Big Blimpin'

In case you were wondering what has been keeping us away lately... we have good excuses...

...Like that fact that the PGA Tournament is in town! This means that the small airport by our new house has been incredibly busy lately. There are private planes (I imagine with little tiny putting greens in them) buzzing overhead constantly. I drive by the airport every morning and night, so I am always on the lookout for new things (the newness hasn't turned into annoyance just yet). Well, this past week there was something too big to miss: Blimps!

Every day my interest grew. It started with, "cool, a blimp!", then escalated to, "I need to see that...", and finally, after spending my entire morning commute debating the internal workings of a blimp, I sat at my desk and peered out my office window. Lo and behold, the MetLife Blimp. Bobbling around like a toy in a bathtub, a literal sign in the sky. "I need to be inside of that."

Within the hour I had a date set up with Snoopy 1.

So there we were this past Saturday morning, tromping through the wet grass along the runway, with the already gigantic airship growing ever larger. It hung there, attached to a mast, just like a huge balloon. It floated around, bouncing in the wind, while we spent the next two hours grilling the pilot, Alex, with all of our inquiries. You would be surprised how much you never knew about blimps.

Now, you know me well enough by now to realize I had done some fairly extensive research on the topic before I ran out into the field and climbed into it. I knew there were somewhere between 13 and 42 similar blimps in the world. I knew there was a bag-in-a-bag concept that made it float. I knew that their primary responsibility was aerial coverage for sporting events, not flying around inquisitive little women.

In addition to the clarification that there are probably closer to 13 than 42 blimps in the world, Alex was able to answer every question we could come up with and then some. So the four of us, James and our friends and I, got to grilling.

MetLife has three blimps in the entire world: Snoopy 1 & 2, and Snoopy J (based in Japan). We were visiting Snoopy 1, more like Snoopy 1 version 2.0. The original Snoopy 1 was the longest flying aircraft in history at 25 years in the air and over 30,000 hours in flight. Surprisingly, only retired because the gondola needed updated. Snoopy 1 (version 2) has been in flight since January of this year, so it was just a wee baby blimp!

The blimps are more commonly called airships, and understandably so - as they operate more like submarines than airplanes. The propellers on the back push air behind them, like a boat propeller, as opposed to pulling the air through, like a plane.

They also fly from one event to another and are working almost every single day of the year! The longest flying time recorded in a blimp was a day and a half. Our pilot's personal record was 16 hours with a co-pilot, and 13 hours solo flying. There is also a crew of around 14 guys tracking the blimp from the ground, and to help land and take off, if the pilots need a pit stop. They don't need an airport to land, so wouldn't that be nice to come outside and find a blimp in your backyard? They only need room to set up the mast to hold it, and enough space for the blimp to rotate around the mast 360 degrees at will.

We walked round and round the airship, inspecting every inch and staring, wide-eyed at the massive ship floating 15 feet above our heads. They can fly up to 10,000 feet in the air, but typically hover around 1,000 feet, so everyone can read the sides.  The outer "envelope" is filled with helium. The balloon (ballonet) on the inside is filled with regular air from the outside to increase or decrease the altitude (the air is heavier than helium so an increase in air would bring the blimp down). The wind doesn't do too much, since they cannot fly in bad weather, but what the pilots watch out for are thermals - rising gusts of hot air that surge and twirl. When you see a blimp bobbling around like I did at work, chances are it is a thermal causing it.

They can fly up to around 65 miles an hour (with a good tailwind), but the average speed is 35 miles an hour. If you're like me you are thinking that's a really long air-trip from here to Chicago...

While we were pondering more questions we were able to grab hold of a rope attached to the car on the blimp and give it a tug. At 75 pounds lighter than air, it didn't take too much tugging. The blimp slowly came towards us. The steps folded out and James and I were able to climb aboard! The first thing I noticed was there was no steering wheel! You steer the blimp much like you would a wheelchair. Some are automated, but this one still contains the simple design. You roll forward to point the nose down, and backward to point the nose up. The direction is controlled by foot pedals. Seems simple enough! Our pilot explained that it is one of the first controllable flying technologies, but they are constantly still being studied. If that wasn't simple enough, it also takes regular 93 octane gasoline.

So while we were floating around in the car, I started to ponder some more... being my realistic self I started to think of all of the terrible things that could happen at 10,000 feet above ground. Here are some of the reassurances: There are static wands to divert electricity if the blimp gets struck by lightening; yes, the blimp has been shot before (somewhere between California and Tennessee) but the air leak is so slow that it is unnoticeable; um, no, they have never sucked a bird into the engine (most birds see it coming and have plenty of time to fly around...); and no, there are no parachutes on board.

Are you ready for some randomly assorted fun facts now? I thought so... The car is only attached to the blimp by cables, so imagine if there was some slack in the envelope... The mast that the blimp is attached to when grounded can withstand winds of up to 100mph. This was one of the only blimps that can be fully illuminated for night time flying. The blimp gets a bath with regular soap and water. Our pilot has never thrown a paper airplane out of the window and does not recommend it. He has also never jumped up and down while in flight (we wanted to know if the blimp would go up and down, too, but we decided the force created from pushing off would negate the sudden loss of weight).

Airship pilots cover hundreds of thousands of miles in the air, cover every major sporting event you can imagine (from foot races to NFL games, to, obviously, the PGA tournament), the most amazing thing our pilot, Alex, has seen from the air would be Tokyo from above. Don't worry, we've requested they come back for the Kentucky Derby.

All in all, there are only around 13 blimps in the world at any given time, and this one can only hold 4 people at a time - depending on their size, I am so thrilled to say that I am one of the privileged few who have stepped foot, and then floated above ground (IT COUNTS!), in a blimp! Think of us the next time you see Snoopy 1 traipsing past your high rise window, or lazily hanging above your baseball game.

We have to thank MetLife for making it so easy to achieve this feat and being so willing to work with their fans. I have even been told that if you tweet them and ask, and they are in the area, then don't be surprised to see the blimp circling your backyard bbq.

Of course, we also owe a huge THANK YOU to our pilot, Alex, who didn't bat an eye at any of our million questions, and was ready and willing with answers to all of them. We hope to see you again in May!

Finally, a blimp does not actually make the sound "blimp!" when flicked. You're welcome.

If you ain't first...

I don't get a chance to talk about my family nearly as much as I wish I could on here, but this is a great post to share. For Father's Day last year I purchased a "Nascar Racing Experience" for my Daddy. He is a pretty die-hard fan. I mean... when I was growing up I wasn't much of a baby doll kind of girl. Instead, I had a suit case full of hotwheels. Fo real. Also... expect intermittent dropping of Ricky Bobby quotes.

So we were finally able to schedule a time at Kentucky Speedway to get my Daddy in one of those cars! (I just wanna go fast, Daddy!) It is pretty hard to get these scheduled as the crews travel from NASCAR track to track and I think there were only 4 days total this year that they were at ours. Well, one of those weekends was last week.

We high-tailed it to Sparta at a rapid 80 mph. Whoa. I know. Watch it. We met up with my little brother and sister, and my Daddy, and shuffled our way to the check in - last of course. After donning the official fire suit racecar drivers wear, we all sat together in a 45 minute crash course (pun not intended... no... totally intended) on how to drive a race car. The first question they ask is "who here can't drive a manual?" Luckily, I come from a family of pros.

During the crash course we learned mostly about what NOT to do... these things consist of... do not drop below the yellow line, do not drive on the apron, do not hit the rev limiter, do not pass without radio confirmation, keep it between the white dots, do not pass go do not collect 200 dollars. We were also informed of the numerous crashes that incurred when drivers did not heed the many instructions. Next we were told how to escape a burning mangled death trap of a wrecked car. 

At this point I was ready to pack up and leave. Excuse me? You want to put MY daddy in one of those? Obviously my concerns were overruled. What's even better is that, since we checked in last, we were last to go. This left a solid 2 hours for me to sit and stew it over. (I'm still sittin' in my dirty pee-pants!)

We watched as driver after driver struggled into the tiny driver side windows, were strapped in, and rolled out of pit row. We watched as each driver rang around the track 3 or 4 times before being called back in. We watched as each had done so without slamming into the wall in a ball of fire and agony. Every time a car rolled back to the pit, the crew would remove the window net, pull out the driver, who would then stumble their way back to the infield with the biggest grin imaginable. I guess I was ok with this.

Finally, it was Daddy's turn. He had a pep talk from the crew chief before he climbed into the number 6 car. They checked everything out - not at full pit crew speed, thank goodness - and after several minutes they let him loose. (Hang on, baby Jesus, this is gon' get bumpy!)

He rolled, flawlessly, I might add, out of pit row and picked up speed fast into the first turn. We timed him as he passed us once, twice, and heard, on the third lap from behind us, the engine roar down the backstretch. On the final lap he was flying. 

It was over within 5 minutes that felt like 5 seconds. In those five minutes he had traveled over 6 miles on the 1.5 mile track, at speeds of 159.83 mph. That is over TWICE as fast as you should legally be driving on the interstate and almost THREE times as fast as you are legally allowed to drive on the Watterson (unless you are me and sometimes you forget and end up going 75 on the watterson and wondering why everyone else is being so. damn. slow.. except for that corvette... with a cop in it... giving you the "im watching you" finger to eye motion).

He climbed out of his car with the same giant grin and sea legs that everyone else had and made his way back to our tent. We cheered and clapped and yelled and generally made an all-out scene (which no one else had done). As soon as he was oriented again we bolted to the register to see what they had clocked as his top speed: almost the fasted at the track that day - 159.83 without hitting the rev limiter.

We went out for dinner afterwards, at the only restaurant in Sparta doesn't just serve hamburgers and boobies. Once James and I were on our way home I nagged him about driving so fast, to which he replied, "I am only going HALF as fast as your dad was a minute ago...". And then I wet myself all over again.

Girly Gatlingburg

I know I keep making excuses for my infrequent posts, but here in the next week or two I will be able to give you a literal big excuse. And you will be all like, "Holy crap!" In the mean-time, cut me some slack, yo!

While James worked on the house all this weekend (painting the trim around our fancy new doors, re-caulking around the windows, and dragging all of his tools from places I didn't even know he kept them into the living room), I spent the whole weekend soaking up some quality girl time in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. He must have been a little bit bored without me because he even did all of our laundry. It isn't folded and it is in a giant pile in the middle of our bed... but at least it is clean. Baby steps.

So eight of us lady-folks headed a little further south to celebrate the first weekend of fall tucked into a log cabin in the Smoky Mountains.

We set off from Louisville after work on Friday, a little bit later than expected... but that is also attributable to this big excuse you are anticipating. We met up with our other unit in Lexington, redistributed our luggage, and then made the 3.5 drive into Appalachia. We arrived just barely before midnight and were able to skim through the gated entrance to our community by about 3 minutes before close. We unpacked, popped open a few bottles of wine, and caught up.

Around five hours later, chlorine soaked from the hot tub, weary from the work week and the drive, we finally hit the hay.

We started Saturday morning off with coffee and tea on the porch, then transitioned to mimosas and fruit before we took off for the strip. If any of you have ever been to Gatlinburg, you know what to picture here: lots of lights, tourists jamming the streets, traffic that seems impossible for such a small place so far away from anything relevant, any kind of tacky gift you have ever seen advertised on TV, and, of course, old-timey photo shops. If any of you haven't been... well, I just described it to you. It is basically like God sprinkled a bunch of glitter and garbage on the mountains and it all ran downhill into this one little crack. I mean that in the most charming way possible.

We ate lunch and watched the U of L score tick across the screens at the Brewery. Chanted when we saw the final score (72-0 for those of you blatantly unaware of Teddy Bridgewater and his badassedness), and had an all-around good time.

After lunch we walked down to the Ol Smoky Moonshine distillery tasting room. Room is an understatement. This was a mall of mason jars. We all lined up at the bar and worked our way through all 12 of the different flavors of moonshine available. The first: your regular old farm-party style corn whiskey. After mimosas and a huge mug of beer I just about tapped out right then and there. If you haven't had moonshine, well, just image what something you would clean your toilet with would taste like... or that corn based fuel... yes... that is probably more accurate. Imagine a big swig of ethanol. Yee-haw! I think four of my teeth fell out, my shoes disintegrated, and an infant appeared on my hip with just that one toss.

Apple pie, blueberry, peach, strawberry, and lemon drop later we tried a moonshine cherry. Yup. A maraschino cherry that had been stewing in a jar of shine almost it's whole short life. Now, I have had cherries soaked in bourbon and covered in chocolate before and that was terrific. Moonshine is a different story. I tossed that cherry into my mouth and hated my life for the next 5 minutes. The juices burned and, unlike a regular shot, you were forced to sit and chew your liquor for way too long. No matter what you did you could not chew fast enough. Luckily the cherry was towards the end of our tour and we could quickly leave and wash our mouths out with beer from one of the restaurants upstairs.

When we had done everything we could do in downtown Gatlinburg on a rainy day, we trekked up the mountains back to our cabin in the woods. I cooked up a big pot of chili, we sipped wine, and relaxed.

We weren't able to hike or shop, due to the weather, but we had a great time enjoying each other's company and escaping the stresses of everyday life. It is a trip I look forward to every year, as a time when you can sit back and imagine that one day you, too, may have your own cabin that people rent out when you are too busy traveling the world to stay there. Anyways, you can never go wrong when you bring 8 girls into the hills with all the wine your car can carry.

Daniel and Rebecca Boone

I mentioned a while ago that James and I spontaneously decided to tour Frankfort, our great state's capital. While we were both somewhat familiar with the city, having been a few times and driven through many, we had never actually been able to take the time to walk around and smell the bourbon, so to speak.

When we were at the Rebecca Ruth candy factory we ran into another couple touring. They were actually there to pick up boatloads of bourbon balls for their upcoming wedding! Side note: stealing that idea. Mine! They had mentioned that they had just visited the grave site of Daniel Boone. Say what? That sounds a little weird...

Not at all, they claimed. It was in a very nice cemetery and his site overlooks the Kentucky River and you can even see the capital building! It's actually just right up there! They pointed straight up at a ridge across the river. Not much could be seen except for trees, but, hey! We were feeling spontaneous, remember?

So off we went... for a date in the cemetery.

We googled the address and upon googling I found some interesting information...

Let me back up... I am assuming most of you have heard of Daniel Boone, but seeing as my blog is *ahem* kind of a big deal in Germany, I'll give a little background. Daniel Boone is known for exploring and settling the state now known as Kentucky. He blazed a trail through the Appalachian Mountains through Cumberland Gap, despite resistance from local Native Americans. He settled one of the first towns in America west of the Appalachians. So there you have it, your history lesson in a nutshell.
Daniel died in 1820 in Missouri, at his son's home, after leaving Kentucky because it was "too crowded". It was back in the day when getting a bad case of the "bubble guts" would kill you. Terrible. So, seeing that he died there and transporting a rotting body was not something a lot of people opted for, he was buried there.

But wait! We're not in Missouri! We're in Frankfort, Kentucky! Wha? According to the google Daniel was originally interred in Missouri, however, when Kentucky caught wind of this they wouldn't have it. So they dug him up and drug him back (kicking and screaming, I am sure) to the capital to be buried with a large monument erected in his honor.

Ever since this happened there has been serious debate over whether or not he was actually moved. However, official documents released in 2010 reveal that only "most" of him made the transport. Missouri still claims that his brain and his heart remained there, while only the larger pieces were sent to Kentucky. Another side note: please no.

So, flash back to where James and I stood, on a crest overlooking the capital of our state, under our feet pieces of it's first explorer. The monument is huge, grand, and intricate. There are reliefs carved into the four sides depicting moments from Daniel's life, and on the back, one of Rebecca, his wife, milking a cow. She's there too... all of her, I assume.

The side trip was absolutely worth it. The views were amazing. Although somewhat ironic that Daniel decided to leave the state due to overcrowding, he now has to share his final resting place with other dead people, many of which are generals, governors, etc. At least he is in good company.

While we were there, we weren't alone- not counting the dead people, there were plenty of other tourists, all who seemed to be waiting for the last couple to view and pay their respects independently before getting out of their cars to do the same. We were able to take our time, ponder over the reliefs, admire the expansive view, and take pictures, of course.

Frankfort-ers

James and I had one of those rare weekends where neither of us had any work that had to be done (well, I know we both probably had plenty - but it's nice to procrastinate again once in a while). So on Saturday we decided to head towards Waddy and find something to do on the farm. Along the way we decided we should make a slight detour to Frankfort, our state's capital city, which is only 10 minutes past the farm.

Now, I have only been to Frankfort twice before - once in highschool for a tournament, and once this year for the Beekeeping Conference. James, although he grew up right around the corner, hadn't visisted Frankfort much, either. So we were all for exploring that day.

Knowing we had already missed the tour times for the distillery that was next on our list we found a candy shop that gives tours on the weekends. Who doesn't want to visit a chocolate shop?!

So we found our way to Rebecca Ruth candy shop. This shop is the birthplace of bourbon chocolates, and you all know how much I love bourbon balls already. I was all about this.

We pulled up outside of a small house with a bright red awning. I was slightly disappointed by the lack of chocolate smell outside. I was full on expecting a Willy Wonka experience. We went on inside and signed up for the tours, avoided the chocolate counter because we were saving ourselves for after the tour, then perused the gift shop until our names were called. There were two other people on our tour - almost exactly the same age as us we found out, and we scoffed at how ironic it was that two young couples would be found together touring a homemade chocolate factory, surrounded by out of date machinery and history.

We walked through the front of the house and made our way to the brittle room- yes, an entire room where all they do is make peanut brittle, bourbon brittle, and Kentucky creamed candy. We admired the huge table they used for cooling the taffy and the terrifying cast iron hooks on the wall - at a dangerous height - on which they stretch and aerate the taffy.

Next, we wandered into the chocolate room. This room, we learned, had been in operation since about the 60s. It was one long conveyor which ran the length of the small shotgun house. This is where the chocolate smell started to rise. We saw how each little bon bon would travel down this little line, through chocolate waterfalls and dippers to a point where each one had a pecan placed on top of it by hand - I Love Lucy style. Tubes and vats were filled with the rich, sweet, confections, and all of my Willy Wonka dreams began to turn into reality. I briefly considered Augustus Glooping that mess but reconsidered.

I was not allowed to take pictures during the tour - trade secrets and all - so this is the only chocolate tease you get!

We followed the line all the way down until we got to the small decorative boxes the chocolates were placed in before they were shipped all over the country.

We asked a lot of questions - more between the four of us than I am sure they normally get with much bigger groups: "How old is this oven?", "What's in this tube?", "How does this work?", "Is that all sugar?". We were experts by the time we had made our way back up to the front room.

We learned that Rebecca Ruth was started by two women: Rebecca AND Ruth. They were the first of their time to successfully infuse a candy with liquor. Cheers to that!

We eventually stopped interrogating our tour guide and let her send us back to the chocolate counter, where we picked out everything we wanted to try.  James and I left with almond bark, chocolate charlies, puffamels, bourbon chocolate cherries, Kentucky Creamed candy, and, of course, bourbon balls.

While we were checking out, our tour companions mentioned they had just visited the grave site of Daniel Boone... and you say it's just around the corner? Onward!

Crickets and cans

At this point on Rodeo Day 2013, the sun had started to slowly sink out of sight. It crept inch by inch towards the trees surrounding the giant dusty field and the sky glimmered in ashen sades of blues and grays. there was a brief spell of silence in which the crowds began to make their way towards the front of the field, a mass migration, following the towering stage which began to glow and flash in preparation for the night like the star of Bethlehem.

We walked through patches of beer-mud mixed in with the dirt, empty beer cans crunching under our boots. Finally, we had arrived. We all applied our VIP wristbands and entered our special section towards the front of the stage, in front of the mounting crowds of hundreds, pushing towards us from behind.

The lights flashed. smoke began to creep out of the back of the stage, the sunset painted a the sky a deep orange, and the twang of a guitar broke the silence of the night.

As soon as the sun had fallen behind the trees, the sounds of the concert rang out and filled the valley around us with music. Kip Moore was up first. Beer rained down on the concert goers, screams filled the air, and everyone there knew the words to the songs.

We spent the night jumping, dancing, singing and drinking. We twirled around in the VIP section with beer sloshing out of our cups, ultimately drinking about half of what we had pirated, the other half donated to the dried up dirt under our feet.

And just like that, it was over before we realized. It was time for the long haul back to our cars, to sit for hours while the fields emptied.

We stumbled through the chaos of abandoned coolers and grills, tire ruts and an occasional lost shoe or shirt (or shreds thereof).

When we finally made it out of the field, we went straight to the trailer. The second car full had been kind enough to pick up as many tacos as they could carry.

We sat around and tossed tacos left and right, eating what didn't hit the floor, sprawled out on the couch and chairs around the trailer. One by one people began falling asleep - succumbing to the long, booze-filled, sun drenched day, only to wake up the next morning and make the drive back North... to wait another 364 days until... the next Auburn Rodeo.