A sweet portent

I had a dream while I was in Baton Rouge last month:

It was a cold, rainy fall afternoon in Seattle and I was walking down a sidewalk with the rain dripping down my face. I was smiling and enjoying the wet, sleepy day because by my side was a fellow whose company I enjoyed. We were bundled up in our northwest woolens, huddling close as we walked to avoid the raindrops en masse. We opened the door to my Fairy Godfather's shop to get out of the rain. It was warm and dry inside and his windows were steamed up. We only stayed for a little bit, then continued on our walk to a coffee shop down the street.

I thought I woke up after this dream, but apparently I didn't, because you've been by my side this whole cold, rainy autumn, riding next to me as we go to the shop to enjoy its warmth, new toys, and endless stories. Then again I must be awake because I can look into your brown eyes and feel your fuzzy face against my cheek, what no dream could ever provide, no matter how much I tried. Yes I must be wide awake.

The miracle of rest

All ballz out for 2 months of singlespeed cyclocross racing plus a few alleycats and drunken weekday rides thrown in for extra merriment. The knees had cried uncle. The mind and the body had thrown in the towel in search of rest and recovery. I could barely pedal my bike let alone walk up a flight of stairs. The race at Steilacoom had pushed my right knee to the edge of tolerance. One too many steep hills. A dozen too few gears. The thought of getting up in the dark on a Sunday morning to race made me roll my eyes and pull the covers back over my head. Fine. I'll rest. I'll take a few weekends off from racing and pull out the geared bike to let the knees recoop. Rosemary can stay in the stable chewing her alfalfa and getting fat. Her mom can get lots of rest and enjoy the freedom of sleeping in late and nuzzling up to a well trimmed beard when the day finally awakens us from slumber.

Ahhhhhh rest. It was wonderful. But something was unfinished. We went to the Evergreen race to cheer on our friends who were still gunning it for 4 laps every Sunday morning. The people. The colorful kits. The pinning of numbers. The laughs. The blown lungs. The bulging eyeballs. The fog. The cowbells. The fleece. The mittens. The wool hats. The hugs at the end. The relief of testing your body and succeeding by crossing the finish line. The mud. The sweat. The hamburgers with lots of ketchup and freshly sliced tomatos and lettuce. The $2 bottles of Henry's.

I wanted to return. My three weeks off had done me good. I stirred. My legs wanted to throttle again. My mind was eager to challenge myself and others. I wanted my points back! I had averaged 5th place out of 30 ladies in every race. On my singlespeed dinosaur mind you. Only two races left in the season and I was not ready to call it quits. South Seatac's sandpits called my name and I etched it on my calendar.

The morning broke with cold sunshine. It was SWEET! The rain from the preceding days had formed a slick layer of black mud along the shady singletrack while the sandpits absorbed the rain and formed a firm track to ride on top of rather than sinking down to your rims. Jane pinned my number, I rubbed some Greyhound Juice on my bare legs, and we warmed up twice around the course. At the start line I was no longer called out front with my top 10 placings so I resigned to the back of the pack. Bah. No worries. I shall pick you off one by one. GO! We set off up the hilly pavement and I passed half the girls as they contemplated what gear to shift into. The sandpits, the dismounts, the slogging, the bottlenecks, PASSING YEE FRAIL SOULS, the singletrack, the mud, the cowbells. I loved it! Tick tick tick I passed them all save four. I sprinted the last 200 feet as Tim egged me on to pass one last lady. Flying through the finish line and came to a stop and leaned over to hurl, not my breakfast shake, but a mouthful of warm spit. I watched it drip off my heaving lip and into the mud at my foot. I love this shit! Hugs all around. Faces splattered in mud like we're six years old. Mud in teeth. Mud in ears. Mud up your ass. What a fabulous return. Next week at the Kelly Creek final it's all ballz out. The last race. The last hurrah. I'm ready to eat more singlespeed love.

Patience

Watching waiting luring teaching living. Not forgetting what remains to be discovered after leaving the comfort of all that is known. Detaching from what is expected to be obtained and finding how it is to live. The smallness, the goodness of a temple standing solitary in the high desert. Its colors breaking the line of the sky and earth with markings of golds and reds and yellows and greens and blues. Its walls resonating a deep, steady song into the air like a siren beckoning a weary sailor. The eyes of Buddha guiding you along your path. Open the door and breathe in the warm, sweet smell. Close your eyes and absorb the moment. Welcome home.

They gave me decaf

This foul, grumpy mood brought to you by the fucker who gave me decaf for my afternoon medication: You fucking suck shit. I wasn't born fucking yesterday. I know what decaf will do to me. Witness:

- To the fucker with the 3000 watt light riding up my ass on the way home tonight: You fucking suck shit. 1) Get the fuck off my slow ass. My knee hurts and I don't appreciate being blinded from behind and being forced to stare at my shadow instead of the fucking bike trail. 2) Get over yourself and learn how to ride at night with lower wattage. The lighthouse on your handlebars will do nothing to increase the size of your dick.

- To the slow artsy fucking chick taking her time in the middle of the bike trail: Move the fuck over and get out of the way of riders who actually fucking ride. Your thrift store outfit will not make me think twice about knocking you over.

- To the fucking jackass son of a bitch who is stalking my friend at the Emerald City Cyclocross series: You fucking suck shit. If you fucking dare pull that shit on her again this Sunday I will come at you with my fucking pedal wrench and send you back to fucking Jesus. When a woman doesn't give you her fucking phone number it does NOT give you the right to look up her name in the standings and Google her and find her phone number and call every half hour and leave her paralyzed with fear in the only place she thought she was safe. It does not give you the right to lurk and trail her at a cyclocross race where she should be strong and free of low life scum shitheads like yourself. I fucking dare you to come within 100 feet of her. Make my fucking day shithead.

- To the people who are so self-serving and narcissistic that they cannot live without causing pain in other people's lives: You fucking suck shit. May you eat a huge serving of humble pie and know what pain and suffering are. Oh wait - you are in pain and suffering. Thanks for projecting it onto the rest of the world who tries to love you.

- To the fucking creep at our cafeteria at work who had the gall to use email to ask me out: You fucking suck shit. I did not give you my email to take advantage of me. I was nice and said you could send me some Katrina photos that your family took along the Gulf. I did not fucking invite you into my life. Get a fucking PhD and know how to make love to a bike and meet the Dalai Lama and maybe you'll get a fucking hall pass. Oh wait - you never will! So get the hell out of my life and don't fucking serve me decaf ever again.

- To those who have the dignity to treat a chick with respect, intelligence, a smattering of hotness and treat her bike like a princess: You fucking rock. Let's go to Tibet.

The Best Advice

"Do not burn yourself out. Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast…a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it is still there. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains, bag the peaks. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to the body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much: I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those deskbound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: You will outlive the bastards.”

- Ed Abbey at a 1987 Earth First! Rally at the Grand Canyon