The one thing that a bicyclist knows is to expect the unexpected. That straight road seemingly stretching as far as the horizon is quite likely to contain potholes, gravel, 1000 ft. of rise (three times), some smelly roadkill, and an unforeseen detour due to a bridge out. That’s not to say that one shouldn’t enjoy the here and now – in fact, that’s exactly the point.
We only have today. Whatever piece of road that you are calling home this very minute is all you have. So reach out and hug the person who is occupying that space in time with you. You never know what is around the next bend in the road. Trust me, it’s worth putting the brakes on, unclipping those pedals, and even clunking your helmets together as you embrace. If you happen to be standing next to a stranger – well, scare the heck out of them by giving them a big smile and telling them to have a wonderful day. Put a dollar into the bell-ringer’s Salvation Army bucket.
Before you write me off as falling into the pit of mushy, melancholy, melodramatics, let me tell you about a friend.
I think perhaps the phrase “What a woman” was invented with her in mind. No, she’s not on Capitol Hill, nor the Supreme Court. She’s not in Darfur, picketing the U.N., or meeting with Bono or Al Gore. She might stand right next to you, and you wouldn’t know that you were in the presence of greatness. Like most of the truly heroic, she wears her strength, her valor, her greatness, on the inside, not garishly displayed.
She’s living in New Jersey, loving and raising two adopted children, teaching hundreds (if not thousands) of people about living with diabetes, and teaching me all about courage. She’s received her master’s degree and moved cross country, twice, while managing peritoneal dialysis. What a woman. She’s survived the rejection of one kidney, and the successful transplantation of the second. And in-between all that, she got married, and (among other things) came to family weddings and reunions. She always borrows one of our bikes at those family reunions, and puts me to shame with her pleasure in vigorous exercise. She listened to rowdy one-upsmanship among “the boys” (now ages 50 to 40), didn’t buy any of their stories, and cooked like a vegetarian combination of Martha Stewart and Mario Batalli. She’s loved her in-laws as if she’d been born to them, and, (with her husband), taught their children all about extended family even with 1000 miles of separation. What a woman.
She’s enjoyed the fruits of a successful pancreas transplant, taking her fair share of the cookies and chocolate and giving up her unfair share of the glucose checks and insulin pump. And she quietly and calmly kept on with all of her life: mother, sister, wife, friend, daughter, medical social worker, and good neighbor as the labwork demonstrated that her pancreas now is travelling a slow, but steady path toward rejection. When I saw her in October, she was rail thin. Oh, she’s always been thin – but, she’s one of the few I forgive for that! No, this was a different thin, the effect of medication being taken to help regulate her blood sugar. She gave no hint that her energy, her joy, was any different. Her eyes sparkled, she visited with all the family, she tended to her kids as usual. And she hid any public sign that anything more was amiss. What a woman – that moment in life was not “about her” and that’s how she lived it. In bicycle parlance, she let someone else lead and she fell into the pack, drafting, keeping pace, head down, riding the ride.
Truth is, she was and is very, very ill. Surgery was done 10 days ago, intended to correct the problem that has resulted in more than a month of severe pain and even more weight loss.
What a woman. If it were me, I’d have been at the doctor after the first bout of pain exceeding a 2.5 on a scale of 1 to 10. Whining. I wouldn’t have the character to do what she did – get up every morning and go to work.
The surgery hasn’t worked. In fact, what the problem is isn’t really clear right now. And with all respect to world peace, global warming, and other pressing problems; when someone you love is in pain and caught in the unknown – that’s an earthshaking, priority-resetting, humbling kind of experience. I imagined life with Fansie, my sister-in-law, as one of those straight roads. We’d have lots of time when life was less busy. To talk. To take walks at those family reunions. For me to say “I admire you” and “I love you.”
And we just may have that time. But, the road ahead is not clear, and not straight. And I’ve already outlined the troubles that can happen on a nice straight stretch of road. On this crooked path? I’m afraid of what I can’t see. And I wish I hadn’t taken the times of clear road for granted. Unexpected potholes are just that – unexpected. Look around you – who and what do you take for granted? Don’t.
Oh yes, and please pray for Fansie.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
Saturday, December 1, 2007
No One Could Say It Better
Saved this long ago, found it today...karma. No one can say it better....
IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck
(Written after she found out she was dying from cancer)
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn! With my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."
There would have been more "I love you's"; more "I'm sorry's."
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it... live it and never give it back.
STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!! Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what
Instead; let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us. Let's think about what God HAS blessed us with, and what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, and emotionally.
I hope you have a blessed day .
Amen, Erma, Amen
IF I HAD MY LIFE TO LIVE OVER - by Erma Bombeck
(Written after she found out she was dying from cancer)
I would have gone to bed when I was sick instead of pretending the earth would go into a holding pattern if I weren't there for the day.
I would have burned the pink candle sculpted like a rose before it melted in storage.
I would have talked less and listened more.
I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained, or the sofa faded.
I would have eaten the popcorn in the 'good' living room and worried much less about the dirt when someone wanted to light a fire in the fireplace.
I would have taken the time to listen to my grandfather ramble about his youth.
I would have shared more of the responsibility carried by my husband.
I would never have insisted the car windows be rolled up on a summer day because my hair had just been teased and sprayed.
I would have sat on the lawn! With my grass stains.
I would have cried and laughed less while watching television and more while watching life.
I would never have bought anything just because it was practical, wouldn't show soil, or was guaranteed to last a lifetime.
Instead of wishing away nine months of pregnancy, I'd have cherished every moment and realized that the wonderment growing inside me was the only chance in life to assist God in a miracle.
When my kids kissed me impetuously, I would never have said, "Later. Now go get washed up for dinner."
There would have been more "I love you's"; more "I'm sorry's."
But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute...look at it and really see it... live it and never give it back.
STOP SWEATING THE SMALL STUFF!!! Don't worry about who doesn't like you, who has more, or who's doing what
Instead; let's cherish the relationships we have with those who do love us. Let's think about what God HAS blessed us with, and what we are doing each day to promote ourselves mentally, physically, and emotionally.
I hope you have a blessed day .
Amen, Erma, Amen
Monday, November 26, 2007
What's It All About?
T’was the eve before Thanksgiving
And all through the store
Chubby people were shopping,
Getting and paying, a serious chore.
Take that turkey! The stuffing! The berries! And yams!
Grab that Cool Whip! And Pumpkin! And…maybe…a ham!
The youngsters were stirred up as parents stressed out,
“Sit down” and “Shut Up!” were phrases heard ‘round,
“Whatcha’ eating?” and “Where” were the questions abound.
Hours of cooking and driving, toting foodstuffs afar
Awaited the brave, who then looked for a bar.
Then “I shouldn’t,” “I mustn’t,” “It tastes good, oh well”
“Days like Thanksgiving shoot my diet to hell.”
Round the table, the TV, first gluttony, then games.
Dishes and clean-up, gossip, football and naps.
Again young ones are “shushed” so we don’t miss a pass.
How do they know to be thankful, when no one asks?
How did this day become all about food?
Instead of thanks, good memories and gratitude?
Frosty walks, crunchy leaves, and touch football,
Teach the value of life and the beauty of fall.
What if we all had rice krispies and hugs?
Instead of the hub-bub and overeating, (our drug).
What if we all shared the best memory
O’re the last 364 days of friends and family?
What if we gave the TV a break and took a chance…
If instead we talked, laughed, sang, and danced?
And all through the store
Chubby people were shopping,
Getting and paying, a serious chore.
Take that turkey! The stuffing! The berries! And yams!
Grab that Cool Whip! And Pumpkin! And…maybe…a ham!
The youngsters were stirred up as parents stressed out,
“Sit down” and “Shut Up!” were phrases heard ‘round,
“Whatcha’ eating?” and “Where” were the questions abound.
Hours of cooking and driving, toting foodstuffs afar
Awaited the brave, who then looked for a bar.
Then “I shouldn’t,” “I mustn’t,” “It tastes good, oh well”
“Days like Thanksgiving shoot my diet to hell.”
Round the table, the TV, first gluttony, then games.
Dishes and clean-up, gossip, football and naps.
Again young ones are “shushed” so we don’t miss a pass.
How do they know to be thankful, when no one asks?
How did this day become all about food?
Instead of thanks, good memories and gratitude?
Frosty walks, crunchy leaves, and touch football,
Teach the value of life and the beauty of fall.
What if we all had rice krispies and hugs?
Instead of the hub-bub and overeating, (our drug).
What if we all shared the best memory
O’re the last 364 days of friends and family?
What if we gave the TV a break and took a chance…
If instead we talked, laughed, sang, and danced?
Monday, October 15, 2007
Miles Aren’t the Only Thing That Fly By
My oldest son is getting married. MY son. Getting married. I am old enough to have a son GET MARRIED. Can you tell that this realization is slow in arriving? The wedding is in 11 days.
There is no road as long as Memory Lane. The series of bicycle related memories are many. Big wheels, the first bicycle with training wheels (red as I recall). The eventful day that the training wheels came off, a bigger bike, a newer bike, a ride across Iowa, then another, Bicycle Tour of Colorado – twice, and the Three States Three Mountain 100 miler – twice. Oops, I left out the multi-state “Biking for Jesus” ministry tour between freshman and sophomore college years.
Where was I? Why does it seem like yesterday that I pulled him in a red wagon? Where was my attention as these years passed? Just as often occurs when I am on my seat, my view must have been focused inward, instead of outward. I missed the magic moment when he passed from boy to man.
I have always loved the sentiment that one of the most important things parents can give our children is roots and wings. As a cyclist, I hope that instead I have given my children balance and wheels.
Balance is so important as we cycle through life. It’s not easy traveling on two thin tires inflated to 80 psi. Dangers abound – unseen road hazards, sudden and unexpected stops, feet that won’t unclip from pedals, and the need to make quick moves to stay upright.
Balance is equally important as we move through present day life that can pressure us to 150 psi. Balance is knowing when good enough is good enough. Knowing where your values lie, and when to put your foot down and stand up for those values. Balance is about holding on and letting go – of worries, anger, fear, joy, and sadness. Balance is knowing when to lean left, lean right, and when a fall onto soft grass is better than holding course and meeting the immovable object. I wish my children the balance of knowing when and how to play; and when and how to focus on a task at hand. The balance of giving AND receiving. Gratitude.
Wheels take us places. And wheels are so much better than wings. With wings we travel fast and above the clouds. With wheels, the pace is ours to choose. Nature is beckoning. With wheels, we only have to open our eyes. We can open our eyes to the outside world, and enjoy the people, places, smells, sights, and sounds on every mile of the journey of life. With wheels we can enjoy the ride while opening our inner eye and ruminate about life, pleasant memories, and (for some of us) flights of fancy.
Wheels are a gift of time in this fast paced world. Purposeful play – one is going somewhere, but at your own speed. With wheels, my children will never lose track of the connection between their healthy body and how they pass through the world. I power my bicycle, not Exxon. If control is the issue, wheels are the solution. With enough effort, they can power up any hill and pause at the top to savor the victory. They can be unstoppable. They can set goals and achieve them: mile by mile, hill by hill, rain and shine, windy and calm. Over time, wheels are the counterbalance to the “got to have it now” mentality. Wheels take time, perseverance, and a willingness to be joyful on the long downhill runs that follow a summit. Wheels are a gift.
I love you, my son, as you move into this new phase of life. Bon Voyage – it’s a glorious ride!
There is no road as long as Memory Lane. The series of bicycle related memories are many. Big wheels, the first bicycle with training wheels (red as I recall). The eventful day that the training wheels came off, a bigger bike, a newer bike, a ride across Iowa, then another, Bicycle Tour of Colorado – twice, and the Three States Three Mountain 100 miler – twice. Oops, I left out the multi-state “Biking for Jesus” ministry tour between freshman and sophomore college years.
Where was I? Why does it seem like yesterday that I pulled him in a red wagon? Where was my attention as these years passed? Just as often occurs when I am on my seat, my view must have been focused inward, instead of outward. I missed the magic moment when he passed from boy to man.
I have always loved the sentiment that one of the most important things parents can give our children is roots and wings. As a cyclist, I hope that instead I have given my children balance and wheels.
Balance is so important as we cycle through life. It’s not easy traveling on two thin tires inflated to 80 psi. Dangers abound – unseen road hazards, sudden and unexpected stops, feet that won’t unclip from pedals, and the need to make quick moves to stay upright.
Balance is equally important as we move through present day life that can pressure us to 150 psi. Balance is knowing when good enough is good enough. Knowing where your values lie, and when to put your foot down and stand up for those values. Balance is about holding on and letting go – of worries, anger, fear, joy, and sadness. Balance is knowing when to lean left, lean right, and when a fall onto soft grass is better than holding course and meeting the immovable object. I wish my children the balance of knowing when and how to play; and when and how to focus on a task at hand. The balance of giving AND receiving. Gratitude.
Wheels take us places. And wheels are so much better than wings. With wings we travel fast and above the clouds. With wheels, the pace is ours to choose. Nature is beckoning. With wheels, we only have to open our eyes. We can open our eyes to the outside world, and enjoy the people, places, smells, sights, and sounds on every mile of the journey of life. With wheels we can enjoy the ride while opening our inner eye and ruminate about life, pleasant memories, and (for some of us) flights of fancy.
Wheels are a gift of time in this fast paced world. Purposeful play – one is going somewhere, but at your own speed. With wheels, my children will never lose track of the connection between their healthy body and how they pass through the world. I power my bicycle, not Exxon. If control is the issue, wheels are the solution. With enough effort, they can power up any hill and pause at the top to savor the victory. They can be unstoppable. They can set goals and achieve them: mile by mile, hill by hill, rain and shine, windy and calm. Over time, wheels are the counterbalance to the “got to have it now” mentality. Wheels take time, perseverance, and a willingness to be joyful on the long downhill runs that follow a summit. Wheels are a gift.
I love you, my son, as you move into this new phase of life. Bon Voyage – it’s a glorious ride!
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Carpe Diem
As I rode to work this week, I observed that the world appears to be divided into two types of people. I base this upon the morning demeanor of drivers coming across the vision of a pudgy middle-aged woman, wearing a purple backpack, on a bicycle. I’m sure this data collection and decision making method meet no known scientific criteria, but I stand behind my conclusion.
The two categories are: Carpe Diem and Carpe Complainem. For those who are not as fluent in Latin as myself this roughly translates into the “Seize the Dayers” versus “Seize the Complainters”. (Forgive me Sister Mary Brendan, high school Latin teacher)
The Carpe Diem crowd (hereafter referred to as CD) is identified by the ability to smile and wave, even if it requires the use of medical strength caffeine. They might be talking on the cell phone, nodding to music, tapping fingers on the steering wheel, or applying lipstick, but they shared a similarity in that they seemed to be looking for the first (or next) bright spot in the day. Many a CD’er didn’t wait for me to wave or smile, they started the friendly communication. Not all appeared to be morning people (I’m not). Some appeared to do a double take, “did I really see that?”, but once reassured that they were not hallucinating, they grinned and some shook their head in mock wonder. I believe I may have been the topic around a water cooler or two, “You’re never going to believe what I saw today...”
In contrast, the Carpe Complainems (hereafter referred to as CC) have shoulders that are already hunched to near earlobe level before 8 a.m. When encountering a bicyclist, their first thought appeared to be “road kill”. Road kill wearing a purple back pack. They lean on the horn or pass without moving more than a quarter-inch away from the cyclist. One cheery chap shouted “get on the sidewalk.” I encourage him to read the Kentucky State Drivers Manual, since his current reading doesn’t seem to be bringing much joy to his life. If I dared make eye-contact with a CC’er they quickly moved their eyes to the right or left and stared blindly into space. No smiles. No friendly waves, not even the one-finger type. CC’ers seemed to be bound to their purposeful life…get to the office…get to work…get ‘er done…and - by golly - make sure that no fun is had along the way. If they spoke of me, I imagine it was more like this: “D*** bicyclist slowed me down by 40 seconds on the way to work today. I had to park two extra parking stalls down."
I think they need a purple backpack. I know I feel much better when I wear mine. In the meantime...take time to watch the leaves change color, enjoy a fall walk or ride, try smiling on the way to work, pet a dog (you just can't be grumpy while petting a dog), and Carpe Cheerum (seize some good cheer)!
The two categories are: Carpe Diem and Carpe Complainem. For those who are not as fluent in Latin as myself this roughly translates into the “Seize the Dayers” versus “Seize the Complainters”. (Forgive me Sister Mary Brendan, high school Latin teacher)
The Carpe Diem crowd (hereafter referred to as CD) is identified by the ability to smile and wave, even if it requires the use of medical strength caffeine. They might be talking on the cell phone, nodding to music, tapping fingers on the steering wheel, or applying lipstick, but they shared a similarity in that they seemed to be looking for the first (or next) bright spot in the day. Many a CD’er didn’t wait for me to wave or smile, they started the friendly communication. Not all appeared to be morning people (I’m not). Some appeared to do a double take, “did I really see that?”, but once reassured that they were not hallucinating, they grinned and some shook their head in mock wonder. I believe I may have been the topic around a water cooler or two, “You’re never going to believe what I saw today...”
In contrast, the Carpe Complainems (hereafter referred to as CC) have shoulders that are already hunched to near earlobe level before 8 a.m. When encountering a bicyclist, their first thought appeared to be “road kill”. Road kill wearing a purple back pack. They lean on the horn or pass without moving more than a quarter-inch away from the cyclist. One cheery chap shouted “get on the sidewalk.” I encourage him to read the Kentucky State Drivers Manual, since his current reading doesn’t seem to be bringing much joy to his life. If I dared make eye-contact with a CC’er they quickly moved their eyes to the right or left and stared blindly into space. No smiles. No friendly waves, not even the one-finger type. CC’ers seemed to be bound to their purposeful life…get to the office…get to work…get ‘er done…and - by golly - make sure that no fun is had along the way. If they spoke of me, I imagine it was more like this: “D*** bicyclist slowed me down by 40 seconds on the way to work today. I had to park two extra parking stalls down."
I think they need a purple backpack. I know I feel much better when I wear mine. In the meantime...take time to watch the leaves change color, enjoy a fall walk or ride, try smiling on the way to work, pet a dog (you just can't be grumpy while petting a dog), and Carpe Cheerum (seize some good cheer)!
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Tandem Anyone?
I met the most fascinating couple recently. Trim, grey-headed, and glowing with good health, they road into town on their tandem recumbent bicycle. A brief conversation revealed that they began recreational bicycle touring following retirement and have crisscrossed the US multiple times in the time since. Their current ride was a large loop beginning and ending at home in Tennessee with travel up and across Kentucky, down to the Natchez Trace in Tennessee, then across Alabama. Their gentle good nature was absolutely charming. I wanted to climb on Lil’ Red and ride right along with them.
Handsome husband (HH) and I have already talked about long distance bicycling in relation to our future retirement plans. We would love to complete a west to east coast tour. But frankly, despite my conversation with the charming Tennessee Twosome, and despite the fact that we own a tandem (Big Red), I can’t see us spending retirement on a tandem bike.
Do I really want to spend retirement looking at HH’s butt? Sure, in passing, a glance here and there, it’s a fine behind. But, day after day, rain or shine, mile after mile, spandex-clad buns as my primary view?
These are critical questions that a retirement planner can’t answer. He or she is only interested in discussing if we will have enough money to retire. I already know the answer to that – NO! None-the-less, we plan to go ahead and do it anyway. We’ve never let the lack of appropriate financing get in the way of any other life decision. Heck, if we’d waited until we could afford it, we wouldn’t have three kids. Three kids with darn fine teeth (braces), adequate educations, and pleasant memories of family vacations that we couldn’t afford. That’s right kids, pack your suitcases, we’re going on a guilt trip. Did I mention the hours of hard labor. OK…I admit that with #3 it was minutes of hard labor…but don’t slow me down, I’m on a roll here. Our financial planning for retirement has its own acronym: MOTK, Mooch Off The Kids.
Once again, I’ve digressed from the actual story: retirement on a tandem bike. Back to business, we’ve got the butt issue as the number one consideration. I think that issue could be manageable if I could figure out a way to Velcro a book to his rear, so that I could read as we rode.
Issue number two: steering. The uninformed bystander might think that steering on a tandem is a no-brainer, after all, only one rider has the capacity to turn the bike – the front rider. Let me tell you, the phrase Back Seat Driver was invented for tandem bicyclists. I consider it an important part of my job as “stoker” (the rear cyclist) to gasp at real (and imagined) road obstacles, lean right or left to indicate when and where I think we should turn, and verbally assist HH in his steering responsibility. Somehow he just doesn’t appreciate all the effort I put into carrying out this task. There is this certain set to his jaw that tells me he isn’t happy. All wives know THAT set of the jaw. So… do we really want to spend retirement risking TMJ from HH’s clenching his teeth? If he could only r-e-l-a-x and listen.
Issue number three involves stopping and coasting. You see, most bicyclists have a dominant foot that they unconsciously place on the ground when stopped, and a favored foot position when coasting (i.e. not peddling). HH and I are exact opposites on this. When cycling solo, I stop right foot down, HH left. When coasting (my favorite bicycling activity), I have the crank in a vertical position with one foot at 12 o-clock and one at 6 o-clock, HH is a horizontal coaster. I think it must be some stone-age throwback to his childhood coaster brake bicycling days. I don’t know that we can overcome issue number three. In fact, I think this should have been covered in the premarital counseling – horizontal coasters really shouldn’t marry vertical coasters if they ever expect to tandem.
My imagination flashes 20 years into the future, to the sight of Steve and I disembarking from Big Red should we decide to follow in the footsteps of the Tennessee Twosome. Instead of being trim and glowing with good health, I somehow see us rumpled, sweating, sunburned, and bickering:
“I thought you said that you put the map in the bike bag.” (HH)
“You know that it’s your job to keep track of the map. After all you’re the brains, I’m just the brawn in this operation” (me)
“Brawn, brawn?! You call that brawn? You’re back there reading a book?!” (HH)
“I only quit peddling that one time. It was an exciting point in the plot…you see the detective..” (me)
HH interrupts, “That ONE TIME?? That one time was the entire state of Utah!”
“It’s a skinny state, it could have been worse. So where are we?” (me)
“How do I know where we are? We don’t have a map anymore.” (HH)
“Well, you could ask someone.” (me)
“I would, but my jaw hurts.” (HH)
No, I admire the Tennessee Twosome, and wish them the best of luck, but I think HH and I had better spend our golden years on separate bicycles, MOTK.
Handsome husband (HH) and I have already talked about long distance bicycling in relation to our future retirement plans. We would love to complete a west to east coast tour. But frankly, despite my conversation with the charming Tennessee Twosome, and despite the fact that we own a tandem (Big Red), I can’t see us spending retirement on a tandem bike.
Do I really want to spend retirement looking at HH’s butt? Sure, in passing, a glance here and there, it’s a fine behind. But, day after day, rain or shine, mile after mile, spandex-clad buns as my primary view?
These are critical questions that a retirement planner can’t answer. He or she is only interested in discussing if we will have enough money to retire. I already know the answer to that – NO! None-the-less, we plan to go ahead and do it anyway. We’ve never let the lack of appropriate financing get in the way of any other life decision. Heck, if we’d waited until we could afford it, we wouldn’t have three kids. Three kids with darn fine teeth (braces), adequate educations, and pleasant memories of family vacations that we couldn’t afford. That’s right kids, pack your suitcases, we’re going on a guilt trip. Did I mention the hours of hard labor. OK…I admit that with #3 it was minutes of hard labor…but don’t slow me down, I’m on a roll here. Our financial planning for retirement has its own acronym: MOTK, Mooch Off The Kids.
Once again, I’ve digressed from the actual story: retirement on a tandem bike. Back to business, we’ve got the butt issue as the number one consideration. I think that issue could be manageable if I could figure out a way to Velcro a book to his rear, so that I could read as we rode.
Issue number two: steering. The uninformed bystander might think that steering on a tandem is a no-brainer, after all, only one rider has the capacity to turn the bike – the front rider. Let me tell you, the phrase Back Seat Driver was invented for tandem bicyclists. I consider it an important part of my job as “stoker” (the rear cyclist) to gasp at real (and imagined) road obstacles, lean right or left to indicate when and where I think we should turn, and verbally assist HH in his steering responsibility. Somehow he just doesn’t appreciate all the effort I put into carrying out this task. There is this certain set to his jaw that tells me he isn’t happy. All wives know THAT set of the jaw. So… do we really want to spend retirement risking TMJ from HH’s clenching his teeth? If he could only r-e-l-a-x and listen.
Issue number three involves stopping and coasting. You see, most bicyclists have a dominant foot that they unconsciously place on the ground when stopped, and a favored foot position when coasting (i.e. not peddling). HH and I are exact opposites on this. When cycling solo, I stop right foot down, HH left. When coasting (my favorite bicycling activity), I have the crank in a vertical position with one foot at 12 o-clock and one at 6 o-clock, HH is a horizontal coaster. I think it must be some stone-age throwback to his childhood coaster brake bicycling days. I don’t know that we can overcome issue number three. In fact, I think this should have been covered in the premarital counseling – horizontal coasters really shouldn’t marry vertical coasters if they ever expect to tandem.
My imagination flashes 20 years into the future, to the sight of Steve and I disembarking from Big Red should we decide to follow in the footsteps of the Tennessee Twosome. Instead of being trim and glowing with good health, I somehow see us rumpled, sweating, sunburned, and bickering:
“I thought you said that you put the map in the bike bag.” (HH)
“You know that it’s your job to keep track of the map. After all you’re the brains, I’m just the brawn in this operation” (me)
“Brawn, brawn?! You call that brawn? You’re back there reading a book?!” (HH)
“I only quit peddling that one time. It was an exciting point in the plot…you see the detective..” (me)
HH interrupts, “That ONE TIME?? That one time was the entire state of Utah!”
“It’s a skinny state, it could have been worse. So where are we?” (me)
“How do I know where we are? We don’t have a map anymore.” (HH)
“Well, you could ask someone.” (me)
“I would, but my jaw hurts.” (HH)
No, I admire the Tennessee Twosome, and wish them the best of luck, but I think HH and I had better spend our golden years on separate bicycles, MOTK.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Killer Carbs
Dr. Robert Atkins said that carbs can kill you, but I never believed it. Not until August 18, 2007 when I saw the fact demonstrated in front of my own two eyes. Steve, hereafter known as HH (handsome husband), and I decided to head to the local bagel shop via bicycle. You’ve got to admit it, there are no carbs like bagel carbs. Toasted, chewy, unrepentant carbohydrates flooding the blood stream, bringing good cheer to muscle energy-stores everywhere. Or at least that’s my excuse. I really don’t think that the 2.5 mile ride from my front door to the bagel shop probably qualifies as an energy-store depleting event. But I digress…
It is unlikely that anyone living in America since the mid-1960’s is unfamiliar with the Atkins Diet. Controversial since its inception, it is based upon the premise that the food pyramid should be discarded. Atkins claimed that saturated fat was overrated as a nutritional hazard for heart health and contributor to obesity. Instead he prescribed a dramatic restriction in carbohydrate intake in order to switch the body’s energy source away from burning carbohydrates. He claimed that his dietary principles would increase use of stored body fat resulting in lower body weight, improved cholesterol and lipid profile, and lowered cardiac risk. Pork producers all over America greeted the Atkins Diet with open arms. Pork rinds…they weren’t just for rednecks anymore. In fact, those that I know who have used the Atkins approach have lost weight. They also report dreaming about mashed potatoes and pizza crust. In one particularly disturbing dream a giant baked potato chased the dieter through an endless maze of hallways. Revenge of the Spuds.
Now, in a stunning scientific breakthrough, I’ve learned that one doesn’t necessarily need to actually EAT the carbs to run a health risk. As HH and I made the gentle right turn from the road into the bagel shop parking lot, I heard an ominous crrrrrunch, then THUD from behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see HH laying on the pavement. He was still in the riding position, both hands on the handlebars and feet clipped onto the pedals. Laying quite still. As I swung round I heard a moan. Good news from my perspective, CPR would not be needed.
HH wriggled his feet to loosen them from the pedals and struggled to his feet. I knew he was seriously hurting when he abandoned his beloved bicycle, Streak, on the pavement. "This must be critical," I thought. HH loves Streak. I know that in case of a house fire, given the choice between rescuing me or Streak, he’d be sure to hurrry back for me once the bike was safely out of danger.
He shuffled slowly to the curb with his head barely raised above waist level, right elbow and hand dripping blood from assorted road abrasions. The real problem? HH had landed on his right hip and leg…his bad side. The Hip that invariably causes physicians reviewing x-rays to say, “Oh boy! You’ve got some case of arthritis in there!” That hip just doesn’t move in the direction demanded by a sharp fall onto hard asphalt. Consider his hip = the Titanic, and the road = the iceberg. No contest. Our trip toward bagel carb heaven had just sunk.
In case you’re wondering what the worst part of the story is…..it was his birthday.
So read this as a cautionary tale. Apparently the mere intention of carb consumption can now be hazardous to your health. As for myself and HH, we’ve decided that this coming Saturday, we’re playing it safe. Oh, we’ll still go to the bagel shop. And we’ll still go via bicycle. But we only intend to consume some high-fat Atkins-approved product, such as cream cheese. That bagel underneath…it’s just the transport mechanism.
It is unlikely that anyone living in America since the mid-1960’s is unfamiliar with the Atkins Diet. Controversial since its inception, it is based upon the premise that the food pyramid should be discarded. Atkins claimed that saturated fat was overrated as a nutritional hazard for heart health and contributor to obesity. Instead he prescribed a dramatic restriction in carbohydrate intake in order to switch the body’s energy source away from burning carbohydrates. He claimed that his dietary principles would increase use of stored body fat resulting in lower body weight, improved cholesterol and lipid profile, and lowered cardiac risk. Pork producers all over America greeted the Atkins Diet with open arms. Pork rinds…they weren’t just for rednecks anymore. In fact, those that I know who have used the Atkins approach have lost weight. They also report dreaming about mashed potatoes and pizza crust. In one particularly disturbing dream a giant baked potato chased the dieter through an endless maze of hallways. Revenge of the Spuds.
Now, in a stunning scientific breakthrough, I’ve learned that one doesn’t necessarily need to actually EAT the carbs to run a health risk. As HH and I made the gentle right turn from the road into the bagel shop parking lot, I heard an ominous crrrrrunch, then THUD from behind me. I looked over my shoulder to see HH laying on the pavement. He was still in the riding position, both hands on the handlebars and feet clipped onto the pedals. Laying quite still. As I swung round I heard a moan. Good news from my perspective, CPR would not be needed.
HH wriggled his feet to loosen them from the pedals and struggled to his feet. I knew he was seriously hurting when he abandoned his beloved bicycle, Streak, on the pavement. "This must be critical," I thought. HH loves Streak. I know that in case of a house fire, given the choice between rescuing me or Streak, he’d be sure to hurrry back for me once the bike was safely out of danger.
He shuffled slowly to the curb with his head barely raised above waist level, right elbow and hand dripping blood from assorted road abrasions. The real problem? HH had landed on his right hip and leg…his bad side. The Hip that invariably causes physicians reviewing x-rays to say, “Oh boy! You’ve got some case of arthritis in there!” That hip just doesn’t move in the direction demanded by a sharp fall onto hard asphalt. Consider his hip = the Titanic, and the road = the iceberg. No contest. Our trip toward bagel carb heaven had just sunk.
In case you’re wondering what the worst part of the story is…..it was his birthday.
So read this as a cautionary tale. Apparently the mere intention of carb consumption can now be hazardous to your health. As for myself and HH, we’ve decided that this coming Saturday, we’re playing it safe. Oh, we’ll still go to the bagel shop. And we’ll still go via bicycle. But we only intend to consume some high-fat Atkins-approved product, such as cream cheese. That bagel underneath…it’s just the transport mechanism.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Summertime
One of the best things about riding a bike is that for a few lovely minutes, I am 11 years-old again. Oh, not the gawky, awkward, self-conscious 11 year-old. But the freckly-faced 11 year-old that received a slightly used blue and silver one-speed, coaster brake equipped beauty for my birthday. The 11 year-old who was terrified to ride down the Pine Street hill, but could ride up the same hill - no problem. I feel the breeze in my hair, I remember riding “no hands” and learning to peddle like crazy so that for a few glorious minutes I could put my feet up on the handlebar. That first taste of freedom that a bicycle brought. The first taste of what it might be like to be “grown up” and able to go where I wanted, independently, and f-a-s-t.
It’s only a lovely few minutes, though. Then my _ _ - something body reminds me that there isn’t much fear of how fast I can manage to go downhill, it’s fear of just how slow I might go uphill! But, still…for those minutes, it’s the summertime of youth, and I hear a popsicle calling my name.
Why did the summer days of childhood never seem as hot? I don’t remember ever thinking that it was too hot to ride my bike, go down to the park for crafts and activities, or play with neighborhood friends. I don’t recall heat as an excuse to avoid the 1+ mile walk from home to the nearest city swimming pool. I remember eating supper in the basement, because it was the coolest spot in the house, and watching the water bead up on metal glasses holding icy cold tea.
Summer was clean sheets that smelled like sunshine, Noxzema on sunburned shoulders, a trip to the zoo, Sunday picnics, and my brothers digging a hole to China in the backyard.
Is summer still summer? Have I changed or has the taste of summer changed? Or is it the pace of summer that has changed? I don’t know. But for today, I only need Lil’ Red and a few minutes on the road to take me back. Back home.
It’s only a lovely few minutes, though. Then my _ _ - something body reminds me that there isn’t much fear of how fast I can manage to go downhill, it’s fear of just how slow I might go uphill! But, still…for those minutes, it’s the summertime of youth, and I hear a popsicle calling my name.
Why did the summer days of childhood never seem as hot? I don’t remember ever thinking that it was too hot to ride my bike, go down to the park for crafts and activities, or play with neighborhood friends. I don’t recall heat as an excuse to avoid the 1+ mile walk from home to the nearest city swimming pool. I remember eating supper in the basement, because it was the coolest spot in the house, and watching the water bead up on metal glasses holding icy cold tea.
Summer was clean sheets that smelled like sunshine, Noxzema on sunburned shoulders, a trip to the zoo, Sunday picnics, and my brothers digging a hole to China in the backyard.
Is summer still summer? Have I changed or has the taste of summer changed? Or is it the pace of summer that has changed? I don’t know. But for today, I only need Lil’ Red and a few minutes on the road to take me back. Back home.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
High Five
I am writing this from a slightly different seat. Instead of my usual comfy, aerodynamic Terry® gel saddle, I am perched proudly in the winner’s seat! YES! My High Five Bars won the 2007 Duncan Hines Festival Baking Contest!
I can hear you asking “The what?????” You mean you have never heard of the Duncan Hines Festival? That’s a pity. It is Bowling Green’s annual celebration of one of our most famous sons – Mr. Duncan Hines. We’ve celebrated with the baking of the world’s largest brownie (in about 2001). We have the annual Duck Race, although I have no idea what ducks have to do with Duncan Hines. And, for the last few years, we have had an annual baking contest. Like the Pillsbury Bake-Off®, contestants must creatively use the sponsor’s products to create a delectable new recipe. The Pillsbury Bake-Off® attracts thousands of entrants, national media, and awards a large cash prize. It could be considered the Ritz-Carlton® of baking contests.
The Duncan Hines contest, by comparison is more like a Motel 6®. It’s homey, friendly, small, and basic. Event organizers, the Bowling Green Junior Women’s Club, leave “the light on for you” with their low-key approach. Finalists receive a friendly notification phone call, and you can call the club president anytime with questions. When finalists arrived at the judging with their prepared recipe, we all chatted and then proceeded to help and compliment each other’s creation. That’s my kind of contest.
The recipe evolved from an idea at last summer’s family reunion. My daughter, Emily, along with one of the best cooks I know, my sister-in-law Jennifer, suggested a cake or brownie capturing the taste of a Take 5® candy bar. During the remaining summer months and into fall, I took their idea and baked. Family and friends tasted, tasted, and tasted. Weight Watchers and the American Dental Society owe me a big thank you for contributions to their business growth – excess calories and sugar are hallmarks of my winning recipe.
My thoughts in the week between my notification phone call and the judging can be summed up in three words: two-hundred dollars. The grand prize, and co-incidentally the almost exact price of a dress I wanted to wear to my son’s wedding in October. A dress I would never have purchased. Fame – who needs it? Accolades – overrated. But two-hundred dollars - that I could sink my teeth into! I’ll admit it, dollar signs danced in my head.
Diabetes could have been acquired in just walking past the display of the seven finalist’s creations. Chocolate Indulgence and Banana-Praline Cheesecake were just two of the creative gastronomic beauties that my bars were competing against. Mentally, I started to review my closet and re-think just what I might wear to that wedding. I heard the judges laughing as they tried the entry preceding mine in the tasting. When the tray of High Five bars disappeared behind the wall where the judges were working I heard nothing. No laughter, no sighs of delight, no “pass that over here so that I can have more”. Was that a good sign or portent of bad news? I started thinking about which of my friends might loan me an outfit for the wedding – or – could the mother of the groom wear jeans? Nice jeans?
Well, you know the end of the story. I heard my name announced as the winner and received my check. I’ve already ordered the dress, and the smile on my winner’s face is sure to last a while. At least for the month of August – that’s how long High Five Bars will be the featured dessert at Mariah’s Restaurant, a locale fine dining spot. So, if you are in Bowling Green, or can visit this month, stop in at Mariah’s for dessert. Trust me – it’s worth the drive – after all, a panel of judges said so!
I can hear you asking “The what?????” You mean you have never heard of the Duncan Hines Festival? That’s a pity. It is Bowling Green’s annual celebration of one of our most famous sons – Mr. Duncan Hines. We’ve celebrated with the baking of the world’s largest brownie (in about 2001). We have the annual Duck Race, although I have no idea what ducks have to do with Duncan Hines. And, for the last few years, we have had an annual baking contest. Like the Pillsbury Bake-Off®, contestants must creatively use the sponsor’s products to create a delectable new recipe. The Pillsbury Bake-Off® attracts thousands of entrants, national media, and awards a large cash prize. It could be considered the Ritz-Carlton® of baking contests.
The Duncan Hines contest, by comparison is more like a Motel 6®. It’s homey, friendly, small, and basic. Event organizers, the Bowling Green Junior Women’s Club, leave “the light on for you” with their low-key approach. Finalists receive a friendly notification phone call, and you can call the club president anytime with questions. When finalists arrived at the judging with their prepared recipe, we all chatted and then proceeded to help and compliment each other’s creation. That’s my kind of contest.
The recipe evolved from an idea at last summer’s family reunion. My daughter, Emily, along with one of the best cooks I know, my sister-in-law Jennifer, suggested a cake or brownie capturing the taste of a Take 5® candy bar. During the remaining summer months and into fall, I took their idea and baked. Family and friends tasted, tasted, and tasted. Weight Watchers and the American Dental Society owe me a big thank you for contributions to their business growth – excess calories and sugar are hallmarks of my winning recipe.
My thoughts in the week between my notification phone call and the judging can be summed up in three words: two-hundred dollars. The grand prize, and co-incidentally the almost exact price of a dress I wanted to wear to my son’s wedding in October. A dress I would never have purchased. Fame – who needs it? Accolades – overrated. But two-hundred dollars - that I could sink my teeth into! I’ll admit it, dollar signs danced in my head.
Diabetes could have been acquired in just walking past the display of the seven finalist’s creations. Chocolate Indulgence and Banana-Praline Cheesecake were just two of the creative gastronomic beauties that my bars were competing against. Mentally, I started to review my closet and re-think just what I might wear to that wedding. I heard the judges laughing as they tried the entry preceding mine in the tasting. When the tray of High Five bars disappeared behind the wall where the judges were working I heard nothing. No laughter, no sighs of delight, no “pass that over here so that I can have more”. Was that a good sign or portent of bad news? I started thinking about which of my friends might loan me an outfit for the wedding – or – could the mother of the groom wear jeans? Nice jeans?
Well, you know the end of the story. I heard my name announced as the winner and received my check. I’ve already ordered the dress, and the smile on my winner’s face is sure to last a while. At least for the month of August – that’s how long High Five Bars will be the featured dessert at Mariah’s Restaurant, a locale fine dining spot. So, if you are in Bowling Green, or can visit this month, stop in at Mariah’s for dessert. Trust me – it’s worth the drive – after all, a panel of judges said so!
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Stoplights
Stoplights are both an opportunity and an irritation when attempting to commute via bicycle. They require unclipping one’s feet from the pedals, deciding whether to advance alongside the curb along the right side of vehicles toward “the front of the line”, or to wait at the end of the pack and risk not making it through the intersection with the next green light. Stoplights break comfortable cadence, force me out of my cycling-induced subconscious ruminations, and typically mean inhaling plenty of auto exhaust. Weight- or magnet- activated stoplights don’t respond to the presence of a bicyclist, leaving me trapped waiting for a car to come along and trigger the device, or risk running the red-light when cross traffic clears.
So, what’s the opportunity? People watching. Specifically, people-in-cars watching. A parade of glass, chrome, plastic, and metal encased humanity. Men, women, and children in the four-wheeled home-away-from-home and, apparently, multipurpose kitchen, office, and bathroom. You’ve seen it…people eating, flossing, dressing, writing, reading, and applying make-up at 65 mph. And why does anyone think that picking their nose is a private affair when the car provides a 360-degree panoramic view through glass?
As I waited at the cross-section of one of Bowling Green’s busiest streets with my relatively quiet road, the view from my seat was quite interesting. For instance, it appears that the size of the vehicle is inversely proportional to the number of occupants. A Hummer® is unlikely to carry more than one or two passengers, and appears to be the vehicle of choice of young, petite, attractive females. Can you say “man magnet”? Also, the age of any given vehicle does not appear to be related to the age of the driver. What happened to sixteen year-olds being the proud owner of a beat-up old clunker? I see kids who wear Clearasil® and can’t grow a sizeable mustache piloting $40,000 SUV’s, while parents travel in a 1984 Honda Accord held together with Liquid-Nail® and prayer. Also, classic vehicles are back. By that I mean that there seem to be a healthy number of well kept 1970-era Volkswagen beetles on the road. Who doesn’t have a memory, and personal story, involving a “bug”?
As I watched, it seemed that one out every two drivers held a cell phone to their ear. Whether there were other occupants in the car appeared irrelevant to driver-chat on the cell phone. In one vehicle the driver and passenger were each talking on a phone – do you think it was to each other? I wonder if we will soon have a whole new orthopedic injury called Cell Phone Elbow? The sufferer will be unable to fully extend the affected arm due to hours of flexion holding the gadget to their ear. Surgery schedules will be packed with patients scheduled for removal of wireless earpieces that have become imbedded in the ear canal. Twelve Step programs will spring up as cell phone users realize that their lives have become unmanageable and they need a higher power to relieve them of reliance on cell communication 24-7.
Other observations: Compact cars seem to carry groups of three or four, and at least one passenger is unusually tall. Cars carrying large retrievers or labs have drivers who look like someone I’d like to know. Black cars don’t sport bumper stickers. And someone needs to do an infomercial on how to successfully trap a child in their car seat. Personally, I think extra strength Velcro applied to the child’s bottom and the car seat would be a fine start, but that’s just me.
Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
Don't give 'em new autos and drive them old trucks
Make 'em be riders and walkers and such.
Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.
So, what’s the opportunity? People watching. Specifically, people-in-cars watching. A parade of glass, chrome, plastic, and metal encased humanity. Men, women, and children in the four-wheeled home-away-from-home and, apparently, multipurpose kitchen, office, and bathroom. You’ve seen it…people eating, flossing, dressing, writing, reading, and applying make-up at 65 mph. And why does anyone think that picking their nose is a private affair when the car provides a 360-degree panoramic view through glass?
As I waited at the cross-section of one of Bowling Green’s busiest streets with my relatively quiet road, the view from my seat was quite interesting. For instance, it appears that the size of the vehicle is inversely proportional to the number of occupants. A Hummer® is unlikely to carry more than one or two passengers, and appears to be the vehicle of choice of young, petite, attractive females. Can you say “man magnet”? Also, the age of any given vehicle does not appear to be related to the age of the driver. What happened to sixteen year-olds being the proud owner of a beat-up old clunker? I see kids who wear Clearasil® and can’t grow a sizeable mustache piloting $40,000 SUV’s, while parents travel in a 1984 Honda Accord held together with Liquid-Nail® and prayer. Also, classic vehicles are back. By that I mean that there seem to be a healthy number of well kept 1970-era Volkswagen beetles on the road. Who doesn’t have a memory, and personal story, involving a “bug”?
As I watched, it seemed that one out every two drivers held a cell phone to their ear. Whether there were other occupants in the car appeared irrelevant to driver-chat on the cell phone. In one vehicle the driver and passenger were each talking on a phone – do you think it was to each other? I wonder if we will soon have a whole new orthopedic injury called Cell Phone Elbow? The sufferer will be unable to fully extend the affected arm due to hours of flexion holding the gadget to their ear. Surgery schedules will be packed with patients scheduled for removal of wireless earpieces that have become imbedded in the ear canal. Twelve Step programs will spring up as cell phone users realize that their lives have become unmanageable and they need a higher power to relieve them of reliance on cell communication 24-7.
Other observations: Compact cars seem to carry groups of three or four, and at least one passenger is unusually tall. Cars carrying large retrievers or labs have drivers who look like someone I’d like to know. Black cars don’t sport bumper stickers. And someone needs to do an infomercial on how to successfully trap a child in their car seat. Personally, I think extra strength Velcro applied to the child’s bottom and the car seat would be a fine start, but that’s just me.
As the light finally turned green, and I huffed and puffed to get rolling again, an old Willie Nelson tune came to mind. So…with apologies to Mr. Nelson:
Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
Don't give 'em new autos and drive them old trucks
Make 'em be riders and walkers and such.
Mama don't let your babies grow up to be drivers
They'll never stay home and they're always alone
Even with someone they love.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Never Ride Alone
It wasn’t a fluke. While cycling down Veteran’s Drive recently, four – count ‘em – four drivers of pick-up trucks honked at me. Honked! As my future daughter-in-law asked that night at dinner, “Why would they honk at YOU?” Her question, however intended, doesn’t bother me. I am serene in the knowledge that guys driving pick-up trucks have either: #1) great taste in women or #2) really bad eyesight.
But, seriously, let’s talk about daily cycling. Author Jeff Galloway, in his book, “Marathon” writes that athletes have to balance the angel on one shoulder, (who urges them out of bed on early mornings and encourages them to continue running despite leg cramps, shin splints, and blisters), with the devil on the opposite shoulder, (who points out every ache and pain and says “just one day off won’t hurt”). Frankly, I don’t have an angel or a devil on either shoulder.
No. I have a pair of siblings. On my left shoulder is a 6-year-old with attention-deficit-disorder. You know, he’s full of misplaced energy, talkative, and annoying. The kind of kid who would kick the back of your airline seat all the way from Nashville to….oh…Yugoslavia. On my right shoulder is a 13 year-old with PMS and a serious attitude issue. She is armed with an iPod and a cell phone.
On a recent late afternoon ride I had barely left the neighborhood when ADD speaks up, “Are we there yet?”
“Of course we’re not there yet, stupid,” PMS answers. “She peddles so slow, we’ll never get there. Have we EVER gotten there?” PMS continues, “I don’t think she even knows where there is – we just go, go, go and eventually end up right back where we started.” I mentally tell them both to pipe down and enjoy the scenery. It’s not a full minute before I hear a whiny voice say, “I’m boooor-red. There’s nothing to see, except people and cars. I could do that at home and watch TV too.” I ignore ADD and pedal on, after all, soon we’ll be out in the peaceful countryside and there will be cows, corn, and roadkill for entertainment.
Now PMS has turned up the iPod so loud I can not only hear the music but feel the bass vibration. Mentally I say, “Turn it down, Toots.” Seconds later a modified low-slung Honda Civic passes me, the driver practically laying flat in his driving position and thumping music blaring from the car stereo. “See,” says PMS, “You always blame me for everything. I don’t know why I have to go along on these stupid rides. You are so lame. No one else’s Mom decides that menopause is the time to ride a bike. Couldn’t you just get a hybrid car for your mid-life crisis? I want to go home, RIGHT NOW.” I hear her dial the cell phone.
I can’t make out much of PMS’s phone call, although I hear the words “road hostage” and “prisoner”. The reason that I can’t hear is because ADD has decided to entertain himself by playing the alphabet game, you know: “A, my name is Adam and I have an apple.” Except ADD has decided to use body parts in his song: “’A’ my name is Adam and I have an aching ass. ‘B’ my name is Bob and I have a big butt. ‘C’ my name is Calvin and …” I try to tune them both out by counting cadence.
My ride continues. ADD has to use the restroom, needs a snack, has loose shoes, learns how to make fart noises with his hands, and asks “are we there yet” approximately once a minute. PMS pouts, picks fights, criticizes my cycling clothes, helmet, gloves, and camelback, and threatens to call Child Protection Services if we don’t “go home right now.” I feel a bit like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, except I know these kids aren’t real, they are creations of my fat cells desperately trying to avoid eradication.
So, I never really cycle alone. I have a group ride even when I’m all by myself. Who rides with you?
But, seriously, let’s talk about daily cycling. Author Jeff Galloway, in his book, “Marathon” writes that athletes have to balance the angel on one shoulder, (who urges them out of bed on early mornings and encourages them to continue running despite leg cramps, shin splints, and blisters), with the devil on the opposite shoulder, (who points out every ache and pain and says “just one day off won’t hurt”). Frankly, I don’t have an angel or a devil on either shoulder.
No. I have a pair of siblings. On my left shoulder is a 6-year-old with attention-deficit-disorder. You know, he’s full of misplaced energy, talkative, and annoying. The kind of kid who would kick the back of your airline seat all the way from Nashville to….oh…Yugoslavia. On my right shoulder is a 13 year-old with PMS and a serious attitude issue. She is armed with an iPod and a cell phone.
On a recent late afternoon ride I had barely left the neighborhood when ADD speaks up, “Are we there yet?”
“Of course we’re not there yet, stupid,” PMS answers. “She peddles so slow, we’ll never get there. Have we EVER gotten there?” PMS continues, “I don’t think she even knows where there is – we just go, go, go and eventually end up right back where we started.” I mentally tell them both to pipe down and enjoy the scenery. It’s not a full minute before I hear a whiny voice say, “I’m boooor-red. There’s nothing to see, except people and cars. I could do that at home and watch TV too.” I ignore ADD and pedal on, after all, soon we’ll be out in the peaceful countryside and there will be cows, corn, and roadkill for entertainment.
Now PMS has turned up the iPod so loud I can not only hear the music but feel the bass vibration. Mentally I say, “Turn it down, Toots.” Seconds later a modified low-slung Honda Civic passes me, the driver practically laying flat in his driving position and thumping music blaring from the car stereo. “See,” says PMS, “You always blame me for everything. I don’t know why I have to go along on these stupid rides. You are so lame. No one else’s Mom decides that menopause is the time to ride a bike. Couldn’t you just get a hybrid car for your mid-life crisis? I want to go home, RIGHT NOW.” I hear her dial the cell phone.
I can’t make out much of PMS’s phone call, although I hear the words “road hostage” and “prisoner”. The reason that I can’t hear is because ADD has decided to entertain himself by playing the alphabet game, you know: “A, my name is Adam and I have an apple.” Except ADD has decided to use body parts in his song: “’A’ my name is Adam and I have an aching ass. ‘B’ my name is Bob and I have a big butt. ‘C’ my name is Calvin and …” I try to tune them both out by counting cadence.
My ride continues. ADD has to use the restroom, needs a snack, has loose shoes, learns how to make fart noises with his hands, and asks “are we there yet” approximately once a minute. PMS pouts, picks fights, criticizes my cycling clothes, helmet, gloves, and camelback, and threatens to call Child Protection Services if we don’t “go home right now.” I feel a bit like John Nash in A Beautiful Mind, except I know these kids aren’t real, they are creations of my fat cells desperately trying to avoid eradication.
So, I never really cycle alone. I have a group ride even when I’m all by myself. Who rides with you?
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