We met the nice guys from Destihl at the Beer Hoptacular in Chicago back in June. They were one of the lone stand outs at that event, both in their seeming genuine enjoyment of their hobby cum job and also in their beer – they offered the only sour at the event and, sour or not, it stood head and shoulders above everyone else’s phoned in contributions.

So you could imagine my excitement when I got news from their facebook page that Destihl is hosting an Oktoberfest at their brewpub in Normal, Illinois September 25th. They’re promising some suckling pig, fresh brewed Marzen, and a bavarian influenced menu. Willie and I have been threatening a bike trip down there since June and an early fall ride through middle Illinois’ shifting colors seems just what the doctor ordered.

Now I just gotta go get my freaking bike out of the shop.

This is a little off-topic for us here, but who cares, it’s an exciting release and I designed the packaging for the project so I can talk about it here all I want.

Wayne Ewing has released a wonderful sequel to his 2003 work “Breakfast with Hunter”. “Animals, Whores & Dialogue: Breakfast with Hunter Volume 2″ uses a late night writing session in the younger part of this odd century as the core of the narrative. Wayne follows Hunter’s shotgun attention span through it’s circuitous tangents by way of parties, memorials, nights with friends and also some great footage of Hunter riding his Harley through the Roaring Fork Valley. Watching Hunter pass through a continuous sea-change of clearly familiar procrastination techniques before finally settling himself down to task is a treat no Thompson fan should deprive themselves of.

One of the things that really separates Wayne’s work with Hunter from other filmmakers is the very real understanding he managed of this literary titan and human conundrum, not to mention a certain zen-like tolerance for the searing, blue light of Thompson’s very special brand of psychosis. Where other filmmaker’s seem to get lost in the fuzzy, unfilmable morass of lazy admiration, Wayne manages to descend into the murkier depths, translating the complexities of his own relationship with the subject into a portrait this is both more exciting and more sweet and intimate than anything you’re going to find anywhere else about one of the great and true recluses of late 20th century letters.

Go to Wayne’s site now, catch up on his hilarious stories about Thompson on his video blog and pick up a copy of “Animals, Whores & Dialogue”, I promise that you will love it.

My wife and I went over to Bluebird last night for a few beers to celebrate – I’m not sure – the ever grinding wheels of time as they continue to where down on the thinning teeth of our souls’ cogs, forcing us to move slow and want to move even slower? Yes, that’s probably a good approximation of what we were celebrating.

We started with a bottle of Saison D’Epeautre that was served at the perfect temperature. This was a tasty, dry, mildly-spicy beer with just the right amount of a fleeting sweetness to keep it interesting.

But where the evening really came into it’s own was with the ordering of a 750ml bottle of Jolly Pumpkin’s “La Roja”. Brewed in the “flemish style” this beer hit every note presently getting my fairly large panties in a bunch. Funky with a little sour and fruit on the nose the beer drinks creamy, full, and with the perfect balance of sour and spice on the tongue. My eyes grew wide with amazement every taste I took of this well-crafted brew. I bowed in reverence and saw, perhaps, just a shimmer of light from the future radiating back onto my present self, beckoning me down a road of better living and finer brews cobble-paved by a deeper exploration of the flemish reds.

I was pleasently surprised to find that the unfortunately named Jolly Pumpkin brewery is not far from home, just over a couple borders in Dexter, Michigan. I will definitely be paying them a visit this summer. Too bad the motorcycle riding between here and there is pretty crummy.

On our way home the wifey-poo ducked into Hot Chocolate and picked up a baker’s dozen of Mindy’s cookies. All the cookies were insanely delicious though the molasses seemed to actually defy certain laws of physics.

I recently got back from a trip up to northern Michigan and on the way we drove through a few small towns built on the shores of lakes. It drifted me back across the frozen landscapes of my childhood, staring out at tiny little houses dotting a barren white expanse, hard water as they call it. In South Dakota and Minnesota, where I grew up, this time of year ushered in a whole new season of sports, not of the exciting alpine variety but more of the head shaking, why the hell would anyone do that variety. There was snowmobiling, which is fun and makes sense if your not drunk and its light out, guidelines when not followed result all too often in decapitation by barb wire fence. I’m not kidding, nearly happened to two kids in my high school but luckily they both lived to tell the story of the rakish scars across their neck.

Here’s a pretty rad video of a guy carving like crazy on a snowmobile:

There were other stranger sports like trapping, which could be quite frightening.

The traps are generally set in places that are hard to both see and reach and are often occupied by understandably upset woodland creatures. If their not, than your not a good trapper. The all to common result is that you end up lying on your belly in three feet of snow, reaching under a fallen tree on a frozen creek and running into a pissed off and dying skunk. Believe me it’s a bad scene and hard to understand what makes it worth it.

There was also ice racing. Something I never did but a lot of the burnouts who used to beat me up in high school swore by it.

Basically it’s just racing with real long spikes on your tires. I think it comes in all sorts of classes, motorcycle, ATV, snowmobile etc. I suppose it’s fun but it strikes me as absolutely nuts to be racing at top speeds on ice with what essentially amounts to little spears on your wheels.

Really the only sport I ever got into much was ice fishing, more on tht later.

Don’t lose hope dear internetting ones, we still have every intention of launching the full Outsider’s Almanac website in the near future, it just won’t be quite as soon as we had hoped. We’re pretty insanely busy these days, between writing projects, client needs, body/mind/spirit rehabbing and the pursuit of winter in it’s many splendered and distracting forms, but you should expect to see the site live by around April 1st, 2010.

We’ve got our sites on making Outsider’s Almanac the most exhaustive and user friendly site for all Outsider activities by combining tutorials with expert articles, videos, web based and mobile communication apps, up-to-the-minute live and critical information on sites and conditions, gear reviews, site reviews, events, and so much more.

Like you, we love the Outside, it’s beautiful out here, and boy is it easy to get distracted. We wouldn’t want it any other way.

As I mentioned the other day, WSD and I decided to celebrate this unexpected Indian Summer by making our way into the Great White North on Saturday in search of open roads and delicious craft brew. And, while our adventure took some acceptable, though unforeseen, detours, we were served some of the finest riding and most delicious beer these lips and legs have ever been blessed to devour.

I made a bit of a mistake when plotting our route for the day. If you look at the map you can see I moved us off interstate and into what I had hoped would be scenic rides sooner rather than later.

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Right around McHenry county I put us onto IL-12 which I hoped would be rustic and tree lined. And, while a few short points on that ride did produce a few trees, the majority of the ride was lined with the relics of the new national seal – Chili’s, American Mattresses and empty car lots. It’s a shame to see the few remaining points of wild in the north of our great state being raised to make way for more fat factories and ghettoized apartment complexes. Seriously, what soulless husk of a gorilla would ever choose to inhabit these flaccid dumps?

With that said, we did pass a decent looking skate park in Lake Zurich which, at 10:30am on a beautiful Saturday, was totally empty. I will be plotting my revenge on that spot for sure.

So, while I had the best intentions of getting us into some meatier roads sooner, in the future I will reroute us to stay on 90/39 until we reach Beloit as, really, the roads did not open into much worth writing home about until well past Lake Geneva and over 43. Next time we won’t waste our time on 12, but keep the throttle locked on the highway until we get to Beloit, exit route 81 there and take that into the gorgeous Swiss town of New Glarus, WI.

But this is not how we traveled this time.

We crawled along 12 through McHenry county into Johnsburg, IL, that working class town immortalized by Tom Waits in a song of the same title on the Swordfishtrombones album. We passed through the painfully pink resort pose of Lake Geneva, where everyday appears to be Sunday with the parents, before escaping out a decent Rustic Road on the west side of town.

Rustic Roads are a phenomena specific to Wisconsin and one that clearly reflects the rich motorcycle culture of that state. If you happen across one of these brown gems on your ride take the time to pull off as the signs are shorthand for steep, twisty roads loaded with technical joys. Just please be cautious as these great detours are often spotted with random pockets of loose gravel, or, at this time of year, piles of wet leaves and/or dirt. But, if you ride with caution and keep your eyes peeled, these brown road-side beauties are an assurance of short, breathtaking distractions from any trip you are on.

Once out of Lake Geneva and heading down 50 our trip really opened up. Soon we had our throttles locked back and our bikes were gobbling through the endless rolls of dairy farms and Nordic grandeur that is Western Wisconsin. The traffic is slim, the skies are wide and ancient glaciers have left us with treasures that, frankly, we probably don’t deserve. But parsing through rightful due is a job for the contemplative and bored, we here at Outsider’s Almanac are more interested in what pleasures we can take while the getting is good. Discerning thieves should take a keen interest in the Alphabet Roads of Western Wisconsin.

In fact, we took such an interest in ‘sconny’s many siren signs that we wound up bit too far over our skis and couldn’t really figure out where exactly we were. The GPS unit was not much help either because we had to keep pulling over to read it and also because, well, the folks whose job it was to mark the roads in Wisconsin must have been too distracted riding them to really give a shit about finishing their job. So we took a mixed approach of checking the GPS, following the sun, and periodically indulging in a little mid-ride blood-letting to show us the proper way.

As always, the spilling of precious bodily fluids appeased those dark lords of the road and, after many a twist and dip, we came up upon Rt. 69/92 which took us directly into either our intended destination of New Glarus or Mt. Horeb. Because our distractions had gotten the best of us and time had slipped away we decided to hit Mt. Horeb first, grab some food and then head over to New Glarus for a look around the brewery and a taste of Dan Carey’s creations.

Mt. Horeb is a quaint norwegian town that bills itself as the Troll Capitol of the World, they flex this distinction by lining their streets with troll statues in all states of duty. And what better place than the Troll Capitol of the World for a brewpub called the Grumpy Troll to call home?

The Grumpy Troll sits just off the main drag in a two story, late 19th-century building. Hop heads from all around seek out this local spot as evidenced by the parade of beer-hungry folks lining into the brewpub as we pulled up on our bikes. Presently The Grumpy Troll has 12 beers in it’s portfolio ranging from a well charactered “lite” beer, to a surprisingly drinkable smoked beer, and a delicious, nearly 10% ABV, Belgian dark. We ordered up a flight of all 12 and some sandwiches. It was nice to be off our bikes after almost 5 hours of riding and their oddly named Freedom IPA really helped to take some of the sting out of the morning.

With our tanks full and whistles properly dampened we finished our business with The Grumpy Troll, each purchasing a growler of their ‘Curly’ brew, and headed just a few miles south and east to New Glarus and the New Glarus Brewing Company.

Maybe it was the road fatigue, maybe it was the Grumpy Troll samples, or maybe it was the fever high I was suffering through as a result of a flu shot I received the day before, but, as we entered the town of New Glarus I was overcome by a very tangible sense of mythical gravitas. Set inside, almost hiding within, the golden creases of several glaciated hillsides, New Glarus is one part Swiss settlement and one part Museum to it’s town’s unique heritage. Chalets and Swiss flags contour the rolling streets that bend between quiet residential homes, bars and restaurants and the New Glarus breweries – both the old riverside facility and the new hillside complex – bookend the town with their quiet, yet clearly stated purposefulness.

I was so excited as we rolled past the riverside facility, the sun orange and sinking behind the hills, that I let the torque drop my head back into a howl as we opened up the long hill to the hilltop brewery. It’s those moments of man/machine symmetry that come together like song which every motorcycle enthusiast lives for. And why would I not be thrilled? We were about to reach our storied destination and enter the confines of what has become, in many a beer geek’s circle, the mid-western mecca for craft beer as revered and holy a destination as any two-bit religion could hope to strum up.

With all that excitement in our bellies and the anticipation of over 6 hours of our trip you could imagine our disappointment as we rolled onto the gravel lot and the sign welcoming us also served also as a stark reminder that the brewery closes at 4pm daily. I had known this before leaving for our trip, but somehow I had suffered a kind of optimist’s amnesia as the day progressed. Fortunately, when you’re this deep into a great ride very little can dampen your spirits. We figured any town so clearly defined by the presence of a brewery has got to have at least one bar loaded up with it’s namesake’s beer on draught and we immediately began our pursuit.

Sure enough, our first stop, Puempel’s (unfortunately it appears their site has some XXScripting hacks on it so I’m not going to post a link), sits right off 69 on 6th Street in downtown New Glarus. Built in 1893 the building that Puempel’s is in is the oldest building in New Glarus and, judging from the photos on the wall, the bar remains almost entirely unchanged since it’s inception, even using the same ice box they used at the turn of the century.

The walls are lined with deep, earth-toned murals depicting civil war battles and musicians that were originally painted in 1913 and remain as vibrant and relevant today almost 100 years later. Apparently, Puempel’s serves some great food as well, although we were still stuffed from the Grumpy Troll by the time we got there and all we could focus on was the drink. Which was plenty.

We ordered a couple New Glarus Staghorn’s and spent our time staring at all the well-maintained history around us making plans for our next trip to this part of the country.

By the time we finished our beers it was plenty dark and the temperature was dropping fast. We bundled up as warm as we could and headed for home. But, before we got too far, we stopped off at the BP on 69 to stock up on the New Glarus we were hoping to pick up from the brewery that day. The guy running the store insisted he had better deals than the brewery itself, but I had no way of verifying since they were closed. He did have a hell of a selection though. I picked up a sixer of Snowshoe, a 4-pack of the Imperial Saison from the Unplugged series, and a bomber of the storied framboise. I’ll review these in another post. With our saddle bags rich with delicious inebriants, we said goodbye to New Glarus and pointed our fenders for Chicago. The ride home was a bit chilly, though enjoyable nonetheless. We stayed warm and caffeinated and got the hell out of Beloit as soon as the devil allowed it.

There is a particular signature to riding a motorcycle at night that can’t be replicated outside of the dark. The expanse, the heat, the unending possibility of coasting across swelling farm roads in daylight gives way to a much more inward and, in my opinion, more odd and absurd selection of sensations by night. Having a similar kind of trance inducing effect as you get when sitting in a theatre, the projector’s lamp easily securing your attention against the rest of the blackened hall, riding a motorcycle at surrendering speeds through unknown roads by headlight tends to isolate you as a rider and makes me, in particular, hyper-aware that I am essentially sitting on a very fast chair. My vision shakes, the road in front of me glows, and the world comes alive in vibrations otherwise too fickle to bother grasping with my attentions.

There is a rich, dangerous, and almost mystical rhythm in the disciplines of beer and motorcycles, two of the greatest pleasures available to nearly anyone who seeks them out. And, like any great art, the deeper the questions, the more sincere the search, the fuller the revelations gathered from each. Both, motorcycles and that amazing fermented mystery, beer, are almost elemental in their components – water, yeast, grain and hops, fire and metal – there is a sacred simplicity intrinsic in both. Indulging in these pleasures can bring the purveyor back into a clearer sensitivity to the textures of a more simple approach to life. I, for one, am proud to be a devotee in the only church with walls thin enough to insure that the service is always held Outside.

“Some people paint, some sing, others write … I brew.” -Daniel Carey, Brewmaster, New Glarus Brewery, Wisconsin

I was planning on hitting the AHA Teach Your Friend to Homebrew event at Brew & Grow tomorrow, I figure it’d be a good way to find those bits of information that only experience can offer a person and to meet some other budding alcoholics. But when I found out that the weather tomorrow is supposed to be sunny and in the mid-60′s I had to change my plans and fast.

So now, instead of learning about the craft of homebrewing, the esteemed Willard Skynard Devotionliner and I will be saddling up our gas belching toads and riding them to the New Glarus hilltop brewery. I’ve heard good things about the new facility and I’m anxious to try the much promoted framboise those sick wiscos brew up there.

However, my dirty little secret is that I have never been terribly crazy about New Glarus. I find it totally drinkable and will typically always enjoy it while in Wisconsin, but I have yet to have a beer of theirs that really knocks my knickers up. Although I did really find myself enjoying the Totally Naked brew last weekend at the Up North in Madison, it’s confident maltiness deliciously cut the fall evening air. With that said, I’ve not had much from their portfolio beside the Cow, the Flying Squirrel and the Totally Naked so I’m fully prepared to be blown away.

Here is the tentative route we’re taking across Wisconsin’s beautiful alphabet roads to our temporary beer nirvana:

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I’ve really been enjoying the fall weather these past couple of weeks. The gray rain of early October has given way to crisp afternoons glowing their way into the winter death. And what more can a fat, old man ask for, other than a proper parade into eternal night? Oh right, motorcycles and beer.

Matty’s post below reminded me of this, one of Thompson’s finest moments on paper, from Hell’s Angels:

With the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right . . . and that’s when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms. You can barely see at a hundred; the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it . . . howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica . . . letting off now watching for cops, but only until the next dark stretch and another few seconds on the edge . . . The Edge . . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over. The others—the living—are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and Later.

It’s strange these days, friends, as I see almost everyone I know doing “whatever they had to when it came to choose between Now and Later.”

I think we can still get a leeeetle bit closer, though, don’t you?

I was searching the internets, digging around for great beer themed vacations when I hit beertravelers.com and stumbled on a tradition from the small South Dakota town I grew up in, Brookings.

Brookings was generally not a very exciting place, just a regular little prairie town filled with good hearted honest folks of a mild temperament.  However, once a year in late June or early July Jim’s Tap, the best bar in town, hosts a Harley Ride Through Night when a bunch of bikers come to town and ride their bikes from the back beer garden through the bar and out onto main street.  I think it began as a stopping off point for folks on their way to Sturgis but the dates seem a bit early in the season for that these days.

Now, it’s been a good fifteen years since I’ve seen the spectacle and, as I remember, it seemed to get less and less renegade with each passing year but the earliest memories are pretty strong.
Long lines of gleaming bikes up and down both sides of main street, turning the sleepy little drag into a river of steel. Scantily clad women with a wild streak, strung out on the back of choppers lifting their shirts up above the bald heads of barrel chested ex cons as they boomed down the boulevard.  Jeez, I should get a job writing songs for The Boss:

Just watched some videos on youtube of the ride through and its definitely lost the hard, sometimes frightening edge, but why shouldn’t it, the edge is a harder and harder thing to find in this world.

All the same, I’m sticking to my memories and am inclined to believe that they are mostly true. Considering this tradition was started in 1971, I think it’s fair to say that the early population of enthusiasts included some folks who chose the road less traveled.
For what it’s worth Jim’s Tap is also a damn fine bar for a South Dakota town. Ever since I was wee one they’ve offered what they call “around the world” where in a brave soul pays something like $20, probably a bit more now, and gets 12 different brews from different parts of the world.  If you finish it before getting kicked out you get a t-shirt to boot.  I remember it being a popular past time of the ball players when I was a bat boy.  Anyrate, enough of the maudlin reminiscence, if your ever in Brookings get drunk at Jim’s. Tell ‘em I sent ya, I’d be curious to know if anyone in the place would know who the hell I was.

“I will always be proud of what we have accomplished. It is a testimony to what a small group of passionate and inspired people can do, and with brilliant innovations, we’ve produced some of the best-handling bikes of all time,” said Buell Chairman and Chief Technical Officer Erik Buell. “I personally look forward to exploring how I can continue to work with Harley-Davidson to bring advanced product technology to riders.

Read about it here.