Allison Roberts

by Allison Roberts

“You need to restructure your thinking on aging.” This statement from my therapist. I go in to see him, for what I refer to as, “tune-ups,” from time to time. And this is one of those times.

I recently found out I have arthritis in my neck, which finally explains the pain I’ve been feeling for the past five years, and the sometimes impossible rotation of my head while trying to back my car out of my driveway. The diagnosis is good news on the one hand—at least I have an answer to my pain and stiffness—but on the other hand, it also brings up a whole slew of issues and emotions I’d rather not get involved with.

Isn’t arthritis what “old” people get?

For crying out loud, I am only 45 years old, and very active. I am what some people refer to as “an adrenaline addict.” I love the high of working out. I have been working out—rather hard—since I was 22. Running, aerobics, weight lifting, hiking, biking—you name it.

I have pretty high standards for myself. I realize. And that makes life both more interesting because I push myself to do more, but it also leaves me feeling stressed when I am unable to accomplish a goal. (I should find a cure for cancer, stop world hunger, AND have abs of steel; don’t you know?) But in reality, I have a sore left knee, aching hip flexors, and a neck, which at times is about as flexible as steel cable.

The arthritis diagnosis comes at the end of a very hard year for me: I lost my mother to brain cancer, my sister in law went through breast cancer and a mastectomy, my mother in law battled some pretty severe depression, and I watched my daughter enter High School. When did I become old enough to not only lose a mother, but also have a daughter in high school?  I look in the mirror and it ain’t all bad, but sometimes I’ll catch site of myself and think, “Who is that?”

Now let me add this to the scenario—and truly I hope I don’t sound too much like a whiner—but my husband is ten plus years younger than me, recently opened a *Crossfit and Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym/school, was once a gymnast, is a brown belt (soon to be black belt) in BJJ, and is in terrific shape.

Hmm…are you grasping my line of my thoughts here?  Will he view me as a wimp when I can’t do a pull up now? Will he wish I could do double unders (double jump rope—in other words, rope goes under your feet two times in rapid succession,) and not just skip rope in a skipping fashion, like a little girl? Does he secretly wish my knee wasn’t wrecked so I could join him in the races he sometimes does for charity? And lastly, will he leave me for someone who is more athletic and, well, frankly, younger and more “spry?”

It is hard for me to admit that I cannot do some of the things I used to do. It pisses me off. I fight the negative voices in my head that tell me I am weak, vulnerable; unfit. I have been brought to tears in the gym, when I am trying to lift a weight over my head and I cannot do it without my neck rebelling. I get unreasonably enraged.

When I was a kid, I was very athletic. I was intensely competitive, especially with boys. I wanted to do whatever they did, and just as well. I had older brothers whom I wanted so much to emulate.  I wanted to prove that I was able to throw a football, kick a ball as far as any boy could, and lift a dresser and move it across the room. And I did all of those things, by the way, and rather well. I believed that boys had it better—had more freedom, more respect, and because they were physically stronger, they were better protected. This belief served me well as a child—kept me motivated, moving forward, and pushed me to excel. But honestly, it serves no purpose anymore. Feminine strength is just as important as masculine…emotional strength, is just as revered (or should be,) as physical. It’s time to say bye-bye to the old voices, and make room for new ones.

So what is a woman, who views herself as athletic and in good shape to do, when she has to rearrange her work outs and her mind set? How do I rearrange my thinking to accept where and who I am right now?

Well I have a few ideas (and the list is growing!):

More yoga and different styles as well: Yoga is great for working the muscles without high impact pounding on the bones.

Increase my meditation practice: I always feel better when I do this, so why is it that I don’t do it more? I vow to do so.

Boxing: just because I think it’ll feel really great to slam into a bag, or someone’s target gloves—great release of tension.

A few series with personal trainers: to get not only individualized attention and focus on my level of ability and limitations, but also to learn various styles of exercises from a few more pros.

A discussion on psychotherapy: the benefits of having a support system, for overall emotional well being, looking at the taboo of seeing a therapist, and how psychotherapy has changed over the years.

Various diets: and when I say diets, I don’t mean necessarily diets to lose weight. I mean diets that are geared toward specific results, IE: the blood type diet.

Workshops/retreats: health related—emotional, physical, and mental.

Discussions/interviews with people in the health fields: dietitians, therapists, Yogis, body builders—you name it.

DVD exercise write ups: A chance to hear what I have experienced by working out in the comfort of my own home, and what I think of certain work outs.

All of this and more; which I will be sharing on a regular basis with you. You name it and I am willing to try it. So stay tune for a series of interesting, and insightful articles on all things “health.”

by Allison Roberts

Picture yourself hanging upside down from a brass pole. Imagine spinning around the pole, landing gracefully into a cute little pirouette, and flipping your hair back sexily. Take a bow. Now keep these images in mind, and add on the fact that you can lose weight and firm up as well; and you now have pole dancing exercise classes.

Located at 1000 Turk Hill in Fairport NY, is Xpolse dance studio. Xpolse’ houses 8 pole, some chairs, yoga mats, free weights, and a full length mirror running from one end of the room to the other; plus a male blow-up doll wearing a hat. (He does have a purpose and it’s not necessarily what you think…so behave).

Jennifer Dovidio, 27, is the owner of Expolse’. She started the company out of her love for dance (she has 15 years of formal training,) and the desire to be an entrepreneur. Jennifer also shared with me that she has battled with cancer, and that this experience made her realize that life was short, and that she needed to do what she loved.

Xpolse’ offers classes from beginner, intermediate, and advanced Pole dancing, to Lyrical Pole, Chair dance, Burlesque, Aerial Arts, Pole power, and Avenue of Exotica. Jennifer also offers personal training, workshops group parties; which include bachelorette, birthday, and Girls’ Night Out.

“Probably the number one reason why people do pole dancing is because it makes them feel good. It boosts women’s confidence, and allows them to feel comfortable in their own skin,” Jennifer explained. “But it’s also a great core, upper and lower body work out as well. Women who do this regularly see great changes in their bodies, and some of them use the skills they’ve gained to do something special for a significant other at home.” (Wink, wink, nod, nod).

The class I attended was basic beginner pole dancing.  The women attending were a mix of ages—from late 20’s to early thirties. I asked Jennifer what the average age range was and she said that summer classes tend to fall on the younger side, but that during the school year, the highest concentration of women are either in their late 20’s or mid 40’s, with the smallest age range being 30’s, and the oldest, 60.

The poles at Expolse’ are bolted in to the floor and the ceiling. They are brass and about the thickness of a fat flag pole. I positioned myself directly in the front row, not because I wanted to, but honestly I didn’t realize there was a front row. Shoot. Now not only did I have to look at myself in the mirror, but whether they wanted it or not, the women in the back row, had a clear and personal view of my buttocks. Great.

We started with shoulder, neck, and leg stretches, and then moved into some basic pole positions, including launching ourselves around the pole, in ways that I suspected if you weren’t stabilized, might dislocate your shoulder.  Some of the moves were pretty challenging. At one point, we had to hook our dominate leg around the pole, holding the pole with both arms, and launch around the pole, bringing the opposite leg across and into position of the leg you’d originally had. Somehow we wound up on the other side of the pole, and bowed sexily; while trying not to hit our heads on the pole or our knees.

The moves we covered were: the Wrap Around, Wiggle Down, Body Wave, and Pirouette. Then we ended the night with about five moves choreographed together into a little dance number that my husband probably would have enjoyed tremendously if he could have seen it. The dance consisted of a lot of wiggling of our dairy-airs, walking slinkily around the pole, a few spins, some floor hugging, and then sliding down the pole backwards, landing with our toes pointed out toward the mirror and our legs crossed into a sexy little squat.

I had a blast. No kidding. I even signed up to take the last 5 sessions! Oh, and by the way, I asked Jennifer what the blow up doll was for.

“Mostly he is for the girls who come in for a Bachelorette party to take pictures with. Plus, he’s sort of handy during the lap dance class. He is special for the bride and she gets to practice with him.”

LOL!

Fun fitness?

Life’s too short to be bored by your workout.

by Allison Roberts

You set your routine, you start out strong, you’re sure nothing can stop you.

But something happens on the way to fitness bliss. You get bored, not buff. And who can do leg presses while stifling a yawn?

To help find ways to banish the doldrums, we searched around town for some places where people were working up a sweat and a smile on their faces.

In a three-part series, we’re trying them out to see if we can find the sweet spot between working out and playing.

Hoop Dreams

Want to lose 130 pounds? Try Hula Hooping.

No really.

At the Downtown Fitness Club on Chestnut Street, Jen Moore teaches Hula Hoop exercise/dance classes. Last year at this time, she weighed nearly 300 pounds.

“I figured I was doomed to be fat,” she said. “I was fat my whole life. Then I tried hooping because I knew I was too big to run. Hooping was fun, and I didn’t feel like I was sweating that much.”

In a photo from a year ago, when she started her regimen of hooping and eating better, she looked like a totally different person.

The last time I tried Hula Hooping was not when I was 8, as you might expect, but when my daughter was about 8. I stunk at it. So when I found out the Downtown Fitness Club offered Hula Hoop exercise/dance classes, I got both excited at the prospect of trying it and sort of nervous. What if I threw the hoop across the room and took out the instructor, or broke a ceiling light? Those hoops can get spinning pretty fast, you know.

But I went anyway. Really there was nothing to lose. At best, I might find a fun exercise that could actually help me stay fit. At worst, I could play with a Hula Hoop without having to pretend I was trying it out for a kid, like I have to do in Target.

I never thought of hooping my way to being fit. But Moore promised big things. She said the benefits of what she teaches are both mental and physical. Hoopdancing builds core strength, tones the entire body, provides cardiovascular workouts with low-to-no impact, increases energy and develops balance and coordination. Mentally, hooping clears and quiets the mind, generates joy and laughter and lifts one’s mood. Apparently you can burn up to 600 calories an hour—an average of 7 to 10 calories a minute. Also, hooping commands focus. You have to think about what you’re doing.

“In hooping, you can’t just unplug and disconnect from your body like you can when you get on a treadmill,” she explained. “So it’s great for people like me who were really big and therefore disconnected to their bodies; it forces you to reconnect.”

It all sounded good to me; so I took up an Aerobic hoop (a bit bigger than some of the others) and stood in the back of the room. Three other women were also attending—one older than me and two younger—plus Moore. It was nice and comfy in the room, and although the low ceilings were a bit of a hazard during some of the overhead spins, I felt comfortable and sort of “hidden” from the eyes of those in the weightlifting room (when you’re clinging to a big circle of plastic in a gym, it’s hard to look a weightlifter in the eye).

Moore started out by showing me two hip techniques: the “Pump,” which is where you propel the hoop around the waist on the horizontal plane, and the “Warrior,” where the hoop is swung back and forth over the hips vertically on alternating sides of your body—one foot facing the front of the room, the other behind.

I have no idea if the Hula Hoop Gods were in the room that night, but I got both of those moves down and the hoop stayed up. The way Jen explained how to move my hips was pure brilliance. I was suddenly “hooping!”

I was having fun, and I was extremely to be keeping the hoop up. But then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I looked like I was in the throes of a full-blown seizure while trying to keep the hoop moving. (I suspect the gracefulness and fluidity of hooping comes after more time and practice).

We ended the night by doing a few other moves: the “Halo,” where you twirl the hoop on a horizontal plane above your head with one hand, and the “Swish,” where you use one hand to keep the hoop spinning in front or alongside your body.

I did hit the ceiling once. And my hoop flew out of my hands twice during the Halo, knocking over my neighbor’s hoop pile and water bottle. But other than that, I didn’t give myself—or anyone else—a black eye.

Weeks later, I ran into one of my fellow hoopers from the class. She said to me, “Were you sore the next day? ’Cuz you’re obviously in
shape and so if you were sore, I don’t feel so bad for being sore.”

I laughed out loud and said, “Yes! My God! I was sore. My shoulders were killing me!”

My hand felt a little sore, too, the next day from spinning the hoop around it, and so did my abs. That made me think my core was probably sufficiently worked out, and I did break a sweat during class. Just as important, I laughed a lot during the workout.

It takes time to get proficient at anything new, so the class challenged the perception I had of my abilities. But I realized that’s just fine.  I’m not going to be a professional hooper, and I can live with that. That actually might be another advantage of this sort of exercise: There’s not much pressure to excel, so there’s less in the way of having fun.

Plus, now I know my hips can still move when they need to—like the next time I’m invited to an 8-year-old’s birthday party.

Hoop classes are also held at Goddess Hour, 1470 Monroe Ave. in Rochester (224-0277; www.goddesshour.com), and Victory Fitness Center, 4 Elton Street in Rochester (370-2480; www.victoryworkout.com). For information on Jen Moore’s classes at Downtown Fitness Club, call 756-4090, visit www.downtownfitnessclub.com or search for RocCityHoopdance on Facebook.

- Allison Roberts, founder of EstroFest comedy troupe, is a local visual artist and writer.

In search of the right style for the right need.

by Allison Roberts

I know some people have a hard time getting off the couch to exercise. I wish I could sit on the couch and not exercise. For me, relaxing is the challenge, which is how I’ve come to earn my aches and pains (that, and reaching a certain vintage).

So I set my sights on yoga to see how it could help. My idea was to compare three different approaches to see how they might benefit me in different ways. Could yoga meet many of my fitness needs, from relaxation to exhilaration? Call me a downward-dog guinea pig on the quest to feeling better.

Power Vinyasa

Heated Power Vinyasa, which I tried at Midtown Athletic Club, takes place in a room that feels like a sauna. I immediately felt stifled by the heat, then sleepy and relaxed—so far, so good.

Men and women stretched and chatted or stared at the ceiling in what looked like meditation (probably they were just going over their grocery list). I sat down and tried not to groan too loudly while stretching out my neck. Immediately my cell phone rang, nearly giving the woman behind me heart failure.

More reasons to feel self-conscious: I then noticed a woman elegantly launched into a full-blown headstand, her legs in a full split. I’m in trouble, I thought. I tried to remember the last time I’d even attempted a headstand—now I remembered: never. My head hurt just looking at her.

Try not to worry. I said to myself. Everyone is where they are. You aren’t in bad shape and you don’t have to be a master yogi to enjoy the benefits of this class. Plus, you can get a smoothie after at their nice café.

As the class progressed, I realized I had done enough yoga to get by, though as we moved along, I certainly wound up in positions that challenged both my mental and physical stamina. A few times I wondered if I could maintain some of the poses, but that was part of the challenge for me, and if I needed to rest in downward dog for a few minutes, I did. I know when it’s OK to rest (you know, like when your thigh is shaking).

A woman next to me, at least 10 years my senior, was kicking butt. I felt an enormous sense of hope, watching her lock her strong legs and arms into various stances. In 10 years, I figured, I could still be in good shape.

By the end of the class, I was definitely sweating—especially doing a full bridge. It felt wonderful to be that hot, to feel my muscles straining to work and to feel that release from pushing myself. I knew that I would be sore the next day, and I was. But in a good way.

After the class, I asked our instructor, Randi Moss-Lattimore, how she got into yoga. “I was just like you—into all the high-impact aerobic classes and running—and then one day a friend of mine mentioned yoga. I was not interested, thinking it wouldn’t be hard enough. But I decided to try a class. Wow. I wound up crying through the class. Tears just gushed out,” she explained as I devoured my Chunky Monkey Protein shake smoothie.

As Randi explained it, yoga uses and then releases muscles, and along with that comes a release in emotion: “The things I need to work on—aside from the physical—can be worked on through yoga because we hold our thoughts, feelings and emotions in our muscles, and moving our bodies gives us access to these areas.”

Restorative Yoga

Restorative yoga—as I experienced it at Full Circle Massage & Wellness in Fairport—is in many ways the opposite of power vinyasa: mellow, slow and serene. The Cheshire cat image you didn’t like? It just seems sort of non-descript now..or sort of expected imagery, like mellow slow serene without an image is sort of…expected or am I not making sense?….It uses some of the same stances and positions as other yoga, but it incorporates “props” such as pillows and foam blocks to help support the various positions so you can “relax” into them.

Even our instructor, Mackenzie Welch, exuded relaxation with her calm voice, starting us with meditation. It seemed to go on forever, and I kept waiting to get going. But, of course, the meditating was the “getting going”—settling our minds into the present.

All that relaxation is the opposite of what I usually look for in a class. It is not intense, I did not sweat and it is very low-key. Which, of course, is the point. As I let go of the idea of having to “do” something, I began to enjoy the process.

Throughout the class, Mackenzie quietly reminded us that we did not have anywhere to go except right where we were, and that it was OK to let go of all the stuff we were holding onto in our busy little brains.

My mind would return to the moment (back from ruminating on whether I needed to stop on the way home to buy toilet paper) and I’d be back in the room again.

By the end of the class, I was asleep on my back, snapping myself awake by suddenly snorting out loud (that’s really embarrassing, by the way).

But that’s also a clear sign of relaxing—especially for someone who normally takes Benadryl to fall asleep. On this day, yoga won against stress—can we cut this underlined sentence? I think it’s funnier to end with the Benadryl? (Am I a pain?)

Internal Yoga

Internal yoga is even more low-key, if that’s possible. I took the class at the Yoga with Estelle studio from Doug MacIntyre, who has been an instructor since 1989, when he originated Internal Yoga as a synthesis of hatha postures, breath work, guided meditation and affirmation.

Rather than focus on physical attainment, Internal Yoga works toward attaining a feeling of peace. MacIntyre touts the benefits of Internal Yoga as increased flexibility, improved balance and sleep, decreased anxiety and irritability, decreased back and neck pain and a better sense of calm.

The small studio was warm, light and inviting. We started by sitting on our mats, quietly focusing on our breath. Doug asked us to use our own mantra or the one he suggested: On the inhale, say “I am,” and on the exhale, “protected.” He added, “Think about how nice it would be if you didn’t struggle so much and fear so much.”

As we moved through the class, we very slowly went from position to position and were encouraged to go at our own pace. Doug suggested that if we struggled with a pose or felt any discomfort, we should rearrange ourselves—the point of the class wasn’t to be uncomfortable but just the opposite.

Now I know this might sound touchy-feely or crunchy-granola to some people. And the thought of just relaxing and not pushing myself? Please…But once I was able to accept that I wouldn’t be sweating and pushing in this class, I was able to immerse myself into it and accept it.

And even though my mind wandered at times, I was able to come back and focus on my breath. At the end, Doug invited us to wrap up the night by shaking hands or hugging our fellow classmates.

Now, I’m not entirely shy but I’m also not much of a hugger. Yet I ended up embracing everyone in that room. Talk about relaxed—I nearly melted into their arms and oozed onto the floor.

So how to compare? If I needed to silence my sometimes unkind internal dialogue, Internal Yoga and its focus on visualizing would do the trick. If I’ve worn myself out in a busy week, restorative yoga would revive me. If I’m tense from too much stress and worry, Heated Power Vinyasa would help me sweat it out.

Given my personal tendency to push myself, Power Vinyasa can be a great alternative to high-intensity workouts. I feel the start of a powerful addiction to Power Vinyasa forming—no doubt an addiction I’ll have to curb with some Internal Yoga down the line.

Allison Roberts, founder of EstroFest comedy troupe, is a local visual artist and writer.

Studios mentioned
Yoga with Estelle, 34 Elton St., Rochester, www.yogawithestelle.com.

Midtown Athletic Club, 200 East Highland Dr., 
Rochester; 461-2300 or www.midtown.com.
Full Circle Massage & Wellness, 220 Fairport Village Landing, Fairport; 388-6343 or www.fullcirclemassage.net.

by Allison Roberts

Whenever I watched belly dancing, I’d feel a bit intoxicated by what I saw. When I heard it could be a good workout, too, I knew I had to try it.

I headed to the Goddess Hour in Brighton for a beginner class. Instructor Bethany Swank, who started teaching seven years ago when the Goddess Hour first opened, fit the part perfectly with her long flowing hair and that belly dancer’s body: voluptuous and graceful.

Many people would be happy to know the ideal type for this pursuit.

“In other countries, where belly dancing is revered, the women are bigger, fleshier and encouraged to let it all sort of jiggle,” Swank told us. “Their softer, fuller size reflects wealth, prosperity and fertility, so it is considered a good thing to have some meat to move around.”

But I stole a glance at myself in the mirror and laughed out loud. If what she said is accurate, I’d be considered dirt poor and infertile. (You know that song “Brick House”? Well I’m a “Straw Hut.”)

There were about 10 women in the class—of varying ages. Some of them wore a scarf with tiny bells sewn on, tied around their waists, which made noise while they danced. (I wanted one of my own). We started class with stretches, then moved into basic arm and hand movements—keeping our fingers in “belly dance” form: middle finger slightly touching thumb. From there, we worked the hips and belly in clockwise circles. We moved our chests side to side and then up to the 12 o’clock position, over to 3 o’clock then down to 6. We also got our hips wiggling and jiggling in ways they just don’t go under any other circumstances.

One move—undulation—was especially tricky because we had to stick our chests out at 12 o’clock while also jutting our pelvis forward and squeezing our buttocks. In slow motion the move is awkward, but when sped up it becomes a kind of body roll or wave. Done correctly, the move is graceful, sexy and smooth. I had a hard time getting all of the body parts to do what they were supposed to do, when they were supposed to do it. For a while, I’m pretty sure I looked like I was trying to dislodge a hairball.

Next we did “snake hands”—a slow-moving shimmy with our shoulders first, then stomach, while our arms moved slowly up the sides of our bodies. Then we picked up the shimmying pace until I felt a little motion sickness. The combination of moving one body part quickly while keeping the rest moving slowly was hard to maintain (think of rubbing your belly while patting your head). But again, when done correctly, the move is cool looking.

I could feel my abs working pretty steadily throughout the class, and also with the amount of arm movements we were doing—the shoulder shimmy for example—my shoulder and arm muscles received a pretty intense workout.

The benefits of belly dancing are both physical and emotional, says co-owner Michelle Charles. “Belly dancing increases muscles in the core, and it’s actually really great for preparing women for childbirth because it works the pelvis and stomach muscles. Belly dancing has great aerobic benefits if you stick with it—and because you’re having fun, it doesn’t really feel like exercise.”

But the emotional benefits seemed most intriguing. “Women often end up making the closest friendships they’ve ever had in our classes,“ Charles told me. “One of our students is 72 years old, and she has become very close to some of the other women in her classes who are in their 30s. These women might not have had the opportunity to get to know one another under another condition, but because of belly dance class, they have made a tight bond that has lasted more than six years.”

The Goddess Hour itself is the product of two women bonding: Charles approached Connie Thornton with a business proposal. “Connie was a scientist for like 30 years,” Charles explained, “and then got laid off. I was a marketing director and could not keep up with the intense hours—I had a toddler. At the same time, Connie and I were both teaching Belly Dancing independently at other studios. I approached her with a business plan and three months later, we opened the Goddess Hour.”

They have more than 200 students come through the studio a week—all there for different reasons; some for the exercise and some for the friendships that develop.

“I have had students come through who are recovering from cancer who, while still wearing their head scarves to hide their bald heads, wind up feeling sexy again,” Charles said. Divorced women have told her that the classes freed them and allowed them to find their sensuality again.

The class wasn’t doing anything for my sensuality—maybe because I hadn’t mastered the moves. But I was certainly having fun. Before closing out with stretches, we spent some time focusing on choreographed dance steps that would eventually become a full dance routine. We worked to a song recorded by a female Middle Eastern singer with a lovely hypnotic voice. The song, we learned, told the story of a belly dancer who, while dancing in a crowd, notices an ex-lover in the audience. He had hurt her, so she is angry with him, but she’s also very proud because she’s got it going on in the belly-dancing department. While dancing, she proceeds to move in ways that makes him ooze with jealousy.

The vocals and beats in the song were intense (even if I couldn’t understand a word she was singing). If I had known what I was doing—could swing my skinny hip out and have it mean something—I think it would have been a powerful little number. It never hurts, though, to have a goal. Learn a belly dance that can ruin a bad ex-lover’s day? That wouldn’t be half bad.

Over the course of the last three issues of this magazine, I’ve reported on my quest to find fun fitness in the form of three pursuits—belly-dancing, pole dancing and hula hooping.

Before I wouldn’t have thought of them for exercise, yet all three turned out to be good workouts. I broke a sweat in each one, was at least somewhat sore the following day and—most important—I challenged myself not to rely on the same old familiar workouts.

Having said that, this also means the classes challenged my perception of my abilities. And that’s an occupational hazard of trying new routines—one that shouldn’t actually discourage anyone. In some cases I was better than I thought I’d be; in others, not as much. And frankly, that’s just fine. I am not going to be a professional hooper, but at least now I know that if invited to an 8-year-old’s birthday party, I can hoop with the best of them.  I may not be able to hang upside down on a pole, but I managed to do the “Fireman spin” with some dignity—and I only wound up with four bruises. While belly dancing, I may not have looked immediately graceful, but I successfully shimmied and did not elbow any of my fellow dancers in the rib. Sometimes it’s the simple successes we have to focus on.

Allison Roberts, founder of EstroFest comedy troupe, is a local visual artist and writer.

Rochester Magazine, April 2010

A Mother’s Day salute to what only a mom can teach.

by Allison Roberts

My mom had her share of hard times and letdowns, but she always insisted on living her life the way she wanted to. It meant she wasn’t always popular, because she said what she thought. But she lived with the consequences, including divorce, with no regrets.

Admittedly, there was a time in my life when I wanted her to take a more conventional road. When I was 14 and had to hand food stamps to the cashier, I felt if my mom had been different, we would have had more—a house with a pool, more than two pairs of new Levis, vacations that did not include a tent and bug spray. I wanted my mom to not hang her nude figure drawings up in the kitchen. I wanted my mom not to sing at the top of her lungs in the living room in front of my friends. I wanted my mom not to tell people how she really felt. Mostly though, I wanted her not to scare my friends.

As it turned out, my friends liked my mom—singing like a banshee or not. I learned a lot from my mom. I gained her entrepreneurial spirit, her artistic abilities (along with my dad’s), her poor vision (thanks a lot, mom), her refusal to live life in a way that didn’t reflect her interests. Unfortunately for my own daughter, I also learned to sing at the top of my lungs in the living room.

My mother did what she wanted, but she also encouraged others to do the same. She made sure that if my two older brothers or I had an interest in something—no matter how small—she would support us. My brother Paul was always fascinated by nature, animals and the outdoors. When Paul was 8, my mom did more than just sign him up for classes in archeology at the Rochester Museum and Science Center. She arranged for Paul to meet with the director of the department so he could ask any questions he had. My brother Mark was always an electronics fanatic. When Mark was only 3, my mom let him set up “shop” in our basement, knowing it meant the innards of clocks, lamps and electronics would be strewn across his “workstation.” And she told me that from the time I was 2, I was drawing. So she would put me in my high chair with reams of paper to “draw” on. Later in life, she introduced me to numerous people in the arts and proudly displayed any and all of my artwork throughout the house.

I remember knowing with absolute clarity that I could go to her for just about anything and that she would have some solution for me. When I was around 10, my boobs suddenly hurt. I was absolutely certain I was going to die. My mom hugged me and said, “Honey, they’re just growing. Welcome to the club.” I remember how when I wanted to cut my hair short so I could look like a boy, she cut it off for me. She didn’t seem at all concerned when I went through a phase of taking my shirts off because boys didn’t have to wear them. When I was 7, I watched a 6-year-old black girl get verbally abused on my bus. I am proud to say that I stood up for her, but I am also quick to point out that my action was a direct result of my mother’s beliefs—never discriminate and always step in, even if it’s really hard and not popular. She invited the girl and her mother over. No one else in the neighborhood would.

More importantly, though, I knew deep in my bones that my mom had my back. When my junior high school principal, Mr. Merins, announced that “I was such a loser I’d never graduate from high school, let alone do anything useful with my life” (an opinion I might have partially deserved), my mom told me that one day I would show him. And when I got on the deans’ list in college, my mom took my semester’s scores, held them up to the light of the window and said, “Let’s send this to Merins. And when you publish your first book, we’ll send him an autographed copy with dog poop smeared on the cover.”

My mom was an antiques dealer, and we had a shop in the front of our house for many years. I remember coming home from school after a particularly bad day to find this incredibly grand dining room set that had just come in on consignment. The chairs had ornately carved arms and a table that, when fully opened with all its leaves, took up the length of two of our rooms. My mom had decorated the table with a white cotton table cloth, a curvy silver candelabra— fully lit—and a fancy silver tea set (on consignment as well) which held steaming tea. On a small plate next to the tea set was an artfully arranged pile of chocolate chip cookies. We sat there—across this vast table—giggling while drinking tea and eating cookies. “I feel so important,” my mom said. I remember how suddenly it occurred to me that I had forgotten all about my bad day at school. “You are important,” I wanted to tell her and wish I had. Who else would have taken the time and energy to provide such a grand escape?

One warm spring day, while I was in college, she showed up out of the blue and announced that it was “Allison Roberts Day” and she was taking me out to lunch and to get a foot massage, just because. While I was attending RIT, she sold a few pieces of furniture out of our living room to help cover my tuition. I felt bad, as I knew she sort of liked that Tiger Maple dresser, but I had grown accustomed to finding pieces of furniture missing when bills were due. “Any port in a storm,” my mom used to say. She was, after all, the quintessential antiques dealer—and buying and selling was truly her elixir.

My mom told me once to wear red underwear; red is supposed to be a power color and ground you. She reminded me to pay attention to what people actually do, not necessarily what they say. She advised that if you have a really yucky feeling in your gut, listen to it. Once while driving, we had to pull over to the side of the road because we were laughing so hard we nearly got in an accident. My mom taught me to be kind and loving to animals and to people who are vulnerable and need help. And she taught me to say what I think and be ready for the consequences of speaking my mind, because the alternative—remaining silent—was never worth it.

I could go on and on. Instead, I will tuck these memories away inside me so I can pull them out whenever necessary. To honor my mom, I plan to live my life with as much integrity as I can (and I haven’t always done so, which pains me but reminds me to try harder). I will try to continue to do what I love and be present for my family and friends. And I will try to be a mirror for my mother—live my life in a way that would have made her proud. It is the least I can do.

Allison Roberts, co-founder of EstroFest comedy troupe, is a local visual artist and writer.

Rochester Magazine (December 08 issue)

Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu

Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu is NOT mixed martial arts. You won’t see any punching, kicking, or eye-gouging. BJJ does not teach students how to pulverize their competition with one lethal kick, or how to split a 2 x 4 in half with a karate chop. And although it is referred to as ground grappling, it’s not really wrestling. So what is it?

History of Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu

The exact origins of Jiu-Jitsu are a bit sketchy. Many BJJ historians say that Jiu-Jitsu can be traced back to India, where Buddhists monks created self defense techniques based on leverage and balance, not on strength or weapons. As Buddhism expanded, so did Jiu-Jitsu, spreading from Southeast Asia to China, and then finally Japan where it developed further and grew in popularity.

As the 19^th century came to a close, many Jiu-Jitsu masters moved from Japan to other continents, sharing their knowledge of Jiu-Jitsu and competing. Esai Maeda Koma was one master, whom after traveling with a group who fought and taught in the Americas and Europe, settled in Belem do Para Brazil in 1915. Once here, Koma met a man named Gastao Gracie.

Gracie became a Jiu-Jitsu enthusiast and encouraged his eldest sons, Carlos and Helio, to learn the sport from Koma. Not known for their great size, Jiu-Jitsu became a way for the Gracie brothers to gain confidence and skill.

In 1925, Carlos opened the first school in Rio de Janeiro called, “Academia Gracie de Jiu-Jitsu.” He and his brother adapted techniques, consisting of more ground work, and leverage, to suit the physically “weaker” characteristics of their family. These techniques became unique to the Gracie family and became commonly known as Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

With the evolution of BJJ, came an official governing body to oversee the sport. Included in this governing body were competition and grading rules; all of which helped the era of the sport expand. Today BJJ is a highly organized sport.

About Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu

BJJ evens out the playing field between size and strength. Once getting an opponent to the ground, a student has to use skill, leverage and brains to neutralize their opponent. Most of the time is spent prone on the mat, practicing techniques, and learning the nuances and subtleties that make BJJ successful.

“Through repetition of moves, BJJ techniques become like second nature. At the time, you just know what to do,” says Eric Cady, a brown belt at Saunders Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu in East Rochester New York. “The average person with the right amount of effort and perseverance can accomplish a tremendous amount.”

Cady, 32, a visual artist and carpenter, has been what in the BJJ world affectionately calls, rolling, for about 6 years. At a whopping 142 pounds, he is often able to withstand opponents twice his size, which he credits to years of practice, patience, repetition, and the willingness to learn from mistakes.

People often think of martial arts as a way of gaining self defense experience, and BJJ is no exception. Maneuvers are learned that can be helpful in altercations, because students are consistently dealing with resisting opponents. BJJ’s philosophy has been that by removing the most dangerous aspects of traditional Japanese Jiu-Jitsu, such as eye gouging, finer twisting, and neck twists, the student has the opportunity to train at full speed, with a resisting opponent, without as high a risk of serious injury.

Women and the subject of self defense go hand and hand. Statistically, most assailants are male. And the goal of most assailants is to get their victims on the ground. Since BJJ emphasizes ground fighting, and leverage over strength, it makes it an ideal self defense strategy for women. Because most BJJ schools are co-ed, women are given the opportunity to roll with men on a continuous basis, all of which allow ample chances to practice “real time.”

Women are becoming increasingly more involved in BJJ, in part for self defense but not entirely. The physical benefits from BJJ are stellar. Women are so incredibly busy these days, with work, home, and family that they need an exercise program that offers a variety of pay offs; in addition to keeping their minds challenged.

Tanya Taylor, 35, a Plant Pathologist, started BJJ nearly 4 years ago. “My brother teaches BJJ in Florida, and he made me come to a class. It was really fun. I’ve been into it ever since.”

When asked about the benefits of BJJ, Tanya immediately talks about the exercise values. “When I first started, I could hardly sleep I was so sore. I had muscles hurting in places I honestly didn’t know I had. But after I got used to it, I notice a lot more definition, and I felt stronger overall.”

Although BJJ is growing in popularity, and you don’t have to be as big as a house to win, it is not a sport that can be learned over night. You don’t get a black belt in a few months, or even a purple belt. It often takes years to achieve these levels.

“There are no freebies in BJJ,” says Kyle Saunders, owner of Saunders Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. “If you have the skills, and put in the work, you can get the belt, but you have to put in the time.”

Saunders, 37, a software engineer and BJJ black belt, took about 10 years to gain his status. “Obviously there are factors that can quicken the process for getting a black belt: the time to train more often than a few times a week, and the opportunity to directly train, on a regular basis, with a person on a higher level than you, can shorten the time-frame, but overall, this is a sport that requires effort and time.”

Saunders started his school because when he moved to Rochester from Texas, he couldn’t find any local training schools. Realizing that if he wanted to continue to train himself, he’d need people to train with, Saunders Jiu-Jitsu was born. Saunders BJJ School isn’t the, “get-the-new-guy-and-eat-him-alive,” type of training environment. The camaraderie and team spirit are evident upon watching just one practice.

“People who come here with a chip on their shoulder and something to prove, usually wind up leaving,” says Saunders. “I feel pretty satisfied watching my students do well. It’s a pretty awesome feeling to know you’ve helped someone progress and that I’ve got friends among my students.”

Like Kyle, Marc Yates, a 34 year old Pharmaceutical sales representative, got involved in BJJ after doing many other forms of martial arts. “I started out at 15 Years old doing Tae Kwon Do, which I received a black belt in. I went on to study Tang Soo Do, Jeet Kune Do, boxing and kick boxing. I have studied BJJ for approximately 4 years now, and I have never found an art that is more applicable to real self defense situations then BJJ. Plus, my girlfriend likes the shape it keeps me in.”

Keeping in shape does seem to be a popular reason for doing BJJ. Jason Plaisted, 29, a software developer, came into BJJ weighing 265 pounds. These days, Plaisted is a svelte 211 pounds and shrinking.

“Though I started BJJ because I was always interested in martial arts and was looking for a more practical form of it, the added benefit was the weight loss,” Plaisted says. “I’ve had high blood pressure ever since I was a child. Since doing BJJ, my blood pressure has gone down, and I no longer need the blood pressure medication I used to take.”

During the work-out practice, which starts out with a five minute warm up section; students use a tremendous amount of energy. One particular warm up exercise consists of one person wrapping his or her legs around another person’s waist, while pulling themselves up into continuous sit-ups. Another routine drill is carrying someone on your back, and running laps around the mats. BJJ students are not only working core muscles, but also building muscle strength and stamina by repeating continuous resistance exercises.

“I have 3 kids and since doing BJJ, I have more energy than I used to, which has made it easier to play with them,” Says Kevin Wu, 44, a mason. “And it’s also helped me get through a work day with more energy as well.”

Originally Wu started BJJ as a way to exercise, but has since found added benefits. “I love the fact that BJJ is like a physical chess game, where you have to figure out what your opponent might do next. I’m totally addicted now.”

Confidence and self esteem can soar from BJJ, all of which make it an appealing sport for kids—especially those who maybe aren’t tall enough to star on the local basketball team, or aren’t big enough to be on the football team.

Peter Wagner, a 16 year old student from McQuaid Jesuit High School, came into Saunders BJJ as a wrestler. “I like that in BJJ there isn’t the same kind of pressure you get in like basketball or football, where you have to learn a specific skill in a certain amount of time. With BJJ you learn at your own pace.”

When asked what Wagner has learned in his 6 months of training, he had this to say, “I came in here as a wrestler, and I kept trying to ‘power into people.’ It didn’t work. In wrestling, 10 pounds can make a big difference, but in BJJ, technique is more important than sheer strength or weight. I really like that about it. I’ve noticed that my technique has already improved, and that makes me want to keep going.”

Competitions

If BJJ students want to take their skills to another level, there are many competitions throughout the United States where they can test their mettle. Competitions can be helpful, even if a student isn’t looking to become a professional fighter.

“Competitions give someone a goal to focus on. They aren’t required at my school,” says Saunders, “but they can be beneficial because they allow a student to see where they fall, skill-wise, against an unknown opponent, and learn to work through the nervousness that comes from a competition—which is helpful in dealing with real life stresses too.”

In honor of National Infertility Awareness Week, April 25-May 2, our writer tells her story of trying to conceive.

by Allison Roberts

Prelude

My husband and I could not get pregnant to save our lives. After about a year, I looked over and said, “What in the world is going on?”

I called my gynecologist, who asked me to bring in some of my husband’s sperm. That was awkward. But I did.

“They aren’t swimming very fast,” she told me.

Turns out my husband had the somewhat common diagnosis of varicose veins of the scrotum. The first thing we did was get him some nice breezy boxer shorts (no more tighty whiteys). When that didn’t help, he opted for surgery. That wasn’t enough, so we wound up at the infertility clinic.

“I’ll be honest with you,” the specialist announced while peering at me over a chart filled with numbers. “With the sperm count as it stands, and the fact that for whatever reason you aren’t the most fertile woman on the planet, your chance of conceiving is at about 2%.”

I had gone through every fertility test known to woman, and though they couldn’t find anything, I was about as fertile as a sand pit. “So what you’re saying is that I won’t be hired to do any fertility dances,” I replied, trying not to cry.

“No,” the doc said, “but listen, there are options. We can try a variety of things.”

And so it began…

Dr. Young is the fourth gynecologist to introduce himself to my uterus. I was expecting Dr. Bryan, my regular reproductive parts expert, when Dr. Young comes bounding in. So I explain to Dr. Young about the slight curve I am blessed with, which tends to complicate the insemination process.

“I was wondering, um…” I say to Dr. Young; “if you could just go slowly. See with the curve in the cervix and all…it hurts.”

“No worry.” Dr. Young smiles at me and holds up a folder. “It’s right here in your chart.”

I assume stirrup position while Dr. Young blasts a light between my legs. “I’m going to touch you now,” he says.

REALLY? I want to scream. As if I couldn’t tell. As if the insertion of your hand might pass me like a drifting cloud.

“So, you work?” Dr. Young asks.

Work. Hmm. Okay. “Yes.” I let out one small breath. “I work.” I peek up and see the top of Dr. Young’s head, sprouting from between my legs.

“What do you do?”

Dr. Young likes to talk, apparently.

“How long do you have?” I try to laugh, but the pinching sensation causes me to make more of a grunting sound. “Um, well, I do lot’s of things. Mainly I’m an artist.”

“Ah, artist huh?”

“Yes, I guess so.” I often don’t feel like one. During these procedures, I often don’t feel like much of anything.

“Art is nice.“

“Uh huh. You get to paint pictures, and try to pay for groceries…somehow,” I whisper, knowing Dr. Young is not really listening anyway; let’s face it, he has more important things to focus on.

“Just relax, we’re almost there.” Dr. Young gives one last push with the syringe. “Good! Almost done. How did that go?”

Great! Fabulous!

I shouldn’t get mad at Dr. Young, of course. It’s just that this isn’t the way I imagined conceiving my first child—first of all, my husband’s not present. And I’m wearing a paper gown that’s about as sexy as my grandmother’s housedress. And a stranger is saying things like, “Now, because cervix is curved, just going to pinch down on uterus for a second.”

The pinching isn’t a day at the beach, but it hurts less than when they tore off a piece of my uterine wall to inspect it for vitality. Or when dye was shot up my Fallopian tubes. And it’s less humiliating than the procedure my husband has to endure when he’s handed a paper cup marked “specimen.”

“Okay!” Dr. Young covers my legs with a paper blanket. “You did good. You lay here 15 minutes, then get up. Okay?”

I nod. He leaves. The story of my life.

Lying there, I begin the visualization process: I see sperm swimming up my Fallopian tubes. Let’s see now, out of 30 million sperm, one good swimmer ought to be able to make it up, find one good egg—out of the six I’ve produced thanks to fertility drugs—and break through the wall. It should work. I take my vitamins. I exercise. I eat well. I’m a responsible, married, kind, thoughtful, creative, educated woman.

So why can’t I get pregnant?

I look out from between my legs at the room, which doesn’t help the visualization process. Next to the ultrasound machine is a table holding various metal tools familiar only to doctors and railroad engineers.

On the wall is a poster illustrating a pregnant woman. It shows what her reproductive system looks like during each trimester. I see an embryo, a fetus and finally—in the last trimester—what looks like a child. I feel one tear run down my cheek and know that I have failed the visualization part of the treatment.

“Why can’t you just be positive?” I hiss at myself. I remember a conversation I had with a friend. I was yammering away about my eggs when my friend suddenly said, “Why do they call it the infertility clinic, anyway?  Don’t you think they should call it the fertility clinic?”

Right! Be positive! That’s what they say. Don’t think about it. Don’t expect it. Go on vacation. Relax. Let go of it, then it will happen. Move on. All in good time. When it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. Why not? It happens to teenagers every day. It happens to people who never want kids. It happens to people who have six kids already and can’t afford a toothbrush, let alone dental care. It has shocked friends who call to share the “surprising” news. It has happened to women whose husbands have been “fixed.”

Why doesn’t it happen to me?

Eighteen minutes have passed. I get dressed and go out to face the day. And pay the bill.

The receptionist smiles and writes out my receipt. I look at the photographs of “new arrivals” on the wall: twins, one or two triplets, single babies and a lot of smiling parents. Pamphlets hang from tacks. One says, “ADOPTION: an alternative for the INFERTILE COUPLE.” Another pamphlet reads, “Suggestions and hope for the INFERTILE COUPLE.” It dawns on me that I am one of these people. My husband and I are an INFERTILE COUPLE. We are part of a group.

Glancing into the waiting room, I see various women, in all shapes and sizes. They do not look at each other. I figure no one wants to talk to the other about…”it.”

The receptionist smiles and hands me my receipt. “Thank you,” she says. Then I wait, because what normally follows the phrase “thank you” is “come again.”

Postscript

We weren’t successful with the artificial insemination. We went on to try donor sperm, but on the seventh try, I announced to the doc, “This will be my last try.”

She nodded and told me that she had people conceive on their 12^th try, and that some had been coming to her for 10 years, but that everyone needed to make that choice. I could not imagine putting myself through this for 10 years. Nor could I afford it; after three years, we were in debt to the tune of almost $10,000.

“You could try invitrofertilization, if you would like. This is a process where…”

I had already decided against it before she finished explaining. I don’t love the feeling of continuously hitting my head against a wall. So after the seventh time failed, I cried and tried to move on.

Then one day, staring out the bedroom window, it became clear that I should adopt. My husband liked the idea, and we wound up adopting a baby girl from South Korea.

She was five and a half months old when she flew over. We waited for what seemed an eternity for her to get off the plane in New York City, and she had quite a fever when she finally got here. But when she was handed over—wearing a tiny outfit covered in yellow flowers—I had never been happier. This little girl, my daughter, is now 15, and the light of my life.

Allison Roberts, founder of EstroFest comedy troupe, is a local artist and writer.

City Newspaper 2001

What not to do at a holiday party

In a world without worries (laws, manners, or conscience), anything goes. As it is, however, that world doesn’t exist (yet). So before heading off to that yearly holiday party, take a moment to brush up on your Miss Manners etiquette book, and dig around in the darkest recesses of your mind, until you find the area that houses self control.

Fashion tips for holiday parties:

Ladies, green iridescent eye shadow and pulsating red lipstick don’t scream out, “HOLIDAY!” The combination of colors, actually scream out that you habitually attend craft fairs, own more than one sweatshirt with a teddy bear sewn on it, and are completely at the mercy of Soap Opera Journal for fashion tips. Don’t try to be cute and dress up as the Virgin Mary either. It’s not a great way to meet men, and the swaddling clothes are a fire hazard. Men, please (though it may seem very funny), don’t place Mistole Toe on your belt buckle. And for crying out loud, don’t hang ornaments off your nipples. Not only is it an invitation for infection, but it also gives the wrong impression to co-workers.

Gifts for the holiday party host:

If your host is a bit on the elderly side, avoid bringing peanut brittle. Dentures are extremely realistic looking these days. Rum balls, lime Jell-o in the shape of the cross, and a Grinch pie bought at a Narcotics Anonymous bake sale, aren’t a safe bet either. If you wish to bring non-edible gift-items avoid: an ornament with last year’s date etched on it, ten lords a leaping from a local Escort service, and Frankincense, Mir, or gold.

Topics of discussion to avoid:

Topics of conversation can be slippery at festivities—especially office festivities. To be safe try not to: brag about your Yule log, say your greatest desire in life is be a “ho, ho, ho,” or reflect on the fact that candy canes remind you of your ex-lover. You may also wish to skip your theory about Santa having homosexual tendencies, or Rudolph’s red nose being the result of a drinking problem. And for Goodness sake, if you’re feeling a bit “windy” from eating the pepper cheese, don’t describe your gas pains to the person fixing a plate next to you; just step outside.

Activities to avoid:

Even if there is an agenda for the evening, boredom can still rear its ugly head. Still there are some activities that are safe to partake in at holiday parties—Twister, Charades, Pictionary—and some that are down right risky. If you find yourself bored to tears, please take up a game of cards, or suggest a nice brisk walk to your date. But do not, for any reason, start sipping off of other people’s drinks (especially if you are wearing a unique shade of lipstick), because you will more than likely be traced. Don’t suggest making up dirty words to Christmas Carols, bobbing for wise men, or Christmas caroling if the party is being held in a predominately Jewish neighborhood.

Licking all the Christmas cookies, one by one, is completely unacceptable as well. And whatever you do, don’t stand at the food table and comment on how the bean dip looks exactly like fecal matter, or crawl under the table to feed the dog (even if the dog is more entertaining than the host).

Knowing when it is time to say good-bye:

There are some telltale signs that it is time to depart from a holiday gala: if you have just torn an ornament off the tree, to use as a mirror to reapply your lipstick with, get out. Also, if you have begun photocopying your butt in the back room, you can bet it’s a good time to say adios. Breaking out your Mary Kay cosmetics to sell around the piano, or dancing alone in the corner with a gyrating Santa, are also very strong indications that it is time to GO HOME.

Don’t be discouraged by the number of holiday gigs you must attend this year. All will be well (and perhaps even fun), if you follow these simple guidelines. Oh, and one more thing: don’t hit on the host’s grandmother’s date.

City Newspaper 2001

Car Fanciers

“It’s suicide to own a vintage car and not be in a car-club,” says John Strawway, a restoration contractor. “Where else can you find a distribution cap for a 1925 Franklin?”

Strawway started collecting as a boy. Encouraged by his parents, he began stowing away Christmas liquor decanters, shells, and rocks. Eventually, he moved on to bigger and better things: vacuum cleaners, mixers, and cars.

Mark Chaplin, John’s partner and car collecting cohort, is a relatively new collector, and has since caught the fever. Combined, the team owns 12 cars, ranging from a 1925 Franklin to a 1976 Cadillac convertible.

John’s favorite cars are Cadillacs. “If you drive a Porsche or a BMW—into certain neighborhoods—you’re sneered at, but with a Cadillac, no matter where you go people wave at you. It’s like a shared love.” Strawway’s first Caddy was a 1966 all-Gold beauty, which he bought in 1987. Can’t you just hear Barry White now?

Chaplin, a financial consultant, prefers a good old-fashioned Franklin. He concentrates on collecting any car made before the 1950s, that is manufactured in New York State.

“Locally manufactured cars are a lost art form. So we try to collect things that have been made in New York—and not just cars, by the way. We also collect local furniture, clocks, and art as well,” Chaplin says.

Chaplin and Strawway believe that cars are just a continuation of the industrial revolution—no different from clocks really. Clock manufacturers were rampant in the 1830s, but by the 1870s, there were only about 10 clock makers left. New York state car manufacturers met the same fate during the depression, when local companies like Pierce Arrow (out of Buffalo), Franklin (a Syracuse company), and Rochester’s own Cunningham Motors closed down.

“Some of the finest cars were made here in Rochester,” Chaplin points out. “But not many people know that.”

In order to be included in car-club shows, Chaplin and Strawway have found themselves staying in hotels, located at the end of airport runways, and in college dorm rooms. Both agree, however, that although these may be less-than-perfect sleeping arrangements, the people they meet at the car-club shows make it all worth it.

“People who I’d never get a chance to meet in any other circumstance, are suddenly talking to me,” Strawway says. “When a man walks up and says, ‘Hey, my dad had a car just like that,’ that’s what it’s all about.”

From Strawway’s and Chaplin’s perspectives, the best part of owning a parking garage full of vintage cars is being able to share them, and talk about their history. And yes, the two car fanciers drive all the vehicles they own—often—and share the pleasure with friends.

While out joyriding, the most important accouterments to have on hand, according to Chaplin and Strawway, are: a fire extinguisher, a large piece of plastic, their dog Sheba, a poop bag, a cell phone, and their AAA cards.

The worst cars ever created, labeled by the duo, are any of the cars made in the 1970s. “And the one’s from the 1950s were pretty ugly too,” Chaplin pipes in.

When asked which car they’d want to have with them if they were stranded on a desert island, Chaplin responds: “Does the island have paved roads and gasoline?”