So it's been just over a month now since I moved from Charlotte to Columbia and traded auto racing for college sports, and the transition has been all-consuming in more ways than one. Coming from a season that stretches over 10 months, I had forgotten how fleeting the college football schedule seems when you're in the middle of it. I'm already a full third of the way through my first regular season back covering South Carolina, and it feels like it just started. I'll be at the Buffalo Wild Wings Bowl (or some such event) before I know it.
But the transition has encompassed much more than just what I cover. I'm in a pretty good place now -- Columbia already feels more like home than Charlotte ever did, and the job is a rush because I'm writing so much more than before. But that first night I moved in, as the music boomed through the floor from the kids downstairs, and I realized I had traded my sweet apartment in Charlotte for the only rental in my price range I could find available -- let's just say I was wondering what the hell had happened, and raiding the boxes to find where I had packed the alcohol.
More on that later. But first: Columbia. Before I moved here, everything I read was about the heat and the crime and kids getting mugged over in Five Points. Desperate to find anything to rent on short notice, I ended up in an older apartment just north of downtown, with no shortage of sketchy types hanging out at street corners. And the heat was as advertised. People in Charlotte may not understand how it can be that much hotter here, but it is. All that hot air just sits in this Congaree valley and gets stagnant, and walking outside those first few weeks was like heading into a blowtorch. There are no breezes from the mountain or the sea to provide relief. There's a reason the city's slogan is "Famously Hot."
So yeah, I braced for a real decrease in quality of life -- understandable coming from pretty, safe, walkable, cooler-in-the-evenings Charlotte, where I could run just about anywhere downtown at night without ever worrying about being accosted. And then I moved here, and I found a city that's artsy and quirky and feels more lived-in than Charlotte ever did. I found a revitalized Main Street with bars that aren't overrun by students, I found a full-sized grocery store and 24-hour drug store (two things Uptown Charlotte does not have) close to where I live, I found pretty tree-lined downtown neighborhoods and displays of public art out of nowhere. For those in the Queen City: Columbia feels a lot like a combination of Fourth Ward and Plaza Midwood, which isn't a bad thing at all. There's a great riverwalk, and craft breweries are even popping up thanks to a recent law change. No complaints there.
I could live here long-term, which is something I never really considered in Charlotte. I'm already perusing real estate listings, trying to get a feel for the market for when my lease ends -- or sooner. Because I definitely cannot stay where I am now.
When I planned my move in late August, I assumed finding a house to rent in a decent area of Columbia wouldn't be a problem. I wanted to stay close to downtown yet not be surrounded by college students, which limited my selection, but still -- how hard could it be? Then I saw just how little was actually available, and came to a terrible realization -- I was looking for a place to rent at the same time as 30,000 students. Oh, those damn students. I made arrangements to look at seven places, and on the drive from Charlotte to Columbia that morning, received calls or text messages that six of them were gone. The lone place still available was in a small complex of what had formerly been low-income apartments, all since redone with new flooring and appliances. It looked good enough. It was a short drive to the stadium. I was getting desperate. I signed on the spot.
And then I moved in. Moving day was a chore, with a backup in the loading dock of my old building, a wreck on I-77, and other delays which pushed me much later in the day than anticipated. I rolled in and found a group of 20-somethings not too long (or so I thought) out of USC, sitting on their stoops and drinking beer. Everyone introduced themselves, everyone was friendly. I got offered a beer. I met more neighbors in five minutes than I did in three years in my old place. All right, I thought, I can deal with this. They're kids, but they seem cool enough. So I drove back to Charlotte to return the truck, picked up my car, rolled back until Columbia at around 1:30 a.m., and crawled into bed exhausted in my new home.
Which is when the music started. It was so loud it may have registered on Richter scales, and it went on and on until -- I lost track at around 5 a.m. At times, the floor actually vibrated. The walls proved so thin I could hear full conversations in alarming clarity. The stairwell outside my apartment suddenly became Studio 54, with dozens of alcohol-fueled voices carrying on deep into the morning. Oh, Jesus -- students. They were all still students! I was directly amid what I had so hoped to avoid. I was in the belly of the beast. I threw down a shot of Maker's Mark, downloaded a white noise app, strapped on headphones, and looked at the ceiling terrified that this would be every night of my life for the next year.
Thankfully, it hasn't been quite that bad since. But it's very clear that my little complex is not exactly awash in professional 40-somethings who understand the need for sleep. Nearly every night there's a cluster of these kids, sitting in the stairwell or on the curb just below my window, smoking cigarettes and just doing what kids do. For the most part, they seem OK, they really do. They smile and say hello, so I'm not going to play the heavy and rat them out to management or anything. I have kind of a nuclear option in a guitar amp with a volume knob I've never been comfortable turning above 2 -- it goes to 10 -- so worst-case scenario, I point that sucker at the floor, jack it up, and hammer Black Keys until the kids downstairs get the message. But who knows, they might think that's rad or gnarly and become further emboldened.
So, I'll manage. I'll just continue to get lost in my work, and be thankful for road games, and deal with the almost-constant noise until football season ends, when I'll start to look for something else. I didn't even unpack half my boxes, shoving them into a guest bathroom that I immediately turned into a storage closet, because they'll be on the move again soon enough. In the meantime, I'll turn up the white noise app on my phone, and maybe consult with the Head Ball Coach. After all, he seems to know a thing or two about getting kids in line.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Shifting gears
Hi there. Been a while.
It's been four years since I last posted anything here, and over that span a lot of things changed. I moved from Charleston to Charlotte. I became single (again). I learned how to play guitar (likely a direct result of becoming single again). I annoyed many of my neighbors (likely a direct result of taking up guitar). I adopted four Siamese cats, and named them John, Paul, George and Ringo. And, I took a new job.
Well, another big change is on the horizon -- as of this afternoon, I'm no longer a motorsports writer.
Wow, that sounds weird. I've worked exclusively in motorsports since 2007, and for seven years before that racing easily comprised the bulk of what I covered. My first Daytona 500 was in 2000 -- how can I forget, I wandered around the vast infield lost for over an hour, wearily searching for this vague facility called a media center -- and I haven't missed one since. For over a decade, my life has been as closely tied to the motorsports calendar as that of any driver or crew chief.
So yes, to put it mildly, from a personal standpoint this is a notable transition. But companies make changes, and sometimes you're not a part of them, so you move on to the next deal. And my next deal will be two things that have always been near and dear to my heart -- the newspaper business, and Southeastern Conference football.
Indeed, dear readers, this Twitter feed is in for an abrupt left turn. Starting next week I begin covering South Carolina -- that's right, the Gamecocks and the Head Ball Coach -- for The Post and Courier, my hometown paper in Charleston, S.C. It's the paper I grew up reading, which my parents still get in their driveway every morning, where I worked every summer going to college and where back in the day I started out as a novice racing writer who knew zero about motorsports. I have a lot of dear friends there, and the SEC is the big dog in college athletics. Yes, I'll be trading the cosmopolitan sheen (if that's what it is) of Charlotte for the crunchy heat of Columbia, S.C. But in terms of a soft landing from an unexpected tumble, this is about as good as it gets.
I suspect right about now is when many of you are clicking the "unfollow" button, and that's just fine. But I'm still going to have fun with this, still try out lame comedic bits and nuggets about TV and music and those damned-near-sinking Atlanta Braves. I'm going to try and write more in this space about things far removed from the Gamecocks. And I'm still going to follow, and occasionally comment upon, racing. And why not? It's been a part of me for a very long time, and it gave me three of the best friends and many of the best experiences I will ever have in my life. I got to follow Jeff Gordon and Kyle Busch around New York, got to follow Kurt Busch around Washington, got to follow Brad Keselowski around Los Angeles, got to watch as people mobbed Richard Petty in Manhattan. It's been a wonderful ride, and I'm not going to let go of it completely.
So, that's the deal. I will absolutely miss so many of the wonderful people in the racing industry, most of whom I've tried to reach out to personally (if I missed you, apologies). I'll miss a lot about Charlotte -- the Whitewater Center, the Sugar Creek Greenway, the Auto Bell (as car washes go, that place rocks), the Starbucks in the convention center (my man David had my order ready as soon as he saw me), and the Original Pancake House in midtown, where they didn't even need to hand me a menu. I hate that I won't get to see Daytona Rising in its completion, or Jimmie Johnson perhaps win a seventh championship, or however this crazy new Chase plays out. But the last race I covered was Indianapolis, and watching Gordon win his record fifth Brickyard is a pretty damn fine way to go out.
The trade off? Being at South Carolina vs. Texas A&M on Aug. 28, in what will certainly be a frenzied Williams-Brice Stadium. Revisiting places like Auburn and Nashville and Lexington. Road trips that are three days instead of five. The unparalleled rush of college football game day. Hearing football pads crack. Returning to the world of ink and column inches, and a finished product with your byline on it that you can actually hold in your hands. That's not moving into a new job -- that's going back home.
It's been four years since I last posted anything here, and over that span a lot of things changed. I moved from Charleston to Charlotte. I became single (again). I learned how to play guitar (likely a direct result of becoming single again). I annoyed many of my neighbors (likely a direct result of taking up guitar). I adopted four Siamese cats, and named them John, Paul, George and Ringo. And, I took a new job.
Well, another big change is on the horizon -- as of this afternoon, I'm no longer a motorsports writer.
Wow, that sounds weird. I've worked exclusively in motorsports since 2007, and for seven years before that racing easily comprised the bulk of what I covered. My first Daytona 500 was in 2000 -- how can I forget, I wandered around the vast infield lost for over an hour, wearily searching for this vague facility called a media center -- and I haven't missed one since. For over a decade, my life has been as closely tied to the motorsports calendar as that of any driver or crew chief.
So yes, to put it mildly, from a personal standpoint this is a notable transition. But companies make changes, and sometimes you're not a part of them, so you move on to the next deal. And my next deal will be two things that have always been near and dear to my heart -- the newspaper business, and Southeastern Conference football.
Indeed, dear readers, this Twitter feed is in for an abrupt left turn. Starting next week I begin covering South Carolina -- that's right, the Gamecocks and the Head Ball Coach -- for The Post and Courier, my hometown paper in Charleston, S.C. It's the paper I grew up reading, which my parents still get in their driveway every morning, where I worked every summer going to college and where back in the day I started out as a novice racing writer who knew zero about motorsports. I have a lot of dear friends there, and the SEC is the big dog in college athletics. Yes, I'll be trading the cosmopolitan sheen (if that's what it is) of Charlotte for the crunchy heat of Columbia, S.C. But in terms of a soft landing from an unexpected tumble, this is about as good as it gets.
I suspect right about now is when many of you are clicking the "unfollow" button, and that's just fine. But I'm still going to have fun with this, still try out lame comedic bits and nuggets about TV and music and those damned-near-sinking Atlanta Braves. I'm going to try and write more in this space about things far removed from the Gamecocks. And I'm still going to follow, and occasionally comment upon, racing. And why not? It's been a part of me for a very long time, and it gave me three of the best friends and many of the best experiences I will ever have in my life. I got to follow Jeff Gordon and Kyle Busch around New York, got to follow Kurt Busch around Washington, got to follow Brad Keselowski around Los Angeles, got to watch as people mobbed Richard Petty in Manhattan. It's been a wonderful ride, and I'm not going to let go of it completely.
So, that's the deal. I will absolutely miss so many of the wonderful people in the racing industry, most of whom I've tried to reach out to personally (if I missed you, apologies). I'll miss a lot about Charlotte -- the Whitewater Center, the Sugar Creek Greenway, the Auto Bell (as car washes go, that place rocks), the Starbucks in the convention center (my man David had my order ready as soon as he saw me), and the Original Pancake House in midtown, where they didn't even need to hand me a menu. I hate that I won't get to see Daytona Rising in its completion, or Jimmie Johnson perhaps win a seventh championship, or however this crazy new Chase plays out. But the last race I covered was Indianapolis, and watching Gordon win his record fifth Brickyard is a pretty damn fine way to go out.
The trade off? Being at South Carolina vs. Texas A&M on Aug. 28, in what will certainly be a frenzied Williams-Brice Stadium. Revisiting places like Auburn and Nashville and Lexington. Road trips that are three days instead of five. The unparalleled rush of college football game day. Hearing football pads crack. Returning to the world of ink and column inches, and a finished product with your byline on it that you can actually hold in your hands. That's not moving into a new job -- that's going back home.
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