

"We got away from some of the fundamentals, some of the core values that made this team successful," said Price. "Taking care of the puck at both blue lines is significant. At this level, if you give a player a half step, he'll do something with it. We have to negate that."

Likewise, BC's associate head coach Mike Cavanaugh said recent practice sessions were used to fine-tune, and not reinvent, the team. "We're going to play the way we always play," he said on Monday. "Whether it's the first game of the year or the semifinals of the national tournament, you have to do what you do well. You can't change your style. We're not going to be a neutral-zone trap team. We're going to play a pretty aggressive style."

Comparing recent high-scoring wins, Cavanaugh said he was more concerned with the lack of discipline that the Eagles showed in the Maine game. "We want to be smarter playing with the lead," he said. "Maine was more disconcerting that Yale, because we allowed them to get back in it."

Four times in the Maine game, the Black Bears struck for a goal less than three minutes after a BC tally, twice within a minute. "We couldn't hold the lead, and that's something we emphasized all year long," said Cavanaugh. "We just didn't execute. That happens."

If the Eagles do get in a hole early on Thursday, digging out could prove a Herculean task. Miami has a young-but-talented defensive group (all freshmen and sophomores), plus a pair of sophomore goaltenders – Cody Reichard and Connor Knapp – who are boasting All-American numbers. Each has a goals against average under 1.90, and a save percentage above .920. As a team, Miami has a 1.84 goals against average. And although the Eagle forwards have shown this post-season that they're a deep group, with a number of role players stepping up to contribute, expect Miami to key on BC's resurgent second line of Cam Atkinson (27-23-50), Brian Gibbons (16-30-46) and Joe Whitney (16-23-39), which exploded out of a mild post-season slump to score six times against Yale.

"I think we have so much depth, it's not going to be one line scoring," said Atkinson. "We have to have everyone contributing. We just have to realize that the offence will come, but defense comes first."

The fact that BC's leading scorer was equally conscientious of his line's defensive responsibilities speaks volumes about the Eagles recommitment to protecting their own net. Senior Carl Sneep, the lone upperclassman on BC's blueline, said the Eagles' defensive corps, while young, is game-ready, thanks to a number of high-profile games this year, including the Frozen Fenway match and Beanpot final (both against Boston University), and the Hockey East and Northeast Regional sweeps.

"I'm just telling them to focus on their game," said Sneep. "It's knowing how to deal with pressure situations, and not let it break your focus. We just have to play our game."

Meanwhile, junior goaltender John Muse (pictured above), already with one national championship on his resume, brings a quiet confidence that Sneep and Price said is the backbone of their squad. The Eagles will need him at his best.

"We really want to try to implement a complete game plan," said Brown. "Defensively you want to make the ice smaller for the other team. On the offensive side, you want to expand it. If you can take away time and space, it's hard for the other team to do what they want to execute their game plan, no matter how good they are."

Both coaches also downplayed any potential motivation that Miami might have facing a Boston team in the NCAAs for the fourth straight year. Blasi's RedHawks dropped the previous three contests, the last two by identical 4-3 overtime scores, first to BC in the 2008 quarterfinals, and then in heartbreaking fashion to BU in last year's championship game.

"They're a different team and we're a different team," said Blasi, referring to the 2007 and 2008 NCAA games between Miami and BC. "As far as a rematch, that's great for media and Hollywood stories. We're focused on what BC is today. I can tell you they're really quick and fast and offensively explosive. We'll have to be at our best to give them a good game.

"This is the Frozen Four," Blasi said. "Both teams have experience in it. So I think you can throw the experience out the window, and it will come down to the two teams playing on the ice."

York echoed similar sentiments. "I think all the teams that make it to the Frozen Four have great motivation," he said. "The prize we seek lives with you for the rest of your life."

FINIS

Eagles set to fly in Detroit

After last Sunday's wild 9-7 win over Yale, the Boston College Eagles found themselves in familiar territory, as one of the last teams standing in college hockey's Frozen Four. Here's the first of two previews written for ESPNBoston.com.

Eagles mix youth and experience

BOSTON -- The enormous, poster-size hockey schedule that adorns the wall outside the Boston College locker room is different than most. Like any schedule, it features opponents, game dates and times and locations. But the games are listed in reverse order, like an inverted pyramid, with the first games of the season listed at the bottom in miniscule print. The date on top, in large, bold print, is April 10, 2010, the NCAA championship game at Ford Field in Detroit.

That maroon-and-gold poster, while simple in design, speaks volumes about how Boston College approaches the season, and epitomizes coach Jerry York's singular focus. York and his Eagles expect to be in the running for a national crown every year, and they make no bones about highlighting that goal. The fact they were daring enough to state it this year, with such a young team gathering at the Heights, is a testament to the team's ironclad resolve.

"We didn't make it last year," BC's senior captain Matt Price, pictured above, said earlier this week. "We want to get back to it."

Two years ago, the Eagles stood on top of the NCAA hill, dispatching the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame in the 2008 finals. But the 2008-09 campaign was a disappointment by BC standards. The team went 18-14-5 overall, but only 11-11-2 in Hockey East. The Eagles came within a whisker of making the Hockey East finals, where a win would have ensured an automatic bid to the NCAAs. But three third-period goals by arch rival and eventual national champs Boston University tripped up the Eagles 3-2, and ended BC's season prematurely.

Even more daunting, York knew he was losing three top-notch senior defensemen in Anthony Aiello, Tim Filangieri and Tim Kunes. When sophomore Nick Petrecki signed a pro contract, and stalwart goaltender John Muse underwent serious hip surgery, York suddenly had a gaping hole in his defense. He looked for defensemen Carl Sneep, a senior, and Tommy Cross, a sophomore, to take on leadership roles. And he called on freshmen Brian Dumoulin, Patch Alber, Patrick Wey and Philip Samuelsson (son of former NHL defenseman Ulf Samuelsson) to play major roles, as well as freshman goaltender Parker Milner to help relieve Muse's workload.

"We're going to break in four first-year players [on defense]," York said last fall. "There will be some growing pains in that process. I'm still optimistic that, as we go deep into our season, this corps will be very solid."

Those players, including Muse, made York look like a prophet. York said his 37 seasons as head coach have taught him to be patient, allowing younger players to develop. Standing next to the oversized schedule this week, he pointed to the early season games, and said those are his team's proving grounds, when it's important to make sure everyone is getting enough ice time.

"In the early part of the season, in October and November, you're not going to shorten your bench," York said. "The idea is to win as many games as you can, but you're trying to give everyone a chance."

Though every game is critical, especially in the pair-wise rankings that are used to determine the teams that make the NCAA tournament, York said it's just as imperative to cultivate talent from top to bottom. York didn't deviate from form, even when the Eagles hit a rough patch right after the Christmas holiday season, losing twice in the Wells Fargo Denver Cup to St. Lawrence and Denver University, and to Boston University 3-2 in the outdoor Frozen Fenway game at Fenway Park.

"That was a low period, but I've always said that's the best time to buy stock in BC hockey, because it'll take off," York said this week. "You're not going to win every game. The trick is to be positive, and weather that storm. We knew we had a good club, and I could see the young kids maturing."

Since the Frozen Fenway game, the Eagles have gone on a 17-4-1 tear (including the NCAA tournament), which bolsters York's reputation as a coach who gets his team playing its best hockey when it counts the most. York's record in March at BC -- 75-25-6 -- bears out his game plan. The senior class of Price, Sneep and alternate captains Ben Smith and Matt Lombardi has gone a remarkable 25-3-2 in March.

"We've had some outstanding seniors with leadership over the years, and this class of seniors rivals any of the classes that I've had," York said. "They are mentors to our younger players."

While the seniors and juniors have led by word and example, the younger players proved to be a quick study. For example, sophomore Cam Atkinson, BC's dynamic right wing, exploded for 27 goals this year after potting seven his freshman campaign.

"Everyone from my class has stepped it up," he said. "Everyone's doing their part."

According to Smith, the Eagles couldn't have run the table in the Hockey East playoffs and Northeast Regionals without major contributions from their underclassmen. "That was one of our biggest questions coming into the year," he said. "We had a lot of freshmen and sophomores, and we were wondering how these two classes would contribute. They see the expectations, and it's great to see Brian Doumulin, Chris Kreider and Phil Samuelsson play so well."

"It has been a huge part of our success to be able to rely on [the underclassmen], especially Chris Kreider down the stretch, and those four freshman defensemen," Smith said. "For those guys, they knew coming in that they would have that chance to gain ice time and to succeed."

"At this stage of the game, it's all about team," Price agreed. "We've built that throughout the year. Right now, we're not seniors, juniors, sophomores or freshmen. We're all Eagles."

Price also acknowledged that the Eagles have benefited from playing in several high-stakes, big-venue games already, including the Frozen Fenway match, the Beanpot and Hockey East finals and the Northeast Regionals. In addition, Kreider played in the World Junior Championships, where his United States squad won the gold medal. Atkinson said those big stages are a major attraction of the BC program.

"That's why people come to BC," he said, "to play in these big games."

The games don't get any bigger than next week, starting with the NCAA semifinals. The third-ranked Eagles (27-10-3) stand a single game away from reaching the championship game. In their way is a worthy opponent, the consensus No. 1 team in the country, the Miami RedHawks (29-9-7). The game is set for April 8 at Detroit's Ford Field, just like it states on BC's schedule.

"We're very excited to be going back to the Frozen Four," York said. "It's the pinnacle for the coaches and players. The only thing that tops it is to win it."

FINIS

The most solitary position in sports ...

Goalie camp? At 43? Why not? Goes to show you're never too old to take a puck upside the head. This account of one of the longest weeks of my life (albeit eight years ago) appeared in the now-defunct Hockey Magazine. The photo at right comes from my once-in-a-lifetime outing last January, playing at Fenway Park in Boston.

Net gain
A 40-something goaltender tries to recapture his long-lost glory days

Lying prone on a cool sheet of ice, gasping for air, I lapse into another Walter Mitty fantasy. I'm no longer at the Mount Vernon Recreation and Ice Center outside Washington, D.C., desperately trying to keep from overheating beneath 35-plus pounds of soaking-wet goaltending gear. No, I'm between the pipes at Madison Square Garden, sporting the home white sweater of my beloved Rangers. The time? Winter, 1974.

Boston Bruins' winger Wayne Cashman is in the corner, mucking it up with Dale Roulfe, my Rock-of-Gibraltar defenseman. The puck squirts to the front of the net. Bruins' center Phil Esposito, on his way to a 68-goal season, pounces on it. He snaps off a lightning quick snap shot, low, stick-side. I instinctively flash my left leg pad. The puck glances off my toe buckle and flips harmlessly into the crowd. In the press box, Marv Albert screams into his microphone, "Kick save, O'Connor, and a beauty!" Color man Bill Chadwick, a Hall of Fame referee, chimes in: "This kid O'Connor came to play tonight ..." A goofy, satisfied grin creases my face.

"O'Connor! Hey, O'Connor! You gonna play sometime today?" barks Gerry "Elroy" Ellison, part-time goalie instructor and full-time drill sergeant. I surface reluctantly from my reverie, blinking the sweat from my eyes, realizing I'm still at the Puckstoppers Goaltending School. Slowly, I pull my bruised body off the ice, and resume my post for the next drill. I want to blame my murky state of mind on taking a puck up side the head, but I can't. I'm hurting because I'm 43. Whatever fitness I brought to camp with me evaporated as quickly as my fantasy. And my instructors aren't cutting me much slack.

At this precise moment, I'm struggling to recall exactly why I signed on for this five-day camp. There are vague recollections - I not only hoped to recapture some of my youth, but I wanted to make sure the guys in the late-night league back home in Boston weren't thinking I'd gotten soft. Several of my goaltending colleagues have been entertaining thoughts about hanging up their pads and skates, which only hardened my resolve to turn back the clock.

Truth is, I never had any formal education in the science of goaltending. My coaches in high school and the early days of college were former position players - forwards and defensemen - who had trouble relating to goalies. As other hockey players will attest, goalies are a singular breed, requiring special tutoring (or, as one derisive teammate once told me, “custom-made strait jackets”).My education was self-imposed - I ceaselessly studied Hall of Famer Jacques Plante's tome, "On Goaltending," until the book’s binder nearly disintegrated, and tried to apply its lessons to my game.

Recently, on the downhill side of my athletic career but still playing a few times each week, my mind shifted into a "now or never" mode. I could soldier on, a half-decent, middle-age goalie, or I could try to pick up my game a notch. What I needed was some top-notch instruction. I found it with Puckstoppers, an Ontario-based outfit that visits Alexandria, Virginia, each summer for a week. You might not think of the District of Columbia and its environs as a hotbed for hockey. Think again.

At the end of every morning session, dozens of pick-up players were lining up for noontime "stick practice." Back home in Massachusetts, many rinks shut down in the summer. Mount Vernon ice director Ernie Harris tells me "This place was originally designed to have two rinks. If I had that second sheet, I could book it solid."

On the first morning of camp, I sat in snarled Beltway traffic, listening with a jaded ear to Bruce Springsteen's "Glory Days" on the radio, wondering whether I still had the goods, and whether I'd be the only gray-haired keeper in the class. Heck, I'd have settle for anyone who could legally join me for a beer afterward.

Fortunately, I met two guys my age - Gerry Oakman, who works with the Justice Department, and Joe O'Connell, a family doctor from Arkansas. Both have Boston-area roots, and share an almost inexplicable love for hockey. We hit it off immediately. In hindsight, that's not surprising.

Goalies are naturally drawn to each other. We’re part of a team, yet stand apart – masked loners, solitary watchmen standing guard by our nets the entire game, an army of one. Other players don’t know what to make of us, but most are convinced that only someone with a few screws loose would actually volunteer to play our position. Buried under layers of unwieldy gear and confined to a limited skating area, goalies stick out like ocean liners surrounded by speedboats. Together, we make up an odd fraternity, a fellowship of proud masochists.

Our task is simple: Stop a vulcanized rubber puck, an inch thick and three inches in diameter, from entering a 4-by-6 foot goal. With composite sticks and curved blades, even recreational players can fire a puck upwards of 100 miles an hour. Adding insult to potential injury, the very nature of the position leads to more criticism than applause. We give up goals, but don't score them. We're often blamed for losses, but only occasionally praised for victories. We are, in short, the team’s lightning rod.

Oakman recalls a Plante quote - "How would you like to have a job, that when you made a mistake, a big red light went on and 18,000 people booed?"

"For me, that's a motivator, to join a very select group of men and women who step up to meet that challenge," says Oakman.

Challenge indeed. I always thrived on goaltending’s unique reality – by the position’s very nature, the goalie is the one player who can single-handedly stop an entire team from winning. After all, if the opponent doesn’t score, you can’t lose. And on those rare games when I’m really focused and feeling invincible, the puck looks the size of a balloon, and moves about as quick. In my mind’s eye, it seems I can see where the puck is going even before the shot is fired. Granted, those moments didn’t come often enough to sustain my dream of a pro career or Division I scholarship. But even now, when they happen, they’re magic.

Unfortunately, I quickly realize there’s nothing “magical” about goalie camp. I understand it’s purpose and promise, but I’m ill prepared for the workload. For the next five days, two hours each morning, two each afternoon, Ellison and his Puckstoppers colleagues run us through a gamut of drills and instruction designed to improve our game. Or kill us.

We work on stance, movement, angles, low shots, high shots, deflections, rebounds, breakaways. Shooting machines fire pucks at us relentlessly - one nicks a crease in my armor, just above my blocker, and my elbow stings for hours. During each session, usually following some tortuous skating or agility drill, Oakman, O'Connell and I exchange futile glances and muted words of encouragement. Sweat pours from old pores as we struggle to keep pace with youngsters a fraction of our age. Each day, we wonder aloud whether we can finish the week. Parents of younger campers look at us as though we've lost our marbles. Incredulous, I reply: "Hey, we're goalies!"

The inference, I trust, is crystal clear - goaltenders, whether young or aging, are by definition a bit off-center. We all survive - barely.

"I'm sure people were giggling behind my back," says O'Connell, who admits hoping to play well into his 60s. "Screw 'em. I always wanted to do this."

Two weeks after I hauled my oversized bag of goalie gear from the Mount Vernon Ice Center for the last time, and the aches have finally subsided, my evaluation from the Puckstoppers gang arrives. I glance at the list of the position's finer points, including everything from dexterity, glove saves and rebounds. Most of my ratings fall in the "fair" category, with some "good" and a few "excellent" marks. Charity points, I figure. Head coach Chris Dyson reminds me, "glove in front, pads a bit apart."

"If you work on those small points, your game will be huge," writes Dyson. "Unfortunately, there were so many 'small things' I can't remember them all!"

Dyson's good-natured jab is followed by a happy-face doodle. I can read between the lines. I'm being told, gently, "Don't quit your day job." Walter Mitty would be crushed. Not me. Come tomorrow night, I'll be down at the rink, facing rubber.

FINIS