getting to know you

riding a new trail is an awful lot like going on a first date. minus the agony of what to wear-- and it's also probably best not to sport an oversized sanitary napkin in your shorts, at least until reaching the 'i can eat spaghetti bolognese/lobster in front of you' comfort level. obviously, there is always a risk that what you are confronted with is going to be an overwhelming flop; too tight, too twisty, scary thin bridges over stagnant ponds, or a penchant for white, cotton turtlenecks... all of which makes it incredibly hard not to keep going back to what is familiar; every root, rock garden and worn log jump are imprinted on your wheel. sort of like hooking up with an ex. how wonderfully reassuring then, when your first time on unfamiliar trail, is chock full of smiles, stomach lurches and the odd bruise.

you may say that i'm a dreamer, but i'm not the only one...

father's day is almost here (again), and not un-like mother's day, facebook has kindly prompted it's masses to copy and paste (and post) assorted pater related paraphernalia (south africa, 1975, dad is third from the left, next to mum, both sitting behind me).



but which photo? staring at the albums i got that same glazed over feeling which happens at baskin & robbins. but this is the one i went with; awali, bahrain, sometime in the mid 80's, on his way to work to do a couple of fillings. there were a lot of different names on the house signs, some in arabic, but as far as i can remember there weren't any others that started and ended with a z-- and believe me, there are a lot of arabic names that do.



at this point i think it is fairly evident that i cant commit to much of anything-- and i do thank, not blame, my dad for that (it is his fault about the flat feet though) geographical transience can do that to a person. iceland; circa. we were very small-- somewhere in the 3 foot range-- but this demonstrates how the fedorowicz's never travel light, regardless of how much practicing at it goes on.



then there was the "badass" one where he ran the comrades ultra-marathon in south africa (that's 90k south of the equator) some time in the late 70's.



or the one where he took "teenage me" mountain biking around the jebel (bahrain) with his windsurfing buddies, post-gulf war (the first one).



speaking of windsurfing...sheik's beach, bahrain, the 90's.



there was also the apres 'ride around the desert', in the paddling pool, with floating beer...



scuba diving in the red sea in the 80's. well, diving and drinking home brewed wine for the grown ups, ripping apart sea cucumbers and starfish for the under 9's.



and the "poo thing"...duba, saudi arabia; we were so proud of the home made camping toilet that was the sum product of the fedorowicz, wood and barnes families' hard labour.



because this is what we all had to put up with before; a shovel, sand dune and a roll of andrex...



always a family favourite, dad laughing uncontrollably while pointing out the giant, steaming pile the horse (that just carried his son and future daughter-in-law away by carriage) left behind. (keysoe, england, 5-ish years ago).



my birthday card (from my brother), detailing the finer points of a dog's bum, caused such silent mirth and tears of appreciation, that we could not miss the opportunity to document it (buckden, england, two-ish summers ago).



at this point, it's clearly evident that freud would have a field day; the apple cant even be pried off the tree. dad in his dental chair, bahrain.



last christmas.

another eskimo word for "snow"; "what the bloody hell are you thinking?! you cant ride in this".

i cant drive in snow, so i'm not entirely sure why removing two whole wheels and swapping the remainders for something an eighth of their size would translate into my being more capable of not only remaining vertical, but maintaining a straight, and somewhat forward, momentum.



fortunately, snow is soft. unfortunately, when most of the time is spent falling into it, it's also rather cold.

much like the unfathomable "leaves on the line" that are capable of bringing the entire london underground to a grinding halt, i had not only chosen "the wrong kind of snow", but it was "too warm" (at 30 degrees F). while colder temperatures, less tyre pressure, different trail conditions and perhaps a set of training wheels could have resulted in a lot less time spent horizontal, i would argue that quite a lot of time was in fact conducted in a very upright position; 'stationary, eating gummy bears in the middle of the doubletrack, and having a gripe about how not fun this was'.

nothing says 'happy nuptuals' like swamp ass and bourbon

it's true what "they" say; it will all pass in a blur and you won't get to eat much of anything. and so the haphazardly orchestrated romantic-comedy-musical which was my kentucky wedding, became just that. i now see pictures posted on facebook that i don't even remember being taken, and i don't think i ever saw one green chili wonton appetizer, let alone got to finish the same glass of wine- which could also be related to the ceremony/reception fugue.



obviously 'the days leading up to' involved much last minute stress including whether or not to buy gin, rum and vodka at costco, or go the whole hog and get gin, rum, vodka, and bourbon for the rehearsal/reunion garden party/dinner. hands were wrung with frustration (countless rounds of hand wringing).



not to mention the 'shit-i-have-less-than-four-days-to-get-this-new-dress-altered' issue. thankfully, between much of the aforementioned alcohol and my new found fairy godmother who was working her sewing machine off in the heart of st. mathews, all was (mostly) amicably resolved.



fortunately, there was sufficient down time so that "the boys" (plus a few select spouses) were able to head down to the buffalo trace distillery, en masse, to get roasted on beverages infused in oak barrels (the other alternative being the creation museum up near cincinnati). this freed up time for the bride to engage in the usual girly things like going to make-up shops and working on (awkward) tan lines for "the dress".



finally, the BIG DAY arrived and the "staging area" was intentionally stocked with friends, fizzy alcohol and guacamole to help with last minute editing of the vows. until my brother, a perpetual victim of my noxious predilection for garlic, walked into a room reeking of onions and promptly left in disgust.



despite stringent efforts to avoid anything girly, i committed my own personal emotional foul; leaking- which is not the same as "crying". shortly after mooning my frilly pink knickers to a former co-worker, i saw another office mate who had flown in from new mexico the night before. wow...people...had...taken...time...and...money...to...make...the...effort...to...
see...me...dress...up...and...say...a...bunch...of...stuff...to...someone...that...they...
had...more...than...likely...never...met...up...to...this...point...and...even...though...
we...would...probably...only...have...a...total...of...7...minutes...of...actual...face...
to...face...time...they...came...anyway. this very thing was part of the whole 'courthouse versus wedding' decision. because people will always find a way to make it to a wedding (or funeral)- as long as there is "open bar" written on the invitation. and as such, we both got to see familiar faces from 12-15 years ago. so, while i did win the 'less expensive outfit' contest, he cleaned house on the 'who's going to cry first' challenge.



and all of those little things that i fixated on, in an effort to try and make things less "weddingy", ergo "boring" and cliche worked, eliciting the appropriate and therefore self-gratifying responses; an ebullient officiant (and former mattress store manager); invitations showcasing two sets of big glasses and a ramen noodle perm; europe's "final countdown" on sax as i was escorted down the aisle by both mum and dad, and the fun luggage tag favours- triggering hoarding behaviour amongst some attendees.



then there were the saucy cocktail napkins, sign in jigsaw puzzle depicting the marital black toenail cutting, a first dance to "ring of fire", and of course cake. the only criteria being that it had to either cramp up the ovaries upon visual contact (not gender specific), or result in a full on face plant.



finally, i have been astounded by all of the talented and creative people who made things happen. and while there was no 'bridal party' there were many worthy of a baby blue taffeta number with bows and puffed sleeves.



(photography courtesy of burt reynolds).

is it better to sustain a haematoma than shit your chamois?

today, my girlfriend who also ran the 25k trail race a few weeks ago, showed me her toenails; in the car park after we had returned from a veritable mountain bike bruise-fest. she had already lanced two, and was harvesting just one more purple piggie. mine were still boring, crayola shades of 'macaroni and cheese' and desert sand'.

a week ago, i was the grossed out, yet also somewhat jealous, witness to a post-road ride puke-fest. i have only personally attained dizzy spells and intestinal nausea following a marathon, but nary a regurg-ed carrot piece, or any other measurable unit of emesis have i produced.

sadly, i haven't even progressed much further than the mid-run 'waddle-into-nearby-bushes-to-shamefully-but-with-much-relief-drop-my-shorts-because-the-coffee-hadn't-kicked-in-that-morning' rite of bodily passage.

distance running during the winter does not toughen up one's crotch

due to the last 9 months of: home improvement/puppy is pac man on crack/winter weather makes me want to sit in my recliner and smoke crack, lockdown, there has been very little fat tyre action since last autumn.

what a relief to finally hear the sounds of; bloodsucking electric toothbrushes in my ears, indicating the impending red bubble wrap braille welts around the ankles, kamikaze tree branches leaping into the bike spokes, and to recognize that i have yet to fully master "the wooden bridge"-- or any wooden bridge, for that matter.



my ptfb (post traumatic fear of bridges) is more paralyzing than the one where i balloon to 180lbs and become relegated to shopping in the 'black-stretch-pants-with-stirrups-and-a-"comfort"-waist-band' section at wal-mart. fortunately, this particular state park has many opportunities to systematically desensitize myself with crossings ranging in width from toilet roll to tampon.



only 4 and a half months to go until the 50 miler.

helpless lady driver seeks competent chauffeur for winter commute

i would rather pay $90 for a colonic irrigation that cleanses my rectum with tabasco sauce, than to go out and drive in the snow again.

already traumatized from subjecting the dog to her: "she needs to have all vaccinations updated before we will board her while you do your abandoning and bugger off to the other side of the planet for a couple of weeks", the journey back from the animal hospital did little to ameliorate my heightened state of anxiety; i lost traction; just outside the car park; halfway back up the hill. i incorrectly assumed that i would be impervious to mother nature as i had chosen to take the "winter friendly" VW, as opposed to my own "purchased in southern california" automobile- which lacks the relevant vehicular features appropriate for frozen tundra. ironically, as i am less familiar with this car, i was unable to locate the rear wiper, temperature control, or even passenger air blower button. however, both mine and the dog's bums were nice and toasty despite our lack of visibility or forward mobility.

unlike previous experience in sandy terrain, we were not sinking and stuck; gravitational movement was very much evident in a downhill direction. to distract myself from the imminent probability of damsel tears, i panic dialed a friend in; "somewhere-it-snows-a-lot-michigan", to be coached through my distress and shock that this all wheel weather beast was giving a sub par performance (other cars were pulling around me).

"did you press the AWD button?"

"button?" [like knight rider? what if i press the wrong button and reilly is launched into the cold, white abyss?].

"it's no different than starting to ride your mountain bike up the middle of a hill". [you mean, aside from the deductible on my car insurance tripling after i skid off into a ditch or a volvo station wagon?].

fortunately a pick up truck with one of those ginormous shovel thingies attached to the front bumper (and red cape hanging off the back) stopped and offered assistance.

"i'm using first gear"..."just moved here"..."all wheel drive"............................
..."i grew up in saudi arabia".

"luke" commandeered the wheel and wanted to know which button would stop the arctic wind blasting through the vent [did he not see the blonde hair when he pulled over?]. mute, i shook it at him again; saudi arabia explained my inability to operate in snow, hair pigment (and plummy accent) should be sufficient enough reason for anything else he might need to know. he turned us around and plotted a flatter, non-GPS calculated course, back to my destination. unfortunately this wasn't an "A to B, stop signs not included" route (i haven't got to the chapter on 'how to brake in snow' yet). fortunately this car has a little graphic of a skid marks that illuminates (no shit), to let me know when i am, in fact, preparing to become more mechanically intimate with the school bus in front. might i suggest an "oh shit" light for the '09 model?

thankfully, motorist, dog, and vehicle made it back to the driveway physically unscathed.

(not after being overtaken by a freshly permed grandma, manning a subaru).

it's like taking your first real poo in a "grown up" toilet

achieving (and completing) any developmental milestone is supremely satisfying-- and also very relative. for some, the ability to select the appropriate remote control (out of the little "catholic family" of them) is an accomplishment- actually being able to do something more complex than change the volume or channel, approaches doctoral level applications. i routinely ascribe to the school of; "other people are trained to do specialized things like; change the oil on my mazda; perform open heart surgery; dye my hair into a purple mohawk, and therefore there is no reason to cause myself undue stress by even attempting such activities".

pride comes before a puncture, and i am a slow learner, where frustration appears to be the only way for things to sink in- although this has not yet been true for retaining the law of fractions or calculating a 15% tip at thai siam.

i recently acquired new mountain bike shoes (and cleats), and was able to whip out the little multi tool to get things situated, per the multi-lingual instructions, in addition to tightening the rear brakes (although at this point installing new brake pads is probably the more appropriate course of action). unfortunately, i got a flat in the non-padded-bike-shorts-rear prior to a steep and rutted ascent, and there was no audience participation for my 'helpless female on the trail' impersonation. i had been given instruction 3 or 4 years ago on how to change a flat, and then sent off with a spare tube, but i also remember taking a very (very) long time, most of which was spent wrestling the tire casing off the rim-- this happy little ritual was repeated again. eventually the new tube was put in, casing wrestled back on, air pumped (and pumped), and nothing. i have a master's degree, which should outrank my ovaries, but being able to write a research paper and figure out the footnote feature to american psychological association standards doesn't necessarily generalize to life's little irritations.

the spare also had a hole. i (finally) figured this out, and successfully did my business.

(so proud).

i have the hand/eye co-ordination of a toddler on crack

it is evidence based best practice that stress relief is most effectively achieved by engaging in physically strenuous activities-- trying to be the first down the jetbridge when the pilot turns the 'fasten seat belt' sign off does not count. the utter god awfulness of last week earned a big, tarnished gold star, and a subsequent effort at reparation by: "engaging some positive coping strategies". the treatment protocol was determined to be; a long (and slow) mountain bike ride-- get back to nature, and see some non-rattling, non-poisonous, non-bitey wildlife; remain upright and vertical on the trail (as opposed to grabbing at bits of bush/twig/piles of horse manure to stop me + bike from sliding all the way down the drops); avoid faceplanting into super barky oak trees (and anything involving 'leaves of three'); burn off the "brookie" (brownie and chocolate chip cookie) a la mode; discharge all of the pent up physical aggression that i really, really wanted to inflict on police officers, credit card fraudsters, assorted colleagues, voice messaging systems, and customer service people who finally did answer my call, but didn't sound like it was all that important to them.

perhaps waverly park- or the 'trail of ten thousand elevations' (most of which seemed to disappear into cumulonimbus) was not the most prudent choice for; nerves, ego, or someone with the current frustration tolerance of a 5 year old having to sit through an entire catholic mass. instead of reclaiming control of at least one thing from the week, there was a cosmic scratch that kept this particular track on skip, as evidenced by minimal control (less than usual at any rate) over the bike, which probably had more to do with the discovery of loose rear brakes, on a steep and switchbacky downhill (despite the trail's overall topographical emphasis on ascending); non-compliance from both the respiratory and circulatory systems respectively; the sensation that a sewing machine had been strapped onto my camelbak; strange ticking noises coming from the mechanics and wilderness. the overwhelming frustration and complete lack of control was ultimately the neutralizing agent that finally popped the preceeding week's inflamed "stress pimple"-- and rather like a fresh tube of toothpaste, erupted into some moderate ocular leakage, with a side of mucous. fortunately there were no wasp stings to the neck as there had been during last weekend's foray into my own personal REI commercial.

the apres bike ride shower involved a rigourous skin check for: rorschach-looking haematoma, volcanic insect bites, and seeping rashes, in addition to the characteristic sunburn blisters and spandex chafe.

grafting and mining my skin's surface is truly the most effective of therapies.

desperately seeking...

it is a well recognized fact that certain professions attract specific personality clusters. the controlling type A's seeking endless gratitude and accolades- also the same individuals who are complete failures in the (lower levels) of the military because they can't stand being told 'what to do'- are usually found sitting at the helm of a 747, or wielding a bloodied laparscope. meanwhile, the field of engineering is replete with childhood victims of playground wedgies, whose only goal as an adult, is to be entirely self-sufficient-- and left alone. or the bleeding heart/co-dependent/self-sacrificing/self-deprecating doormats, eagerly providing the thermal baselayer to the entire social services/mental health profession (with the exception of psychiatrists- refer to previously cited cluster on "pilots" and "surgeons"), and can't stand to be left alone.

sports and athletics are not exempt. the man you see driving a noisy car around (and around) a race track in florida, has something altogether different to prove, than the one wearing a mouthguard, or even a codpiece. on the opposite side of the testosterone coin are the abundance of women who ride (or race) mountain bikes, each exemplifying oodles of unresolved daddy issues. typically, the attention never bestowed from an absent papa, or the recapitulation of an intoxicating, undivided, 'daddy's little princess' relationship, as an adult. it is a no-brainer that the single ladies get into the sport for the male/female ratio (note: this does not work for men and professional cheerleading). less competition and an easy (stand) out, is naturally manifested, whether adopting the 'helpless female waving her bike glove in the air', or the 'i am woman, watch me use this tool, and hear me grunt/fart/belch'. these ladies appear to view anyone else with an x chromosome sharing their trail, as the enemy. and much like any other setting with two or more women, there is an ever present, but unspoken pecking order (usually related to whether it's a S, M, L, or god forbid, XL in your spandex). however, team affiliation appears to be the primary demilitarized zone, as my person, my bike, and my greetings ("hello"), have been routinely ignored by multiple "bella's" wearing full kit. apparently, with the pink jersey's come the prehistoric social skills of neanderthal man. however, while this fair and gentle minority is adamant about keeping up with the guys, they also want you to know that they "ride like a girl", as evidenced by their enthusiasm for t-shirts/coffee mugs/nalgene botttles/bumper stickers emblazoned with this catchy little dictum.

i was 18 years old when i used to tag along with my dad and his friends if they went out riding in the desert. everyone is looking for something, whether it is mr. wonderful, the top of a trail head, or the rear brake cable.

start/finish

endings can be sad, a relief, or a celebration, but usually an ambivalent combination of all three. marathon training is now approaching the finish line, of course this means that actual marathon racing is only 2 weeks from the starting line. and i am experiencing first date anticipatory anxiety. it is either going to be so bloody awful that i'll make excuses and want to stop everything before it gets too far, or things will feel effortless and "right" (no swearing/whining/self deprecation).

today was our final "long" run; 14 miles. however, "numerically & geographically challenged" (me) miscalculated the route, and our mileage was closer to 17. but this provided additional "reflection" time on beginnings, middles, and ends. during the first 10 miles (when endorphins were doing what they are supposed to), i felt sad at the impending loss of a familiar routine and regular contact with my buddy. however, around mile 15, 'empty-stomach-except-for-sports-beans' nausea, set in (yesterday, it was 'too-full-of-waffles-and-berries' nausea), and i began to look forward to the fact that this regularly scheduled discomfort-ing experience was time limited.

as with all journeys, there have been some surprises and disappointments along the asphalt. namely, that i am supremely perturbed that none of my clothes are any looser after all the intensive calorie burning aerobic activity i have endured. or that i am unable to overcome genetics. the reality is that no matter how many miles i clock, i will always run every single one of them on short, footballer's (british, not american) legs. "long", "lean", and "sinewy" is just not part of my DNA. and finally, i have experienced a chronic melancholy over the absence of "toe haematoma". conversely, i have been pleasantly surprised at the resiliency of my knees, state of mind, and stomach's ability to keep from surrendering oatmeal/granola/waffles into nearby bushes. i have also discovered a new post run/shower snack alternative to chips and guac; hummus and garlic pita chips.

more temporal mementos are the multiple tank tops' straps' cobweb, now seared into my back, and the candy corn tan line between my shorts and socks. for a truly lasting keepsake, i will always have a mark along my xyphoid process, where the heart rate monitor has chafed a scar into my skin.

i am looking forward to being able to ride my mountain bike more frequently. i am guaranteed some bruises.

pedalling by numbers

i am unable to do fractions, long division, percentages, convert to (or from) metric, look at a person/living space/piece of land and estimate the respective height/weight/square footage/distance. i cannot remember how much i pay per month in car insurance, or how much is currently in my savings account. i am not a bad grown up, i am just really crap with numbers.

today i rode the trails with a professional trucker, although i think "mountain bike yoda" may be more apropo. he asked about my "set up" (?) relating to shocks, travel, pressure, and do i ride 80 or 100 (tyre pressure or the fork?). knobs and dials were twisted and turned, and the fork was pumped and pressed until the determination, that while my tyres "probably" had the correct amount of squish for my body weight (i have no idea how much air i put in, i "goldilocks" it, until it's just right), the front and rear shocks were "too rigid" and did not have enough "travel".

i was then formally introduced (after 7 years) to the various moveable parts on my bike (and i did use lube). practical instruction immediately followed, on; "applied log jumping: the basics", "the laws of a bunny hop: a study on ground clearance", "essential and efficient shifting techniques (up and down hill)", "negotiating switchbacks (intermediate level)", and "myths and misnomers, or how it is virtually impossible to fall off the back of your bike".

to borrow that god awful "life is good" lexicon, i really do; "ride like a girl".

(shit).

shop~bike~run

last weekend's 18 miler, and this past week's inaugural mountain bike ride of '08, necessitated a visit to local bike and running stores, respectively.

store # 1: guys seem to enjoy bike shops the same way women (other women, not me) can rack up hours browsing and sniffing their way through a candle outlet. i personally find the latter nauseating to the point of migraine headaches, and the former so intimidating that i would rather get in, get out, and maybe no one will notice that i really don't know a bloody thing about tubes/cables/levers/chains/pokey things, and what they do on (or to) a bike. i think perhaps this may also be attributed to a former liaison with a pro cyclist- if he was versed in the ways of all things on 2 wheels, then by default i should be (the same silly cognition that my father's profession (dentist) qualifies me to identify a bicuspid or incisor at 30 paces). i left with lube (chain and skin chafe).

store # 2: the plan was get in ("size 6 brooks, please"), get out. the reality was; sit down, try on a shoe ("you've been wearing a size too big"), try on another shoe, talk with the owner (a transplanted brit) while he squeezed and poked my feet. i shared with him my frustration at the lack of black toenails (he offered to use the hammer they had back in the storage room "free of charge"). we bonded for about 20 minutes, about our peripatetic parallels to regions in the US, UK, south africa, and bahrain.

i got a hefty discount on the '08 shoes, and plenty of freebies: running socks, a singlet, and advice ("don't go running without a sports bra"). must have been the accent and the ovaries.

he did promise me that i will get black toenails-- and that they will fall out.

(yessssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!)

fat is better than skinny

very few women will admit to preferring fat and dimply over smooth and skinny. fat is less intimidating. fat is safe. fat is solid and protects. i have a "thing" for fat.

i have ridden a mountain bike off and on since i was 19. however, in my compulsive efforts to keep my own thighs from becoming too "knobby", i recently acquired a road bike. aka the manifestation of anorexia in two wheels. it defies reason how those skinny things can maintain a continuous vertical, or absorb pebbles, ruts, and mangled squirrels in the road. i am completely intimidated by it's emaciated silhouette.

exercising my (female) god given right to live the contradiction, i feel safer riding a trail over the road, but i would choose running on the road, over a trail. and while the thought of wrapping myself and bike around a stationary tree covered in fiery spears, or endo-ing into a field of poison ivy is mildly unpleasant, it is preferrable to the prospect of simply twisting my size 5 brook's, under a tree root (no amount of calamine takes away the sprain). and i would far rather pick gravel out of grazed knees than the less appealing prospect of collecting aforementioned fat limbs and skinny tyres from the windscreen of a redneck's ford tundra/silverado/ram.

i am an oxymoron; fat and happy.

organic mountain biking

asheville; where the parking garages look like subaru dealerships and even the homeless are a north face wearing eco-friendly bunch asking for your restaurant leftovers instead of cash. this past weekend i drove down to the carolinas to ride the issaqueena trails (clemson) with another skorted friend (and former evacuee of louisville). we resumed our natural riding patterns; me upfront collecting cobwebs with my face, she listening to me spit and gag from behind. unfortunately being first also means navigating (have i mentioned that i have directional dyslexia?).

we got rather lost.

while i did remember the "hotel-with-purple-sign-by-the-traffic-lights-at-the-bottom-of-the-hill-on-the-strip-with-all-the-apartment-buildings-leading-up-to-the-park", my brain became flatulent upon entering the trail. unfortunately these trails were not "colour coded for idiots", nor were they nicely taped and marked "for my conveniance" as they had been when i rode the course prior to a mountain bike race several years ago. fortunately there were many equestrians depositing steamy trail markers for us to follow. however, these rugged, ruddy, outdoorsy folk also yielded and greeted, and did not throw cigarettes, cans of bud light, or flip their mullets at us, as i have experienced with some of their kentucky counterparts. the trail really is shared.

the trails were (as i remembered) fun, fast, singletracky switchbacks with many, many moments of "oh god, oh god, dont look down, dont look to the right, ignore the abyss 2 centimetres to the left where i could potentially tumble, uninterrupted, until i baptize myself and the bike in the lake, at which point nessy, with incisors of steel, will come and chew on my limp, twitching form".

unfortunately the weekend drew to a close and i was asked to leave; i do not drive a subaru.

riding across the gender divide

guys can pee sitting down; we are on equal turf. however, all those who wear spandex are not created equal- and spandex can be pretty unforgiving. i do not ride too often with the "stronger sex", primarily because i do not want; "that much of a workout". however, every now and again, its good to see how far i can push before CPR and/or a defibrillator is necessary.

riding faster than my brain's ability to think and process "oh fart, there is a steep, negative gradient peppered with sharp, pointy obstacles that could probably really hurt my face/skull/anywhere with a long bone not surrounded by excess feminine body fat" are irrelevant, if speed has already committed me to it. for miles, my entreaties to encourage the lead rider of any 'co-ed peloton a deux' to shoo off and focus on elevating their own pace/heart rate to more than a corpse, falls on deaf ears. apparently concern over my lack of mechanical savvy or inability to remain vertical and not sustain a traumatic head injury are somewhat prophetic. slowing down and thinking (the feminine), tends to result in more crashing (me). of course "trail testosterone" can then make himself useful by picking up the pieces.

i wish i could pee standing up. i have scratched the shit out of my shins trying to find a secluded 'spot to squat' in the woods.

i don't do commando

"i always wear knickers under my bike shorts".

[blank stare]

"i'm a girl..."

[as above]

"we have smegma."

[door slamming closed/crickets chirping]

the x- chromosome argument is strongly supported by the fact that wearing undies provides an extra layer (really, it's a barrier).

~ it's better for the environment to recycle.
~ bike shorts are expensive.
~ regular chamois funk is already bad enough
~ who has time to do laundry that many times in one week?

go ahead: ask your girlfriend/friend/friend's girlfriend/co-worker. two out of every three women are sporting a VPL (visible panty line) out there on the trails.

Ay-eeeee-eyeeee-ohhhhhh....!

in the past week i have ridden my mountain bike at brown county state park, not too far from bloomington "oh-it's-so-cute-indiana", waverly park "it's-not-just-about-the-old-TB-sanatorium", and muscatatuck wildlife refuge, not "muscataf*&k" as-renamed-by-melinderrr-on-the-very-first-singletrack-climb-by-the-precipice-from-hell. the woods echoed with four letter words.

our trail narrative was eventually reduced to single vowels (i clearly missed my calling as a speech therapist). i am wholly confident that it was this, and not my stellar handlebar/eye co-ordination, that provided safe passage across the dusty, narrow singletrack (that dropped straight off into the abyss), something that each location's topography had in common. we escaped relatively unscathed, as evidenced by the lack of wrapping selves/bikes around trees/poison ivy/creek beds. however, i was molested by a rogue thorn bush at waverly, and we hurriedly pedalled past "the rape shack" (as christened by melinderrr) at muscatatuck.

post ride custom involved the reclaimation of our ovaries, from the dirt, by indulging in chocolate chip bourbon cookies, and the outlet malls of middle indiana. we may not be terribly efficient at shifting gears/ascending hills/negotiating tree roots/breathing continuously, but we are bloody well going to look cute out there.

goldilocks and the 3 trails

"it's like learning to ride a bicycle", except when it comes to actually riding a bicycle. it has been several months since i have made an unplanned descent from my saddle. i was about due.

yesterday, the trails were "too dry"; dusty powder provides no traction. thankfully, i had a large, pointy rock to break my fall, before i slid into the creek (which incidentally smells like sewage). much needed rain today, meant the trails were "too wet". i have historically had bad luck (or just really crap hand/eye co-ordination) with wooden bridges. i thought i had overcome them. i had; as long as they are dry. today i skidded off the bridge and nosedived into dirt. fortunately dirt is soft and relatively easy to pick out, suck out, and spit out.

i might need to invest in some protective gear for my ego.

"Oh...it's happening again."

Full suspension, hardtail or padded shorts are irrelevant when it comes to some (lucky!) girls' shock absorption on the trail. For many, even a short "quickie" will result in bruising, however next time you are negotiating the roots near Beargrass Creek and the Seminary trail, pay attention if you see any of your dirt sisters bouncing down over (and over!) the rooty drop offs, digging into her eggbeaters (pedals), grinding her granny (gear), and clenching at her bar ends. Wait, until "girl on a bike"* finishes her ascent, and while she catches her breath, her heart rate slows, cheeks flushed and blotchy, she will ask you: "oh my god, can we do that again?"




* "girl on a bike" will remain anonymous in order to protect her identity.