In theory, freelancing is a good way to bolster your resume and make some extra money. In practice, it’s the most effective way to have your confidence shattered on a regular basis.

Until this spring, I’ve had some decent success with freelancing. I had some scintillating articles published in the Central Maine Morning Sentinel about a summer music camp and a senior volunteer corps, and then during the Olympics, I wrote four pieces about Torin Koos for the Wenatchee World. The articles for the World were sweet, because they paid me well, put me on the front page or the front of the sports page, and gave me a sweet byline: “By Nathaniel Herz/For the World”. Darn right, for the World!

However, ever since I returned home in April, I’ve had fewer positive experiences. First, my overtures to cycling publications to go hang out and report on the mountain biking world championships in Quebec late this summer were rejected (“At present, we are already set for coverage of the Windham World Cup and Worlds in Quebec, but if anything changes, I’ll be in touch.”). This was bad enough. But then I tried to find a place to publish a more mainstream account of the Northug-Hellner Vegas spectacle. Below, you can read what I thought was an EXTREMELY meticulous pitch to an editor at a relatively well-known sports outlet:

“Hello _________–

My name is Nat Herz, and I’m the assistant editor of the cross-country skiing news Web site FasterSkier.com. _______ gave me your contact information.

I’m e-mailing to propose a story for _____ on one of the strangest events I’ve ever encountered on this beat. In early July, Petter Northug and Marcus Hellner–two of the best cross-country skiers in the world, and both winners of individual golds in Vancouver—are coming to Las Vegas to compete in the World Series of Poker and a

rollerski race. Rollerskiing is what cross-country skiers do to train during the summer–it’s kind of like roller blading with poles. The two are both major celebrities in Scandinavia. Northug, especially, has a huge following–he was on the front page of all of

the major Norwegian newspapers’ websites today after bouncing out of a tune-up poker tournament this morning. He’s brash and cocky, loves to trash-talk, and has a rivalry with Hellner (who is Swedish) that the press goes crazy about.

The rollerski race should be quite a spectacle–two of the best athletes in the world duking it out in the desert, where average high in July are 104 (I checked). In all likelihood, there will be no more than a handful of people in Vegas who have any idea who they are. And the poker aspect makes the whole culture-clash even better.

I’ve spoken with Alexander Oysta, the editor of the Norwegian magazine that is sponsoring the trip, and he’s willing to help me set up interviews with Northug and Hellner. They also may recruit a few top Americans for the race like Billy Demong, who just won gold in nordic combined, and I’m in touch with those guys regularly as part of my beat.

I know that this e-mail is fairly straight and humorless, but I’d obviously approach the story with the style and wit that is ____’s trademark. The majority of my work for FasterSkier is straight reporting, but in my blog on the site, I take a lighter approach. I’m happy to send you clips, a resume, or more information on myself or the event–just let me know.

Thanks very much,

Nat”
So, decent pitch, right? Clear that I’d thought about it, tailored it to this specific media outlet, made it clear that I could make the story accessible to a mainstream audience? This is the e-mail I get in response:

“are you there already?

—————————-

Please consider the environment before printing this e-mail.”

I don’t think that I really need to say anything about the audacity of someone telling me to consider the effing environment when they’ve just responded to my elaborate and well-constructed pitch with a one-liner, without even the decency to give me a gosh darn capital letter.

I swallow my pride and answer, and we go back and forth for a few e-mails. The guy refuses to give me any guarantee ahead of time that he will publish anything, and we end with this exchange:

Me: “Can I get back in touch with you just beforehand to discuss details like angle, length, etc.? Or would you just want a draft, whenever it’s done?”

Editor: “draft when you’re done.” (if you’re going to give me a period, can’t you give me A GOSH DARN CAPITAL LETTER?!?!)

So I go to Vegas. Then I come back, and spend four hours the other night putting together what I felt like was a relatively entertaining and accessible piece (for the general public) on the whole trip, replete with clever metaphors about how Petter Northug is kind of the Lady Gaga of Norway. I send it to him the next morning, all 988 words, along with this greeting:
“Hi Mr. ______–

So I did end up going to Las Vegas for this event with the Scandinavian cross-country skiers, and I’ve attached a draft of an account. Let me know what you think–and I’d be happy to provide you with some pictures, if necessary.

Thanks,

Nat”

Response in its entirety, two hours and 10 minutes later:
“why is there only 1 quote?”

Not only are there no capital letters, but this time I don’t even get a f—king reminder to consider the environment before printing this e-mail.

How I want to respond:
“Why is there only 1 quote? WHY IS THERE ONLY 1 QUOTE?! BECAUSE YOU DIDN’T GIVE ME ANY FU—KING INSTRUCTIONS FOR HOW TO WRITE THIS THING, A—HOLE, AND I DID IT THE WAY THAT I THOUGHT WOULD MAKE FOR THE BEST STORY!”

How I actually respond:

“I’m happy to work some more in–do you just want more from the skiers?”

Response:

“it needs to be written as a news story with color and quotes. not observation.”
How I want to respond:
“All right, jerk, maybe if you’d told me to do that in the first place, as opposed to just giving you a complete draft, I would have done it with enthusiasm. But now you can shove it—I’m taking my polished work to the scores of other media outlets that are breaking down my door for in-depth coverage of cross-country skiing.”

How I actually respond:

“Hi _____–

Does this work? Reworked it a bunch–let me know… [attached file representing two more hours of work]

Thanks,

Nat”

Response:

“did someone shoot photos?”

My (hopeful) response:

“Yup–I did. I have a few decent ones from the race and the poker tournament. I’m out at the moment, but I can send some a little later this evening. Is there a particular format that would be best?

Thanks,

Nat”

“i need to see whether there is anything there. the story doesn’t do much. but maybe the photos could help.

the story is too long.”

I send along photos. That was six days ago, and I have heard nothing since.

In addition to the above media outlet, I also sent a pitch to the magazine that I worked for last fall, and also heard nothing. I am beginning to think that perhaps I should stick with FasterSkier for the rest of my life—my superiors are all kind and respectful, and I can prolong the conceit that I am actually a huge baller.

If anyone has any freelance assignments for huge baller international ski journalists, I’m taking them.

Since returning from the frying pan of Las Vegas to the furnace of the East Coast, I’ve been at home in Maine. After such a wild time out west, it took me a full week to get back on my feet. But now I am ready to rock once more.

The reason I came home was to race in the Yarmouth Clam Festival Bike Race tomorrow. But before I could do that, I had to warm up, having not raced my bike since crashing out at the finish of the Lake Auburn Road Race in early June. Which meant that I had to do the Brunswick Time Trial (RACE SEVEN IN THE MAINE TT SERIES!!!!!).

I really don’t like time trials. Maybe it’s due to my lack of true aerobic fitness. Or non Miguel Indurain-like build. But whatever it is, I suck at them, at least compared to climbs and uphill sprint finishes. This one was basically in my backyard, though, so there wasn’t much of a choice.

The day before the race, my friend Morgan and I went over to the Brunswick High School, where the Maine Bike Rally was taking place, in search of someone who might be able to help us register the day before and save us some time. After being passed between like four different people, we finally were introduced to a man eating a large bowl of cake and ice cream. Between bites, he managed to give us absolutely no useful information and simultaneously thoroughly insult us, by asking us questions like, “have you ever done a time trial before?” and informing us that “helmets are required,” and “no drafting.” I suppose that I had hairy legs and in general behave like an amateur, but still.

The time trial itself was uneventful, and the only other amusing thing that happened was as we were leaving. As we pedaled away on our bikes, we thanked one of the volunteers, who yelled after us to “come back next year!” and to “stay the whole weekend!” “We live here!” we shouted back to her, to which she responded by yelling, “no I don’t!”

Since Morgan is an out-of-shape extremely qualified cyclist and I am a moderately fit not-particularly-qualified cyclist, we decided that the time trial would be the first event in the Tour de Clam, the winner of which would would be the person with the lowest combined placing between the TT and the Clam Fest. Morgan beat me by three places in the TT, but as it turned out, we did another ride on Wednesday, in which I took five of nine town line sprints. So, in tomorrow’s race I only have to make up two places. Loser has to buy lime rickeys at the Clam Fest after the race.

Other unwitting participants in the Tour de Clam include Middlebury Coach Andrew Gardner and MWSC VP Eileen Carey, both of whom are signed up for tomorrow’s race. Each has a large deficit to make up after having forfeited the Brunswick TT. And after having talked a big game all spring, Bowdoin ski team member Walt Shepard appears to have forfeit the entire competition, given that he has only entered a single bike race all year, and no stages of the Tour de Clam. This will be an especially tough defeat for him to stomach, since the course for the Clam Fest race travels past his house.

I promise to have a much less stupid and hopefully more entertaining blog post after tomorrow.

If you are a huge baller for long enough, then eventually you are going to end up in Vegas. That’s just how it is.

I flew here yesterday from Boston. It was pretty sweet—on the leg from Newark to Las Vegas, I sat next to a well-groomed Danish dude who was competing in the World Series of Poker. He is not a professional—it sounds like (I couldn’t hear him that well over the roar of the jet engines) he splits his time between poker and working on his farm. I think he told me that he lost a million dollars or two in the last year, which seemed like no big deal.

Most of what I know about Las Vegas is what I have seen from the movie The Hangover and from what I have been told by others—mainly that it is the most horrible place in the whole world. So far, I believe that neither of these representations are accurate. I did not wake up to any tigers in my bathroom this morning, and after 24 hours here, I actually have to say that I kind of like Las Vegas.

To be sure, I emphatically agree that this place is an incredible waste of space, water, and energy. It’s can also be depressing—most of the people I’ve observed in the casinos actually look pretty lonely and miserable while they’re spending their money. However, there are a lot of good things as well.

First of all, people are quite friendly and convivial. On my run down the strip this morning, a surprising proportion of people I jogged past said hi. And I was also accosted by a crusty, unshaven, potentially-still-drunk-from-last-night middle-aged man who was waiting for the bus. As I approached, he grinned at me and shouted: “I keep telling you people…well, I don’t remember! But have fun!”

Also, where else are there things like slot machines in the airport, gigantic fountain-volcanoes that simultaneously belch water and flames, and absolutely gigantic buildings with seemingly no order or aesthetic sense?

I hate it when people take themselves too seriously, and I think what I like about Las Vegas is that in general, everyone here seems to realize how utterly ridiculous this place is—and that there’s no point of being serious here, because you’d be like that guy who gets super-pissed off during the game of Monopoly and stalks off. (Yeah, okay, that guy is definitely me sometimes.)

Now, in no particular order, a few observations from vegas:

–The public transportation here is absolutely horrendous. The bus that I took this morning took about half an hour to go three miles, and it was a similar issue last night, except packed with belligerent drunk people. It’s basically like riding the subway at rush hour in New York, except it isn’t underground, it doesn’t go fast, and everyone has had eight margaritas.

–There are a lot of people around whose sole purpose it is to get you to do or buy things. Foremost among them are sketchy dudes standing on the curb passing out these cards with pictures of naked women on them, with phone numbers and pricing information. Wow. The number of people doing this was incredible—certain sections of the strip were just lined with guys shoulder-to-shoulder handing them out. I collected a few for the benefit of the reader (they give them to you a few at a time, I swear)—I haven’t called any of the numbers…yet.

–Caesar’s Palace has erected a ski jump—yes, a real ski jump, with snow—for the fourth of July. I am going to go check it out right now before it’s time to watch Marcus Hellner and Petter Northug play poker.

Honestly, I could not dream up a stranger assignment than this one. More to come soon–honestly, how could there not be?