Polishing a Turd: Adventures in Basement Renovation

My upstairs roommate moved out in April and the pleasure of not sharing our living space made us hyper aware of the empty rooms beneath our feet, 1200 square feet of potential income separate from my pleasant upstairs existence. That’s why we started working on the basement only a couple months after finishing the upstairs. The five-year plan turned into five months.

We laid out lines of gold spray paint on the floor to evoke walls, but I couldn’t see the shape of the final product through the detritus and weird layout. I could see, however, the potential for an airy open space, with big windows that let in a surprising amount of sunlight.

The upstairs renovation made us cocky and overconfident. A couple grand, a couple weekends of twelve-hour days should be sufficient.

Cy is really good at demolition and making piles and being ruthless, so that happened quickly—sketchy walls knocked down, fetid carpet torn up, rotting drywall hauled out.

The ancient oil furnace promptly broke, of course, in the first few days of basement tinkering. It had to be replaced before we started any meaningful construction, so there went another couple grand. Electric will be way cheaper than oil, and it’s hydroelectric here, so I guess sacrificing the health of waterways is better than burning dead dinosaurs.

The job grew in complexity. Cy laid out a day-by-day plan but each task on the list took double or triple the estimated time. Carve up a cast iron tub and an absurd old wood-fired range, carry the heavy pieces out, fix all the questionable wiring the previous owner had recklessly slapped together, and then framing, and then drywalling (oh god, drywalling) and taping and mudding and texturing, activities that no sane person with a disposable income would ever take on herself rather than hiring a drywaller, but the only thing we had was time and four hands. 

So there I was, trying to help lift grotesquely heavy, brittle sheetrock over my head, or freehand cut it into appropriately sized squares to patch holes, and Cy was carrying 80 sheets one by one down the narrow stairs.

Then we were zealously mudding the ugly holes left between untidy sheets. It wasn’t pretty, none of it, but the thing about sad drywall is that once a space is painted and filled with furniture and the walls have art on them and the deep windowsills are lush with potted succulents, it doesn’t really matter. It’s insulated and fire resistant and clean.

Then Cy went to work tiling the bathroom and installing ingenious metal siding in the shower. Metal was way cheaper than plastic shower lining; frugality was the top priority in this endeavor. We recycled drywall (terrible idea), bits of lumber, leftover particleboard, faux wood paneling, paint—it was amazing.

My boss, a notorious procrastinator, was renovating her kitchen and promised me for two months that I could have her old kitchen cabinets, but with a June 1 deadline bearing down on us and no sign that she was anywhere near coming through for me, we decided to build our own out of a thrift store desk and upper cabinets and more bits of old wood. We poured another batch of concrete countertops (much smoother this time around) and Cy wrestled with the plumbing (always the plumbing).

I hope it’s obvious from the staggering laundry list of renovations that Cy did everything and had all the skills. I was there merely as a willing accomplice and a cleaner. So much cleaning, sawdust and metal dust and drywall dust and concrete dust. I lived in dust.

After the final clean we painted the floors, leftover beige in the bedrooms and a rich gray-teal in the common areas. Suddenly it looked habitable, and then Cy trimmed it out with cedar fencing (cheap) and it smelled like California after a rainstorm.

We finished on a Wednesday morning and my friend (and tenant, whoa) Carolyn was moving belongings in by the evening. The basement is a quirky space without enough storage and the light switches are in weird places and there wasn’t enough dedicated electricity to install a full range and it’s really cold, but it’s also an enormous apartment with a ton of sunlight. And it’s mine.

Renovation Weather

I hadn’t looked for a house in a year and a half. Hunting came to a halt when Tyler and I found a great rental, a house I loved in a location I didn’t. And then we broke up and I lived in a series of cold cabins with dirty carpets. I hate cabins with carpets.

In November I went on a ride with my friend Lynne and afterwards she took me over to a house her neighbor was working on. Downtown, huge garage and accessory unit, beautiful woodwork, mature trees in the yard, sunlight. It was $300,000, but the owner could have asked more. Lynne said she wanted friends in her neighborhood. I talked to Debbie and as usual she shot it down, reminding me of how realistic numbers like that were. I acquiesced.

I did a casual browse of Zillow a couple days later and saw a disheveled little house in Driggs that was $100,000 less than the one I had looked at. The photos on the listing sucked: dingy carpet, trash and belongings left behind, and most of the images were of the basement construction zone. I sensed miles of potential. I showed Cy and my coworker Jill and they agreed.

It was such a gross house.

I called up one of the realtors posted on Zillow, although I later realized it wasn’t his listing. He told me I could look at it whenever. The three of us tramped around the house getting excited, imagining the passive income from a rental apartment in the basement.

For the first time, I showed Debbie a property and instead of saying hell no, she said…do it. So I did. I made an offer and was under contract within a week, terrified of what that entailed. Convincing the mortgage people that I deserved a fat loan took some doing and some parental assistance (a loan disguised as a gift), but my mortgage is now slightly less than rent was.

This winter has been pretty bullshit and it couldn’t have picked a better year to suck. Over the holidays I was happy devoting ten hours a day to my house instead of skiing and touring. I didn’t care that it rained, blustered, crusted up, and dumped snow then warmed to sludge, all while avalanche danger remained sky high. Throw in a medical emergency to keep things interesting and I had no desire to ski. I was busy pouring concrete countertops, prying up carpet tack strips (people who install carpets are monsters), putting in wood floors, painting every room, cleaning, always cleaning.

The big sunny living/dining space is my favorite part.

Cy was in charge and I just followed directions and we really figured out the meaning of sweat equity. It was amazing three weeks later to walk around the warm, sunny rooms and know I had just increased the house’s value by way more than I had put into renovations. All the credit goes to Cy for his incredible hard work, generosity, and complete investment in a property that isn’t his.

I haven't gotten enough exercise, I feel schlubby and lethargic, but I've realized that by buying a house I’m settling down for the long haul and maybe it’s okay that every season isn’t devoted to progression and the frantic hamster-wheeling of “getting after it.”

I’ve paid my first month of mortgage and my old rental got claimed so I’m finally off the hook for breaking my lease. And in the morning I walk to work and it takes eight minutes, too short even to listen to a podcast, just right for some quiet zoned-out thinking before I’m suddenly at the office. Huge quality of life boost.

Oh yeah, I have an enormous toy palace too.

Contentment

We saw our new landlords tailgating in the parking lot of Targhee on closing day. They shared some botanical Italian liqueur and introduced us to their friends who are now our neighbors. Later, on the way back to Jackson, they stopped by to pick up some mail. The dogs were playing ball in the front yard as we all watched with beers in hand. "I'm so glad the yard is getting used and you guys are hanging out outside," the husband said. We raised our beers appreciatively. 

The new house is great. 

I burrow down like a rodent in whatever house I inhabit because I'm such an incurable homebody. Our last place sucked but I wanted contentment so badly that I ignored it. Now that the nail-biting and money-hemorrhaging of moving has subsided, I can look around and take stock of my new nest and I am so, so happy. As are Alex and Erica and the dogs, and most of all Tyler. I guess I didn't realize the extent of his unhappiness with our old place.

The most important room 

Ample sunny outdoor hang-out spots, protective trees shielding us from the flat expanse of the valley, space for the dogs to run laps and chase balls, the tip of the Grand peeking over the foothills to our east, friendly neighbors, hardwood floors, a wood-fired stove, a colorful and well-equipped kitchen, big windows, a generous living space, a big master suite (which I authoritatively co-opted as the person who found and secured the house), a massive garage with tons of shelving and hooks and work space, a gear/guest room...this place has it all. Including the capacity to absorb all of our stuff and still not feel cluttered. Coming from a series of studio apartments, Tyler and I have very little crap, but Erica and Alex have amassed a completely absurd amount of hindrances, i.e. possessions. This is often to our benefit, since they brought with them big comfortable couches, specialized kitchen utensils, gardening accessories...stuff we've never dreamed of owning. 

Tons of inviting communal space

We get along really well and have managed so far to divide chores and finances fairly. Having roommates when I'm on the cusp of thirty isn't ideal but if it means living with our best friends in an incredible house, it's the best possible situation.
 

Views of the Grand from the backyard...when it's not getting weathered on

At last count we had eleven bikes in the garage but that doesn't seem like enough

Not shown: the huge prayer flag in the yard that "keeps the Mormons away" according to the landlord

The Sophalope and her live-in best friend, KaHa, aka Spotty Dog

Just a Day

The other day I posted a gravel ride on Strava and Jenna commented on it, "Mandating a blog post." I thought about replying that it wasn't a very exciting ride and that I didn't have much to say about it, but today reconsidered. I have nothing else to write about, so those of you who expect updates can see how mundane (but pleasant) life is these days.

It's been raining this week, so a combination of cabin fever and curiosity compels me to ask for the morning off. I usually have Wednesday afternoons free for activity but rain seems inevitable so I figure I'll explore a gravel grinder in the weather window. Will says yes to most of my requests now because this summer the heroic number of bars I make daily has been the only thing keeping the company from a serious shortage.

I want to ride to the wilderness boundary and back in the three major canyons on the eastern side of the valley, on dirt roads that cut almost to the heart of the Teton range. It will be at least a minor improvement on riding on the flat straight roads of the valley floor. I don't know how long it will be and don't pack food, but I do anticipate getting wet and cold so I wear a jacket and leg warmers. (In early August! What??)

I pedal the bike path to Driggs and start poking into each canyon in turn. They are very pretty, if understated, those dramatic chunks of rock in the range's interior obscured by the canyons' walls. Collars of mist ring the cliffs, the dust from the gravel roads is tamped down, and the greens of aspen and pine are enhanced by gray skies. Hikers in SUVs peer at me as they drive past, their destinations mellow footpaths through meadows. I hum to myself and say Ow when I go over sharp rocks and harsh washboard surfaces. On the road that straddles Idaho and Wyoming I remember there was a mean dog who chased me once. That time I was going the opposite way and had a downhill to save me, but this time I am climbing. Heart hammering, I prepare for him, bottle poised, eyes scanning. Here he comes, barking ferociously. NO BAD DOG, I yell and squirt him in the face with water. He stops abruptly and looks nonplussed. That was easy. I am only rained on once and it feels nice. It ends up being a fifty mile ride but not a very hard one, aside from the discomfort of the Deutschbike, which I stubbornly refuse to alter.

When I finish I am wet, achy, and hungry. I wolf down some pasta and cold coffee, fail to find any houses for rent on the Internet, and walk over to work. The advantage of evenings is that I get to listen to my own weird music, cranked loud. My coworker's Pandora station has, through six straight months of airtime, become completely unbearable.

The new part-time barmaker is still there. It's her fourth day and today for the first time she is slogging through a full batch (thirty sheets) of the big bars. She is weary and didn't bring enough food, but is chipper even after eight hours. We chat about how great it will be to shred the Pass with another chick, once her new bike arrives.

Making bars is a grind today. I chug water and munch on Handle nugs (dark chocolate cherry almond) while making sheet after sheet of Tiki (coconut mango cashew). My back and arms hurt, but intermittent storms drum on the warehouse roof and make me deeply grateful that I already got out to play.

After six hours I finish, clean up, walk home, pour a glass of Sweetgrass from the ubiquitous growler in the fridge. Tyler walks in right after me. He has been at the brewery for twelve hours. We heat up a pizza because between work and play, we're usually too busy or tired to go grocery shopping, much less cook. We talk about beer and bikes and where the hell we're going to live in a month. He is plagued with skier's syndrome, dying for snow, while I am dying for summer to never end. We watch House of Cards and complain that no TV show compares to The Wire.

This is what I do. It's not compelling, but life doesn't have to be blog-worthy to be wonderful.

Visits

It seems odd that I had nothing to say after a trip that I'd so eagerly awaited for five months. But then, after all, it was Brevard. Lush and green and unbearably full of memories and so special and so mundane, where I was overjoyed to see everyone I knew and grew up with, and with whom I proceeded to have the exact same conversations and went on the same bike rides as always.

I was so, so happy to visit, and quite content to leave. I want to continue becoming the person I will end up as, although lord only knows who that may be.

Most cliche Pisgah pic ever

One of the best parts of the trip was dragging Tyler around and forcing him to experience my home as I always have. Riding bikes, riding more bikes, hiking John's Rock, posting up in the bakery drinking free coffee, wandering around town, having brews in the backyard and watching the fireflies, eating mediocre Mexican with the best possible group of people, popping into the Red House without invitation, sweating in the forgotten humidity, shooting the shit with the family at the dinner table. Perhaps it was a result of the constant arm-twisting, but he admitted to really enjoying Brevard.

And then the dragging continued, as my little sis joined us on the return trip. We were all cranky from prolonged travel and gross overpriced food and whatnot, but as we drove up into the basin I loved watching her eyes pop. Snowcapped peaks in June, the deep blue of the lake, the jagged span of horizon; it was fun to appreciate the drastically different western scenery all over again. Despite my schedule we found time to do all that important stuff: sunny kayaking, scramble-hiking, bagel shop gossiping, beach sitting, shopping, camping.

The Chute can't really be called hiking.

I foresee a lifetime of friendship with this one.

Now she's going to be a college girl and I'm going to be...a camp girl. The first summer camp guests arrive tomorrow and if all reports are correct, I'll come up for air at the beginning of September. Here we go.

New Season

Angora Peak

spring in tahoe is pretty sweet. toasty warm days bookended by the occasional chilly drizzle that sharpens and clarifies all the new greens, so different from the darker everpresent pine green. a neon dust of pollen covers every surface and the birdsong is incessant. when the warmth returns the smell of baking pine needles floats in all the sunny spots; it has already made a permanent home in my olfactory memory bank.

Hikin (it's like running, just slower)

Just two girls dreaming of the east coast

i feel at home here and all is good in the world, but i can't wait for the smell of loam and the constant shade of canopy. i want to run over root baskets and stream beds again and ride up some gravel road, clinging to the wheel of whoever is in front of me and praying that the climb will end soon. i want to sit in the bakery and greet every single person who walks through the door. i want to hug my family. (is that weird?) in ten days i'll be flying over the blue ridge with my forehead and nose smudging the window, and i can't wait to be back.

Life In Flux

On the drive back from Utah I received two important communiques: an official job offer from SSC after a winter spent on tenterhooks, and an urgent text saying, "Our house has been foreclosed on."
Whoa.
Further conversations revealed that rather than a cause for panic, this news was an unexpected boon. Fannie Mae is permitting us to squat in the house until the end of March, our security deposit was returned posthaste, and to aid in relocation costs we will be cut a generous check on move out day. I'll be crashing at my "other house" (and living in sin for the first time in my life) until moving to camp. Meanwhile the boys bought an RV to start their new life as gypsies.

This is what it looks like when young people retire. 

Snow showers have been sparse and bookended by sixty degree glory days. I have had the chance to get in a couple good powder days at Kwood and the Heave, free snowmobiling thanks to the power of craigslist, some good road rides, and one unforgettable trip to the infamous Squaw Valley. Early in the day Tyler and I went a'hiking up to the looming Palisades. I took the easiest chute while he dropped in on the dumbest iciest chute...

...and emerged scathed. Dripping blood and ashen-faced, he somehow skied down to the clinic, where we learned he'd broken his hand and lacerated his favorite finger. He's spent the last week doped up, stitched, splinted, and not thrilled. Sports injuries are sobering stuff and this one has reaffirmed my intense fear of being laid up, antsy as hell, and unable to play.

Won't be doing that for a while.

Meanwhile work has ground nearly to a halt as the season comes to an end (how did that happen?), the house is emptying of furniture (aforementioned craigslist bartering), I can't stop watching mountain bike videos, and I'm counting down the weeks until my trip back to the south. 

Destination Spot

Brevard, perhaps a little slow on the uptake, has abruptly and zealously embraced the title of cycling capital of the south. Goaded on by the new guard, our town is investing in trails and infrastructure, and advertising to the young, smelly fat tire set, and opening its streets to hundreds of spandexed individuals.

I've spent several hours now at the Bracken Mountain project, and the last time I was there, running through the verdant bowls and along azalea-dotted brook beds, I realized this magnificent trick that's been played on the city of Brevard. Bracken Mountain isn't really a tourist draw, a revenue bringer, an easy connector to the forest proper. Nope, it's just another plaything for the locals, a stand-alone loop perfect for after work rides, one more feature we can brag about to those unlucky enough to only visit.

Kind of unrelated but I LOVE this shot! 

Pic courtesy of Eddie Clark and bright pink shirt courtesy of Wes Dickson  

The publicity provided by Bike Mag has been instant, unexpected, a gamechanger. The B&B where I work has seen a tenfold increase in mountain bikers, droves of them flocking here in their Subarus and Jettas packed to bursting with chamois, chain lube, and energy drinks.

And in the grand tradition started by California and Colorado, with bikes inevitably comes beer. It seems that every week the town is abuzz after another brewery's announcement; first it was Sierra Nevada, then New Belgium, then closer to home Brevard Brewing Co opened its doors (to enthusiastic local fanfare) and, not to be outdone, Oskar Blues will be on Main Street by December. We had the chance to ride with the friendly and talented Oskar Blues boys and they were suitably enamored with the scope and variety (and greenness!) of our trails.

Try the Pilsner.
Pic courtesy of Meyer Photography

Truly it boggles the mind. Hops! Malt! Jobs!! In a perfect world, I'll go out to play in the west for a while and return at precisely the right time to land a plum post in the beer business. Here's hoping.

All this hubbub brings into focus (yet again) my visceral love for this little slice of NC. It's OK though, because I want to fall in love with somewhere new, with new people and new coffee shops and new mountains. I want to accumulate more of those moments where you stop, look around, and realize nothing could be more perfect. Sure, I encounter them on top of Coontree, and riding up to the bar at dusk, and sitting in the bike shop laughing so hard I'm crying, but there's a world full of moments like that. I want to gather up as many as possible while I have the mobility and flexibility to do it.

Your Opinion Wanted

I spent the entire flight from ATL to AVL with my nose pressed against the window, marveling at the green, sun-kissed splendor of MY mountains. Then I had a bite to eat at the Root with some of my favorite fellas, and this morning I luxuriated in the old routine of real toast, American-style coffee, and a good book, followed by a quick, cool (!) North Slope loop. Damn, I love it here.

Without even realizing it, I scheduled my trip to save me from the last hurrahs of summer. It's sort of sad because I do love the busy season, but the BMC is closed, camps are over, school is back, and the crushing heat is behind us--traffic, work, and the forest will all be a lot more chill from now until leaf season. Basically there's no downside to being back, except that my beloved CK has packed up and moved back to her lame state.

Cheesy admission: the song that most frequently gets stuck on repeat in my head when running? Coldplay's "Don't Panic".

We live in a beautiful world

Yeah we do, yeah we do

We live in a beautiful world

Oh, all that I know

There's nothing here to run from

And there, everybody here's got somebody to lean on.

No clue what the song is actually about but isn't that so Brevard? There's a reason why we're all so happily mired here.

So here's my question: is the purpose of travel purely to serve as a pleasant reminder of how wonderful the place you live is? Or am I missing the point entirely? Please discuss.

Coming to an End

Hood River is a great place. Tina and I rode at Post Canyon, which she described (with some derision) as the Bent Creek of Oregon...I couldn't complain. Smooth, fast tabletops, switchbacks, and berms are something I don't get enough of. Then magically the dusty trail opened up into what felt like a remote mountain meadow. I loved it. 

After our ride we enjoyed some excellent music at Double Mountain Brewery, then watched fireworks over the Columbia River. God bless Uhmerica. 

Short track on motocross course=painful, ridiculous. I will say, Portland's race scene is something to aspire to, but the thirty minutes of heckling, tutus, and mud reminded me that I am really, truly not interested in racing right now.

 

And now it's one more day on the train, one more day in Bellingham (hoping to watch some Tour at Mount Bakery, just so I can gaze upon the younger Schleck), and a long day on the plane. Big thanks to Tasha and Alexis for their hospitality and good times.