Back in Fall, I had briefly posted an article about a beer buddy named Dave who had just been diagnosed with one of the more aggressive types of cancer. Because it had just happened, I ended up taking it down because not everyone was aware of the issue yet. Granted, I doubted the article would make it up to the East Coast, but it was best to just be cautious out of respect for he and his family. For me, writing has typically been my form of self-expression when shitty things happen (See also: death). It’s how I process the situation, no matter how imperfect my grammar or spelling may be, it always makes me feel a little bit better to hunt and peck on a keyboard to pay my respect.
Dave’s not here man. Dave Leupold passed away early Monday morning after a courageous battle with cancer. He was 55 years old and from what I know about him in the short time I knew him, he lived those 55 years to the fullest. His enthusiasm talking about skiing, mountain biking, tequila, or craft beer was tough to ignore, mainly because he would probably tell you anyways. A self-proclaimed adrenaline junky whose heart laid in the paws of a golden retriever named Molly. I hope, somewhere, Dave is reading this because he should know that Molly was snuck treats whenever his back was turned.
Dave was a character, as I’ve learned most people named Dave are. He would cook every morning in the ski house and would always forget to tell you he had put some extra hot peppers into your meal. He insisted on cooking.
He once claimed to me that he had perfected his homebrew recipe for an IPA. He would later claim that Heady Topper tasted like his exact recipe after introduction to his first can of IPA nectar. He quickly bought a case, well, when it was easy to drive down 15 minutes and buy a case. He would only drink craft beer and embraced the localism that Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Vermont breweries had to offer. I wish I could recall many of the alcohol laden conversations we had regarding him starting a brewery, mountain biking, the industry, or beer in general. One thing Dave never understood me was why I ran though.
There is a large amount of sadness I hold for his biological family, but my heart rests heavy with his strong group of friends. The lemmings he spent many weekends on a bike, set of skis, or sharing a beer with. I only was able to spend a fraction of the time that his friends were able to spend with him, but that time was well spent. His laugh was the best.
So do me a favor and raise a glass to the #2 Mug Holder at Mad River Glen this weekend. Rest in Peace Dave.
