One big happy family

I was a bit worried about getting my precious new wheels home tonight. I finished gluing the sewups on last night and let the wheels sleep over at their fairy godfather's shop so I didn't get glue all over my existence. So tonight I went to the shop to swaddle them in blankets and take my babies home. Everyone oohed and ahhhed over them (note: I was not raising money) and asked about the spoke pattern and hubs and rims and tires. My fairy godfather answered all the questions like any proud father. He smiled and laughed and held them up high. He should have had a cigar!

Finally it was time to pack the babies up and bring them home. Before I started lashing them to my pack, my fairy godfather said, "Wait! I want you to have one more thing." He shuffled into the backroom and appeared a few minutes later with a black nylon Campy wheelbag. "Here, you have to protect at least one of them so they don't bang into each other." He tucked the rear wheel into the bag and gently zipped it up. Wow! A Campy wheelbag. I'm so official now! He wants the bag back, but for the next 20 minutes on the ride home I'll look like I know what I'm doing.

I lashed the babies to my pack and with many cheerful goodbyes we rode off. I had a little concern with how loose the wheels were on my pack, but they weren't anything I hadn't handled before. A nasty storm had blown in and the sky was black and rain began pelting my face. Not so bad riding down the trail. I had one hand on the Campy bag so it didn't swing too far to the side and one hand on my bars. We navigated through Fremont and Ballard and cut the u-turn onto the pedestrian path on the Ballard Bridge.

Now, I love the Ballard Bridge. We have a great relationship. People condemn it to hell and are scared shitless of it, calling it a mass of aged concrete and rebar. They loathe walking or riding across it, saying that the cars are too close or it feels like they're going to fall into the water or the bridge is about to collapse. BAH. This bridge has history and glory. This bridge is like a salty old fisherman with so many stories he'd keep you up for days listening to tales of what he's seen. I look forward to every trip across the bridge and looking down into the water and across to Fishermen's Terminal and all the boats who have sailed the cold dark seas. And the murals. How can you not love the murals??

But you know, on stormy days the bridge kind of sucks. It faces south and any weather is unimpeded shooting up pretty much from Oregon straight onto the bridge. You get the wind and rain right in your face like a train. So tonight as I started south over the bridge, my precious cargo, not lashed down particularly well (hey it's only a 2 mile ride), and one wheel nestled into a nylon bag disguised as a sail, decided to take flight and wave uncontrolably around my bike and I. I was torn between steadying the wheels in place with one hand or holding onto my handlebars with two hands and attempting to stabilize my bike that was being tossed around the walkway like a mad kite. The decision was quick. I had to hold onto my bike and my babies would have to fend for themselves. The cars whizzed by and splashed water across the berm. The wind tossed us about. The sleet and hail pelted my face. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the one baby waving around saying hello to the cars. "Stay closer!" I barked, but she was having too much fun out in the new world. As the bag flailed around she tossed me even more. I kept envisioning myself being flung across the berm and onto the windshield of a passing car. I kept pedaling and the end came closer. Closer yes, but also closer to the lightning that has now begun. Oh great. Hail, sleet, insane wind, rush hour traffic 2 feet from me, and now lightning. I'm a giant lightning rod. I can see the paper tomorrow: "Girl struck by lightning, found dead with two sweet wheels lashed to her back." My friends would stand around at my wake pitying me, "All that work and she didn't even get to ride her new bike and those sweet wheels. (pssst...does anyone have dibs on them yet?)"

But we made it. We turned west and out of the direct wind. I put my left hand back on the wheels to keep them close and they regaled in the fun they had just had. Damn kids, I thought. We got home safely and they are dry and on their new bike. One big happy family.

N.A. Handmade Bike Show 2006

Ok, enough of the malicious ranting. I'm centered. On to more enlightening moments of the week.

The North American Handmade Bike Show ended this past weekend. A major showing by some of the remaining true artisians of our time. Artists who still feel liberation in the molding of hot metal and the expression of love in the steady swirl of color. Sacha from Vanilla represented the Northwest as only he can and won Best in Show from cyclingnews.com. A tricycle. A titanium seatpost. The most orgasmically smooth handlebars I've ever laid eyes on. Crafters from old Fat City created some sweet cable guides like a dancer's hands wrapping around steel tubing. And lugs, lugs, and more lugs.

If you stop in a mainstream bike shop you miss out on pieces like this. The art. The love. The history. They are bikes, but they aren't meant to be machined by robots and mass produced. They're made with an artist's hand. Granted, if the mass-produced bikes reach the right person, they will be loved and given their own identity among the hoards of aluminum machines. They might even get to sleep next to their owner in a warm house. But to have true artists still create simplicity of motion is a special place and time that we need to hold on to. I don't want a machined piece of plastic. My bikes have soul, like children, they are unique individuals. They carry me to my own world. And it's artists like these who go there with me.

Adios KEXP

A few months ago the Seattle Weekly (not that I endorse this paper) published a story about what lurks behind the financial and managerial doors of KEXP. It not only explained why the station and its board failed in making its South Sound broadcast succeed (fucked up decisions, way to go asshats), but also that the station's dj's make upward of SIX DIGITS. I don't make 6 digits. I never will. KEXP is a non-profit, public radio station, paid for by its listeners. I've been listening to 90.3 FM for 11 years, since it was the pubescent station called KCMU. Now its djs are making over twice as much money as I am? And they can't get a fucking signal to extend past fucking Tacoma??? Yet they can stream to Antarctica and take the show on the road to fucking NYC and create Podcasts (whatever the hell they are), but they can't fucking get a signal past North Bend or down to its loyal listeners in Olympia.

Fuck that. Fuck you guys. You say you're not commercial radio, but you're all about the fucking money. How far around the world can we extend. How much fucking money can we raise during our membership drive to create more technology that our real core listeners don't have the time or resources to appreciate. How much fucking money can we raise to make our djs approach the salary level of commercial djs.

And then to top it off, to really show how distanced you are from where you came from, John and Cheryl, the other morning you had to ask listeners at 7 in the morning to send in their pics of the precious children. Like that wasn't a blatant, whoring request for parents to give you money after you oohhhh and ahhhhh over pictures of their children. Give me a fucking break. That was the last straw. You play nothing but emo music, you've lost the element of rawness where you came from, and now you want to look at pictures of precious children to dish up more money for your six digit salary. You've sold out, kids.

Enjoy your whoring during the memebership drive. As my friend who lives in Olympia put on her membership renewal notice this month: "Who??? You want what??? You want more money from me? I'm sorry I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU!!!"

(Oh, and Riz, you still da Man.)

She's Piste

After my tumultuous on-again/off-again twelve year relationship with snowboarding, I've given it the finger and found the nirvana I've been searching for, where I can skin up mountains free of thought and descend in quiet solitude: skiing. But not just normal skiing. No I have to bump up the difficulty level by making it telemark skiing. So not only am I attempting to figure out how to guide two planks down a hill, but I'm supposed to bend down at every turn with the grace of a debutante picking a flower. There are no flowers at my feet as of yet. I'm not nearly as clumsy as yard sale victims would have you believe your initial foray into skiing should be. I've been out five times and can safely rock the bunny hill, even the steeper parts of the bunny hill. A few times I've tried to take my confidence to the steeper blue runs, but quickly retreated back to the fluffy bunny hill with my tail between my legs. Right now those blue runs have the appeal of leaping off the Empire State Building. I have a 2 hour lesson next week with a Norweigen instructor named Nils, the kind of guy who looks like he was born in a Swedish chalet and slid into a ski suit and mini-skis before he hit the ground. After my first lesson with him he said I was doing great and naturally athletic and that by the time my lessons were done I'd be an advanced intermediate. Oh god is he naive. If only he could hot wire my brain so it would coordinate with my legs and that could be true.

Arrrrrr Pirates!

Pirated the Chilly Hilly with 20 or so others. Had no conscious in that decision. I've done the CH twice before and got nothing in return. No free chilly, no free snacks, nothing but a stupid number and sticker for my helmet that people insist on wearing 6 months after the stupid ride. Rode my singlespeed with slicks and made it up the hills just fine, but overall the gear was waaaaaaaay too low (60" anyone?) to get anywhere efficiently. Freds that I passed going up hill got much delight in passing me on the straightaways or, god forbid, downhill. About half of our group did the ride on fixies and finished a good hour before everyone else. What a bunch of animals. They even ate all the food before the rest of us arrived. Arrrrrr!

I did meet a few noteworthy Freds. One guy shouted out, "Hey Fat Chance!" as I rode uphill. He caught up with me and was riding a full suspension mtb with knobbies. Turns out that he owns two Yo Eddies, but can't ride them anymore because a snowboarder collided with him 4 years ago and broke one of his vertebrae. So now he's relegated to full suspension and sitting upright. But he finds joy in the riding he can do and has also filled his life with a new wife and baby girl. It was so fun to ride with him. I think he enjoyed his trip down memory lane and heckling me as he shifted uphills.

The next day was even better when Aaron's picture appeared in the Seattle PI as the one representation of the CH ride. So not only was a Pirate representing the ride, but he's riding a tall bike and not wearing a helmet. Those Kaskaders had their lycra in a wad over that one. Go Aaron...let's all just ride bikes.

Jacked up

Had a proper bike fit done by my friends at Real Rehab. What a freakin revelation. Using all their gizmos and widgets they began by jacking up my seatpost over 2 inches. My knee angle went from 27 degrees to 13. They'd like me to go down to 9 degrees, but would save that for later. "Are you serious???!?!" I asked them repeatedly. There was no way I was supposed to ride like this. It felt like I was on my tiptoes and bouncing all over my seat, but they insisted that it was a vast improvement and it opened up my legs and muscles and would make me far more efficient. They said I was an old skool "masher." Yeah maybe. Now I need a new seatpost because my Campy one is an inch above the max limit. They also reeled in my brake levers and moved up my seat so I wasn't so spread out. Oh...I'm supposed to reach my brake levers...how interesting.

The best part about the bike fit was that they agreed my new track bike was a perfect size. "Put a 100mm stem on that and you'll be golden." Shit are those good words to hear or what? All I've done the past 4 months is worry endlessly that my frame would be too small. Me? On a 54?? Those frame builders (who have been doing this for 30 odd years) don't know anything!! Ok, well now maybe they do cuz my bike is coming together quite nicely. Whew.

FINALLY

Got my new track frame. Fin-a-fucking-ly. Columbus Zona steel tubing. Pink. Black. Chrome. Damn she's light as a feather. All you carbon tuber and aluminum posers are missing out big time. Or maybe you should just stick to your game and leave us steel devotees to ours. We'll meet in 5 years and see who still has their frame .

Tour de Denny

My fellow Aquarian, Denny T, put on a marvelous alleycat in honor of his bday. He had us huffing and puffing up and down every damned hill in Seattle in search of all things named "Denny." Denny Hall, Denny Park, some dead guy named Denny, bombing down Denny hill, into the bar at Denny's. Not only was it his bday, but the race happened to fall on one of the windiest days on record. We were nearly standing still trying to pedal down Lake WA Blvd, then slingshot north up Cappy Hill. My calculations showed almost 2100 ft of elevation gain in 20 miles. I was on Rosemary who delighted in reminding me of how my climbing legs have disappeared in the past few months. I swear her 70" gear grew up to 90" that day.

Denny and his lady put on a most excellent post TdD bash, although a few dozen stinky, drinking bikers quickly degraded the air quality in his small apartment.

January Greenlake Race

Last night's bday celebration ended when I passed out last night and the repurcussions began the second I opened my eyes this morning. Holy hell. What did I drink last night? More importantly what did I eat last night?? I haven't felt this sick in years. I can barely stand up so I go back to bed. A few hours later I try to muster the energy to make coffee and go to work, but....my stomach makes me go back to bed. Must...go....to...work. Around noon I finally get up. Any other day and coffee goes into my system before oxygen, but this morning/afternoon nothing is going down. Must....go...to...work. Why is the sky so bright? It's cloudy but not cloudy enough. Where are the black boiling clouds when you need them? Work. Why is this monitor so BRIGHT?? All I want is to crawl under my desk and sleep. Oh god why am I here. No one else is. Oh I see they were expecting me early. Thank god I have understanding project managers. I slide through another late Friday.

Everyone says that I need to show up to the Greenlake race tonight. DUDE I can barely sit or stand and you want me to pedal FAST for over 3 miles???? At midnight? I go home and nap. Zack calls and says that we need to do the race. Oh god the pressure. What is this whole "need to prove thing?" I need to prove that I did enough last night and want to be left in peace. I fall out of bed around 9pm and make some coffee. I pack my bag (oh did I mention we're going skiing tomorrow too????) and my bike and I'm off to his casa.

11:51 p.m. - We leave the warm confines of Zack's house, 2 blocks from Greenlake. By the time we reach Greenlake we're soaked and cold.
12:00 a.m. - At the Greenlake stadium hiding under the stadium overhang. It's freezing and raining. Not just rain. POURING rain. Heavy rain. Hurting rain. And it's cold. Shiver me timbers cold. We line up for the race and Derrick shouts GO and 20 or more riders are off, riding blindly out onto the Greenlake path. Shit they're fast. Why are they so fast? It's only January. Slow down, man. I haven't exerted this much bloody energy in months. My chest hurts. This path doesn't end. It's weaves and twists and turns. Oh great. Now we're heading around the south end and the wind is roaring in our face. Thank god I brought my road bike or I'd be standing still. I get passed by someone on a fucking tall bike. Not just passed, but PASSED. Like blink and you miss him passed. God this sucks. I want it to be summer. In the summer I'd be in better shape. I wouldn't be cold. It wouldn't be raining. And I probably wouldn't still be recovering from my birthday night of revelry.

Somehow the stadium nears and I can stop. My stomach hates me. My lungs hate me. I hack and cough. Everyone is there so I figure I'm dead last. But hell at least I'm done. As we mill around we get to watch Denny and Aaron battle it out for the trackstand contest. Denny is zen. Aaron is wearing a weird raincape. One hand. No hands. Aaron puts a footdown and Denny wins! The winners are called out. Denny's new trophy is a triumph of engineering. A silver chalice with the Greenlake path etched along the base. The race winner is a sly, closet Cat 1-2 who joined the race at the last minute. And he's wearing SHORTS. Alas Denny did not win the chalice this month, but he does go home with a huge bottle of cheap beer. And me? Shit if I didn't come across first for the ladies. I had no idea. But you want to give me a bottle of blackberry brandy? Hell ok! I haven't had liquor in my system for about an hour so it's time to replenish. Thanks!

12:41 a.m. - Back to Zack's place dry and warm and tucked into bed. Not bad for under an hour's work.

The newest Master

Today beget a new participant in the 35-39 Masters racing category. I am now half way betwix 30 and 40. It's been a terrific ride so far. We'll see how much of an advantage I get over ladies 5 years older than me. Masters Nats? If I ever put down this bottle of beer long enough to get serious and train.

Did spend the happy day with the best gang of biking hooligans a girl could ever ride with. A few of us met at Shorties for pre-ride pitchers and they even bought me expensive beer! No PBR tonight. Off to Westlake to meet up with everyone else. Daniel greeted me with mini chocolate cupcakes! Half of them were gone and some of them were smooshed, but dang what a thoughtful jesture. Off to Uwajimaya for a differnt kind of menu. Sake and bean cakes and seaweed oh my! Then up up up to Cappy Hill to see the new 2020 bike shop in the works. More beer and seaweed for everyone. Alex is going to have a sweet shop there. Perfect neighborhood and perfect friendly shop for bikes in need. We left Alex and his dog Beanie to race down 24th off Cappy Hill. Some of the kids flew down the hill unclipped...in the rain...Rosemary and I leaned on the brakes and cranks. I just turned 35 and don't want to end it now. We regrouped at Husky Stadium then rode up to Pies n' Pints where Zack surprised me with the most awesomest cake ever made: A Guinness chocolate cake with Baileys icing. Holy YUM! He was so sweet and bought the whole cake so everyone could enjoy. More beer, more fun. More riding. Off to the Nickerson Saloon. At this point I barely remember where my pedals are, let alone how to ride. Not something you necessarily want to admit. But somehow a few of us stayed together enough to navigate down Stone Way and over the Fremont Bridge to the next locale. At this point I was done and could only intake water. Unfortunately the grill was closed but - aha! I still had a sandwich I bought at lunchtime. And the beancakes from Uwajimaya! Nothing like squishy powdery mystery globs when your at the end of a night of drinking. Everyone devoured them and only briefly mentioned how nasty they really looked.

Tired. Must. Ride. Home. Somehow. Lordy lordy if I could count the number of times I've had to muster the fortitude to drag my ass home after a night a fun. I've made it this far I'm sure I have a few more nights of strength in me. Rosemary took care of me and navigated home. The cranks turned. The forks lay straight. The wheels kept their momentum. I'm home. I'm going to bed. I'm going to have another great year.

23 Days

It's rain. You live in the fucking PNW. Get over it. You have a roof over your head and warm clothes and hot food. You are not a member of the Squamish or Makah or Salish tribe from hundreds of years ago who had to endure this weather year after year in shabby clothes and puny shelter and hunt and gather your food. Give me a fucking break you whiney bastards. Go download some shit for your Ipod and sit in front of the computer and whine a little more. If you can't handle a little rain that replenishes the watersheds and gives life to the trees and flowers and salmon then move the fuck away. 23 consecutive days of rain. Oh fucking no! Heaven for-fucking-bid that nature gets her turn to get some rest and soak up some goodness and wash herself of the toxins we coat her with. I for one enjoy being hydrated. It makes my blood run smooth and strong, it makes me fast and fleet, it purifies my soul. Enjoy skiing much? Then shut the fuck up. Enjoy the free, cheap water that flows out of your tap? Then shut the fuck up. Enjoy the moss and cedars and ferns that make this the Evergreen State and not the pallid, gray Northeast? Then shut the fuck up. Take 60 seconds of your precious life to consider what those ever more precious raindrops do for our earth. Drink up, my dear Gaia, drink up.

Where the sun hides in winter

Started the New Year in good form, just returned home from a week in Puerto Vallarta. Aside from the hoards of Large Midwestern Americans who think they're Cortez and have claimed Mexico for themselves, it was a tan and fabulous adventure with mi amore. Temps in the 80s, sunny skies, warm water, pelicans, humpbacks, beachcoming, surfing, mtb-ing, drinking, eating, sleeping, repeat. We fled the tourist hell of PVR and tried to find the smaller, slower essence of true Mexico. We were somewhat successful and my sweet natured tour guide did a smashing job of connecting with the locals and receiving the most rewarding gesture of any trip abroad - laughter and smiles united among the tongues of two languages. Our mountain bike trip brought us to a remote mountain spring where we dipped into the cold, refreshing pools, and soared above the hawks as we climbed above the valleys and then bombed down the hills in a fraction of the time that it took us to slowly inch our way up the dry, dusty roads. We surfed with bronze gods and goddesses who call these warm water shores their home and even got a few nods of acknowledgement and kudos. We chowed on quesadillas and tacos made from scratch in front of our eyes by two women at their stand on a cobblestoned street on the edge of where other tourists dare to wander. We took the local bus and relied on our feet and scattered words of Espanol. Starting out the New Year among new faces and sunsets, remembering what a splendid world it is outside your narrow walls and what it means to stretch out and touch what lies beyond.

To A New Year

No bad poetry or dreadful essays. Just a few words:

Simplicity

Compassion

Strength

Live well and be good to each other in the new year.

My new toy

Santa loooooooooves toys. Especially toys that beep and record superfluous data. So when I asked Santa for a heart rate monitor, sans bells and whistles, I should have known better. Turns out that not only is Santa an alpha-nerd, but his bike buddies include the head of physical therapy at a major university and several senior Olympian cyclists. I can see them at their favorite cafe midway through their Sunday bike ride drinking cappacinos, nerding out, and throwing down all the latest stats for HRMs on the market.

So here I sit with this fancy gizmo that wraps around my chest and synchs up with a watch the size of Paris Hilton's engagement ring that synchs up to my computer via infrared lightbeams. It beeps a lot when I hit the buttons. The backlight is not in the same league as Indiglo however. It has a cute little bike icon when it records my HR. It comes with installation software and an instruction manual obviously written by a man. That is to say, the instructions go no where and never answer my questions. Finally after two days I figured out how to set the date and time. Getting the HRM to actually record my HR was surprisingly more simple than the date and time. I even downloaded the data to my computer in minutes. HaHA! A graph! The numbers go up and down and across. Figures, numbers, data. I can relate with this. I am to know these numbers and learn their patterns so that I can unleash my potential. But for now, I play.

I wore my new toy to last night's Thursday night ride. I wonder if Polar ever anticipated people monitoring their HR while they downed mulled wine in the rain or played tandem footdown or waited for their friends at Dicks or threw darts whilst drinking nasty PBR. Yeah I don't think so either. But herein lies my graphing of +7 hours of being strapped into my HRM:



A few peaks of exertion interspersed with lulls of libation. Pay no attention to the elevation. I still have to figure out how to reset that. Shouldn't be so hard to do since I live at fucking sea level, but I'm sure it will beep a few times to tell me what a moron I am.

CX season's snow capped finale

Well that was interesting. They said that Jerry Baker had predicted snow for the last race of the year back in September. They don't call him The Godfather for nothing. Our final race in the ECC series was down in the hick town of Bonney Lake, WA, about an hour south of Seattle. I predicted that the weather would be cold. Ok smarty pants that wasn't hard to figure out. As we got closer we could see frost on the ground. Ok. Some black ice on the roads. Ok yeah. Hmmm that looks like a nice covering of snow on the ground. Interesting. We pulled into the Kelly Creek race area and were met with 3 inches of snow and ice as far as the eye could see. Fields and fields of crunchy, slippery white stuff. I had to put my jeep into 4wd to get into a parking place. (Note to self: the 4wd still works, we're good for mountain travel this winter.) I got out of the jeep and just started laughing. There was nothing else to do but get the right attitude off the bat. My friends were rather dumbfounded. They had never mountain biked before this cx season let alone ridden on snow let alone on ice. They were about to get a quick lesson. One junior reported back that it had taken him 20 minutes to ride around the course in some ridiculous granny gear. Great. I didn't have a choice in gears and would have to make do. I worried about having to slog through the entire effing course. Great. Everyone else and their silly gears. So much for going all ballz out on the last race of the year. Well if I wasn't going to do well then neither was anyone else. haHA!!

We did a few warmup laps and I got ample satisfaction when it proved that everyone else was having as much difficulty as I was. Slipping, sliding, swerving, swearing. Going no where fast. I did notice that after a hundred people had taken a few laps that a nice track was forming to make the going a bit easier. Hmmmm. This might be possible. There was still ice in spots, but having some semblance of trail would make things much more doable.

We gathered at the start and everyone was bundled like Ralphie's little brother from A Christmas Story. I was still showing some skin on my calves thanks to the Greyhound Juice I rubbed on them. Intimidation is 90% of the battle I say. The first Masters group was off up the icy hill and a few of them took some tumbles. Great. The second group of Masters took off a minute later and several met the same fate. Tumbles, sliding, chaos. I needed to get ahead of the pack and out of the way before they started bumbling up that hill too. No need to slow myself down due to others' incompetence.

"10 seconds ladies.....GO!!" And we were off. I tried to stay behind Jenny, the series leader, but I quickly had words with the icy road which had other ideas for my tires. It was a mix of trying to stay upright, trying to stay on one line, trying to watch who else was swerving into you, and trying to keep up with who's in front. Damn, somehow a dozen girls got ahead of me up the hill. Oh well, I shall pick you off one by one my minions.

I quickly realized that passing girls would be the trick to the whole race. The narrow track that had been worn down in the snow was the only way around the course. If you tried to pass by going around in the fresh snow you instantly sunk down and slowed to a stop. Fuck. I stubbornly tried it twice and finally relented to Plan B: Pass whenever an dry spot opens up and go like hell. It worked. Boom, pass two girls on a well worn stretch of snow. Boom, pass a third over a bumpy dry section of roots. Tennis Shoe Mom was on the side of the trail with a mechanical. Sorry honey. The race was slow and like playing hopscotch. I'd catch up to one girl and have to pace behind her slow ass until I could pass her. But it worked. At every opening I hopped past her like she was standing still. Aren't you going to try and catch me?? Jeez what's your deal? Tired already? I have a feeling I pissed off a few of them as I recklessly bombed past, but damn girls it's a RACE, it's not a debutante ball. I'm not going to be polite about this. Not now.

Two laps down and I've passed another 5 girls or so plus a few odd Masters men. I impatiently try to pass another guy and I stall in the fresh snow. Dammit, and little junior racer Devon takes my spot. I jump back in and sit on her tail for another half lap. We swap spots a few times. I feel like we're the only two girls racing this thing and everyone else is just out for a Sunday stroll. Finally! Someone to play with! I pass her on one slight uphill, then she passes me at another opening. We're on eachother's tail the whole time. Half a lap left. I know that there is an open spot in the trees before the runup. I can see it in front of me. If she goes left, I'll go right. I try to anticipate where she'll move and go for it and it works. She doesn't have a chance to jump and catch me. I'm off in the snow again heading for the runup. The little shit is 20 years younger than me and could easily get me on this runup, but I gun it. I can hear her team cheering for her to catch up with "that lady" so I gun it even more after I get to the top and back on my dinosaur. I'm not having a junior catch me.

Down the off-camber and across the ice field. I'm cautious not to fall, but am I too cautious that she might catch me? I have no idea where she is now. I can't hear her. The cowbells and the snow and the cold air on my face provide me no answer. I gun it as much as I can in this stupid snow. I'm across the last part of the cow field and approaching the final icy climb. Is she behind me? I can't tell. Is the crowd is cheering for everyone or for me or for a final showdown? I pick my line and gun it up the hill. I pass a few more guys who have lost it all. The announcer calmly calls my approach to the finish and says nothing about my rival so I finally realize that she is no threat. I cross the line and hear my placing: Third. Not fucking bad! Sweet! My best placing yet and I feel like I'd hardly ridden at all. The snow and the pacing behind others didn't take it out of me. It was more a race of patience and strategy and knowing when to make your move. Hmmm somewhat like track. A good lesson to carry over the next few months until I feel that surge of competition again.

Singlespeedo

Major kudos to this guy who braved a Portland Cross Crusade race to show what he was made of (quite literally). There really, really, REALLY needs to be a dedicated Singlespeedo category next year. Come on guys, DO IT!!!! Show these race fans some CX meat!!! Give 'em a reason to ring that cowbell!!

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

Fall Back

Into my arms. Into my life. We turn the clocks back tonight, but things are moving forward. The trees line the streets with less color and more gray than the weeks before. When I ride to work the sun rises more to the south than it did yesterday. It arches over a more southernly peak of the Cascades every time I turn the wheels, like I am pushing it along it grinding path to another universe. Despite the darkness and clouds there is still the bright orb that we don't always get to see. The sun is still emitting its energy, still showering the world with life. The days are darker and colder and wetter, but I'm finding more warmth by its glow. Someone once said that nirvana is looking above the gray clouds, believing in what you cannot immediately see with your eyes. I have been struck by a few blinding rays and I welcome their sharp awakening. Because darker days do not beckon death, but bring us closer to the life above the thick autumn clouds.

Singlespeed Luv

Remember when

Remember when we used to ride through the woods, the sun finding its way through the kaleidescope colors of leaves above our heads. The dark earth beneath our wheels, soft and forgiving as we wound our way along the trails and along our lives. The air, the earth, the trees, the sky, the crunch of dry leaves that we picked off one by one, insistent that we not leave this place until we touched each one, reinforcing our presence to no one in particular, just the trees who weren't looking anyway. It was a game that left us out late with the stars and our breath, our noses dripping with glee, our cheeks red from the hour.

Close your eyes and remember. And go back. Back to that time of goodness and freedom, youthful and limitless, boundless until dawn. The woods weren't about hiding and neither was the night. It was about being found inside and out. You brought me there. You were my vessel, my chariot to this world. And now I have you back to relive this passage again. It's all timing, they say. It's all a full circle. This circle may arc into another path, but we'll stay on it together hand in hand.

Quiz Time

You finished your first cyclocross race 12 hours ago. Do you feel:

1. Splended. In fact I've never felt better. I think I'll take my dog Binky out for a stroll in the night air.
2. I'd answer but the morphine drip prevents me from writing coherently.
3. Like my legs have been through a meat grinder.
4. I am SO STOKED for this season I'm going to do laps running up stairs with my bike first thing in the morning, and then I'll go around Discovery Park practicing hurdles, and then go do some more steps, and then some more hurdles, and then go to the gym and lift weights. And then I'll do some more. All before 7 a.m.
5. My boyfriend said I looked so hot in my jersey it totally made me, like, forget where I was. I swear I could have pulled him into the woods, and, you know. Oh, and sorry I got in your way when I walked down that steep section of singletrack. It made me so, like, totally nervous. I just can't, like, concentrate on what I'm doing when I think of my boyfriend. Ya know?
6. They expect us to do this in the RAIN?!?!?!
7. I never knew how consistently recognizable a Balance Bar could look when yacked over a period of 35 minutes.
8. There is a masseuse out there who could retire early with the money they'd make off me right now.
9. Ya know, I, like, feel really totally awesome! I can't wait until next week! It's gonna be, like, so much FUN!!! It was like, so beautiful and sunny today, it just really made me love being outside and feeling good about myself. It was like one of those "Life is Good" t-shirts. In fact I think I'll go to REI and buy another one with a big smiley face on it.
10. There is a reason they invented autumn. It's a time to harvest God's bounty: mass quantities of Oktoberfest microbrews and brautwurst with mustard. Fuck this exertion shit. Bring on the beer and weiners.

Blingy Blingier Blingiest

Having the best dad/ebay shopper in the world gets the new track frame new toys (at half the price).

Blingy Bling Bling

All work and no play gets Rosemary new toys.

Baton Rouge Velodrome

From my Bell 212 helo overflight. Sweet-talking the pilots has its advantages.

Quote of the Week

"God must really hate red states."

Out of the frying pan

Into the glamorous life of the largest environmental disaster (formerly called Louisiana)that the states have ever seen. Welcome to the world's newest and largest Superfund site. I'm at the Baton Rouge command post at a refinery facility, which happens to be a smaller Superfund site, holed up with I don't know how many hundreds of more Coasties in a dozen double and triple wide trailers. The field outside has about 50 RVs where people have taken residence. Like a college tailgating party without all the revelry or sleep. I landed a plush hotel room with one of my idols, one of the most talented and famous women scientists in the world. If I had known 5 years ago that I'd be rooming with her I'd have choked. Turns out she likes a glass of white wine before bed, uses a rose scented lotion, and can get ready to leave in under 5 minutes.

We're here to do the real field work of the Katrina response. This is where we're mapping the +30 oil spills, the boats that are smashed or underwater, and tracking the oceanic convergent zones that are sweeping bloated human bodies towards Florida. Three of us are stuffed in a room about 8'x8', with 4 laptops, 3 printers, and assorted office supplies to keep it cozy. The wireless connection sucks. Email goes in and out all day. The room is like a meat locker in the morning but by noon it's easily 85F baking in the Louisiana sun. The people are just as hard core as the conditions. Dedicated, brutal, truthful. I've never met such a group of responders or scientists who act like such cowboys with 10 gallons of guts and brilliance under their hat. Just the renegade posse needed to herd the hellacious riprap left behind Katrina.

I'm printing out yet more maps for yet more Admirals. Their eyes will sweep across the pretty picture as the commanders brief them on the response status in about 8 hours. My show and tell contribution to feeding the beasts. I did some maps the other day for Bush. That Bush. Stayed up until 2 a.m. He wouldn't look at them. Just pretty colors. My Pet Goat on a map.

I miss....

- Home.
- My new home away from home full of bike parts and bike language and grease and dreams and good people. My fairy god-father. I called him the other day and it was good to hear his voice.
- Rosemary
- My singlespeed Fat Chance
- My friends. All my friends. The laughter. The smiles. The bonds. The hugs.
- Dark beer. I will drink a porter and drink it slowly and savor every sweet sip of flavor over my tongue.
- My morning ride to work and the sights and sounds of a city freshly cleaned by the dawn.
- The Ballard Bridge. The mass of aged concrete and rebar and its colorful murals.
- Coffee shops. As ubiquitous as they are, it's good to know they're around.
- The Arboretum. To get away from it all.
- KEXP.
- The grungy, crunchy, liberal, whiney people of Seattle.
- Grungy, crunchy, liberal, whiney people's newspapers.
- Organic food.
- Reading a book.
- My wool hats. I knew I should have brought one.
- My sweet wool bike jerseys! Arrggggg I knew I should have brought one of those too.
- Rainier and the other mountains.
- The trees. Oh how I miss the big evergreen trees.
- And the water. The smell of salt water and being so close to the deep, cold ocean.

Quote of the week

From my very facetious co-worker as someone plays U2 really loud on their laptop tongight:

So is Bono going to ask all the Third World countries if we can have our money back?

Who really saved the day

This article from the Washington Post sums it up. While the rest of the fed gov't fucked up the Katrina response, the Coast Guard was there in the trenches initiating response and helping people. I've seen nothing but Coasties giving 110% while their own homes lay in ruins and they have nothing but the blue Coastie uniform on their back. In the article they interview Lt. Cmdr. Jim Elliott whom I was fortunate to work with at the Athos spill in December '04. I remember him as the essense of leadership, a man with a soft spoken voice and piercing steel blue eyes, a leader who sees the strengths of everyone under his command and speaks to each of them with intelligence and respect. Keep up the good work, Jim, we're all proud of you and your charge.

Coast Guard's Response to Katrina a Silver Lining in the Storm

By Stephen Barr

Tuesday, September 6, 2005; Page B02

Let's have a round of cheers for the U.S. Coast Guard.

Hurricane Katrina wiped out Coast Guard stations in Gulfport and Pascagoula, Miss., and looters wrecked part of its New Orleans base. But that did not stop the Coast Guard from sending out rescue helicopters and cutters on dangerous and exhausting missions to save lives and clear waterways after the hurricane ravaged the Gulf Coast on Aug. 29.

"We started the night that the storm hit," Jason Shepard , a Coast Guard rescue swimmer, said yesterday in an interview from Mobile, Ala., one of the agency's staging bases for Katrina.

Shepard, who carries the formal title of aviation survival technician first class and has served in the Coast Guard for 18 years, called the Katrina rescue effort "probably the biggest thing that has happened in our careers."

Coast Guard crews have rescued 22,000 people in Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama, Petty Officer Andrew Kendrick , a Coast Guard spokesman in St. Louis, estimated yesterday.

The Coast Guard, in many ways, is a model agency. It is relatively small -- with about 45,000 uniformed and civilian employees -- and believes in "cross-training" so that each employee can perform more than one job.

It also is a part of the Department of Homeland Security, and the Coast Guard's response to Katrina in recent days has again illuminated the importance of capable leadership and a clear chain of command in agencies during a crisis. Hopefully, as Congress moves to probe how the government handled the Katrina crisis, the Coast Guard can serve as a model for fixing what's wrong elsewhere in Homeland Security, including what many perceive as poor leadership at the Federal Emergency Management Agency.

Coast Guard Lt. Cmdr. Jim Elliott , who is helping oversee rescues from Mobile, said the agency set up a unified command with states and local industries before the hurricane roared ashore.

"We know how to join with other organizations to get the job done," he said. "We were out the door as soon as the winds died down."

Elliott has been getting by on three to four hours of sleep each day for the past week. Shepard said rescue operations are running round-the-clock, with crews working "anywhere from six- to 18-hour missions, depending on what was going on."

The work is demanding. Rescue crews that normally would be asked to pluck about 20 people from danger on a tough day have been "doing 100 to 120 hoists" in adverse conditions that include heat and humidity and exposure to contaminated water kicked up by chopper rotors, Shepard said.

The work is hazardous. Pilots have had to hover between electrical and phone wires and drop cables from heights of 10 to 180 feet, Shepard said.

The Coast Guard trains personnel to rescue people from buildings, trees, mountain cliffs and sinking ships. While the employees often specialize in certain types of operations, they all train to a standard so that they can form up as teams in emergencies, with each person knowing what each job entails and how it fits into overall operations.

As Katrina approached, the Coast Guard pulled its regional command out of New Orleans and relocated to St. Louis. Aircraft and cutters were dispersed out of the storm's path.

The Coast Guard has put about 100 chopper crews, typically made up of four people, in the air each day for the past week and has flown more than 900 sorties, Kendrick said.

Shepard and Elliott said their great satisfaction has come in helping pull families and children to safety. "It is amazing the lives that we have saved," Elliott said. "It is a great feeling to be a part of this operation."

Coastie rescuing an innocent victim from the Superdome

Lost little girl

Coast Guard helo survey

Coastie rescue barge

The little piston that could

I was up until 4 a.m. last night making maps with the night crew. You’d think it’d be a nice quiet shift, but they need to have products prepared for first light, which means I get busy. They served us chicken fried steak at the 1 a.m. chow. I think I'm still recovering from that one. My diet has taken a nose dive into grad school-style comfort food crossed with southern hospitality. Huddling in front of a laptop with people looking over you shoulder for 18 hrs will do that. Red vines, chocolate, pb&j sammiches, oranges, bananas, coffee, more coffee, doritos, chips, diet coke. Rosemary and the track look so far, far away right now. The summer tan that I earned under so many hours in the sun is beginning to peal.

Today was full on. I need it NOW. Is it ready YET? I have a mtg in 10 min. Email it to these Army captains. We're giving these maps to the pilots so they can do aerial surveys of the neighborhoods. If you see bars or stars yes it is a priority. We need this by 1700 for a heads mtg to decide the hazmat priorities. We're giving these maps to the boat teams so they can navigate up the streets now waterways to do house-to-house searches. What is the lat/long of this street address, they say there are people who need rescued there. What is the lat/long of this address, there is a house full of nuns who refuse to leave and want to die under god's will. They sent out swat teams to take out snipers who are on the roofs shooting at the response personnel. There is bunker fuel sliding through the neighborhood. The shit is on fire. A gaping hole will open up and swallow the remains of the city. No body sees that as such a bad thing. It's all good. The Coasties get what they need. They go do the dirty work. I just sit here and eat red vines.

There is a woman pilot my age who wears her olive green pilot suit and black combat boots around the command post. She speaks with authority and control, but in a soft, tender voice that makes you wonder if that same voice barks back to her while she's in the pilot's seat scorching through the airspace. She has blonde hair pulled back and in other attire could be that California girl from a Beach Boys song. I admire her. I sometimes wish I had taken a different track.

It really is a positive atmosphere here. They try to keep morale high. Someone has passed around Beanie Babies to the tables. Somehow I got two. A brown and tan puppy diving into the red vines and a bright green bear dressed as a clown sitting on a printer. Everyone is friendly and says hello. It's not like the streets you live on where you don't even lift up your head to greet a neighbor you've lived next to for 5 years. Everyone introduces themselves. Everyone smiles and asks how you are, even if you've never met. You're here for a common cause. You're here to help each other succeed. There is no need for masks or self absorption. Leave that at the door. In fact, leave that in the putrid flooded streets of New Orleans. Get over yourself. We're here as humanity and will die together in humanity. There is no need to trump anyone else today when you will trip and fall all your ass in front of everyone tomorrow. I love coming to these events because it is a microcosm for how things should be. Team work, communication, success, altruism, equality. I try to take it back with me when I go home, but it tends to get crushed by those who have never had the pleasure. That could be my contribution, to not let it get crushed any more. Fuck you all and your holier selves, I will take back. You won't crush this again.

Keep 'em happy

Firefighter wives volunteer to raise money

A sigh in the world

The Ops Section Chief, a CG commander, that I helped last night was professional enough to give me feedback on a particularly important map that I made for him last night. It was supposed to help him and the Navy pinpoint where they could go into the neighborhoods to rescue people who were left waiting for rescue in or on top of their houses. They took the map on a helo overflight, but when they surveyed the neighborhood from 1,000 ft above there were no signs of life, only small segments of rooftops poking through the fetid water, which meant there was over 18 ft of water in the streets once the water subsided. There were cars overturned and wracked up along buildings, which also told him that these people never left their houses. He was rather somber when telling me that this neighborhood with thousands and thousands of houses, where they hoped they could have saved so many people, may not have had many survivors. He hoped that those people were able to get to higher ground and be ferried somewhere else. They will send boats out tomorrow to check on the houses and pound on the roofs to listen for survivors. If there are no knocks answered they will move on to the next house. Everyone has been talking about how in New Orleans they tell you to have some sort of saw or machinery in your attic to break through your roof as part of your hurricane emergency kit. I really hope that the people in that neighborhood got to higher ground before the waters swallowed up their lives.

There are a few hundred people in the command post here. Most are from USCG Sector New Orleans and have lost their home. Each person has their own story. Some scour the aerials on the internet looking for their homes or where they left their cars. They all laugh at the absurdity of it. I think they're well enough to know that they can rebuild and all will work out in time. One man told me of how he could clearly see on an overflight three debris paths that led across the state. He's never seen such a wide swath of destruction and he's lived through all the major hurricanes of the south. He was dumbfounded about how such a storm surge could have risen, he estimates over 30 ft, to uproot trees and decimate buildings. This event will be fodder for numerous studies on environmental toxicology and cleanup, how the Gulf shoreline has been changed, and how western infrastructure will have to be reconstructed after total annihilation.

Count your blessings everyone and spread some kindness into the world. There is a big hole to be filled.

For the love of coffee

48 hours ago I finished my last track race of the season. Right now I sit at a table in the Alexandria, Louisiana, convention center that is home to the Coast Guard Region 8 command post. The Hurricane Katrina response here is going rather well, given all that is going on at ground zero in New Orleans. The CG has rescued nearly 10,000 people by the end of today. The maps I produced early this morning showed them where they could navigate their skiffs in the flooded areas to ferry people to bigger boats and to safety. We've produced maps of aerial photography that show the flooded areas, hospitals that still have patients and need evacuated, nearly 200 oil spill and other contaminant incidents, off shore oil rigs that are damaged, and SAR operation bases. When I woke up from my cat nap at the hotel this afternoon and turned on CNN, they were talking about the CG rescuing people by boat, and for a moment I had some pleasant satisfaction that I was doing some good here. I'm not looking to stand out, I'm looking to work as a piston in the machine that is chugging along to aid these poor people.

Have we had our frustrations? Hell yeah. CNN had our aerial photography before we did. And we still don't have it all!!! What the hell does that tell you when the entertainment industry (yes I said that, they aren't really news any more now are they) can get gov't photography before their own feds can??? Freakin Google Maps has more current aerial photos than we do. There are goons living in their parents' basement with better information than I have right now. Oh, and now it's the holiday weekend so you can kiss any support from the home office goodbye. Yeah the people here are utterly frustrated with the decisions (or lack thereof) that hinder the response, but that's where problem solving comes into play. Make things work anyway. Push through. Don't cave. Ever. The people literally living in shit can't afford to have you cave.

But I can't complain. Everyone here is wonderful and we're living large everything considered. I eventually got my own hotel room. I pulled the night shift after walking off the plane and the hotel unknowingly gave my room to someone else when I didn't check in at midnight, so I slept for an hour in the lobby this morning waiting for them to clean my room. Then I got a few hrs sleep before coming in again. Local people brought brownies, someone even delivered a dozen pizzas, and kids made a bunch of cards for the Coasties. There is good work going on. It's just not all noted on the vaccuum of television.

Coasties Rule

Responding to Katrina

I'm leaving in a few mintues for the airport, heading to the command post in Alexandria, Louisiana, to work on the Hurricane Katrina response. One of my many hats involves mapping in emergency response situations. I've been on 2 real oil spill responses and numerous drills. It's an opportunity of sheer adrenaline and knowing that everything you do is necessary and valuable. The spill in Philadelphia last winter was the largest in human resouces since Valdez in 1989, mostly because of the stretches of river effected and the nuclear power plant being shut down for fear of oil leaching into their valves. We worked 18-20 hour days without getting out of our chairs, often not leaving the hotel/command post for days, going without eating, sucking as much caloric value as possible out of coffee, cream and sugar. This response will be beyond compare. I'm excited to be part of the human machine that is being put in place. Working with a few hundred, or thousand, people in the command post, everyone gunning at their positions, working together to make the machine's pistons move effectively. The command post is the only time I've seen the phrase "team work" actually work. Unlike the typical mundane tasks at work, in a command post, every task is vital.

I'm packed and even threw in extra food from my camping provisions: peanut butter, dried bananas, chocolate chips, energy bars, crackers, and more chocolate. I'm not expecting to ask for anything when so many people have nothing. I hope my little contribution will help this response in some way. When we work together as a machine for humanity, it usually does.

Track Posse - Jane, Molly, Me

Track Posse 2 - Jane, John, Molly, Me

Last Night of Track Deelight

I managed to convince my bosses that I couldn't leave for Louisiana tonight because it was the last night of track races of the season. (heeheee...suckers.) So off I went to Marymoor totally charged to race because I knew that for the next 2 weeks my body would be abused in a sedentary way working at the Katrina response. It was all or nothing tonight.

The track posse was all there and I braved sporting Jane's skinsuit for another night. She had tossed it to me on Monday to welcome me to the team. I did the superman thing and changed into the skinsuit in the porta-pottie. I'd never worn one before and when I came out I felt so....exposed. Like a guy wearing lycra shorts for the first time. Some things just aren't meant to POP OUT like that. But when the heads turned the catcalls came out. Whistles, yells, whooping...the whole freakin track turned around to see me in this monkey suit. I tried desperately to hide behind my ReLoad bag, but Gregg managed to attack me and wrestle it away. Calls of "Drop the bag! Drop the bag!". Yeah hahaha very funny. I walked around like a cat with wet paws. Not entirely sure what to do with myself. I wore it all night and eventually got used to it, maybe put an extra swagger in my step.

So I was back in uniform on Wed night and ready to storm. There were about a dozen girls, with 4 of us from the Track Posse. The first race was an 8 lap snowball. Jane and Izzy did well getting the first laps while I hung out in the rear sucking wheels while everyone else tore us around. By the 6th lap the pack had slowed down and I was ready to go. I sped around the leaders and took the 7th lap with a good lead. I looked behind and had no challengers and continued the lead the whole way on the bell lap. Someone yelled that I had a good 100 meters on them. I couldn't believe I had no challengers, but hell....ok by me. I settled back at the finish line and enjoyed my points. First race to me.

Second race was a miss n' out. Our track posse did well blocking the other women across the width of the track. With 3 laps to go, it was me, Izzy, and one Ti girl. Grrrr....we don't like Ti. At the bell lap Izzy took the front position and I took the back. I sucked the Ti girl's wheel and at the 3rd corner came ahead on her outside so she couldn't pass Izzy. In the homestretch I sprinted with Izzy for the finish, but she took the prize. All good with me. Izzy rocks.

Third and last race. A 4x5. Fuck this is going to hurt. Game plan is to let the pack run the race and I'll suck wheels and go ahead for the final block of laps. I swear they weren't turning the numbers on that board. At lap 17 I was convinced we'd already been around 10 times. My legs started feeling all too heavy, all too tight. I knew I still hadn't recovered from my week with Rosemary. For the 2nd sprint I got in front and told Izzy to take my wheel. I pulled her around so she could take the points. Shit that hurt, but hell I had nothing to lose. The final 3 laps I tried to hold a lead, but my legs didn't have it. I got behind some others but in the final stretch I let them have it. Legs toast. Legs hurt. Legs in pain. Legs taking 2 weeks off.

It was a perfect end to the season. I never imagined doing so well. Izzy took first for the night and I took third. Not too shabby racing against women who have raced Cat 4 all spring and summer. I'm ordering my custom steel frame soon and with Grand Wizard Charles' help I will have sweet bling wheels to adorn it. I can't wait for the next 7 months to pass. They'll be filled with mass amounts of friends and bikes and training trips and bike love and cold darks nights of building new toys. I'd like to have the future tomorrow, but I have some days to fill up with memories and experiences first.

Travels with Rosemary

My friend and I just got back from an 8 day bike tour of the San Juan Islands and lower Vancouver Island. We ate, we drank, we rode, we stunk, we lounged on hot rocks at the beach, we ate some more, and rode some more. I originally planned on taking my converted fixed/ss Fat Chance on the trip since I knew its 36x16 gearing (60.8 inhces) would do well with heavy loads, plus it has been outfitted with a rack and panniers before. But, two nights before our departure, Rosemary (my beloved fixed Bridgestone) told me that she wanted to go on vacation too. I thought about it quite a bit and was split on taking her. She isn't outfitted for pannier racks, I'd have to alter her gearing, my friend would be severely annoyed if problems arose with Rosemary, but god dang it would be a blast to take her.

I sat down with Sheldon Brown to see what the optimum gearing would be for Rosemary. She's a 44x16 now, but if I took her to 44x18 that would give me 63.6 inches, which is near what the Fat Chance is. Hmmm...with this combo I should be able to take the heavy load and still ride around the roads sans panniers w/o spinning my brains out. Seemed like a good compromise. So the day before departure I ran around town looking for a seatpost rack, 18 tooth cassette (who wants to pedal downhill with all that weight?), and all the other last minute trip preparations. Of course, no one had an 18 tooth cassette so I had to settle for an 18 tooth fixed cog. Bah...who needs coasting anyway?

Another rationale for taking Rosemary was that my panniers wouldn't weigh that much. I had lots of ultralight gear from my climbing days that I was sure would keep things to a minumum: titanium cookset, Pocket Rocket stove, purple annodized titanium mug, Integral Designs tarp (no stinkin' heavy tent), down bag, new lightweight thermarest. No prob. Although given my lightweight setup I also rationed that I could bring a few luxury items like a dozen eggs, 2 blocks of cheese, and 4 days worth of food, heavy on the chocolate.

My friend was still skeptical of my setup, but my bags weighed in at under 30 pounds, the seatpost seemed like it wouldn't crack under the load, and I ensured her that Rosemary and I would do well.

And we did. Mass amounts of sun and riding and challenging terrain. The San Juan Islands are known as challenging bike terrain with major hills, and not a good deal of flatness anywhere. Lopez is considered the most "flat", but that's only because its hills are intercepted by level terrain on occassion. I never imagined Rosemary and I would do so well. We didn't walk once and got some good comments from riders who recognized her special setup ("Hey what the....look at you!!", "You are hard...core. That is so hard core.", "Can you ride around here with only one gear?", "Hey don't give the bike all the credit for doing so well. You're the engine. Look right there at those legs. You're doing it yourself." Yadda yadda.)

Thanks for such a splended trip, Rosemary. Youz da best bike a girl could have.

Rosemary holding up the fort

Potato Chip Hill

Back in 1997 my dad and I credit card camped and rode our bikes around Lopez and San Juan Island for a few days. I had my souped up steel Serrotta and my dad rode his titanium Serrotta machine. I had been riding a lot around Seattle, but I wasn't the kind who actively sought out big hills on my own. That whole "comfort zone" thing. My dad, however, being a testosterone-driven cyclist from the Appalachian hills of western Pennsylvania absolutely loved climbing on his bike. The more the merrier, the harder the better. His climbing prowess was even more nauseating because he had recently shed almost 40 lbs by strictly relegating his food consumption to the point of lowering his body fat to about 10%. He didn't look particularly healthy to my mom and me, but he could ride and climb like a beast.

My memories of our trip are of: gray skies, a few raindrops, lots and lots of big hills, my dad riding out front the whole way, me complaining about the hills the whole trip, me dropping out one day because I was so tired of hills, and most of all - Potato Chip Hill.

One of the toughest climbs was a hill through the middle of San Juan Island. The map said this was one of the flattest roads, but was punctuated by this one huge hill. My dad said we could do it and he'd wait for me at the top. I remember going really slow upwards. Thinking how much I hated hills. The revolutions of my pedal stroke getting slower and slower. Seeing a cow pasture on my right in the valley below. A guardrail the whole way up the serpentine road. One turn after the other. One more grade after the other. Mentally taking this weakness out on my dad.

He did meet me at the top and was happy to see me. But, he had a little speech for me. He gloated about how great it is climbing when you've lost weight. That all you have to do is get rid of the junk food and the weight just peels off. He's never felt better. Like it's so fucking easy to lose weight and the skies open and the angels fucking sing to you. Whatever, I thought. Just get me the fuck off this stupid island. I suck. I’m a loser. I can’t climb like you. I get the message. I've never, ever forgot that day.

Fast forward to 2005 and this past week riding Rosemary around the islands with fat panniers on her back. I had been doing a stupendous job climbing the hills with and without the panniers, stunning myself on the steep sections without walking one step. One of the greatest moments was climbing the hill that rises straight out of Lime Kiln State Park. Straight the fuck up. As we looked up from the bottom I said to my friend, "I might have to walk this one." But I didn't. Rosemary didn't let me stop. We kept pedaling, kept crawling, kept straining to get our load up this steep ass climb. When I thought Rosemary would topple over, she gave a boost and we moved forward. We did the first section, it petered out for a bit, then went straight up again. This is when I really dug in. I screamed, I strained, I grunted, I swore. I was Jan Ulrich not giving up. I wouldn't give up. I was going to get the fuck up this hill and I didn't care if I had to stop a thousand cars to wait for me. As the hill finally crested, I smiled and nodded to myself. I was pretty fucking awesome. Good job, girl.

But the real test was Potato Chip Hill. My nemesis from 8 years ago. As my friend and I traveled back to Friday Harbor on that road with our full loads, I knew what lay in front of me. A very small part of me thought, "Well, it's ok if you walk, just do your best for as long as you can. Not only are you riding on one gear, but you're toting 30 extra pounds on the back." But there was a bigger part of me that wanted to chew up this hill and spit it all over the ground. As we approached the hill’s bottom, its memory loomed in front of me. The guard rail. The cow pasture. The serpentine of black asphalt curving high and disappearing around a bend.

Rosemary and I began going up. I kept pedaling. I kept moving. Yes, moving. Once again when I thought we couldn't go any faster Rosemary dug in and I felt acceleration under my feet. It was slow and my cadence was grinding. Certainly not the swift, smooth stroke of Lance going through the Alps, but I was doing it. I was climbing up this goddamned hill! I was so strong and I was annihilating that cursed day from years ago. The road curved around and more climbing lay in front of me, but I ate it up. Give me more you fucking road! I'll take it all! You can't stop me from climbing this hill! Finally I saw the pull off area to the side at the crest of the hill. I rode a little farther just because I could. I stopped. I smiled. I started to cry the exhaustive cry of triumph and defeating something that has taunted you and beat you for years. I climbed this fucking hill and I was so awesome. Not only did I do it so strongly, but I did it on a 44x18 gear with full panniers. Standing at this spot 8 years ago listening to my dad's speech, would I have ever thought this would be me standing here now? Nothing, but nothing could take it away from me because I did it my self and earned every inch of it.

My friend came up behind me a few minutes later and we had some water. She said, "Good job," and I said “Thanks,” but said nothing more. I was content where I was and needed nothing else. My demon had been slain.

White Starling

The wind whipped across Haro Strait into our faces and white caps feathered the water. My friend and I waited patiently to hear the boarding call so the Sidney ferry could take us back to Anacortes and our car. It was 1115 and the ship should have sailed at 1100. I bided my time playing with Rosemary and staring off into the water and gazing at the green jeweled Gulf Islands. An old woman with a light blue cotton outfit walked up to my friend and her bike and started a conversation. I couldn't hear all she was saying over the wind, so after a minute I walked over to join them.

My friend immediately brought me up to speed with what the old woman was saying. She was inquiring about our trip and telling us how much she loves riding her bike as well. She was 86 years old and rides her bike almost every day, and mentioned how much she loved riding around Orcas Island. She lamented that she can’t do something as strenuous as Orcas anymore, and I joked that she’d have to settle for a ride around “flatter” Lopez Island instead. We smiled and laughed as the woman with the white hair and deeply wrinkled face told us a story of how she celebrated her retirement with other people her age. They went to Australia for 2 months and rode around, then took a boat to New Zealand for another 2 month tour. They camped the whole way. She was 60 at the time! She had that lively, British story-telling vive to her, reminiscent of all the old adventurous explorers long gone.

She continued about how even when she feels down, she insists on getting on her bike and going for a ride. Any time she can ride she feels so much better, so alive. She lost her husband a few years ago, which left her with the deep heartache of loneliness. But this old woman drove home the point that when she gets on her bike she doesn't feel so lonely any more. It keeps her alive.

I was staring at this beautiful, vibrant woman of 86 years, with healthy white hair and wrinkled porcelain skin thinking, "I want to be riding a bike when I'm 86 years old. I want to live to be like her, to tell such passionate stories of my years. To be strong enough to break through the loneliness and sadness with the help of my bike and to become a wise, aged woman like her." And I cried a little, like I always do, but hidden behind my sunglasses staring into the morning sun.

She told us to have a lovely trip, and as soon as we met her, she was gone. I didn't get her name. She left before I could grab my camera out of my bag and capture her picture, her essence of how I want to grow old. I cried a little more, thinking of her long life with her beloved husband into their wrinkly old age and how he must have beamed at her beauty and love of living, how they must have created such wonderful stories together. But now she was alone, and looks to her bike as her salvation, her best friend to carry her through the lonely times.

I can’t help but think I met her for a reason. Thank you, white starling, for visiting me and whispering your message. I was listening.

Killing time waiting for the ferry.

Quote of the week:

"Don't climb up there. It's too dangerous for little girls."

- Said by overprotective (really?) mom to her 3 year old princess as her 6 year old brother continued to climb the 5 feet to the top of a dead, downed tree. My friend and I heard this echo into our ears at the same time as we sat at the camp we had carried ourselves on our bikes. I belted out in stunned laughter, while my friend sat there with mouth agape and eyes wide open in dumbfounded shock. Gloria Steinem would have kicked that mother's ass.

Jackasses still breed

We were on our way to yet another lazy, rocky beach afternoon in the sun on Lopez Island when my friend and I stopped at the local bike "shack" to get her a new water bottle. The shack was set back off the road with a wide lawn in front of it. There were about two dozen hybrid and beach bikes for rent on the lawn, neatly stacked into rows in their bike racks. Two lazy looking fellows whom I immediately dubbed Daryl and Daryl were laughing at each other as one Daryl rode a beach bike in circles around the other Daryl. A straw sun hat adorned his head, he only needed a set of overalls and chew in his cheek to complete the outfit. "Oh boy," I thought. "Let the merriment begin." Just walking across the lawn with Rosemary, I knew I'd be in for some sort of needless attention. In the city, fixies aren't given much of a second glance, but here in the hilly boonies, she'd be looked upon as a pink freak, and I as the mother of such mutant spawn.

I leaned Rosemary up again one of the bike racks and followed my friend into the shack. She picked up a clear water bottle and paid for it. The owner asked us, "Do you know what the picture is on the bottle?" We tried to analyze the black spotted graphic, but came up empty. "Um, the earth?" we asked. Not like we really cared. "Nah! It's the San Juan Islands!" he shot back, amusing himself that he stumped yet another set of stupid tourists come to patronize his island. Whatever, we thought, as we walked down the shack's ramp out to our bikes.

As I pulled Rosemary away from the rack, thinking I was getting away from idiotic conversation about my bike, one of the Daryls asked, "Hey is that is singlespeed bike? You riding that thing around here?"

"Yes, I am."

"Ooooooh, well that'd be something if it was one of those fixed bikes, ya know," the one Daryl said to the other laughingly.

"She is.....fixed," I sharply noted as I lifted Rosemary's back end and kicked her left pedal to set the crankset in smooth fixed motion.

"No way!! You're crazy! You riding that thing around here in these hills. What kind of gearing you have? You done Mt. Constitution? hahahaha yeah you done Mt. Constitution on that thing? You got extra cogs in that there bag? hahahaha yeah you better have a whole bunch of extra cogs to change so you can do these hills."

"No, I just have one. That's all I need and I've been doing just fine with it, thankyouverymuch."

I was tired of their existence after their first words, of their personal inabilities projected onto me. Their mocking of Rosemary and me taking her on this trip raised my heart rate more than a few points, but I knew they weren't worth the conversation and I just answered that Mt. Constitution is one of my goals and I'd like to do it on her, but we didn't have time for it on this trip.

At that point, the owner came back out from his shop when he heard the conversation going somewhere other than where to eat or how do I work this beach bike. He came over to us and dropped down on one knee and examined Rosemary like a horse, picking up her rear end to check out her dropouts and hub, asking questions while feeling over the steel and rolling the wheel. "What kind of gearing do you have? Do you race? Really? At Marymoor, huh. Well good for you. You must be a really strong rider to be taking this bike around the islands."

At that point I was tiring of the freak show and started to turn Rosemary toward the road, when my friend commented on his last remark:

"Yes, she is strong. She's a very strong rider."

And with that we left Lopez Island's Daryl, Daryl, and Daryl and went on our way to the beach. And I rocked up a few hills extra hard just because they can't.

Rosemary is suspicious....

Community is....

- Bill Davidson seeing you so much that he doesn't ask for your ID when you slap down the plastic
- Charles from Wright Bros calling you at work totally excited about a lead on a new steel track frame
- Tommy from Recycled Cycles shooting the shit with you and looking foward to your mojitos at the track races tonight
- People referring to Rosemary by name
- Beaming at your friend who did so well in a race and telling her what a good job she did, and knowing that she is one of the most deserving individuals you've ever met
- Smiling and slapping hands with your friends in the cool-down circle after an all-out job in a race
- Having your coach ask your thoughts about your race and giving his input on what you can do next time
- Your coach designing killer drills and feeling how strong they make you
- Another girl insisting that you use her spare rear wheel so you can try out a smaller cog
- Meeting a woman at the Ballard Market who's riding an old Italian, red fixed gear bike and talking to her for 20 minutes about all the bike/fixed gear nerd things in a language that no one esle would understand
- Saying the word "Eno" out loud at training and having someone turn around and start an instant, intensive conversation with you about how the Eno hub is one of the greatest inventions ever
- Making plans and goals for the next year with your friends and helping each other reach them
- Wanting to offer your time and skills to further community because of all it has done for you

Afternoon (Track) Delight

My track-girl posse and I spent 5 hours in the baking northwest heat today helping the final Marymoor newbie track class of the season. Twenty six newbies showed up to learn the basics of track skills and to, hopefully, find the same addiction to racing around a small oval that we have. John, our fearless leader, showed how to successfully manage such a large group by delegating all the duties to us, his 5 eager assistants. Rental bikes were doled out, sizes exchanged, pedals wrenched on, seats adjusted, readjusted, and eventually everyone was on their way. I don't think the rental bike trailer has ever been so empty - you could see the back of it! If anyone else had shown up, their choices would have been one or two 59 cm, or the custom Davidson kiddie track bikes in a variety of crayola colors.

The group did a fine job getting themselves used to going around on their own for a few laps, and then John reined them in for the first of several skill sessions. Round and round we went watching and assisting the newbies in drills like pacelines, touching eachother's backs, butting elbows, following the leader (a student favorite), standing up for sprints, and then the double paceline. Only one accident to report of unknown cause, but resulting in sprained shoulder, scraped elbow and bent handlebars. All during the day, smiles were ramp-ed and even the revelation of, "Why didn't we do this sooner??!?!" Everyone was encouraged to show up for the Monday night newbie races and Thursday night training sessions for the few remaining weeks of the season. If all goes well, they will not forget the thrills they had today and will continue along the path next May....not so long down the road.

The track-girl posse met afterwards at a local establishment for mass amounts of rehydration and glycogen restoration and 3 hours of girl yapping time. I decided that I'm going to forego my Wednesday night bike apprentiship class (hell I have all winter) in favor of moving up to the Wednesday night races like everyone has been egging me to do, so part of our evening was spent strategizing our plan. Working with a team, and with a team of friends at that, makes the racing experience night and day. Instead of working for yourself and worrying about 12 other girls and exhausting yourself needlessly mentally and physically, you have partners in crime to work with you to capitalize on your strengths and to keep an eye on the other girls. Much less work, much more reward. Wednesday night should be an eye opener. It's fast, a game of chess at 28 mph. With my track-girl posse at my side, we will make for an excellent show.

Pay me in Mojitos

Spent the perfect summer afternoon drinking extra rum-lime-sugar-mint Mojitos and working on my friend's bike as we prepare for our trip next week. Bikes and an icy beverage (or three) on a hot summer's day. Is there anything better??? (Rhetorical question.) We had to skip down to the bike shop once, in giggly girlish Mojito delight. More supplies. Back home to complete the project and drink some more. God, our trip is going to be an effing blast. Two girls, two bikes, and a lotta food and booze. And not a care in the world. Remember this moment.

Kill your computer

Turn it off. Walk away. Go read a book. Pick up a newspaper. Call a friend. Take your bike for a ride in the fresh air (yes even if it's dark or raining - quit complaining. At least your body is alive and can experience such elements.) Stop looking for your life on this screen. It's not here. It's not reality. The Arial text you are so assimilated with does not care who you are and cannot make you complete no matter how much you talk to it. Turn away and look at the sky and the streets in front of you. At the people smiling at you and welcoming you home. That is reality. It's a beautiful place full of voices and thoughtful gestures and love and humanity. Of laughter and hugs. Not here. Let go of its grip. Please go find yourself. Now. Before another year has passed and you still don't know who you are or what you are looking for. Because it's not in this box. Trust me.

Where did my boobs go?

For what ever cosmic reasoning, I've lost almost 10# this summer. Track, intervals, track, jumps, track, pacelines, track, I want to throw up, track, gasping for breath, track, 800s, track, 400s, track, 200s, track, do some more 800s. Yeah must be something about the track. The appetite just hasn't been there. Maybe my thryoid forgot who it's housed in. 4 years of mountain climbing and I don't change an ounce. Two months of track racing and it's like I've got a tapeworm. I noticed that my shirts were fitting an awful lot looser all of a sudden, falling like drapes instead of billowing pillows. And then my bras had a bunch of gaps in them. Think Tyra without her angel wings. My knickers that I live in need suspenders. And now my tight kick'n jeans are falling off my ass. And Rosemary said that she wants higher gearing to go faster around town. You bet, my sweet. Anything to race humanity along the streets. Fuck an a man, it's about fucking time. Get outta my way I got a bike I gotta rock.

Bella! Bella!

That's what awaited us as we wrapped up our second women's race of the night on Monday. Phil, the regional USCF director has been checking out the Monday night races and taking the time to critique our racing and dole out advice. For the second race, Jane, Izzy, and I planned to work as a team and take control of the field so that I could take the lead in the final lap and win. It worked like a charm, like a game of chess played out at almost 30 mph.

Izzy and Jane took the lead to control the pack as I sat behind them, and we realed in one break away without a problem. Then with one lap to go and a hell of a lot of vim and vigor to exercise, I launched like a bat outta hell and surged past the throng and stayed way out front for over 300 meters through to the finish line. Izzy came up beside me on the track and we beamed together knowing how exciting a race we put on. The three of us came to the infield and rode around the inner circle to catch our breath and we gave each other high-fives and huge smiles. As we rode below Phil on his little viewer's stand, he stood up on his crutches, clapped and cheered "Bella! Bella!" He was highly impressed by our tactics and how it made such an exciting race. Dang, we impressed the pants off the regional USCF director. Dude, come see me next year. I'll knock your socks off.

ghostcycle.org

Forty white bikes were chained to lamp posts and street signs around Seattle in the wee morning hours this week to represent locations where cyclists have been struck by cars. ghostcycle.org is collecting and mapping the bike/car incident data to raise awareness of cyclists on city streets. The 40 bikes are by no means the entire collection of data, but the locations with the highest incidents. I was quite surprised not to see a pile of white bikes at some of the intersections I negotiate where I have often said "a car has my name on it." The City of Seattle, being their old passive self, has said they will not remove the bikes unless they pose a hazard to navigation or people complain about them. I give them a week.

Just like honey

Listen to the girl
As she takes on half the world
Moving up and so alive
In her honey dripping beehive
Beehive
It's good, so good, it's so good
So good

Walking back to you
Is the hardest thing that
I can do
That I can do for you
For you

I'll be your plastic toy
I'll be your plastic toy
For you

Eating up the scum
Is the hardest thing for
Me to do

Just like honey

I loved you so much. We believed it was such a gift that we found each other and we were going to build our lives together. Such bliss. But then the first obstacle. I was willing to wait and give you what you needed. I believed what you said. I trusted what you said. You were a present walking towards me every time I saw you. But now someone I don't know has taken it away from me when I didn't have a chance to reach out and keep it safe. I remember on one of our rides we saw an old couple helping each other along a path. You looked at me and said, "I want that to be us some day." It was one of the happiest moments of my life.

I would have kept you safe. And loved you forever.

Dearest Peter Pan:

You are a cad. You lied to me. I don't know who the hell you are or ever were. You sure as hell put up a good show for everyone around you. They call you Captain, but you're not, you're a fucking cad. Did the excitement just "fall away"? Once responsibility took form you fucking fled. And not just with me, you've done it with everyone of substance in your life. But it sure is nice to fall back into those tantalizing trysts with new, exotic people, isn't it? Back into NeverResponsibleLand. A place full of cute presents and notes and alluring admiration. Where you can play Don Quixote and write your muse. Yeah they sure make a person feel special. I hope you enjoy your stay there. Maybe that's where you can forget you're 36 and pretend you're ten years younger. Because one of these days you're going to have another big fucking wakeup call and realize the gates are shut to NeverResponsibleLand and you will finally have to live in the world that you've created for yourself and for your children. Don't say I didn't warn you.