There are some things I do in life that probably annoy people. A lot. And there are things that I wouldn’t tell anyone, but now I’m going to tell you, faithful blog reader, a few of those things:
1) I have no interest in learning about my bike. I don’t think it’s cute to not know, I just don’t care. I’m serious. If I can pedal it and the brakes don’t rub and the wheels don’t squeak then I’m satisfied. I am a little torn because I’d love to learn how to fix bikes, but that would involve me knowing things about my bike. I’d rather not know the finer points of campy carbon or why my frame is better than yours. I would, however, like to be able to change a tire and fix a headset, whatever that is. I can put a bottom bracket in though. Bike stuff doesn’t seem too hard.
2) I like training more than I like racing. If every race was like training I’d race every day, but because races are not like training (You actually have to go fast! And they write on you if it’s a triathlon! And there’s that pesky race number thing…) I don’t race every day…but I train as much as I can because I like it so much. If I never were to race again I’d be okay with it, as long as I got to continue training. Triathlon training (not racing) has given me a whole new view of my body. I don’t hold it up to girls in magazines, girls on the street, or what other people want now. I look at it as incredible that God has created that lets me go all over the place…I can get my self sixty miles on my own power! I had better take care of it. Wear sunscreen and drink enough water.
3) I love biting my nails. My sister and mom would probably pay me good money to stop biting my nails but I find it therapeutic and enjoyable. I can’t help it. I really really love it. I do stop when I paint my nails but when it starts chipping I start biting at the nail polish. It’s bad. So I rarely paint my fingernails, thus avoiding smiling at someone and having burgundy nail polish between my teeth. Which has actually happened before.
4) I spend about 75% of my income on food. Yeah..that was until I met JR. Okay..that’s not true any more. Food is so yummy though! I eat a TON of food.
5) I would rather get up than sleep in. But I hit the sleep alarm 8 million times. My mornings go something like this: Alarm goes off at 5:25 am. Hit sleep alarm. Crawl back into bed. My sleep alarm is as far across the room as I could make it. I literally have to get out of bed to shut it off. I will do this three or four times before I get out of bed at 7:30. Today I slept in…until eight. That’s not sleeping in, that’s earlier than my entire neighborhood wakes up!
6) One more: I take the elevators at work…I take the elevators up two floors at work but I get on my bike and ride to Port Washington and back? (60 miles) how does that work?
Friday, August 17, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
My Right to Bike.
This morning I went back to bed after breakfast but I couldn’t sleep. The sun was pouring in my window, taunting me with dry roads and incredible cool weather. I knew that the call of the road was stronger than the call of my bed so I got up and started looking around for cycling clothes (of which I have very few…). I had no luck – pink jersey, grey jersey, the one I borrowed from JR were all dirty and both pairs of cycling shorts were pretty rank. One was even wet. I hunted through the laundry basket and found my tri suit. It didn’t smell too bad so I threw it on and got into my shoes and helmets (Tri suits make life easy…)
I packed my drivers license, my keys, inhaler and cell phone with the “turn around now or you’ll be late for work!!!!” alarm set to go off at 8:30 and headed out the door with my trusty bike, RJ.
The ride was beautiful, much singing was had, and it wasn’t too windy, too warm, to cold or whatever. It did take me about twenty minutes to get to whitefish bay because my chain fell off twice and my back break rubs against my wheel so I had to tweak it, but other than that the roads were flawless, the cars few, and the bikers friendly.
I made it up past fox point this morning, which is a quick ride. (It wasn’t but four months ago when that ride would have put me out of commission for a week) My alarm went off and I turned around to head back. The road was peaceful and beautiful and the air was fresh against my skin but…
I heard him first. The whirr of a freewheel spinning alerted me to the person coming up. Then, he sidled up next to me, his handlebars and enormous legs almost touching me. It was….
Bike-asshole.
This dude was hyped up on whatever testosterone he had been taking, his jersey proclaiming his mock superiority uber alles, and his seedy gleam was shining out from behind his five hundred dollar sunglasses that promised you extra speed and girl catching abilities or something.
“Hey, what’s that you’re wearing?” was the first thing out of his mouth.
I quickly explained to him that it was a tri suit and that it was meant for triathlons.
He nodded and then said “You know, it makes your legs look real good.”
I was so taken aback by this statement. I routinely get questions about my shoes, because they are not normal cycling shoes, my clothes, and more than enough questions about my bike, but no one ever pedals up to me to talk about my legs.
I stammered “are you serious?” I had meant to say “are you seriously asking me this question?” but it didn’t come out quite right. He thought I was asking him to confirm his statement.
“Hell yeah I’m serious. Girl on a nice bike, great legs, I mean, come on!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Is that campy carbon?” He asked.
I rolled my eyes. My bike was free. I have a really nice bike. Those two statements don’t usually go together but in my case they do, which leads me to a third statement: I know nothing about bikes. In fact, it took me twelve minutes to put my chain on the first time this morning.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know anything about bikes.” I said to him.
“Well, you know…you certainly look damn fine in that outfit and I’m sure you can get anyone you want to teach you anything you want if you keep wearing that.”
I wanted to get away from him. He had moved in uncomfortably close on my left side so his handlebars were almost touching mine. Had I moved more to the right I would have been off the road.
“So you have a boyfriend or anything?” He said.
I gritted my teeth. This was escape plan time!
“Yes, I do.”
I figured that statement alone would, as with many normal guys, get him off my tail. He would sprint off and forget all about me and my nice bike.
This was no normal guy though. This was a guy who had taken too many drugs or something.
“Yeah? Does he race? If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t ever let you ride alone.”
“No, he doesn’t race, but he does ride a bike.”
“So he doesn’t appreciate you going out in the mornings? He’d rather you cook him breakfast or something. You know, any girl I was with, we’d be out every morning going for rides.”
“Uhm, it doesn’t matter, he’s on his bike right now riding, I’m on my bike riding, he understands. I don’t need him to escort me around. And he makes his own breakfast.”
We were coming up on the lake drive hill. He started pedaling like he’s going to take that hill down in a torrent of orange and grey spandex. I hang back, easing my way down the hill. When he realizes what I’m doing, he slows down. I roll my eyes and then take off down the hill. I rarely get above thirty on that hill, but I actually went over thirty. That’s nothing to him and he catches me, and then the stoplight catches us both.
“You know,” I say to him. “I really am not interested in this whole biking thing. I’m going to sell my bike and start eating donuts. I’m going to go home now.”
The expression on his face is priceless.
Instead of taking a left onto lake, I go straight to the Whitefish Bay Library and go in. He pedaled off in a hurry.
The rest of my ride went well, no one talked to me, and I sang a lot of songs. Bike Karaoke is the best.
I packed my drivers license, my keys, inhaler and cell phone with the “turn around now or you’ll be late for work!!!!” alarm set to go off at 8:30 and headed out the door with my trusty bike, RJ.
The ride was beautiful, much singing was had, and it wasn’t too windy, too warm, to cold or whatever. It did take me about twenty minutes to get to whitefish bay because my chain fell off twice and my back break rubs against my wheel so I had to tweak it, but other than that the roads were flawless, the cars few, and the bikers friendly.
I made it up past fox point this morning, which is a quick ride. (It wasn’t but four months ago when that ride would have put me out of commission for a week) My alarm went off and I turned around to head back. The road was peaceful and beautiful and the air was fresh against my skin but…
I heard him first. The whirr of a freewheel spinning alerted me to the person coming up. Then, he sidled up next to me, his handlebars and enormous legs almost touching me. It was….
Bike-asshole.
This dude was hyped up on whatever testosterone he had been taking, his jersey proclaiming his mock superiority uber alles, and his seedy gleam was shining out from behind his five hundred dollar sunglasses that promised you extra speed and girl catching abilities or something.
“Hey, what’s that you’re wearing?” was the first thing out of his mouth.
I quickly explained to him that it was a tri suit and that it was meant for triathlons.
He nodded and then said “You know, it makes your legs look real good.”
I was so taken aback by this statement. I routinely get questions about my shoes, because they are not normal cycling shoes, my clothes, and more than enough questions about my bike, but no one ever pedals up to me to talk about my legs.
I stammered “are you serious?” I had meant to say “are you seriously asking me this question?” but it didn’t come out quite right. He thought I was asking him to confirm his statement.
“Hell yeah I’m serious. Girl on a nice bike, great legs, I mean, come on!”
I rolled my eyes.
“Is that campy carbon?” He asked.
I rolled my eyes. My bike was free. I have a really nice bike. Those two statements don’t usually go together but in my case they do, which leads me to a third statement: I know nothing about bikes. In fact, it took me twelve minutes to put my chain on the first time this morning.
“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know anything about bikes.” I said to him.
“Well, you know…you certainly look damn fine in that outfit and I’m sure you can get anyone you want to teach you anything you want if you keep wearing that.”
I wanted to get away from him. He had moved in uncomfortably close on my left side so his handlebars were almost touching mine. Had I moved more to the right I would have been off the road.
“So you have a boyfriend or anything?” He said.
I gritted my teeth. This was escape plan time!
“Yes, I do.”
I figured that statement alone would, as with many normal guys, get him off my tail. He would sprint off and forget all about me and my nice bike.
This was no normal guy though. This was a guy who had taken too many drugs or something.
“Yeah? Does he race? If I were your boyfriend I wouldn’t ever let you ride alone.”
“No, he doesn’t race, but he does ride a bike.”
“So he doesn’t appreciate you going out in the mornings? He’d rather you cook him breakfast or something. You know, any girl I was with, we’d be out every morning going for rides.”
“Uhm, it doesn’t matter, he’s on his bike right now riding, I’m on my bike riding, he understands. I don’t need him to escort me around. And he makes his own breakfast.”
We were coming up on the lake drive hill. He started pedaling like he’s going to take that hill down in a torrent of orange and grey spandex. I hang back, easing my way down the hill. When he realizes what I’m doing, he slows down. I roll my eyes and then take off down the hill. I rarely get above thirty on that hill, but I actually went over thirty. That’s nothing to him and he catches me, and then the stoplight catches us both.
“You know,” I say to him. “I really am not interested in this whole biking thing. I’m going to sell my bike and start eating donuts. I’m going to go home now.”
The expression on his face is priceless.
Instead of taking a left onto lake, I go straight to the Whitefish Bay Library and go in. He pedaled off in a hurry.
The rest of my ride went well, no one talked to me, and I sang a lot of songs. Bike Karaoke is the best.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Remembering how to play.
I work with a little group of kids that I can’t talk too much about because it’s a children’s ministry (I cannot even post pictures, legally) but I can tell you, as I have said before, that is one of the most frustrating and rewarding things in my life. Yesterday we had a little party – all the kids went to one of the parent’s house to play. The sprinkler was on, the ice cream had been dripped down shirts, skateboards were pulled out and ramps were made out of wood and boxes. The parents and I sat down to plan what we needed to do for the rest of the summer (only one month!) and into the school year. When we were done planning I went outside to play with the kids.
“Do you guys want to play tag?” I said to them. I hadn’t played tag in years. I was tired, and in skate shoes, and feeling a little run down from the drive and the meeting and the complications that have been coming up.
“Lets play sharks and minnows!” one of them said.
“How do you play that?” I asked.
He seriously regarded me as he debated whether or not to tell me. “You mean you don’t know sharks and minnows?” he said, as if I had lost the one key fact to keeping the world running.
“No, but if you tell me I’ll play.”
So he told me the concept of sharks and minnows which is basically that someone is a shark and you have to tag all the minnows and when you tag them they become a shark until there is only one person left. Then he declared me the shark.
I lined them up on one side. The two year old didn’t really get it and decided to be a shark with me, eternally tagging and being tagged.
“Go!” I shouted and they ran in circles around the yard, running to the other end. I didn’t get anyone that time, and they all stood there grinning like they had fooled the grown up. I smiled back, and yelled “GO!” and tagged one of them. He stood with me in the center.
“You’re the new shark” I said to him. “You can say when to go.”
Soon, we had the entire field tagged and all the minnows had been turned into sharks.
I was no longer tired. I had been running around the long grass in the summer suburban sun in my white shoes and boyfriend’s pants. I had chased those children until my lungs hurt and my face shone with sweat and joy.
I realized then, that I had forgotten how to play. I knew how to train – I could be disciplined and run miles and miles and bike for hours, but I forgot that you could run across the yard chasing each other, shouting “you can’t catch me!” doing little victory dances. I forgot that sometimes a bike can be a wagon train and sidewalk chalk can make walls and beds and tables where there never were.
Where, in this world, do we forget to play? When does running become a tool? When does chalk stop creating and starts communicating?
I want to play more. I want to line my friends up, in their dress shoes and bare feet and summer sandals and yell “GO!” at them, tagging them, turning them into sharks, until we are all out of breath and lying on the grass laughing at each other, grinning summer smiles, remembering how to play.
“Do you guys want to play tag?” I said to them. I hadn’t played tag in years. I was tired, and in skate shoes, and feeling a little run down from the drive and the meeting and the complications that have been coming up.
“Lets play sharks and minnows!” one of them said.
“How do you play that?” I asked.
He seriously regarded me as he debated whether or not to tell me. “You mean you don’t know sharks and minnows?” he said, as if I had lost the one key fact to keeping the world running.
“No, but if you tell me I’ll play.”
So he told me the concept of sharks and minnows which is basically that someone is a shark and you have to tag all the minnows and when you tag them they become a shark until there is only one person left. Then he declared me the shark.
I lined them up on one side. The two year old didn’t really get it and decided to be a shark with me, eternally tagging and being tagged.
“Go!” I shouted and they ran in circles around the yard, running to the other end. I didn’t get anyone that time, and they all stood there grinning like they had fooled the grown up. I smiled back, and yelled “GO!” and tagged one of them. He stood with me in the center.
“You’re the new shark” I said to him. “You can say when to go.”
Soon, we had the entire field tagged and all the minnows had been turned into sharks.
I was no longer tired. I had been running around the long grass in the summer suburban sun in my white shoes and boyfriend’s pants. I had chased those children until my lungs hurt and my face shone with sweat and joy.
I realized then, that I had forgotten how to play. I knew how to train – I could be disciplined and run miles and miles and bike for hours, but I forgot that you could run across the yard chasing each other, shouting “you can’t catch me!” doing little victory dances. I forgot that sometimes a bike can be a wagon train and sidewalk chalk can make walls and beds and tables where there never were.
Where, in this world, do we forget to play? When does running become a tool? When does chalk stop creating and starts communicating?
I want to play more. I want to line my friends up, in their dress shoes and bare feet and summer sandals and yell “GO!” at them, tagging them, turning them into sharks, until we are all out of breath and lying on the grass laughing at each other, grinning summer smiles, remembering how to play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
