CM Arrests press

Blah blah blah blah. Maybe it was just a slow news week around town? Or maybe people really give a shit about what happened to us? Either way I can't help but feel like a little kid who made a little stink about something and now the grown ups are all in a tizzy about things. Considering the gravity of this little stink, that's ok by me.

Charlie's managed to make a collection of the news coverage.

This is so surreal it feels like we're in the high school newspaper. Kids like us don't wind up with our pics in the city papers:

Seattle Times @ the rally

Seattle P-I @ the rally

Seattle Times photoshoot (starring Freki from FGG!!)


Best word crafting of the week, from the closing paragraph of the Stranger's article:

"Two weeks from now, (Zack)is supposed to present his University of Washington graduate thesis in mathematics. Overnight in prison, he played chess with other inmates using ripped up scraps of paper."

But nothing, NOTHING, beats having The Don of editorial cartoons, David Horsey, do a cartoon about you [insert little kid snickering at how crazy surreal this is]:

CM Showdown pics

We released several troubling photographs to the press, but these are more personal ones that I'm happy to share with my own little world. Many thanks to Denny for his thoughtfulness in capturing them (and my ass). These are the very happy moments when we busted my man out of the pen, then took him to Myrtle Edwards park to bask in the evening sun and to take a salt water cleanse, per his mom's advice (of course we also heavily advised not ingesting any of the water).

Interdependence Days

Well this has been an interesting week. To put it mildly. I can only relate the intensity to the initial days of the Hurricane Katrina response when at first we had no idea what was going on, then once we did and got into full fledged response mode there was no stopping the synergetic energy of working towards a common goal. Sleep? Nope. Food? Nope. Adrenelin? Extra heavy helpings please. It was an all out assault to get information into the command post and then out to the decision makers to solve problem after disasterous problem.

So I guess I was trained pretty well to deal with this past week. In the world of ICS (Incident Command Structure), which is used by all federal agencies to respond to any event from oil spills to forest fires to terrorist attacks, people are given specific roles to complete essential tasks that provide the information and resources to get the job done. At various times during the week I couldn't help but think I was working in my own little ICS land. This week starred (in actual ICS roles, not that they knew or cared):

Incident Commander - The coordinator, the leader - Guess that was me

Legal Council - Keeps us out of trouble - David our attorney

Information Officer - Coordinates with the media - Charlie the Tireless (I want what he's on)

Safety Offcer - Ensures a safe work environment - Guess that was me again since I prevented the Seattle Times photographer from breaking his leg standing on a broken chair when he was doing Zack's photoshoot. I made him stand on a cooler instead and made sure he didn't break that either.

Volunteer Coordinator - Ropes the volunteers to do all the sharking and odd jobs - Me again

Finance Leader - Keeps tabs of the money - Lee the Faithful

The Command Post - The warroom where the IC works - That would be the idyllic home of Zack's mom out in Fall City. Ample cell reception and Internet connection allowed us the freedom to become grounded walking in the thick green grass, holding a black kitty, playing on the swingset, and nibbling on blueberries.

And there were all the other players who filled in to keep the cogs turning: Joby, Neil, Denny, Ashley, Davis, and Ilsa, plus all those who were just there providing unspoken support and love. The energy that surrounded me is the only thing that kept me going all week. It was an enormous battle, but we won it together. I can't begin to say how grateful and humbled I am by all of your support. I thought that my work at Katrina and the teamwork I enjoyed could never be duplicated, but this has come damn close, and without all the nasty disaster stuff on the side.

Ironic how this all happened over the Independence Day week, but Zack's family and I celebrated it as Interdependece Week. We couldn't have done it all without you!

WWLD

That stands for "What Would a Luddite Do." Move on with their life I suppose. The past few weeks of dead air are brought to you by the asshats at Comcast who couldn't figure out why my 21t-century internet service wasn't working. Two weeks and at least 3 hours on the phone got me nothing but "You must have a program on your machine that's blocking the IP. Gosh I'm really stumped. I don't understand why it's not working." Leave it to my heroine, Jane the Magnificent, who spent 5 minutes in her jammies yesterday deducing that my network adapter had gone to that big black box in the sky and fixed it all for free. Jane is pure gold and she can sprint like a bat outta hell. We need more friends like Jane in the world.

I'm still on doctor's orders to be fat and lazy. Rode today for the first time in 8 days and felt quite zippy. Could also have to do with my heavy weekend dose of vitamin Z. Need to bottle that stuff up. A thousand vitamins couldn't come close. Or be as tasty.

666 Slayer Race

Dragged my ass out of the house and rode up to Cappy Hill to join a throng of bike afficianados for the post-666 race at the Summit. A better summer evening could not have been spent among a crowd of sweaty bikers swilling beer and swapping stories. My man came in 5th out of 40 or so. His prize (under my direction) was to walk around all night sporting an all-too-small black PBR wife-beater jersey . If a girl can't drool over her own hunk of meat then no one can (or better).

The devil, evidently more a listener of Metallica than Slayer, also made a special appearance today and layed waste to all the jackass drivers who felt a need to take out cyclists:

Turning the page

I turned the page in my day calendar today and found the following Buddhist poem. Odd how when you need some guidance it has an unexpected way of finding you.

Everything is changing
It arises and passes away.
The one who realizes this is freed from sorrow.
This is the shining path.

To exist is to know suffereing.
Realize this and be freed from suffering.
This is the radiant path.

There is no separate self to suffer.
The one who understands this is free.
This is the path of clarity.

Rat City AWESOMENESS

A bunch of us went to see the Rat City Rollergirls last weekend in one of the hangers at Magnuson Park. I had no idea that such a mess of fun was to be had at this event. The Rollergirls are by far one of the best kept secrets in Seattle. Sexy hardass chicks racing around a flat track on 4 wheel skates, blocking each other, getting penalties, scoring over and over, smacking down, checking each other into the crowd, husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends in the crowd holding signs up high and screaming for their girls. This is no cheesey Playboy Bunnies do the EcoChallenge. These chicks kick fucking ass all the while showing how sexy cunning, sporty women can be.

Four teams make up the whole Rat City program: Grave Danger, Throttle Rockets, Derby Liberation Front, and the Sockit Wenches. Two teams play each other in two 20-minute bouts, then the other 2 teams play, then they switch after half-time. Oh yes the half-time. It changes each time, but ours included the talented young ladies of the Aerialistas sporting pink and black cheerleading outfits climbing, dangling, swinging, and doing all sorts of amazing shit from ropes hanging from the hanger rafters. Two words: AWE SOME. I saw Cirque de Soleil a few weeks ago, but these girls get the prize for cuter outfits and girl-next-door accessibility into every boy (or girl's) fantasy.

Jane and John were all grins yet at a loss for words:



The Rollergirls' next bout is Saturday, June 24, again at Magnuson Park. Tix are available through their web site and sell out fast! There is seating for general admission where you get to sit on the floor ringside and potentially get a Rollergirl knocked in your lap, or there's the reserved bleacher seating where you get to sit in the stands behind an 8ft tall chainlink fence and can buy $4 PBR tallboys. A Rollergirl in your lap, or $4 PBRs? And to think they charge more for the bleacher seats.

More pics that I stole from someone else. If you think these look cool, they don't come close to seeing the real deal in action:

The chick with the star on her helmet is called the Jammer and tries to lap the pack and score. The chick with the stripe on her helmet is called the Pivot. She stays up front, sets the pace of the pack, and is the last line of defense to block the opposing team's Jammer. See there's strategery!

Pia Mess. Get it?? Get it?? ahhahahahaaaaa....

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr...blocking the Jammer

Ohhhhhhhh that's gonna hurt. But that's part of the fun and the crowd digs it.

Later on we came up with my Rollergirl/track derby name: Princess Slay-ya. I'm hoping to debut at the Marymoor 100 next month. Gotta work on the costume.

Stumptown calf-off

Things are getting heated down south at TVFY's calf-off. My tally:

#1 - Smooth, enticing, potentially excellent flavor

#2 - Skinny white boy needs to see some sun

#3 - Ah-nald called and he wants his calves back (but the sheep socks get cute points)

#4 - These legs scream FAST. And WAXED.

#5 - Ewwwwwwwwwwwww. Like if my grandpa's legs had no hair.

My final vote: #1. Strong yet au natural. The rest - muscles and tendons should not jump out like they're going to throttle you. Scary.

Take Your Bike to Work Day

I managed to stop at 5 commuter stations on the way in this morning. That's 5 stations worth of water bottles, cliff bars, cliff shot powdery drink mixes, ouch patches, and maps. Of course I was let down/disappointed/sad/bummed yet again that there were no mini Toblerone chocolate bars at the stations. Whoever organized that giveaway years ago did this city, or at least me, a huge disservice cuz now I go to every Bike to Work Day sniffing around for delicious chocolate and get handed a nasty cliff bar instead. Sigh.

The best B2W story has to be from my coworker. She lives in Snoqualmie and drives her Toyota Tacoma truck every day to Sandpoint. Sometimes it takes her an hour, sometimes it take over 2 hours to drive in. And the gas....her truck is a climbing/sailboarding/skiing/big furry dog carrying machine so you can do the math yourself. She's an amazing athlete and used to race bikes and skis like a banshee (shrugs off those "no fall" zones), but she's never abandoned her truck to ride to work. This week, however, given the amazing sunny weather we've had and a little cheerleading from her annoying officemate (me), she decided to give it a whirl and ride part of the way to work. We poured over the local commuter maps and decided she'd drive to Eastgate's P&R, then bike over Mercer Island, up Lake WA Blvd, through Montlake, and up to Sandpoint. An easy 17 miles one way. Piece of cake!

Friday morning's dawn broke. Her alarm went off at 6 a.m. She turned it off and rolled over. Off to a good start. She finally raised herself an hour later and got her gear together. She pulled on her spandex knickers and realized she put them away wet after a CX race last season. Now as she hikes them up they reek of mildew. Tasty. Not to be one put off by odd smelling clothes she throws her bike and backpack in the truck and sets off. Traffic flows through Issaquah and she nears Eastgate, but the anxiety of a new routine takes hold and she realizes that she doesn't know how to get from the P&R to the bike trail. "I'll just go to the Mercer Island P&R," she says out loud. She continues on and sees the exit for this next P&R, but is stunned to see a huge "CLOSED" sign across the exit. Shit! No time to think or pull over or investigate the nature of this barricade. A few seconds later she's zooming across the I-90 bridge en route to the city. By now she could admit defeat and drive straight to work, but she knows of one more P&R on 65th. It's not quite the noble feat of riding in 17 miles, but it will be something.

She gets to the 65th P&R and lets out a deep breath. Finally out of the car. She pulls her bike out of the truck and loads up for the ride to work. Except she doesn't know the best way to get from this area to the bike trail. Shit. Think fast. She does know that 65th runs straight to Sandpoint by way a numerous straight-up and straight-down hills not to mention no bike lane and horrendous potholes. Onward she rides. About a mile later her seat starts wiggling around and nearly falls off. She realizes that when she switched seats last night the seatbolt didn't get tightened the whole way, so she stops and pulls out an allen wrench and wrenches the bolt down. Someone rides by her and comments, "Doing a spring tune up?". Jackass.

Our heroine continues on her way, finally intersecting the Burke and rides it half a mile to Sandpoint. She's surrounded by green trees, no cars, it's quiet, serene. Her blood pressure drops. The cloud of anxiety lifts. She's almost done. The commute is almost over. She enters the campus and isn't sure of how to get to the backside of the campus to park her bike. She rides the wrong-way down a curvy, one-way access road and is almost immediately taken out by a service worker in a huge pickup. Disaster avoided, she finds the back entrance, parks her bike, takes a huge breath, and starts her day. She comes into the office and we give her a round of applause, even though she waves it off and just laughs and tells us the story of her morning adventure. She has a huge grin on her face. I congratulate her and give her a water bottle and mango-orange Cliffshot recovery drink.

The best news is that she's excited about the possibility of riding to work. The hardest part was plunging into a new, unknown routine and she faced (hopefully) more than enough challenges and still kept going. She thinks that riding 2-3 days/week would be totally feasible and could even take the bus part of the way from Preston. I rode with her back to the P&R to show her the not-so-hilly way and she was so chatty and excited about riding her bike again. Her head was swimming with the possibilities of commuting this summer and beyond. I was so happy to see the beginnings of another satisfied bike commuter. Cars and gas and politics be damned. We have another convert.

My arsenal

Yes I know that was the title of a really lame Morrissey album. But this is more dictation for my current whinefest called "My Endocrine System Sucks More Than Yours."

I saw my acupuncturist today. I explained what's been going on and that Doc #1 thinks my former bouts with fatigue that I resolved with acupuncture were not actually resolved, but only healed my chi, but not the adrenals themselves. So my current state is from an accumulation of unresolved adrenal fatigue, probably going back at least from my tour of Louisiana and CX season last fall, if not further. She agreed that's probably what happened and her acupuncture probably didn't heal everything. Um yeah. Did you ever think of clueing me in that I might need more help than a few needles in my skin? Lesson #1 in today's chapter of my book called "Looking Out For #1 Cuz No One Else Obviously Is."

I told her about how unusually tight and sore my quads have been in the weeks since I haven't been riding. I've been drinking lots of water, but my legs seem to be full of lactic acid for no reason. "Oh that's probably a magnesium defeciency. You should put some Emer-gen-C in your water to help your body absorb it and rehydrate." My body needs magnesium to absorb water? Why do people wait until I'm this old to tell me such things? Lesson #2.

After she poked me she asked if I was getting a series of vitamin B shots. Well no, I only got one shot last week. So now she tells me that they usually do them in series of 6 because people are so deficient it takes a few weeks to get levels back up. Ok, Lesson #3 for my book. I drop my drawers and she gives me a shot in the rump. It stings like hell, but I know that it will be all good in 30 mins when it starts bringing me back to life.

"What about licorice?" she asks. Huh? I can't stand licorice. Nasty stuff. She explains that black licorice is excellent for the adrenals and she's surprised Doc #1 and Doc #2 haven't put me on it. She suggests mixing it with hawthorne extract to sweeten the mix and make a tea with the two. It will boost my adrenals and help raise my blood pressure and metabolism. $50 later I have 2 small 4 oz jars of the two extracts in my backpack. Luckily I don't have to use much for the tea and she says it should last a few months. An expensive Lesson #4. My adrenals better love me now. More ammo in my endocrine arsenal.

Otherwise things are looking a tiny bit brighter. I did about 35 miles throughout the day yesterday, at a silly slow pace. Part of it was the Ride of Silence with about 1,000 other cyclists. I was most thankful that the pace was supposed to be slow and I could use that as an excuse for being lazy. I was pretty pooped at a few spots - going down 15th and up 2nd, then up 4th and Eastlake. Well I guess that was most of the ride. But I didn't quit, just went slower and kept breathing. I finished the night and could still brush my teeth, which was an excellent sign. Considering I could hardly pedal this Monday and Tuesday, this was pretty good. I was a little more pooped today, but the shot in my ass should help me recover.

The first track race was last night. Word on the street is that my girls kicked ass. Izette took the night's points. She is not long for Wed. I look forward to screaming her on from Turn 4's beer garden on Fridays. I'm happy being able to commute for now. Not looking to race for at least another 4-6 weeks.

Tomorrow is Bike to Work Day. I plan on hitting 6 stations along the way in to pick up some swag. I'm rooting for Toblerone chocolate again. I'm glad I can ride. A few weeks ago I told myself that I'd drag myself the 10 miles to work this day even if it took 3 hours, but I would not drive no matter how weak I felt. So tomorrow's ride is for all those who can't participate. I know how much it sucks.

Has anyone seen my hormones

Cuz they sure as hell aren't with me. I've been dealing with chronic fatigue the past 2 weeks (6 weeks if you count the denial), courtesy of a well orchestrated conspiracy by the players in my endocrine system. Adrenals: you suck. Thyroid: you suck too. Thanks to their little game I have the energy of a 90 year old woman. I noticed last month that I wasn't recovering from my workouts as well as I should, but I wrote it off as dehydration or not using one of those fancy squidy recovery drinks. But now I see it was a precursor of what was to come, total adrenal fatigue and now I'm struggling just to ride to work. I've commuted to work 3 times in the past 2 weeks and each time left me exhausted at work and struggling to keep the cranks moving towards home. When I get home I collapse on the couch and want nothing more than to sleep for a few days. I've had to drive to work because of the lack of energy, and I still collapse after a day of sitting on my ass. I've had smaller bouts of fatigue the past few years from my Hashimoto's disease, but this is the grande dame of fatigue and it came without warning, no stress, no epic dramas, no reason to pull the plug. Yeah your body really does hit the fan once you turn 30. Yippie! Just in time for summer!

Oh and racing. Can forget about that. My last workout was over 2 weeks ago and I couldn't even finish it. Hills look like Mt. Everest. The thought of a track workout makes me ill. Right now it would be a miracle if I could pedal around at more than 8 m.p.h. The first Wed night race is this week, but I won't go. It will be too depressing to see everyone chomping at the bit, so near the top of their game, while I sit around as miserable as if I had the flu. My one doc told me today that I can expect to take 2 days to recover for every 1 day I've been off. Great. Maybe I'll be back in action in time for CX season.

But the hormones. Yes it's all their fault. My adrenals have crashed, my cortisal levels in the toilet en route to the great sewer system in the sky. My thryoid isn't talking to my mitochondria so energy production is at a stalemate. T3 and T4 hormones have abandoned my metabolism and gone to Tahiti. Add a touch of anemia and hypoglycemia and my system is short wired. Thanks guys. Feeling great here. No need to hurry and return system to normal. I'll just sleep through the whole disaster, ok?

I'll sleep through it all and take the 19 pills (yes that's 6 doses of a hypoallergenic multi-vitamin, 6 cortisal pills, 4 tyrosine pills, 1 iron pill, 1 cytomel, and 1 levoxyl. Yum.) plus 1 DHEA spray every day and wait til you come back from your little hiatus. Feel free to send a postcard: "Wish you were here." Yeah I wish you were here too.

Wedded bike bliss

Down south in the Bikeopolis of Portland, a life-long union was blessed when a girl and her beloved Vanilla bike (jealous!) were married in front of friends by an ordained minister. How utterly splended! The bride wore a light blue satin dress to match her bike's baby blue and white color scheme. They laughed, they kissed, they rode off into the sunset....around the block...and will live happily ever after. Their vows:

Do you, Vanilla promise:
…to dissassemble easily for travel…
…to stop and to go…
…to bomb and to climb…
…to shift smoothly and roll swiftly…
…to bear Elicia wherever she may take you…
…to have and to carry till death do you part?

And do you, Elicia promise:
…to ride Vanilla like a stallion…
…to oil him down…
…to lock him up…
…to bring him in out of the rain…
…to use him in that special way…
…to take him with you everywhere?
…to have and to ride till death to you part?

And check out the new bride's Princess Leia tattoo. Kick ass! My only beef is where was Sacha?? Hello - a custom Vanilla titanium ring!

I can't keep track of what states have legalized same-sex marriages, but Rosemary and I would do well to take eternal vows. I see the wedding in the San Juans over looking the water, lots of multi-colored gerbera daisies, she sparkly and clean for once in her life, me out of my stinky wool and in a dress for once in my life, friends surrounding us with their shiny bikes too. Girls holding bouquets of fresh flowers. And men in bow ties! And a huge beachside fish bake to celebrate with lots of brandy to go around. But no PBR! Blech!!!

The little egg that could

It was about a third the way through our first 400-meter jump this morning that I almost hurled up my egg sandwich breakfast. I was stuffing my face with it as I tried to leave the house a few hours earlier with my bag of gear, Louisa, and cup of coffee in hand. Nope, two hours is not sufficient amount of time to digest something so tasty, yet so revolting as your body tries to shut down your stomach in an attempt to supply the rest of your body with an adequate supply of fresh blood at 30 m.p.h. Nor is there enough room in your guts for your lungs to expand to intake more O2 and push out the used air. Yup, not much room for that egg sandwich to lay back and slowly makes its way through the journey of life called digestion.

When the first sprint finally ended my little egg thought he was home free, but that was just the beginning of the intense workout. Three more 400-meter jumps, and then 4 more 10-lap pursuits were ahead. As I was riding slowly around the track recovering from that first effort, I said out loud that I almost hurled my breakfast and of course someone shouts back, "It's not a good workout until somebody loses their breakfast!" Yes haha Funny Man. Turns out that more than a few of us were having the same dilemma about bad food choices before a hard workout. At least I didn't have a swarm of black beans or cheese chasing down my little egg friend.

After another hour of sprints and egg burps, my belly was nearing normality and my energy was beginning to flow more in my favor. By that time everyone else was leaving for the day, but I still wanted to get out and ride. I moseyed out onto the track and Jane, Molly, and John followed out. What started as a nice cool-down paceline turned into John and myself doing yet another hard series of pursuit laps. Round and round. Again and again. Neither of us was counting laps so I just relied on my body to tell me when it had had enough. After a few more miles my body finally made contact with my brain that it was time to lay off and go find my flipflops. "I have 3 more in me," I yelled out to my partner. "No....5 more!" he yells back.

"That little shit!" I think to myself. Fuck he knows I won't back down. Two laps down and Jane yells out the bell lap, thinking we were almost done, but John the Devious shouts back, "No 3 more!" And onward I pedal.

John is an excellent training partner and knows when to push me that extra step. He knows I don't whine or quit and can go harder than I pretend. I push and pedal and spin like mad and try to do my 1/2-lap pulls as smoothly as possible so I don't lose any speed. It's one of the trickier aspects of racing, esp with only 2 people.

"Ding Ding Ding!" yells Jane as we zoom by her one last time. Fuck I'm so wasted. My legs are nearly blown. I can't hold the pace much more, but John yells to keep going. I spin and grimace and charge a little more. Zoooooooooooooooooooom past the finish line and we're done. Time to back off and let the bike take over and let the heart rate find its way back to earth. An excellent end to the morning, again pushed out of my comfort zone, but with my little egg intact.

Stop

I spent most of today catching my breath. I slept in. I made a pot of delectable black coffee. I read the last 3 days worth of newspaper. I made a list of what to do this weekend. Taxes. Done. Flexable spending account. Done. Deposit for new double-paned windows. Done. Two week of laundry. Done. Two months of recycling. Done. Clean the fridge of decay. Done. Get 21st century Internet service. Done. Relax on couch, drink more coffee, and finish Memoirs of a Geisha movie from last night. Done.

All day the sky had been dropping fierce amounts of rain and tossing the trees outside my window with harsh winds. Recently a pair of crows have taken residence in one of the trees and built themselves a nest. I must have blinked while they were building it, because the mama sits in the nest all day and the dad stays no more than a few branches away looking after her. Once in a while he will fly out to get her some bugs and peck her on the cheek, but then he's back to his post. I worried a little as the wind punched at their tree and wailed at their little black bodies, but I remembered the pair that resided a few trees down 2 years ago and how they did just fine in the springtime storms. If there is one thing evolution has taught them over the years it's how to build stormproof nests. Soon I will see 3 or 4 little heads peeking over the brim of the nest, eyes still shut with newness, beaks held wide open as they strain for the sound of mom and dad coming with their meals. And then one Saturday morning as I sit down with a cup of black coffee and a newspaper I will look over at my neighbors and see that they are gone. An empty nest with only the ghosts of springtime.

A few days of rest had brought my energy back so I was eager to take Rosemary out on a few errands. I wasn't off to set any speed records so, enjoying my day of rest, I made a glass of my favorite new drink - blackberry brandy, lime concentrate, and whatever juice is in the fridge. Mmmmmmm tasty. Sipping my drink I checked the local weather radar and saw a break in the weather. Finally with a reason to get out of my jammies, I donned the typical winter gear and Rosemary and I set forth to invade Ballard.

With one pedal stroke I knew it was good to get out of the house despite the early evening hour. The wet, fresh, cold air. The blue-gray storm clouds streaming from the south. The air was alive. The world awaits the moment you leave your door. One of the most fortunate things we encounter as bike commuters is the ability to go slow enough to not pass up the sky. In a car, it would be like taking a scooter through the halls of the Louvre. As I rode over the Ballard Bridge I looked to the west and saw the sky overtaken by the bottomless maw of an ice blue crevasse. A blue like this doesn't happen every day. I could imagine laying on my belly peering over the edge of a crevasse on Rainier, the same dark icy blue staring back up at me from the center of the Earth. I smiled at the sky's presence and felt sorry for the drivers zooming over the bridge en masse at 45 mph, not once glancing out of the comfort of their car to see what lingers overhead. They miss moments like this every time they shut their car door and start the ignition. They seal out out the paintings of a god.

Down to the Ballard Market to return some rotten cheese (EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW), then down to Fred Meyer for an outdoor thermometer. Rosemary and I hadn't gone 2 blocks when the sky opened up again and began pelting up with.....rain? Hail? I don't know what it was, but it hurt my face and pinged against Rosemary's pink steel. I tried to laugh, but I couldn't see, despite being seduced by the beams of sun that were trying to emerge in between fat bulges of gunmetal blue sky. We raced the few blocks to the megastoreopolis and I parked my girl under the protection of the roof overhang. I looked back to where the storm was coming from, and sure enough, to the west was a league of golden, sun streaked clouds, while abutting them to the southwest was a plague of darkness. I smiled at the fortune of seeing such a dramatic moment in the day, when just an hour ago I was content in my home. The world awaits the moment you leave your door.

When I came back outside, a fellow rode up and parked his old Peugeot next to Rosemary. He was dressed in a big purple seed company jacket and a generic baseball hat. Jeans and tennis shoes. His bike had seen years of use. Even half of the front chainring guard was missing. He asked about my chopped handlebars and whether I have enough hand positions and if they're comfortable enough. I answered. Then he noticed that I only have one brake. I explained. Then the oddest thing happened: without prompting he told me the story of when he rode 850 km around the Burgandy region of France to attend the 60th anniverary of D-Day. His eyes were shining and he smiled so much as he told me of the people he met and camping in fields. He flew over with a bike box from Recycled Cycles and unpacked it the airport and off he rode. The trains were a great way to get around, sometimes having a whole traincar for bikes, but other times you have to make a reservation. He told me of the food he ate, and how it was all so wonderful that he didn't lose a pound. "But be careful!" he told me. "The stores close at 8 p.m. so make sure you have all the food you want until the next day!" He laughed at how hungry he'd been some nights, and I laughed thinking about how I eat everything in sight when my metabolism finally kicks in. "Just be prepared when you go," he finshed. "My name is William," he told me. I shook his hand and he left to do his shopping. I was left dumbfounded because my friend and I have been flirting with the idea of riding our bikes around France. Two girls, two bikes, lots of wine and lots of cheese. And chocolate. I don't know how William knew.

No one in cars meets people like William on the sidewalk of Fred Meyer. No one bothers to stop and strike up a conversation at a red light or pumping gas. They'd rather race and scream and blow their horns and bring terror into our lives. I gotta go I gotta go I gotta go! You're in my way!! I gotta go! But quietly crossing paths with other souls makes us alive. We're all human and we do need each other. Sometimes we need to stop and realize how lucky we are to be here. Every raindrop, every ride home in the dark, every bad dream, every frustration at work. Every odd duck that we meet on the street that reminds us of that dream. They all have their purpose in crossing our path. It's all precious. Just stop and savour it all.

Love Wins

The past two months have been rather awful for those of us in Seattle. A number of fellow cyclists have been maimed by wreckless, heartless, selfish drivers. It nearly brought me to the point of becoming a Vigilante Mom, my heart ripped and temporarily irrational in an attempt to protect my brood. Never underestimate the strength of a mom's devotion. Even if she's just mom to a bunch of grown up men with the hearts and minds of 12 year olds.

Last weekend a 37 year old, Cat 1-2 cyclist died from a heart attack during the local Boat Street Criterium. He was married to a wonderful woman track racer whom I admired. His life was full of bikes and the local bicycle community. Everyone knew him and called him 'friend.' Surreal. Young, active, loving people like him are not supposed to be taken away "doing what they loved." They should live lives of love and adventure until a ripe old age with plenty of stories to tell their friends and grandkids.

Then there were the kids gunned down in Capital Hill on March 25. Innocent, jovial, artistic, loving, young people. There is no sense in the tragedy and never will be. Hearts were ripped open and lives ripped apart. Hate and anger took these precious souls away, even the one who took his own life.

It was just after the Capital Hill tragedy that Zack called to tell me about what he saw after his kung-fu class. He was unlocking his bike after class when he looked up and saw a car with a small bumper sticker that said, "Love Wins." It was so simple. Such an omen. I needed to hear that. I'm sure he did too. I've had those two words ingrained in my head the past 3 weeks, playing them over and over like a mantra. Not as a hippy, new age stoned-out epiphany, but as an awakening of religion or a philosophy. You have to believe that love will overcome anger. That prayer will overcome hate. That one day the storm will cease and warm rays will fall on your face. Christians and Buddhists and Jews have been prophesying for thousands of years to explain what these two words have brought so succinctly: Love Wins. The anger subsides and peace prevails.

Then today on my ride home I decided to take a different route and pick up some movies for the weekend. I didn't have my lock and was hesitant to bring my bike into a store, but I threw caution to the wind and kept riding there anyway. As I slowed down for a stop sign there was an older burgandy car parked on my right. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a small, black bumper sticker not 4 inches wide. It read, "Love Wins." It took my breath away and I circled back to see if what I saw was true. It was still there staring back at me. The non-descript burgandy car. The small black sticker with white letters. I smiled. It really was true. Love wins. You only have to believe.

In today's news...

From the Too Much Information Department:

Lots of talk over at .83 about guys getting their nuts shaved and their little swimmers evicted. My only comment was that they not get waxed down there. Unless you're a hit and run driver.

Spent this past Saturday at the Olympus Women's Spa, soaking nekkid in the hot baths and getting a body scrub. I'd never received a body scrub and it's the closest I'd like to get to being in a slaughter house. They bring you into an open, tiled room with 4 white, rubber covered beds with lots of hoses and water buckets constantly rinsing the floor and the women on the other beds. You lie down and a friendly Asian woman procedes to exfoliate the living crap out of your skin with hard rubber scrubby mitts like prepping a turkey on Tday morning. When she's done with one side of you, she tosses a big bucket of water over you (close your eyes! hold your nose!) and the bed and washes all the nasty dead skin onto the floor where it's rinsed yet again down a drain. She tosses and turns you all around and continues the rough rubbing and rinsing and hosing. Women come in, women come out. Water is tossed, the floor is rinsed, the rubber beds wait for the next sack of flesh. It's like a factory line. Finally you are free to waltz out of the room with your new skin and soak a little longer with your friends. I leave the nastiness of dead skin behind and sink like a baby into a hot tub.

Now that spring is officially here, it's that time of year when you don't really know what to wear in the morning on the ride into work. Sure it's chilly, but after a few miles you've warmed up plenty and find yourself unzipping everything in an attempt air out. So at dawn do you bundle up or strip down? This morning I decided to strip down, but that also leaves me open to the perils of not wearing a bra when riding in the winter. Why should I? I'm layered in god knows how many pieces of wool and polypro. One more stringy piece of cotton/lycra is only going to get stinky and fill up my laundry basket. So for 5 months of the year my girls go commando. This morning was one of those borderline times though. To bra or not to bra? My girls aren't exactly mistaken for size A's. Hell with it. I don't like to be bound. I had on my thin base layer and sweet blue wool Fiat jersey. Comfortable? Yes. Warm enough? Perfect. But being commando my girls were strutting their thing and all I could think was that I gave a few commuters something destracting the first few hours at work. Enjoy it, commuters. Summer is just around the corner and I'll have to reel the girls in.

Happy Spring Equinox

Spring! Daylight! Warmth! Flowers! Greenery!

Despite the cherry blossoms' fading blooms and tulips ready to burst from their bright green husks, I come home shivering in my cold cold house. My old windows leak like rice paper. Had to crank the heat up and wait an hour for the numbness to dispell. Feels an awful lot like it did in November...and December...and January and February. It feels like this every year but we stubbornly insist that this year will be different and we'll get summer a little bit sooner and won't have to suffer through another month of high heating bills or heavy clothing.

And we wait. For summer. But the spring equinox is a mile marker on the road to warm summer bliss. Closer. But not yet here. I'll watch the changing folliage pass before my eyes and try to acknowledge that it is indeed real and not a moving canvas. One day I will wake up and it will be warm and the days will last until midnight and we will play like children free from school.

But right now time stands still despite the etchings of the sun.

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.)