Golden Girls Shine at Sochi Olympics 2014

With all due respect to Team Canada’s magnificent gold medal victory yesterday morning in men’s hockey, this Olympics belongs to the ladies.

From the dominance of Jennifer Jones and the power of Kaillie Humphreys and Heather Moyse to the style of the Dufour-Lapointe sisters and the incredible come-from-behind, edge-of-your-seat performance of the women’s hockey team, Sochi has been all about the women.

I was up at seven for the men’s game – acknowledged as the main event at the Games for us Canadians – and I was as thrilled as anyone with the 3-0 win. (I was also thrilled that the bars were open at six in the morning for the game – only in Canada, eh? – though there was no alcohol service in Oshawa, unlike a few other communities. But I digress.)

The game two days before, however, with Wickenheiser, Ouellette, Hefford (each a four-time gold medalist) and company, was the game of the Olympics. That was one for the ages.

In honour of the occasion, I even put my Brutal IPA I had found the day before on ice, as it didn’t seem right to quaff American beer (Rogue Ales, Newport, Oregon) until victory was assured. Fortunately I had some Smashbomb Atomic IPA (Flying Monkeys, Barrie, ON) on hand, so all was good. I’d say Don Cherry would have been proud, except he drinks Bud. But I digress again.

I didn’t think I’d get to the Brutal when we were down two with less than four minutes to go, but the ladies snatched victory from the very jaws of defeat to score twice to tie it in spectacular fashion, before winning it in overtime.

And then the social media universe just exploded.

It was one of the most exciting hockey games I have ever watched, period.

I should point out that the tying goal (55 second left) and the OT winner were both scored by Marie-Phillip Poulin, who also happened to score both goals in Canada’s 2-0 win over the Americans in the gold medal game in Vancouver. She is money, to say the least, and she is also, say most observers, the best female hockey player in the world.

I should also note that Canada’s comeback was almost made moot when an empty net clearing attempt by Kelli Stack of Team USA hit the post, sparking this hilarious internet meme: “Never before has two inches made 22 women this happy.”

Honestly, when it was 2-0 USA late, I was just hoping for a goal to make it interesting. But our women hockey players, like all our women athletes in Sochi, gave us a slap upside the head to remind us that it ain’t over ‘till the fit lady sings.

And she was singin’ a golden song all Olympics.

The Dufour-Lapointe sisters – all three of them – kicked off the run for Canada, with Justine taking gold and older sister Chloe earning silver in moguls. Maxime also made the final, finishing 12^th.

The lovely Dufour-Lapointe sisters

Dara Howell was next up for the ladies and she invoked the spirit of the late Sarah Burke to take the gold in Women’s Slopestyle, with Kim Lamarre earning bronze.

Next to top the podium was the dynamic duo of Kaillie Humphreys and the incomparable Heather Moyse, who came from behind to win gold for the second Olympics in a row. (Moyse, who sets start records nearly every competition she enters, may be the best all-round athlete the world has ever seen. Hyperbole? Maybe, but check her Wikipedia entry. I ain’t kidding.)

Then we witnessed the shot-making of Jones and her Manitoba rink, which rolled through the competition unbeaten – unprecedented - before crushing Great Britain in the final.

We also enjoyed a 1-2 Canadian finish in Ski Cross, with Marielle Thompson and veteran Kelsey Serwa providing the excitement.

That brings us to the Women’s hockey game, and Moyse and Humphreys – later chosen as Canada’s flag-bearers for the closing ceremonies – offered up some inspiration prior to the game in a note addressed to the team:

“There are ups and downs in every race/game but we are proof that if you keep believing in the possibilities, results can be golden! Own it! The ice is yours! Fight to the bitter end!”

Smiles, Heather and Kaillie

And after taking the bobsleigh queen’s advice to heart, the hockey girls penned their own note to the male counterparts, prior to the semi-final game between Canada and the USA, won by the red-and-white 1-0:

“Guys: Tonight is yours. Own the moment. We are proof that every minute matters. The podium is reserved for the brave. Earn every inch, dictate the pace. Go get ‘em!”

From The Girls J

That’s an IPA moment, if ever I heard one.

To be fair, the men offered up some great excitement in Sochi as well. Charles Hamelin struck gold in the 1,500 in speedskating and the great Alex Bilodeau repeated as gold medalist in men’s moguls, with teammate Mikael Kingsbury following right behind him in second. And we can’t forget Brad Jacobs’ rink from Sault Ste. Marie in curling, nor will we forget our aforementioned men’s hockey gold.

But our women ruled here in Russia.

Thanks girls. For all the golden moments.

Sarah Burke

*

Sarah Burke, a legend as well as a pioneer in freestyle skiing, was on the hearts and minds of Canada’s entire freestyle team in Sochi.

Burke, a multiple X Games champion who died in a training accident two years ago, had lobbied successfully to get slopestyle and halfpipe included in the Sochi Olympics. Howell, Lamarre, Serwa, Roz Groenewoud (who finished seventh in the ladies’ halfpipe event) and Mike Riddle (who earned a silver medal in the men’s event) all spoke emotionally about the impact Burke had on their lives and on the competition itself.

After the half pipe events ended Burke’s ashes were spread on the course.

The next night, Lamarre and her teammates went out to celebrate. “Sarah's drink of choice was vodka and we’re in Russia,” she said, smiling. “We had a shot for her.”

Beer Works (for me)

In this winter from frozen hell we all need something to keep us going.

Beer works.

That’s what I kept thinking about Tuesday when our crew was fighting the latest blast of weather dished out by Mother Nature. We shoveled and salted, and then went back and shoveled and salted some more.

For an even dozen hours in fact, and I can tell you from much experience that 12 hours of that kind of work is grueling and physically demanding.

Especially for an old guy like me.

And in the last three or four hours all I could think about was getting Smashbombed.

We all have our carrots, our incentives, our pots-of-gold, to drive us to reach the finish line when our bodies and minds are telling us to quit. For some of us, it’s the simple task of taking off our boots at the end of the day, or the knowledge there is a child’s smile waiting when we return home.

Beer works, too.

The only time I lost my focus was when the J Man’s mom called me about seven hours in and reminded me I had promised to take Jake to the dentist, with the appointment scheduled for a couple of hours away.

Shit.

I had to tell her I wouldn’t be able to make it, which would have started a frustrating argument that would go nowhere back in the (married) day. On this day, however, I simply said that she would either have to take him herself or re-schedule. She said okay, and opted to re-schedule.

Two hours after that call I had to tell her the snow wasn’t going to release me in time to get Jake from school, either.  No problem, said Christian-Ann. In fact, she added to my utter delight, I should not worry about the J Man tonight.

“You get some rest,” is what she said.

That works for me. That works amazingly well. Thanks, Christian!

With that minor crisis out of the way, I could concentrate on clearing the last of the back doors, laneways and forgotten sidewalks, all the while thinking of getting Smashbombed on the glorious IPAs waiting for me at the end of the ordeal.

And then, half a day after it started, it was over and I was on my way home. After a stop at the LCBO, that is.

I got my Smashbombs, as well as a big bottle of Ten Bitter Years double IPA and some Lone Pine IPA, just to be sure.

And there I was, showered and de-salted and cozy in my apartment, finally hoisting a cold one and thinking that all that suffering was worth it.

Pretty skewed way of thinking, I know.

But it works for me.

***

So I’m hearing about these beer glasses that are designed for IPAs, with my pal Steve raving about them after he found them in New Zealand and the lovely Cat doing the Google search and locating them at The Bay stores over here.

The IPA glass, which is similar to the tulip glass but with a longer, ridged, stem, is designed to preserve a frothy head while offering a comfortably wide opening for the drinker to ‘nose’ the beer.

So says the ad copy on the company web site, anyway.

I’m explaining this to the clerk at The Bay store in the Oshawa Centre, though not very well, as she nods in agreement while declaring that “it’s good that it gets rid of all that foam.”

“No,” I respond. “The glass allows the beer to re-foam each time you drink, because you WANT a little head. A little head is good, isn’t it?”

I swear to God it was unintentional, but that was a classic ‘that’s what she said’ if I ever heard it. And her reaction was … nothing.

She didn’t get it, and I don’t know if that’s a reflection of her, or of me. But it turned a potentially funny moment into an awkward one because I wasn’t going to explain it any further.

So I took my glasses home and quickly put them to use, just to see if they worked.

Yes, indeed. That was good head. But that’s what SHE should have said.

Bewitched by Witchshark

I drank deeply of her beauty before I brought her to my lips. She was so enchanting I thought it must be sorcery, until I realized that at nine per cent ABV, she had a bite that I had to respect.

I was in love with a beer, as well as with a brewery. 

But even more with friends, both old and new.

The occasion was a visit to the Bellwoods Brewery on Ossington Avenue in Toronto, home of Witchshark double IPA, a brew that has already soared to the top of my must-have list. The friends were my college buddy Don, he of the Brew Ha Ha blog and his new found expertise in all things beery, and my new friend, the lovely Cat.

We had been talking for a while about doing a brewery tour – especially after I had missed Cat and Don’s Most Excellent Amsterdam Adventure – and we settled on Bellwoods, largely on the strength of three IPAs on the menu. Three? Damn, I was excited at the prospect and besides, it was my idea.

So on Saturday I headed to the Big Smoke and after almost pulling a Don (I missed my exit, as opposed to getting lost entirely) I made it the brewery and found a place to park on the permanently snow-bound side streets. (How can they plow it if the cars never leave?)

The meet-n-greet was outside, as we all arrived at about the same time, and other than a minor faux pas of extending a hand to Cat (her choice – the better one – was a warm embrace), was uneventful.

But inside, I saw what the fuss was about. Cozy (a lineup started soon after our arrival near the opening bell of 2) with a great country kitchen vibe (as long as your country kitchen contained massive beer-making machinery), the bar was dominated by a huge board with dozens of offerings from the brewery, as well as some ‘guest’ taps.

There were plenty of IPAs, so I was ready.

“One Roman Candle, please,” said I, all agog with excitement. “I’m sorry,” said our server. “We’re all out. We blew the keg.”

Don and Cat had some fun with the sexual innuendos that were ripe for the picking, but I was devastated. No Roman Candle?

“But we have it at the bottle shop,” continued our server, witness to the look on my face. “So no worries.”

All righty then.

I had the Catherine Wheel first, a Belgian IPA that was a must-drink for Cat for almost obvious reasons (and a must-drink for Don and I if we knew what was good for us) and I was suitably impressed. I wasn’t bowled over, but bonus points to Bellwoods for making a very strong beer (7.3 per cent ABV) taste like a session brew.

Next up was Wizard Wolf, a true session pale ale at 4.8 per cent. Not bad. Not bad at all.

After sampling the guest tap IPA (Half Nelson, from Great Lakes: excellent!), the Witchshark appeared, and I was in love.

Deep copper colour, great head (hey! I passed on the last innuendo opportunity) and absolutely huge hops. Citrusy (Grapefruit? Don’t take my word for it – I’m a rookie at this) and overall, just an awesome beer. It jumped right to the top of my list with Rogue Brutal and Smashbomb and is my undisputed number one double IPA.

We had a great afternoon trading stories but all good things must eventually come to an end – we all had to drive and I had to work. Actually, I was more than two hours late for my shift when I left but I have an … understanding boss, so it was all good.

We hit the bottle shop before we left and I finally got my hands on the Roman Candle, as well as a couple of bottles of the Witchshark.

Cat and Don, spoiled as they are, got to bring their bottle shop buys home and start (re-start?) drinking. But as I had to work, my drinking would have to wait.

So there I was, three hours and a bit after I left Bellwoods, finally at home with a Roman Candle poured in front of me. And I took a few sips (“s’right, nothing special”) and promptly fell asleep.

I can make excuses – up since 4 am, aching back, blah blah – but still: I left a quality beer on the table. I am so sorry, Bellwoods.

Two hours later I awoke, but I’m not fit for drinking, and my bedtime comes early. So I put my Roman Candle – already poured in a glass – in the fridge.

Now I didn’t let that beer go to waste the next day – for shame if you thought that for a second – but the true test was delayed until the next evening. Cold and poured in my bestest glass, I finally got to sampling Roman Candle at its best.

S’right. Nothing special.

I still had two bottles of the Witchshark left, however, which I savoured over two days and each bottle was better than the last.

True love, mate. With a great beer, a great brewery and great friends, old and new.

I'm Hooked on the Hops

Smashbomb. Boneshaker. Brutal. Mad Tom. Twice as Mad Tom. Ten Bitter Years.

If the names were meant to intimidate they failed miserably. Instead, they intrigued me and made me thirst for more.

Even the warnings from an old friend didn’t faze me. “I think you should start slow,” said Don, who I hold responsible for my current predicament. “Baby steps, man – all those hops will be too much for you!”

Too late now, Don. I’m hooked on the hops and now I have to admit it: I am a craft beer addict.

Two months or so ago I was happy to buy a few Bravas now and then and occasionally splurge on a little Gibson’s Finest. Brava hasn’t darkened my fridge door since then and I still have half a bottle of rye from Christmas. Craft beer, meanwhile, has crowded my fridge to the point that I have to do some renovations.

(I don’t really need mustard, ketchup or pickles, do I?)

It’s not as if I have embraced all craft beers. I’ve tried a few porters and stouts, a bunch of pleasant pale ales and even an excellent wheat beer or two.

My passion, however, is reserved for IPAs.

Chinook hops

IPAs, or India Pale Ales, are the extra strong (usually six to seven per cent alcohol), extra-hoppy ales first brewed by the English in the 1800s to ensure that beer shipped to the troops in India would arrive fresh and the troops, overdressed for the tropical heat in typical British fashion, would stay too drunk to revolt.

The Americans (and later we Canadians, Australians, New Zealanders and a few other nations) then took that recipe to another level in the early 1900s and now produce most of the world’s best IPAs, with the epicenter of the craft beer explosion on the west coast, from San Diego to Vancouver.

And I want to try them all.

I now spend more time on the LCBO website, searching for hard-to-find IPAs in local liquor stores, than I ever spent on … those other web sites I used to frequent. I’ve driven to every store in Durham Region on the hunt for the latest prize, and cried like a baby when the beer was not to be found, despite the all-mighty internet telling me it would be.

I dream about IPAs. I plan my day around how I get IPAs. The first thing I do some mornings – before I go on Facebook to see if my fellow beer geeks have anything important to say – is jump on the LCBO site to source out where I’m going after work.

Smashbomb. My first love

Then I spend my day hoping I can work until at least 10 so I don’t have to wait to buy my treasure.

I once drove to Brooklin to find West Coast IPA, a San Diego ale that was pumped up as the bomb in Don’s beer blog, and turned around and travelled east to Bowmanville when it was a no-show. Struck out there, too.

The next day I hit up the Whitby LCBO on the way home from work, only to be defeated once again. So I ordered the damn thing and a week later I was seeing for myself if all that driving was worth it.

It was. Third best beer EVER.

The real scary thing about this addiction is my reliance on Don for advice. He’s been like my mentor on my transformation and I can tell you that Don and mentor are rarely seen together in the same sentence.

This excerpt from one of his Brew Ha Ha blogs, in which he tries to offer praise for a not-quite-up-to-snuff ale, probably best describes his philosophy on beer and beer drinking:

“It’s a decent little beer, not an IPA but still good enough to get the job done. But I would also wanna know what the guy on the floor had been drinking so I could try that, too.”

Yah. My mentor.

To be fair, there are other people who have helped take me down this dark (well, a deep copper colour, usually) path. There’s Steve, another college chum from J-School, who now calls New Zealand home. Steve, who is also a certified wino, is forever raving about the craft beer scene Down Under and is forever boring us with tales of perfect weather, perfect pubs and perfectly free accommodation (at his pad, natch) in New Zealand’s capital.

He also writes about beer, wine and that dreary stuff about how awesome his adopted home of Wellington is in his blog, Five Foot 19.

mmmmmm...Brutal IPA

There’s also the lovely Cat, who I will meet for the first time Saturday when we invade the Bellwoods Brewpub in Toronto to sample their awesome ales. She also writes a blog or two, called The Cat Came Back.

Cat is always to quick to offer sage advice – “why don’t you call first instead of wasting all that gas?” – was her wisdom after I posted about my hunt for West Coast IPA. She was also quick to offer kind words after I gushed about a Smashbomb Atomic IPA (my second favourite beer EVER) I was enjoying in the early morning. “You dear, sweet man. Most of us start with coffee.”

(In my defense, I had been working all night, so it was a before-bed nightcap, not breakfast. But if it gets me a “dear, sweet man” comment from a woman I had yet to meet, we can call it breakfast.)

You see? Craft beer is already improving my sex appeal.

It’s also giving me hope for the future: I’m already making plans to visit a California brewery next February for the annual unveiling of a Triple-IPA – that’s right, I said triple – that has enthusiasts lining up for up to eight hours just for a taste of what many call the best beer in the world.

Don’s in – “buh-RING it!” was his response, and Cat has purred her approval as well: “Oh yes …hello California!” If we can talk Steve into taking a slow boat across the Pacific, we got us a party.

I know, right? I got it bad.

My fridge now contains a few Smashbombs, a couple of West Coast IPAs, a half-dozen Hop Circle IPAs,  a bottle of Brutal IPA – best beer EVER – and two double IPAs I’m itching to try.

That should do until the weekend visit to Bellwoods (home of Witchshark, a double IPA that scored 99 on the Rate Beer scale) when the quest for the perfect IPA resumes.

Now there may be friends who question my new love affair with beer, but I’m still maintaining my most excellent parenting standards – the J Man doesn’t appear to suspect a thing – and besides, passion is passion and I’m glad I found one.

Besides, it has got me writing again, and that’s a great thing. This blog is my first since Shwa Stories went on hiatus in September.

I’ll drink to that.