Finding my inner handypenis

 

I just had to check in and see how everybody's doing. Last week was a big week. Yuge. Nobody's ever seen one this huge. I have to admit I was feeling some PTSD on election Tuesday stemming from the 2016 election night horror show. I was irritable, unfocused, fearful even, after weeks of grinding tension. Like a lot of you, I suspect. 2020 has been unkind and I had no reason to believe it was going to change.

But as the week went by, something happened. The weather changed from chilly and rainy to dry and warm. The autumn trees cast a warm pink and yellow glow over our street. The tide started to turn blue in the days after the election. And Thursday I woke up and felt like a dark cloud had been lifted off my head. A heavy dark cloud. I felt like getting to work.

Toward the end of October I had signed up for a race called Run for Ruth--We Dissent* with my daughter-in-law Dakota. Crazy as it was this close to winter, we committed to riding (running, walking, skating) 87 miles by the end of January, 2021. Coraline and I loaded up our bikes and rode along the Stillwater River Thursday, leaves crunching under our tires, smiling and saying "hi" to the walkers. We weren't the only ones who felt more relaxed. Two weeks ago people walked with their heads down and often didn't make eye contact. Now they seemed eager to greet us as we blew past. We got in 8.5 miles, which isn't far for me, but was a pretty good ride for a 9-year-old.

The next day we went out again with Dakota, my 3-year-old grandson Danger, and Dakota's mom, Red. This time we rode along fields and farms and through a small pretty midwestern town until we got to a park. Dakota stopped there with the kids while Redma and I rode on. About a mile and a half down the path, Redma decided to stop and call a friend. I rode on by myself past large cornfields that had been recently harvested. I passed a few people, mostly walkers. One old man was walking a bike at a jog that was slower than most people walk. I kept my eyes open for deer. The last time we rode that path a buck with an impressive rack ran across the path from out of the woods just 50 yards ahead of us. I have no desire to find out who would survive a collision between my road bike and a deer.

All in all, I got in 16 miles that day, about half of them at a good, hard pace. Not that far compared to how I used to ride, but the longest ride of this year. I'm up to 38.25 miles, and I think I can finish those last 50 miles in plenty of time.

I felt so energized our rides and the results of the election I got busy on several outside projects I've needed to do for months (many months). First I painted our old frame swing grape purple. I've had that swing for at least 15 years and I've moved it twice. The awning it came with rusted off long ago. Coraline uses it for gymnastics and we spend hours sitting out there reading and talking, playing music. It was getting pretty shabby though, the gray metal rusting in places. I've meant to paint it for .... well, longer than I care to admit. Two cans of spray paint later it's finally done and it looks just as quirky and "old hippy lives here" as I hoped it would. 

After that I got up on my big ladder and filled in a long gap between my side porch and the brick wall where a bat likes to roost and poop. Bats have gotten into the house several times over the 7 years I've lived here -- OK, if I'm honest it's probably a dozen times now. The last time my fierce  white cat Gandalf brought the bat down out of the air in the middle of the night and I found myself crawling naked through bat pee in my closet trying to save it. Did I not write about that? I guess not. It's funny now.

I asked several handypenises to help me figure out how the bats were getting in, but none of them could get the job done. What's a vagina to do? Well, find her inner penis, that's what. And I think I finally got that problem licked.

I bought caulk (no pun intended) and some of that ugly foam stuff that turns orange and looks like a disease, hoping to fill the gap with one or both. Turned out the gap was too wide for the caulk (nope, not going there) and the foam stuff wouldn't come out of the can after the first brief spray (nope). Worthless shit. Now what?

I searched my garage for answers. Screen? Couldn't find it, although I know it's there. Chicken wire? The holes are too big and besides that I don't want my house to look like a barn. Just as I was about to give up I noticed an old green eggshell sleeping pad someone had left in my garage. And I thought why not cut that into strips and stuff them into the gap? Sure enough. It worked and it hardly even shows. Fingers crossed the bats stay outside where they belong.

Today after Coraline and I did our writing/schoolwork sessions, I got the wooden steps scrubbed down with some kind of really strong deck cleaner so I can stain and seal them tomorrow. I'm also going to sand down some areas on the porch floors and get them repainted. After that I've got some dry rot to dig out and refill and paint. After that, I'm painting the cellar doors and filling in the gaps in the concrete stairs to the front porch and then .... who knows? Maybe I'll figure out how to put some new siding on my garage. My handypenis is pumped and ready to go!

I'm not dicking around here, people! I was going to pay someone to do most of this work, but I couldn't find anyone to do it and the custody/visitation lawsuit I've mentioned has cost way more than I paid for my Honda Odyssey, so I did what I had to do. I called up my own penis and I got to work.

Yes, I do still have jobs I need to pay a real handypenis to do, but I haven't felt this energized since we shut down for COVID in March. Maybe since the election four years ago. I hope the feeling lasts, because this old house needs some lovin' and it looks like we're going to be sheltering in here for a while.

How about you? How are you doing? Feeling better since the erection election? Dreading winter and wondering how to manage the holiday? Enjoying the last warm days of fall?

* If you're looking for a challenge it's not to late to sign up for Run for Ruth -- We Dissent. Just click on the link. It costs $35, but you get a t-shirt and some other swag. And some exercise. If you want to join my team, send me an email and I'll give you the name. Wearing pearls while you ride or run is optional.

Stay safe, my friends. I don't want to lose any of you.

Love, Coraline

Day 3: Notes from the saddle

On the road

I'm riding my bicycle down 3rd Street on my way to the bike path when a guy in a red pickup pulls up beside me. He rolls down his window. Uh oh, I think. Another guy in a pickup. What advice does this one want to yell at me? Fucking mansplainers are everywhere.

There's something about men in pickups. They like to talk to me when I'm riding on the road -- and I mean just the men in pickups. Never the ones in cars. I had just posted this on my Facebook feed a few days before: 

One for the 'I can't win no matter what I do' column. Riding my bike on 3rd St, totally legal. In the middle lane so I could continue straight at the light. Some guy in a white pickup came up as close as he could beside me on the right and yelled, 'Get on the sidewalk, dummy!' 'Fuck right off,' I replied, although he probably didn't hear me over the gunning of his big, exhaust-belching engine. At the light 75 yards ahead where he had to stop, I intended to offer to let him pay my ticket when I get one for riding on the sidewalk, which is illegal and have you seen the sidewalks on the East Side? Holy shit, I might as well walk. As soon as I pulled up beside him at the light -- yeah, see where your big hurry got you, big guy? -- he turned right on the red even though he didn't have a clear distance to turn in front of the cars with the green. I guess he felt safer roaring away from me into traffic than he did sitting right beside me. Some people can't handle a redhead, that's for damn sure.

They aren't always unpleasant, these men. They are always men though, and they always make me wary. At another stop light one evening a guy in the lane beside me rolled down his window and looked over at me. There were 2 or 3 other men in the cab of the pickup with him. He smiled and said, "Hi there." I said, "Hi," and then I looked straight ahead. When the light turned green he said in a louder voice, "Hey!" I looked over. "Be careful now, will you?" he said. "I will," I replied and I finally smiled back.

Another evening on the same street as I waited at yet another light, again in the middle of the street in the left turn lane, a guy in a pickup going the other direction kept motioning something with his hand. I tried not to look like I was looking, but I finally figured out he was doing the "call me" sign, knocking his hand against the side of his head with his thumb and pinkie sticking out. He was still doing it as he roared by and I started pedaling toward the river. I had to laugh. He was all of 30 years old. A helmet and sunglasses hide a lot of decades years apparently.

Back to the guy in the red pickup. I'd noticed he got caught behind me a block earlier. That tends to piss some people off, even if I'm going about as fast at the downtown traffic. When he pulled up beside me and rolled down his window, I was ready for ... well, for whatever.

"Hey, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure." Usually when somebody asks me that I add, "as long as you're not asking for money." Saves time. I didn't expect a guy in a pickup to panhandle me though.
"Do you know where Don's Pawn Shop is? Am I close?"
Whew. "Yeah, it's about 2 blocks up the street, on your right. There's usually parking in front."
"Thanks. On the right. Got it."
The light turned green. I got up on my pedals.
"Hey!"
I looked over at him.
"Be careful now, will you?"
"I will. Bye." I turned, and he went straight to Don's Pawn Shop. Another guy. Another pickup. I hope he's careful too. People on bikes are a lot smaller than he is.

*****************
I've noticed something weird about cars that pass in the lane next to me. A significant number of them get closer to me as they pass instead of moving further away like you'd expect. I mean close enough that they're often on or over the line. And then, after they've passed me, they move back toward the center of the lane. What's up with that? And it's not just men in pickup trucks, although they tend to be guilty as well.

I suspect they're doing that thing where they turn the steering wheel in the same direction they're looking. My ex used to do that and it drove me crazy. I tried not to do anything that would make him look over at me because I was afraid we'd soon be rolling over in a ditch. What the actual fuck? Either look straight ahead or learn to do two things at once.

I won't even get started on assholes people who go around me in the same lane. Some observe the 3-foot rule, which is still ridiculously close. Others go way out around. And then there are those who pass so close I can tell what they ate for lunch by the smell of the farts wafting out of their cars.

On the path

The bike path going south from downtown was closed for several years (4? 5?) because of construction on the interstate and in the river. A few weeks ago the highway construction ended and the bike path was re-opened as well, so I decided to take the path south .... along with about 300 walkers, mostly people who work downtown.

Pedestrians make me nervous. I try not to give them nasty surprises. I yell out, "On your left!" as I come up on them. Or sometimes, "On your right!" if they don't know which side of the path to walk on. Or, "I'm coming through. Right or left, you choose!" And a few times, "Down the middle, fucktards!" for those people who walk together, but on either side of the path. There are more than you'd think.

Sometimes they hear me. Often if they're walking alone they've got earbuds in and don't look up until they feel my breeze. I don't get that. If I were walking alone along the river or on a path in the woods, I would want to hear any other creatures who might be sharing the nature with me, including bicycles going anywhere from 10-23 mph. But that's just me. I'm a little high-strung, like most people with vaginas.

Between the walkers and the Canada geese, I did a lot of slowing down until I got out past downtown. The geese will move over if I hiss at them. The walkers, like I said, are not so aware that others share the path with them.

And then there's the ragweed. I know I said that in a post last month. And I even shared this photo. I don't care. The fucking ragweed is going to be the death of me. The nicer the weather gets, the shittier I feel and it's all because of those weeds up there in that photo and others like them. To be fair, this was the only place on the path that was so overgrown, but still. I was glad I was on my bike so I only had to hold my breath for about 15 seconds.

****************
And then there were the Hillary Clinton signs. As I passed by the Viet Nam Veterans Memorial, I saw the big city trash receptacles were filled and overflowing with Hillary Clinton signs. I tried to take a photo, but my camera sucked my battery dry and still didn't get the shot. Hard to call it a smart phone sometimes.

Same with the people who stole those signs and stuffed them into the trash bins. Stupid assholes. If you don't want to be called deplorable, don't steal from other people's yards.

My friend Jay asked his Facebook friends the other day if they were reluctant to put Clinton/Kaine signs in their front yards and bumper stickers on their cars, because he knows a lot more people who intend to vote for them than are showing it. Most of the people who answered said, "Hell, yes, I'm afraid to put them out. Trump's supporters scare me." It took me a while, but I finally put a sign in my yard. I'm the only one on my street with any political sign at all. I put mine behind my wrought iron fence.

One friend said as soon as she put a Clinton bumper sticker on her car, somebody keyed her car and bad. Not just one scratch, but several gouges. I had my bumper sticker on the console in my van for almost a month before I stuck it on, right next to my 2 Obama stickers from 2008 and 2012. So far nobody has fucked with my van. Fingers crossed.

Once I clear the city, I can gear down and go faster. I love that feeling. On fall days, I pass only a few other cyclists. A lot of people put their bikes away with their white shoes after Labor Day. I enjoy the isolation, and I'm not afraid because I feel fairly safe going 16 or 17 mph. Of course, I never feel entirely safe, because I'm a woman, but I feel safer than I do walking my dog in my neighborhood or going to karaoke. It only takes one roofie to kill the fun times for a while.

On my bike though, I just ride. I know that feeling strong and fast won't really protect me if the time comes when somebody does want to harm me, or even if I hit a walnut just wrong and my tire slides out from under me and I go down. Still, it's one of the few times in my life when I can let go and just feel my body working hard, my tires rolling, the air around me in motion, the river flowing beside me. For just a couple of hours, I almost feel free.

(All photos copyright Reticulated Writer)

Updates and getting naked

First the updates, because it never pays to lead with getting naked.

1. A couple of days ago I wrote about my upcoming piano gig at church. It went pretty much like I expected, which means it was a humbling experience that I don't intend to repeat. And people were kind and understanding and some even claimed not to notice. That's it. I have nothing else to say about it.

2. Last night I wrote a plea for one more like on Facebook to bring the number up to 150. Tonight as I write, the number is 170. Thank you. Your comments and likes and even the occasional criticisms help me sit here in the wee-est hours of the morning tapping away on my keyboard. I wish they cleaned my house too.

3. No, I don't have my guitars back. Don't ask me to explain. I have learned not to bang my head against the behavior of some people, because I will never understand it: bullies, mothers who kill their children, Rush Limbaugh, clowns, exes, and people who steal from friends. I can't explain this situation.

4. I've been writing about misogyny lately and about male entitlement to sex. Lots of women know what that feels like, and one of those women is my friend Autodidact Poet. She wrote a brave post on her blog titled, "The Thing that Needs to be Said." Our stories are powerful. What story do you need to tell?

*********

Photos stolen from a couple
of websites. Sorry. I wasn't there.

Now for the nudity. A reader and friend sent me an article about today's World Naked Bike Ride in Portland. Fucking Portland. Why do they get all the cool stuff? I want to go on a naked bike ride with thousands of other naked cyclists. I really do .... in my head.


I just can't imagine I'd put down my embarrassment over my imperfect body to do it. Well, that and my bike seat is about the size of a golf club head. I'd have to do something to accommodate the dildo factor.

I've looked through a bunch of photos from the ride looking for one thing: a naked middle-aged woman. I couldn't find one. Not a single one. In fact, despite the claim that riders of all ages and sizes and body types rode, most of the riders appear to be under 35 and relatively fit. Or older men. Older men seemed well represented, fit or not.


Which is fine, but where the hell are the middle-aged women? Or even the women over 30? I don't even see many of those in the photos. Is it photographer bias? Possibly. Or, more likely, women over 30 are so ashamed of our bodies, we can't get out and get naked with the rest of the cool kids.

It seems a shame, which is why I wish I had the courage to fly to Portland next year with my bike and represent.

I mean, somebody should. But honestly it won't be me. First, I can't afford it. Do you know what teachers make? Nothing in the summer.

And second, what if someone did post a photo of the one middle-aged woman who happened to be me, and what if one of my students saw it? I can't imagine the trauma. Maybe I could hide behind a layer of paint and some fairy wings, like these young women did, but see number 1.

Third, I'm afraid I'd go all that way there and chicken out, because seriously? It's hard enough to go outside my house in spandex bike shorts that at least smooth everything out. Walking around a park buck naked and then riding through neighborhoods while people in clothes stand on the sidewalk taking photos with their cell phones? The fear factor is high. I'd worry I was sticking out like an overweight, middle-aged woman with no clothes on.

Still, I applaud the thousands of people who made the ride today. It looks like they had a blast. It looks like they feel free and proud and confident. Some of them probably had to pry their saddles out of their asses, but what a small price to pay for freedom!

Would you do it? Would you go on a naked bike ride in your city?

Riding with girls

Today I rode in a charity bicycle ride for a local domestic violence prevention organization. The only time I ask my Facebook friends to donate money is for this ride. The work of the organization is dear to my heart for a couple of reasons.

First, because Elvira did her Girl Scout bronze award project for them. And second because I have a personal connection to the work they do.

Years ago I worked as a counselor for a women's resource center in an undisclosed location in Oklahoma. Among other things, we were the umbrella organization for the local batter women's shelter, and I remember too well the women who came through our doors carrying children still in their pajamas, faces and bodies battered black and blue, bleeding, the babies scared and crying.

You can't imagine the damage a man's fists or a baseball bat can do to a woman's face ... to her body unless you've seen it. I hate to admit it, but it's hard not to look away. And yet to look away is to tell that woman you can't even bear to look at the result of what she had to endure.

These women are lodged deep in my heart.

So today, in spite of my stupid sore foot in its unfashionable navy blue boot and in spite of the pain in my shoulder from the tetanus shot (I had no idea a tetanus shot would leave such muscle soreness and stupid flu-like symptoms), I showed up at 8:30 AfuckingM at the appointed parking lot and rode with my girls, the Butt Crack Bike Gang.

Almost 250 women registered to ride today. I'm not sure how many of us actually rode. I do know when I hit the left turn lane for the parking lot, I was behind a line of women with bicycles racked on their cars, and I don't give a shit how sappy it sounds, I got a little teary knowing every penny we raised would go toward helping women, and their children, who are victims of domestic violence. I got a little teary knowing how powerful women can be when we join together to make something happen.

Domestic violence crosses all borders: age, race, income, education. I hate that we need organizations like the one we rode to support today, but the fact is, we do need them. Every minute of every day a woman is being beaten in this country, and without those 24-hour hotlines and shelters, many of them would die. Many do anyway.

I'm off my soapbox. I didn't even get started on the fucking assholes who beat women and children .... and I won't. I wouldn't know where to stop if I got started on that.

Instead I remember the bleeding and swollen and bruised faces of those women. And I remember the fear I felt when a crazed husband came into our offices looking for the woman he hadn't quite killed .... usually so he could finish the job. And the times we went on lock-down because one of them was outside pounding  on our doors and windows and threatening to kill all of us. And he meant it ....

But the bike ride! The bike ride was fantastic. We rode in cool, clear weather along the river -- talking and laughing, greeting riders from other groups. Passing and being passed. (Yeah, I hate being passed. Who would have guessed?)

We stopped for belly dancing and chocolate and butterscotch fountains; hand massages; purple hair extensions, yoga, and cookies. It was fucking awesome. And when we got back to the starting point, there was a food truck to feed us quesadillas and swag bags and vendors and a photo booth.

BCBG was signed up to ride 22 miles, but we were so jazzed by the girl power and the gorgeous end-of-summer weather, we pushed on and rode the longest ride, 29.37 miles total by my computer.

It was fan-fucking-tastic. The energy and connection with all those women empowered and energized us.

My only regret is that I didn't make my donation goal. But I am grateful for the friends who donated in my name.  I felt them riding with me today.

I also carried with me another friend who rode with us last year, but couldn't this year because she's been battling cancer. She finished the chemo last month, and on Thursday she underwent a mastectomy. I carried her in my heart, and I know next year she'll be riding with the BCBG again.

One more story. I was unloading my bike from my van when a 9- or 10-year-old kid who was being pulled by a big pit bull with white eyes let himself be tugged across the street behind my van. He said, "Hey, were in you in some kind of big bike race or something?"

I still had a paper with a number on it pinned to the back of my shirt. I said, "No, I was in a charity bike ride. We raised money for Artemis Center."

"How far did you ride," he asked, pulling back hard on his dog so he could watch me unload my bike.

"Almost 30 miles," I said.

"Dang! I can't even imagine riding a bike that far! You really rode 30 miles?" The dog was dragging him up over the curb.

"I did ride that far," I said, standing my bike on the ground.

"Man, I could never ride a bike that far. You strong," he said.

I smiled at him as his dog pulled him on down the sidewalk. "Yes," I said. "Yes, I am."

Women. How can anyone not love us?

The third eye on my thigh

I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. 

~~ Edgar Allen Poe, "The Tell-Tale Heart"

I have a third eye. It lives on my thigh, and it has nothing to do with my chakras -- unless maybe I bruised one.  It's been there for 12 days now -- unblinking, keeping its secrets. Like the Mona Lisa of bruises, this eye.

At first I thought the eye was a little creepy. I didn't want to linger in the bathroom reading magazines, listening to the neighbors fight, or waiting out Coraline, who sometimes uses the potty as an excuse to get out of other things, like taking a nap, and who likes company as she tinkles.

It just seemed weird having an eye staring up at me while I was performing very private acts. I guess it's better than having a nose on my thigh, but it took some getting used to.

Also it made me shudder to shave it .... If only it would blink.

I certainly didn't want to get soap in on it.

It had only been there a couple of days when it started attracting attention. I was riding my bike downtown to a festival on a Friday. I had on a skort, which must be the stupidest word ever except for maybe spork.

Anyway, a skort is a pair of shorts with a built-in skirt over them. So it looks like a skirt, but has more coverage than a skirt in the places that count. If I just wear a skirt, I have to layer shorts underneath while I ride and then take them off when I get to where I'm going. It's just easier to wear the skort in spite of the stupid name.

I'm pretty sure I've digressed because my third eye has finally closed and appears to be asleep.

The skort is not the perfect cycling wear. It rides up on my legs rather higher than I'd prefer, but not so far that it's obscene. I'm just used to my tight spandex bike shorts that end somewhere just above or below my knees. But it's a mile and a half, and I don't expect anybody is going to be staring at my legs as I ride along the city streets and sidewalks.

Except this middle-aged guy driving an orange PT Cruiser with his window down who slowed to almost a crawl, his head hanging out of the window as he stared at my lower half. And it was just as I had slowed too, going up a steep turn onto a bridge.

Having forgotten about the eye, I immediately felt flattered and a little turned on defensive. What the fuck, guy in an orange PT Cruiser? I thought. Are you trying to see my vagina or what?

Of course my vagina was covered by a skirt sewn to shorts as well as panties. It wasn't peeking out no matter how hard he looked, but I still had to glance down and check to see what had caused him to forget his manners.

When I looked down I saw the eye looking back up at me with its enigmatic expression. No wonder he was staring! He'd probably never seen anybody with a thigh eye before. 

"Did you see that?" I said to the eye. "That guy was staring at you." Its expression didn't change.

(The thought doesn't escape me that the eye is also embedded in a dark bruise the size of my palm, which might also have caught the man's attention, but who gives a shit if a stranger on a bicycle has a bruise? People don't slow down and stare at that, do they? I live in a neighborhood where men's pants are always in danger of falling down. Now that's something to stare at.)

I rode on and was glad to arrive at the festival where I could pull my skort down into place and cover the eye. My thighs don't need that kind of attention.

Sometime shortly after that though, I had to admit to myself I kind of liked the eye -- the mysterious expression, the rich colors, the unexpectedness. How it looks just off to the side, as if it's conjuring or dreaming. It's an eye Rembrandt might have painted .... although he probably wouldn't have embedded it in a painful thigh-bruise.

I started to wonder what the rest of her face would look like. I see it as a woman's eye, but how can an eye show gender? It could be a man's eye just as easily. (Although that makes it creepy again. I can't get used to peeing with a man's eye looking up at me.)

I wondered what her story would be, the owner of this eye that looks sad sometimes, disdainful other times, or simply bored if I've worn long pants all day. What stories would this eye tell if it were joined to the rest of its body? What has it seen -- besides a guy in an orange PT Cruiser who might have been trying to look up my skort at my vagina? It looks like an eye that has seen a lot and remembers everything.

So I've come to appreciate my third eye, especially now that the deeper muscle bruise has healed and it doesn't hurt to walk. It's kind of like those people who get Jesus on their piece of toast.

Only my third eye isn't going to make me a saint. It's not a miracle. It's already fading with the bruise it rode in on. And when it's gone, well I'm back to two blue eyes and a photo of the time I spend with the third eye on my thigh. The one that isn't a chakra.

Notes from the bike path

After a slow start this season, I'm finally riding my bike with some degree of addiction regularity. Riding feels better than anything else I'm doing these days (except spending time with my kids and granddaughter). Sometimes I ride the same route 3 or 4 days in a row, and even so, I never know what's going to happen out there.

My next-door neighbor asked me today if I had ever watched My Strange Addiction.  I said I'd seen a couple -- one about a woman who eats tires .... She said there was one about a woman who eats remote controls, another who eats her own hair follicles, and one about a guy who rides his bike 8 hours a day, even while he's working. He rides so much his hips have worn out and he can't walk right, but he won't get surgery because he won't be able to ride while he recuperates.

I said that one I understood. I had just come home from a 26-mile ride, and I was standing in her front yard still in my sweaty spandex capris wondering if I could go out later in the evening and get in another ride.

Addicts are people who eat tires and remote controls, not people who ride bikes.

The other day on Facebook a friend whom I'll call Doc -- because he's a doctor -- said I could assume I'd achieved an acceptable level of aerobic punishment if I got home from a ride  sweaty enough that I couldn't wait to take a shower. Obviously he's a runner.

First, my clothes dry pretty fast on a bike ride when I'm trying to keep a steady 14-16 mph pace over the miles. And yet, I do come home sweaty enough to wring moisture from my clothes on a hot day. And I definitely need a shower.

But whether I must take a shower depends entirely on whether I've completely depleted my stores of energy 10 miles back. Today my ride calculator said I'd burned over 1200 calories, and I'd eaten a small apple with peanut butter in the previous 14 hours. Fuck the shower; I wanted food.

In fact, I can come in splattered heels to neck in goose shit (that was Monday night), and I'll still have to consider whether I need a shower before I eat. Speaking of food ....

(photo credit: centralpark.com)

The Canada geese are thick out there this summer. Nasty shitting hissing flapping fuckers. They didn't used to bother me, but this year their numbers have tripled. I'll just pick up to a good fast pace and there they are spread across the bike path like they fucking own it, especially in the evening when I tend to ride most often.

The other day I rode earlier in the day and didn't run into one flock on my way out. They were all down by or on the river. On the way back though, they were all there, flock after flock crowded on the bike path. If they could talk, I'm sure they'd say, "Damn it. You're early today. We weren't ready for you, but here we are now. By the way, your shirt looks lovely with our shit splashed all over it." Damn birds.

 I hiss at them so they'll be intimidated and get out of my way faster. It usually works, but this year a few of them have gotten uppity and tried to attack my bike as I slowly passed. Assholes.

Last summer a lone goose ambushed a friend who was riding along the bike path minding his own business. The evil gander meandered onto the path out of nowhere; my friend hit it, went over his handlebars and landed on his shoulder. After surgery he ended up with something like 8 pins in his shoulder. I don't know if he's riding his bike this summer, but I think it would be hard to get back in the saddle after something like that.

There are lots of hungry people in this city. I don't understand why they don't do like Bob Cratchet and bring home a goose for dinner. Yummy, free goose.

One night I rode out about 8 miles and had come back about halfway in a fairly isolated area -- no houses or businesses nearby. Right there on my side I saw a grocery store cake in a plastic cake carrier upside down on the path. It wasn't there when I rode by the first time. And I hadn't passed anyone going the other direction in quite a while, nor could I see anybody ahead. What the fuck?

I slowed and examined the cake from my bike. It was close to 9:00, I hadn't eaten dinner yet and I was getting pretty hungry. That cake looked like a gift, and I certainly don't give a shit if my frosting is on the top or the bottom of the cake. Of course, I prefer cookies to cake, but life doesn't always hand you a cookie. Sometimes it's a fucking cake.

Sometimes people try to kill me. I mean strangers who don't even know me. Here are two examples, but I have more.

One evening I was riding on my street a couple of blocks from home when a guy suddenly opened his car door. I was giving myself enough space just in case such a thing should happen, but the funny thing this time is that the car was running. And the guy wasn't getting out. Not even his foot was out.

I hit my brakes and slowly passed him. When I looked down into his face, he looked .... I don't know. Busted. After I rode by, he closed his car door and stayed in the car

I think he did it on purpose. A friend said maybe he was going to steal my bike. I don't know. Some people are just mean, like it or not.

Monday I got the walk sign at a stoplight. I was just about to ride into the intersection when a man came to a swift stop in the walkway right in front of me. I hit my brakes and stopped inches from his passenger door. He was on the phone and was looking to the left. I waited. He didn't look to the right where I was .... inches from his door.

His 3 kids did though. They were laughing about him almost hitting me.

Finally, as the time on my light was running out, a guy in the next lane honked at the asshole and yelled and pointed. He took the phone from his ear and said, "What?" He still didn't look to the right of his car. The guy pointed and gestured toward me, and finally he looked.

Then he said, "What?" to me.

Fucking idiot.

I said, "You might as well go ahead and turn. I already missed the light."

He still didn't get it. His kids did though. They thought it was hilarious. I guess they didn't realize if his driving was unsafe for me, they weren't safe either.

He went back to his phone conversation and turned the corner. I think he still didn't know he'd been seconds from running over me. I had to wait for the next light.

Several times I've seen couples riding together -- a man and a woman. And they're wearing matching shirts. Not ever the same couple, but the shirts are always red. No logos.

Who does that?

Solstice Blues

Summer solstice. My favorite day of the year -- after Thanksgiving. My favorite Sabbat. Most years it's a day to celebrate the hot, sexy summer weather, but this year ... not so much. I had a shitty week. And the shit that came down will require some big changes.

In addition, I'm still working on my trust sermon for Sunday. Turns out I had to do some research, because while I know how to be trustworthy, I didn't have much to say about trust that would uplift a congregation. I'm still studying. Tomorrow I write. No choice.

In spite of the shitty week though, and the sermon hanging over my head like a piano on a two-story rope in a silent movie, I can't avoid that it's summer and I have always loved summer.

The first reason is, of course, because there was no school in summer. Just remembering summers when I was a kid growing up in a little town in Iowa creates an explosion of sensory delights. Reading Nancy Drew in front of a fan (no AC) with an endless glass of sugary iced tea; swimming at the pool all afternoon until our eyeballs looked like they were bleeding and then going back in the evening for more; Laughy Taffy and Chic-O-Sticks; popping tar bubbles with our bare toes in the hot streets; catching fireflies and trying to keep them in jars; writing our names in the air with sparklers; Dad churning homemade ice cream with a hand crank; playing under the street lights until late at night while the grownups played cards and drank Schlitz beer in a haze of cigarette smoke in the kitchen; trying to sleep in while the marching band practiced marching for fall football games up and down the street; the 4th of July parade with horses and tractors and the latest models of Chevys and Fords; eating black raspberries off the canes and stealing little new potatoes from under the soil in the garden; racing our bikes all over town; Grandma's angel food cake and spaghetti on my birthday; helping snap string beans and shell new peas while Mom and Grandma gossiped about people I didn't know; eating creamed new peas and tiny potatoes, and later juicy tomatoes sprinkled with sugar and cucumbers soaked in vinegar; camping in Dad's old green army tent and never realizing how much poorer we were than the people with campers and boats; getting drunk for the first time on Grape Crush and brandy with my first real boyfriend; spending all day at the county fair eating cotton candy, throwing dimes at goldfish bowls, and wandering through the barns and exhibits; winning ribbons at the fair with my 4-H projects; riding on the backs of boys' motor cycles; walking beans; swimming in lakes and ponds; fishing and roasting the fish on sticks over a fire at the lake; falling in love -- I think I fell in love every summer. I fell in love with every summer. A small town in Iowa is a good place to spend summers when you're a kid.

I have to admit I'm not feeling it this summer. Not yet. I've been too busy to get out on my bike as often as usual. I guess I also haven't felt that sense of summer freedom. Maybe it's because this is the first summer in a long time I'm not taking a much-needed break from teaching or school.

So this evening I decided to take a break from procrastinating and go for a ride -- a short one because I didn't leave until almost 8:30. I rode down to the riverside park where I have to get on the bike trail now. The ramp nearest my house has been torn out because of road construction on the interstate above.

After stopping to talk with a couple of friends I ran into there, I headed east on the bike path. It was strangely quiet for a warm summer evening. Usually there are lots of people walking and biking as long as it's light, but not tonight. I only passed 4 girls on little bikes and a shirtless sunburned man with a Santa Claus bag on his back who had stopped to smoke.

A few miles further I rounded a corner onto a relatively flat, straight stretch bordered by overgrown honeysuckle, weeds and a tall chain-link fence. About a half mile ahead a man was walking toward me on my side of the path .... and then suddenly he wasn't. Hmmm. That seemed strange. He must have gone into the bushes, and he must have run the 15 feet or so across the grass between the path and the fence.

In a movie, this would not be a good thing. Woman out riding on a lonely bike path. A man runs and hides in the bushes when he sees her coming .... We know where this shit is going, don't we? I imagined him jumping out and kicking my bike over and ... well, that would be bad enough because I would skid along the ground and hit my head. And then he would steal my bike .... or worse! Shit. Where was that guy? Probably just in the bushes taking a leak, right?

I moved over to the left of the path, glad I could see far enough ahead even as dusk was threatening. And then I kicked into high gear and pedaled faster, up to about 18 mph. As I passed by where I thought he must have been, I scanned the bushes, but I didn't see him. Strange. The fence is about 9 feet high, but some parts are pulled down a little bit. Still ....

Whatever. I didn't see him. I rode on a few miles before I had to turn around or risk being caught out after dark on the unlighted path. When I got back to that stretch, I rode fast again and watched for the guy ... and there he was, walking up ahead. He'd cleared the area with the high bushes so this time he couldn't hide .... if he meant to hide.

Do you think I've read too many Stephen King novels?

As I rode closer I could see two more cyclists -- a dad and a little girl -- coming from the opposite direction. The guy held his hand up and waved at the dad. In his other hand he was swinging something. As I got closer I could see it was a cord of some kind and he was twirling it as he walked. He glanced back and saw me behind him. As I was almost up to him, he caught the cord, which had some kind of bright yellow weight on one end, in his right hand. And I thought how fast a cord like that could stop a bike going 18 mph if it were thrown just right into the spokes. I zipped past him, cringing just a little at my own silliness.

Definitely I've read too much Stephen King. Of course my wheels kept turning and I kept pedaling and within seconds I was out of his sight.

Tell me I'm not the only one who has adventures in my own mind.

As I got closer to the heart of the city, I saw I was going to pass under a train trestle while the train was passing over. That's another kind of thrill, to ride under tons and tons of steel racing down the tracks.

Dusk was starting to fall, but I knew I was fine. I passed a park ranger cruising slowly down the path in his car, and hissed my way through a gaggle of Canada geese. They lower their necks and move away if you hiss as you slowly pass through.

Soon I was back on city streets and then safely home. As I rolled down the sidewalk past the gates at the end of the street (to prevent drive-by shootings and high-speed chases), I felt a wave of sadness. Melvin wasn't sitting on his porch drinking gin and juice hollering, "Baby, when you gonna let me go on a bike ride with you. You know I'll smoke you!"

And I didn't say, "Old man, you can't keep up with me as far as the stop light.  You'll die right there on the sidewalk before you ever even get to the road."

And he didn't say, "Oh, I can more than keep up with you. I ride so fast you'll never catch me. How fast you go, baby?"

And I didn't say, "I go as fast as I want to, and that's too fast for you to keep up. You can try if you want to, but I'm not stopping when you fall over with a heart attack."

And he didn't laugh and say, "Come over here and have some gin and juice, baby. You know I love you ............. "

Every summer is different, isn't it? Now it's late -- after 3:00 am -- and I've got all the windows open to catch the sweet night air. My ceiling fan is paddling away up there. The crickets are chirping under the window, and other than a car alarm that went off about 10 minutes ago, it's quiet. Every once in a while I'll catch a glimpse of a firefly winking in the dark, trying to attract his lady love. The almost full moon is peeking in my window from high up in the sky, preparing to be magnificent this weekend, and wondering why I'm sitting here tapping away on this laptop. I'm probably the only one still up on my street.

Summer solstice. One of my favorite days of the year no matter how shitty the week has been. How did you spend your first day of summer?

Why I ride: sunset

Some of what I write here about riding the lovely bike paths that snake around this city might make you wonder why I do it at all. Between the stoned hippies, the large, spread-out families, the cigar-smokers, the dead cats, the sudden storms, and everything else I've complained about, it probably sounds like an unfriendly place at the least, and maybe even a dangerous one at times.

That's because if I wrote about what happens on a normal ride it would look like this: I rode 18 miles, saw 59 geese along the path, passed 8 other cyclists, and struggled with my diaper chamois irritating my lady parts -- yawn.  I only write about the funny or irritating things that happen because I'm a writer. My job is to entertain. At the very least, it's to entertain.

Besides it's hard to capture in words the sweet, fishy smell of the river, the majesty of a great blue heron taking off and flying along the river beside me for a ways, the teeth-jarring thud of an unseen pothole, the exhilarating fear of pushing my speed over 25 mph on a hill, the burn going up the steep ramp to the top of the levy and the desperation of almost not making it to the top, or even the camaraderie of riding for a couple of hours with a friend, stopping to play along the river or maybe riding into downtown for dinner afterward  ..... Those are all things you have to feel for yourself. I wish you could feel them for yourself.

Last night I rode 20 miles. I set my Charity Miles app for The Nature Conservancy and took off south along the river.

Toward the end of the ride I was afraid I wouldn't be able to outrun the sunset, and that I'd get caught on the path after dark. In spite of that, I had to stop and take a couple of photos with my phone-- one looking forward and one backward from where I stood on the path -- just so you can see why I get out there and ride as often as possible in spite of the crazy, rude people I share the path with.

Looking forward toward the city.

Looking back you can barely see the path I just traveled to the left of the sun.

Sunsets, clouds, and bridges. Just one reason I ride.

Dear People of the Bike Path

The one particular segment of the bike path that I ride most frequently is also the segment where I see by far the rudest and most unusual behavior. In fact, I've come to think of it as the Walmart of the bike path and the people on it as the People of the Bike Path.

Sunday nights are the worst time for running into the People of the Bike Path -- and I'm afraid I'm going to mean that literally someday. Last Sunday as I rode along, I realized I writing a letter in my head to the People of the Bike Path I met just that night. It went something like this.

 Dear People of the Bike Path (insert this phrase before each bullet):

•  Blowing up a boat in the middle of the bike path is stupid. Why? Because it's unnecessary. There's an entire fucking field of grass on both sides of the path. You can blow it up there. Or you can do it down by the actual river. The middle of the bike path though? No. And don't yell "hi" to me as I hit my brakes and slowly roll by and then, with your cigarette hanging from your bottom lip, ask your buddy, "What's wrong with her?" when I don't answer. Fuck you and your boat. You belong on the river, not on the bike path.
• That 12-foot penis and balls you drew on the bike path with chalk was neither original nor true to size. You have a small penis or you wouldn't have to draw a large one on the path. Also, next time use darker chalk so I can get a good photo of it for my blog. The pastels colors you used kind of make you look like a sissy.
•  If you and your children walk 7 abreast across the path and I come around a curve going 15 mph, I might run you over like a line of BoBo dolls. I'm not that worried about you. Bo Bo dolls are meant to bounce back up and they're not the smartest toy in the nursery. I'm worried about wrecking my bike and hurting both it and myself. I doubt you could afford to pay for the damages.

 

• Florescent yellow Lycra is not meant to stretch that far. When that shit snaps back, somebody is going to get hurt. You could put an eye out.
• No text message is so important that you have to put your giant backpack in the dead center of the path and then pace in circles around it punching the keys on your phone. You aren't that important in anybody's life. And you're a fucking idiot.
• Put your pitbull on a leash. Dogs like to chase moving objects. I am a moving object. I'm sure there's a corollary there somewhere. You may feel safe with your dog walking 10 feet ahead of you, but I sure as hell don't. I hope your dog rolls on that dead cat that gagged me with its ripe odor just ahead of you.
• Riding with no hands while smoking a big, fat cigar makes you look like an asshole. That smirk on your face leaves no room for argument.
• Your lawn chairs and coolers go on the bank of the river, not on the bike path. I would kick them over as I ride by, but I understand Newton's third law of physics.
• If you are responsible for this

and this,

then I'm glad to share the path with you. In fact, I kinda love you. I don't know how happy other people are about your artwork, but this doesn't seem to be a geographic area where people give a shit about other people.

• Finally, there are a lot of Canada geese along the river and they poop. A lot. I hope you step in it.

Sincerely,

Someone who actually rides a bicycle on the bike path

In which A Man Called Horse ruins my life

I'm not very happy with my cycling buddy A Man Called Horse* right now. He broke the "if something isn't broken, don't fix it" rule. In fact, I'd go so far as to say he willfully messed with the order of the Universe, and now he’s I'm going to suffer the consequences. I warned him, and he did it anyway, and I'm not happy.

Last summer A Man Called Horse and I rode the bike trails together a lot. He said I was the only one crazy enough to ride with him in the 100-degree temperatures the Midwest enjoyed much of the summer. We'd ride 25 or more miles in the blistering heat, soaked through with sweat, a layer of bugs stuck to our skin. We were a perfect match, and not just because we both like riding when the weather man tells us to stay in at the risk of heat stroke.

The real reason we rode so well together is because my bike is amazing -- light, responsive, fast, built for a woman's body -- and A Man Called Horse's bike was a serious piece of shit. He rode an old mountain bike, too small for him, with gears that only rarely worked. He probably could have gotten a little more out of it, but he doesn't think to pump up his tires. I'm just going to say it: I kicked his ass every time we rode.

Or I would have, except I rode slower so he could keep up. Sometimes he had to ask me to slow down, but for the most part, I didn't ride ahead of him ..... OK, a few times I might have mocked him and said something slightly snarky clever like, "Why can't you keep up with me, old man?" Or, during his crazy vegan period, "How about I put a piece of bacon on a stick and hold it out in front of your face while I ride ahead of you? Would that make you ride faster?" Witty, but not insulting.

See, A Man Called Horse isn't an old man. He's younger than I am (fuck no, I'm not saying how much younger) and he's in much better shape. In fact, he does all kinds of crazy shit to challenge himself. Like, he'll go out and live in the woods for several weeks with nothing more than a clothespin and a piece of string in his pocket. In the winter. Or he'll rappel off bridges at night in the city, and run away from the cops through drainage ditches and creeks. And the reason I call him A Man Called Horse? Watch the movie. He's got the scars to prove it.

So for me to kick his ass in any physical activity is ridiculous. Ludicrous. Impossible. And yet, I really did kick his ass all summer and on into the fall on the bike trail -- all because of my fine, fast bike. But not because I could ever really kick his ass at any physical activity.

It drove him nuts. He had to stand up on his pedals half the time, even as he knew I was riding slower than I needed to. I can't count how many times he wheezed groaned said, "I hate your fucking bike." But he'd rationalize it by saying if he rode a shitty bike in the hardest gear, he'd be in that much better shape when he finally bought a good bike. And I supported him.

I told him not to buy a good bike or he'd get fat and lazy. I told him his bike was just fine, and it suited him. He's not a guy who cares about owning lots of fancy things. I strongly encouraged him to just keep his crappy bike and try to keep up with me so he could build stamina, lose weight, and maintain humility. I supported him in every way I could.

See, I am a good riding buddy even when I'm kicking ass. And I thought A Man Called Horse was too. I thought he was a man who enjoyed challenging himself. I thought he was a man who wanted to push his physical limits to the max. I thought he was a humble man who could tolerate getting his ass kicked by a woman .... but no. I was so wrong.

On our first ride this year he showed up on a new bike $50 bike he’d bought at a flea market. He probably paid too much. It was better than his old mountain bike, but it was still a piece of crap with gears that slipped. Once he filled the tires though, he could really tell a difference. I still kicked his ass, but he rode faster and easier. And he could still tell himself he was working out way harder than I was, so technically I wasn’t really kicking his ass. All was well. Until he went rogue.

A few weeks ago he showed up uncharacteristically early to pick me up for a ride. He was acting funny. Eager and even more energetic than usual. Giddy even. Until he noticed I was crying.

I’d just read that Rollo had died about 20 minutes earlier. We commiserated for a while, remembered the jazz and poetry service we’d all done together in church once, and then A Man Called Horse was back to his weird giddiness again. “This ride is for Rollo then,” he said.

He grabbed my bike and took off out the front door before I even had my shoes on. I had to chase after him to get my key out of my bike bag to lock the door, and he barely slowed down to let me do that.

When we got to the car, he said, “Go ahead and get in the car. I’ll put your bike on the rack.” I guess I didn’t move fast enough because as he lifted my bike he ordered, “Just get in the car and wait so we can get going.” Jeez. OK!

We drove to a street near our starting point on the trail, although we could just as easily have ridden from my house. A Man Called Horse parked and jumped out of the car, almost before it had stopped. He hurried to the rack to get my bike off.

I grabbed my helmet and gloves, got out and walked around the car to join him, but he walked about 15 feet from the back of the car, stood on the far side of my bike and said, “Here you go.” I have to admit, my mind was on Rollo. I noted A Man Called Horse’s odd behavior, but I didn’t really try to make sense of it.

I got busy putting on my helmet and gloves (unlike A Man Called Horse who rides in nothing but shorts and shoes), with my back to the car just as he'd positioned me. As I threw my leg over my bike, he took off ahead of me down the street. I followed, but he stayed pretty far ahead, talking back over his shoulder, across a major street and through a park to the levy.

He shot down the ramp to the path, zooming ahead of me. I followed at a more normal pace, but he was rocketing away down the path. I looked down at my computer: 18 mph and I still wasn’t catching up to him. WTF, I thought. He’s going to kill himself in the first five miles.

I backed off to a more reasonable cruising speed of about 15 mph , and eventually he slowed down to let me catch up. Almost.

It had rained earlier, and I remember making some remark about getting goose poop up my back because I don’t have fenders. As he replied from a couple of bike’s lengths ahead of me, I glanced at his back tire to see if he had fenders on his new piece of crap bike.  Hmmm. That tire looked brand new, and like it cost more than the bike. I didn’t remember that from when we stopped so he could put air in his tires.

Then he slowed a little bit more and made a comment that I don’t remember to this day … You know how people who suffer a trauma, like an accident or a horrible shooting, don’t remember what happened just before? Like that.

Because as I pulled up on the right side of him, I looked over at his bike and saw 4 big, bold letters running along his down tube. I can hardly write this because I felt like my head had exploded. Those 4 letters spelled TREK.

“What the fuck did you do?” I screamed. The geese scattered ahead of us on the path. “What the fuck are you doing on a Trek? Where did you get that bike?”

He just grinned at me. From a flat-bar Trek so new the little tags on the tires weren’t worn off yet he just grinned.

“Tell me you did not buy a Trek. Tell me right now you did not buy a Trek bicycle after all the times I told you to stick with the piece of shit bike you had. I ride a Trek! Tell me you did not go out and buy yourself a fucking Trek.”

He laughed. The fucker laughed. “It’s mine! I bought it for $200 from a guy who had only ridden it around the block once. I couldn’t believe it when I picked up your bike and realized you rode a Trek too. I never noticed before.”

“Of course you didn’t notice! You don’t give a shit about whether a bike is good or bad. You want to ride a piece of shit so you can work out harder, remember? How could you do this to me? To us? What the fuck were you thinking?”

I berated him for the next 10 miles, but he didn’t repent. In fact, he just wanted to ride faster. And faster. Eventually we came to a hill, and instead of changing gears he …. I can’t believe I’m going to tell this …. he stood up on his peddles. To go up a little hill.

I glared at him and hissed, “Sit down. Sit down!”

“What?” He peddled harder, still standing.

“Sit your ass down on your seat immediately, before somebody sees you. You’re riding a Trek now. A Trek! You can’t be standing up on your peddles like somebody who rides a piece of shit bike. Sit down right now!”

“Oh, I guess I should just use my gears, huh?”

“Yes, you should use your gears. If you’re going to ride a Trek and break your promise to me, at least don’t embarrass me out here on the trail. Keep your butt on your seat.”

Well, he didn’t, at least not on that ride. I had to call his butt down at least six more times. It was humiliating on that first ride. But on the next ride he only did it a couple of times, and now he’s shifting like a pro. A fucking pro who had to go out and buy himself a Trek.

(Oh, fine. I might as well show you what it looks like. He’s so proud of it [and I don't blame him].)

The first ride.

And as I suspected, his new bike turned him into a beast. Now when we ride, he rides ahead of me, and if he stays close enough, talks back over his shoulder. What I mean is, I no longer kick his ass, OK? He can kick mine.

And he’s bought all kinds of accoutrements for his bike: lights, a computer, fancy hand grips, and an entire pannier system for the back. He still only rides in shorts and shoes, but his bike is as decked out as a bike can get without looking like a big sissy. In other words, he’s got everything but the pom poms shooting out the end of his handlebars.

And now he notices other people's bikes. What brand they are. How much they cost. Shit he never paid attention to before. He's obsessed now that he's a Trek rider.

I’m so happy for him. Really, I am. He's kicking my ass now having so much fun with his new toy.

I only made one mistake after he bought his new bike. That first ride we were only a few miles from the end when he said, “How much different do you think our bikes are now?”

I lied said, “Oh, I’m sure they’re about the same.”

“But you paid more for yours, and it’s a road bike. Lighter, thinner tires,” he persisted.

“Yeah, but they’re both Treks….”

“Trade for a sec.”

“Why? You just got your bike. Besides your seat is too tall for me and …”

“Trade.” A Man Called Horse was already off his bike and reaching for mine.

“Fine.” I traded with him and he took off on my bike. I followed more slowly on his. After a mile or so, he turned around and zoomed back.

“Oh, man, I don't believe it. Your bike still kicks ass. If I’m going to be a real cyclist, I’m going to need one of these next ……”

It never fucking ends.

I have to admit, they look pretty sexy together on the back of the car.