rules for random scenarios

I was just a few miles into my ride on this incredible day, in the 70s for heck’s sake, November or not, when I came upon a clutch of cyclists on the edge of the greenway. Usually signals a flat tire. I was slowing enough to ask my usual “Y’all got everything you need?” when I saw it was rider down, blood in evidence.

He was sitting, and had enough blood on his head that it was through one eyebrow and down the side of his face. Ear too. He looked confused; three other riders were standing around him. They’d gotten his bike upright, and obviously it had been a couple minutes since it happened. But they were, oddly to my mind, standing away from him, and it didn’t seem that anyone was really talking to him.

I dismounted. “Y’all called 911 already?”

Uh, no, not yet.

Rider tried to stand up, but not very steadily. His buddies weren’t stopping him. “Woah, now, let’s sit down right here in the grass. Just to be safe.”

Sitting again, he had his eyes closed. I asked his buddies, one now fumbling for a phone, his name.

“Jim, do you know what happened?”

He opened his eyes. One was bloodshot, or -stained; I couldn’t tell. He looked at me, obviously dazed. “No… what happened?”

I asked his buddies; they hadn’t seen it. “Did you hit something that made you fall?” He didn’t know. “Did your head hit the bridge, or the ground?” He didn’t know.

So we have an unknown cause of loss of control; could be the edge of the pathway, but equally could be a seizure or other loss of consciousness. We have an obvious head injury. If he had a helmet on, he hit hard enough to lacerate the top of his head anyway. If he didn’t have a helmet on, he smacked blacktop, concrete, or wooden pillars without a helmet. Dude needs medical attention.

Random Scenario Rule #1: Your friend is bleeding from a head impact? Call 911. Right this fucking minute. Do not pass go, do not wonder if it is the manly thing to do. Gitcher phone and call.

I rode to the nearby fire station and alerted their EMS. And then I rode on, a spectacular 25-mile loop with scenery and scant traffic.

Arrived home as the inlaws arrived. For my FIL, with Parkinson’s and COPD and macular degeneration — the trifecta of aging — the act of climbing the dozen steepish steps into our house is a Herculean task.

Given that and the weather as detailed above, we brought chairs and made ourselves comfy in the front yard. The girls brought out balls and a grand time was had kicking and throwing and chasing. Their grandma was nicely engaged in the playing and she had them both giggling. She’s a good grandma, she is, and loves those girls to pieces.

And then it was time to settle down a bit and visit. Both girls wanted to be on her lap, not mine or the MPM’s, and so they were there and tussling around the chair and suchnot.

And she opened with this gem: “Is that Harrington girl from this neighborhood?”

Most of y’all, even if you’re not from these parts, are probably aware that a lovely blonde Virginia Tech student went missing a few weeks back while attending a Metallica concert in Charlottesville (home to, confusingly, the University of Virginia). Morgan Harrington. She is indeed from our metro area, and her daddy is an M.D. and we have right many docs and lawyers and such in our ‘hood. But no, not the Harringtons.

Despite my curt negative, “No, I think they live in the County,” there was no pause in the media-tragedy-du-jour stream of What a terrible thing and Can you imagine and The mother just looks like DEATH, yada yada yada.

And the girls, my girls, age 3 and almost-seven, are now riveted, looking at her.

“Who are you talking about?” asked Megan.

A girl who’s disappeared, says the MIL.

I clarify: A college student, honey, from Daddy’s campus, is missing. Her name is Morgan Harrington and her mommy and daddy are very worried, and everybody is trying to find her.

And that, of course, led to more questions. And my MIL’s input: “There are bad people out there. That’s why Mom and Dad tell you not to talk to strangers.”

Well, no; actually we don’t tell her that. Since she is, and always has been, incredibly skittish about people she doesn’t know, we’ve never felt the need to. Frankly, we’re always with her; pickup at school is Gestapo-like in the scope of its security. And we’ve instituted the secret-word security measure, the one about If we ever send someone you don’t know to pick you up, they will know the secret word; if someone tries to get you to go with them and they don’t know that word, you don’t go. Period.

But that aside, after Megan’s questions were answered, the MIL veered back on course, nattering on about How Horrible and Wouldn’t you be sick, and Have you noticed the mother does all the talking, the father can’t even say anything he’s so… and the girls are looking at her, and Megan is forming another question.

And at that point I gave MIL a look, and a finger across the throat. The universal sign for Shut Up.

She looked at me so quizzically you’d have thought I’d sprouted antlers over my ears. I don’t know if she ever grasped why — certainly not immediately — but she did comply. It was soon apparent I’d hurt her feelings, something I manage with disheartening regularity, but good gosh amighty.

Random Scenario Rule #2: Feel compelled to speak of tragedy? For the luvvagod, don’t do it in front of children who are old enough and bright enough to understand just enough to be confused and scared about it.

I hope your day was free from vexation at those around you.

fun factoid

I learned something new last night, and it was the kind of fun fact that just needs to be shared. Aren’t you excited? I am.

If you participate in running races or large-scale organized bike rides, you probably know that a common technique for route marking involves small symbols spray-painted, often stenciled, on the road. I’ve seen scads of them over the years, often just running or riding along and realizing I’ve stumbled onto the course for some past or future event. Some are stylized for their particular event, but many are generic, a circle with a line or an arrow, indicating straight, left, right.

What I learned last night is that those little marks have an actual name. Who knew?

Check this out: they’re called Dan Henry Arrows, or just “Dan Henrys,” and some sources indicate they’re used world-wide, though I don’t personally have any knowledge of such and won’t state it as firm fact until I return from my upcoming grant-funded continent-spanning journey undertaken to confirm precisely how widespread their use is.

Sheldon Brown’s exhaustive online Bicycle Glossary tells us that Dan Henry was a very influential cyclist in the ’50s and ’60s, most famous for the “‘Dan Henry Arrow,” an arrow painted on the roadway with a stencil or a spray can.

It goes on to share that Mr. Brown was also known for roller demonstrations, where he would perform a strip-tease while riding on rollers.

I find that vastly amusing and might even pay to see footage of it. Mostly because anyone who’s ever attempted to ride a set of rollers can tell you that just staying upright on the damn things is something of a trick all on its own.

Courtesy TourDePeaks.com

That little glow you’re feeling right now is no doubt the sign of a life more fulfilled.   Aren’t you glad you clicked?

moms rock the tri

Saturday dawned chill and drizzly, which meant I couldn’t think of a thing I’d rather do than ride my bike, dontcha know.

Because, after all, at this point if my bike shoes dry out even a little bit, they will instantly succumb to a state of toxic stankiness and I’ll have to replace them.  Which is a purchase I’m not ready to run by the CFO here at Casa Fraught just yet.  And when I do, I’m going to remember to take those new Oakleys off my face first.

Now, where was I?

Oh, right, tellin a big ole fib. Because okay, yeah, I could’ve come up with one or two dozen things I might rather have done than saddle up for yet another wet ride, but way back in like June I’d committed to a reprise of last year’s triathlon relay effort with the SoRo Moms team. And maybe you all have figured out by now that I am not really the bailing type.

As for the day, it was not nearly as wet, nor as cold, nor as long as last Sunday’s epic outing.  Sheesh, hardly enough self-imposed misery to make it worth getting out of bed.  Well, except for the fun of hangin’ with my teamies Melissa and Lori.  And the challenge of pushing redline for 25 mildly rolling miles when I’d trained an entirely different set of muscle-twitch fibers all summer, doing long slow distance climbing to prepare for B2B.

Plus, since it’s a fairly local race, there were lots of familiar faces and it’s always fun to cheer for people you know.  (Kate of BookNook did the whole thing solo, so she gets the official You Go Girl! of the day.)

I gave it everything I had.   I’d so hoped for like three more days between last Sunday and this Saturday, because my legs needed more recovery time, but the request I put in for that variance was not granted.

Given that, I felt pretty good about what I managed to do with what I had, namely improve my time from last year.

In fact, each of us did, and while we don’t have the official numbers yet, we’re pretty confident we knocked almost ten minutes off our finish time from last year.  Pretty awesome, huh?

And we came in second of the all-female relays. A distant second, it must be said, to another team of phenom-athlete moms from our very same ‘hood.  Hats off to you, 2 Heels & a Hoo!!

It was a fun time, and a great day, and I loved being a part of it.  And I believe this week I’ll dust off my running shoes, and take some time to get back in the groove with my power yoga.  I might  — just might — be biked out for a bit.

generally awesome, in two acts

I gave you last the epic of Bridge To Bridge ‘09, showcasing moi, wonderful moi, in a big ole production number, high-kicking across the stage in front of you, supporting cast in the form of My Crew and a cameo or two by Junior, the bus.

But the story needs to be told of how the show would never even have been cast were it not for the incredible support, devotion and partnership of my man, known to you as The MPM.

Act 1, Scene 1: A July-ish day.

Me: Gee, luv, I was thinking about maybe going down to North Carolina for a weekend in September. Me and, y’know, Richard and three other guys you’ve never met.  Do some eatin and drankin and we might ride a few miles, like maybe a hundred or so up some crazy mountain.  They’ll be wearing spandex for a good portion of the time I’m with them, and we’ll be sleeping scant feet from one another.

The MPM:  Better tell ‘em you snore.

Me:  (sticking out tongue).

The MPM.  Sounds like a great time.

Me: Oh, and between now and then, I need like four or five hours every weekend to go ride, cos I gotta train.

The MPM: Right.

Act 1, Scene 2: early September

Me:  Would it be okay if I buy yet another pair of ludicrously expensive Oakleys so I have them for the ride?

The MPM:  Sure.

Me:  And get a complete tuneup on my bike too?

The MPM:  Sure.

Act 1, Scene 3: Friday, September 18

Me: Megs needs to practice her piano both days, and it would be great if you could get them to church on Sunday.  And a bath.

The MPM: (Nods; taking notes).

Me: And can we order dinner in tonight because I’ve been packing and haven’t had time to make anything?

The MPM:  Sure thing.

Me:  Oh, um.  The guys at the shop didn’t re-wrap my handlebar tape.

The MPM:  Gotcha covered, babe.  I can do it before bed.

Act 1, Scene 3: Morning, Saturday September 19

Me: Can I borrow your helmet? Mine really stinks. And I need one of the trays off your roof rack. Can I have your nice water bottle too?

The MPM: Sure. (Gets tray; racks bike, unasked). Have a great time, hon! Ride safe. Say Hi to Richard for me. (Kiss.)

Act 2, Scene 1: Sunday, 6p.m.

Me: (on phone) Hi, luv. I’m finished!

The MPM: Great job, hon.

Me: I’m thinking I’ll be home pretty late.

The MPM: Drive safe. I’ll tell the girls you’ll see them in the morning. Love you.  ‘Night.

Act 2, Scene 2: 3 hours later

Me: (on phone) Hey luv, we just got back to the bus.  Driving conditions are really dicey and I’m pretty wiped. The boys aren’t pulling out of town until morning, so is there any way to work it so I could sleep here in the bus and get home tomorrow morning?  I can get up pretty early if I have to.

The MPM: Sounds like the right choice. If you can be here by 9:30, I’ll get Megs to school and take the second bus in. I’ll make it work. Sleep tight.

<< CURTAIN >>

And you know, amazingly enough, he seems to feel like there’s something in it for him.  And for that, along with everything else, I am deeply, utterly, grateful.  He is my rock, and my soft place to fall, and he deserves the spotlight for a minute.

there’s blue sky ahead

One thing I like about blogging is I never really feel on deadline. But I notice that my hit counter took a healthy tick up yesterday, which suggests that there may be a few of you out there wondering how it all went down for that little Bridge To Bridge outing on Sunday. So I am ignoring the laundry and gettin’ down to writin’ it down. Can you feel the love?

There’s so much to tell. Generally I believe there is numbness in detail, and when I started I had every intention of finding that broad line of the story between too little and too much, but after I started writing I realized your scrolling device works just fine. My blog, my story; EP version. And my longest post to date, by an order of magnitude or two. Scroll at will.

So we’ll start with Saturday.

I have little faith in Google Maps and even less in Mapquest. Instead, I called my bestest CL, whose sister lives down thataway, and thus ended up taking what I am sure was both the quickest and most scenic route to meet up with my crew just outside Boone, NC.

I did have to rely on Google Maps to find the campground, which of course meant that I had to rely on the dude at the mattress shop next to the shuttered gas station to get me unlost. I don’t believe he ever once shifted focus north of my neck, but in all fairness it must be said that he managed to give me stellar directions despite that, and I pulled into the Grandfather Mountain Campground just ten short minutes later.

You may be saying, Woah now, Madam Fraught, did you say CAMPGROUND? Fear not, fair reader; I may be crazy enough to undertake such a ride but I am nowhere near crazy enough to do it on a night’s sleep in a tent.

My accommodations: Reeechard and his crew arrived (from Tejas by way of Georgia) in Junior, aka “the bus.”

The bus is not exactly a repurposed yellow school model, and to be completely honest it has several more comforts than my home. Like the separate thermostat to heat the bathroom should you feel chilled after your steamy shower, and a flat-screen TV some decades newer than anything we own.

So I drive in and get to meet the rest of the crew: Todd, of the quiet nature and great grin. Gregg, whom I will shortly learn with utter astonishment graduated high school two years after I was born. And Keith, who feels — within minutes — like your favorite pair of old jeans. He and Richard are on their second trip; the rest of us are B2B virgins.

We had some lunch (leftover pork BBQ for me; they’d all had it fresh for dinner the night before, after it simmered along through the miles) and then got togged up to fulfill the brilliant plan for dropping cars convenient to the ride finish and simultaneously getting in a leg-stretcher of a ride back to the bus.

The guy who took our picture (coming soon, promise) said “Good thing you’re going now — I just looked on the radar and there’s a storm coming in.” Which made us all happy, because weather coming in now means it’s all gonna blow on through before tomorrow: Rain tonight, but clearing with a 50% chance of showers for the big day.

After Richard cooked dinner — blackened salmon, risotto and grilled asparagus — and then dessert — fresh blueberry somethin with ice cream over — and a few beverages and some lies and tales we got in our jammies and got settled in for the night.

Torrential rain on a metal roof is not exactly conducive to sleep, but the earplugs helped, as did the knowledge that it was blowing on through and we weren’t gonna have to ride in that mess.

Bright and early we packed up, unhooked and headed off to the start, in Lenoir, a piece down the road. The rain looked like it was planning to clear off any time.

Richard pilots the bus down the narrow NC roads; the sweep of the huge windshield wipers is slow and would put me into a hypnotic trance in about three minutes if I had to drive. But I don’t, and it’s not a heavy rain, which means it’s blowing on through and we aren’t gonna have to ride in that mess.

We pull into Lenoir and immediately find karmic parking outside the fire station, where the sight of riders pumping tires and attiring themselves in kit clues us in that we can’t be far from where we need to be.

At 10 we are at the start. I’m wearing a short sleeve shirt, arm warmers, knee warmers (thanks Sarah!), and my heavy Gore-Tex vest. I have the zip-off sleeves for the vest in my rear pocket, along with food and Accelerade powder. The rain has stopped and the sun is making its presence felt if not seen.

As I stand there, unable to hear the announcements, I begin to notice that I am one of two people wearing anything other than short sleeves and shorts. And it’s getting warmer by the minute. Crap. I roll down my arm warmers. I don’t have time to ride back to the bus for my lighter vest. I’m gonna sweat my ass off. Well, I can ditch the sleeves, at least, which will give me room to stash the leg and arm warmers later.

Okay, that’s a plan. Thanks to our karmic parking, I hand the sleeves to a cute firefighter and tell him I’ll pick them up at the station after the ride. (The SLEEVES, people. I’ll pick up the SLEEVES.)

We roll out. Riding through red lights legally is like eating chocolate in bed and being given a pass on the calories AND the cavities. I’m with my crew, and I’m happy. There’s a vast expanse of bright lycra on a shifting sea of bikes as far as I can see in front of me. Lotta money rolling down that road. I do a quick estimate: 800 riders, average of, say, 2K per bike, um, 16 plus five zeroes. 1.6 million bucks, conservatively, of carbon, titanium, aluminum, unobtanium and plain old steel. It’s a pretty sight, indeed it is.

About this time, it commences to sprinkling. Not enough to kick a roostertail off the wheel in front of me, but enough to make me roll the arm warmers back up a tad.

My goals for the day are 1) to spend as much time riding with my peeps before we get separated by the climbs that will kick in at Mile 56, and 2) to eat steadily, so I don’t bonk.

For a good bit of the first 60 miles I’m with one or another, or more, of my crew. I get separated from Richard early, when he has a wardrobe malfunction, but wait at the first rest stop long enough for him to get back with us. Keith, at six-four or maybe -five, is gorgeous to ride behind, providing both complete windblock and a line that never wavers; I instantly trust him enough to sit three inches off his wheel. That is, when it’s not raining hard enough to put a roostertail in my face.  Which it now largely is.

Gregg and Todd are generally ahead of us a bit; we see them briefly at aid stations. The rain continues. It never pours, but it comes down, and down.

The climbs begin. What I’d seen back in August on the elevation chart sent out had looked like a thirteen-mile climb with no relief in grade beginning at Mile 56. On the road, we climb a bit and then it levels out, climb and level again. I am ecstatic. This is nothing. I’ve got gears to spare. I stop at every aid station and eat something. After the second stop, I debate waiting on my crew, but I’m starting to get chilled when I stop, so decide I’m better off at my own pace. I don’t hurry. I chat as I pass people, which I am suddenly doing a lot of.

It rains. The sky is unremittingly gray. I amuse myself by leaning over toward someone I’m passing as we climb and saying conspiratorially, “I think it’s clearing.” I get great reactions. I vary it, but the theme remains the same. After a while I start singing “I see bluuuuuuuuue skies ahe-e-ed” as I come up behind people. I get laughs.

The rain is relentless, and I think longingly of those Gore-Tex sleeves, sitting dry in a firehouse. I’m not freezing, but I am tense with the cold, and when it’s time to descend I get colder and more tense, my body remembering its recent slide on wet pavement.

As the miles tick on, the fog gets thicker. It feels surreal, to be riding and not see another soul. For stretches at a time visibility is ten yards or so.

Hannah from Charlotte comes beside me on a flat stretch. She was part of the fast pack, an hour behind us on the staggered start, but eventually got dumped off the back of the train. She is young, and astonishingly strong. We trade pulls. She announces “This FUCKING SUCKS.”

At Mile 70 I have the jolting realization that I am only two-thirds done. Which means I have to do this for half again as long. Which does not sound fun. I decide the ride should be called Bridge To Bridge Across A Freakin’ Moat.

And I decide that I am not going to buy into Hannah’s attitude. It is adverse out here, indeed, but it does not fucking suck. I am cold, I am wet, my neck and shoulders hurt and I can’t feel my toes, but I am fully alive, and that is good. And you know, I bet that’s a gorgeous view off that overlook there. I’ll have to come back another time and see it.

Hannah and I see more and more cars going by with tagged bikes on them, signaling that more and more people are parting with their desire to finish, and choosing instead to simply be done.

The descents are bad for me. The visibility is so poor at times that I’m leery of getting up speed, in direct contradiction to my deepening desire to be finished as soon as possible. The spray on my glasses obscures my vision too much, so I have to take them off and squint to keep crap from flying in my eyes. I’m tense and numb; I’ve lost trust in my ability to stay upright on wet pavement, and I have to fight my fear, which wells up no matter how much I try to remind myself I know how to do this.

I lose Hannah somewhere on a long descent, and pull into the next aid station. She had eschewed them, eating instead while riding, and it feels good to be standing upright. I stand under a tent.  The half PBJ tastes so good I have another. And some grapes. And a cookie.

As I pass people now I do not sing, I do not banter. I murmur Hey, and never even look at their faces.

I am now officially really, really cold; rainwater drips steadily off the end of my nose. At Mile 90 or so I find myself in pace with another rider. He asks how I’m doing; I say My friend, I am PEACHY. He laughs. This is his tenth year, and he has on full-finger gloves and full tights, and I am deeply covetous. We ride a time and agree to stop and stretch, and my shoulders unclench a bit. I never learn his name, and somewhere in the surreality we get separated, but sharing those miles with someone was huge.

At times the fog clears; at times it’s completely socked in. The air is so wet I don’t even know if it’s raining any longer. When we see the sign marked Mile 100, I’m elated. In a few more miles I know I’ll turn off onto the final climb up Grandfather Mountain. Suddenly a phalanx of volunteers pop out of the fog, but I realize I’m clueless: left or right turn? I ask, and someone points me toward the gate.

I know some portion of the climb from here is going to be at a brutal grade, and I know there’s a possibility that at this point a standing climb will make me cramp. If my legs cramp badly enough, I will simply fall. I really, really don’t want to fall.

I sit as long as I can, grinding up, and then it gets too steep. I stand through the first switchback. Pre-cramp twinge, but I’m okay. I pull off into a parking area and put my feet down. Breathe. Clip back in, gain momentum on the traverse angle, then turn uphill again.

It’s long, and there are three sections in all where the grade demands coming out of the saddle. Each time I stand I try to send calm energy into my legs.

I can hear cowbells, and shouting. I can’t see a freaking thing. I remind myself that switchbacks are deceptive, and they could be a long way away. And then I can see them through the fog, and there’s a sign that says Finish Line Just Ahead, and I round the final switchback and cross that line.

I am the 195th rider over, and the 6th woman.

An interesting statistical breakdown: They cap the race at 800 registrants. About 200 woke up and decided it was a good day to see a movie instead. Watch some golf maybe. 299 total finishers means only every other rider who clicked in at the start made it even to the bottom of Grandfather Mountain (there’s an alternate finish line at the base for those who miss the cutoff time).

Only one of our crew had to abandon. Gregg, whose job took him around the globe a couple times this year, made it to Mile 70 before the evil conditions and the miles he hadn’t been able to log in training caught up to him in the form of unrelenting leg cramps.

Todd finished 10 minutes in front of Richard, who finished 10 minutes in front of Keith. And I am amazed, truly in awe, that they could ride that ride without having the opportunity to train on anything close to the kind of terrain they were up against. It is a testament to their strength, and maybe more to their determination.

And we all got warm, eventually, and drove down the mountain to where Junior was waiting with hot showers and cold beverages.

And I was a little blue yesterday. There are those times when things don’t live up to your expectations, and afterward there’s the dusty taste of disappointment. And then there are those times when things exceed your expectations, and afterward it is, well, over. And you wish it weren’t.

Thanks, guys. You really know how to show a girl an unforgettable time.

before the pain

Some of you may remember my public announcement of intent back in August to ride the Bridge to Bridge Challenge. Today is Friday, and unless something dramatic and unforeseen occurs between now and 10a on Sunday, I’ll be rolling on with the rest of my crew: Richard, Keith, Todd, and Gregg. We’re converging on North Carolina from points north, south, and west.

And frankly even if something dramatic and unforeseen DOES occur, it’s going to have to top Richard’s pre-ride visit to the ER with a kidney stone of a few years ago, because that didn’t keep him from saddling up the next morning. The bar for wimpitude has been set.

D&U aside, I’ve done a reasonable number of training miles with some reasonable chunk of them vertical in nature. And this morning the scale read 130.6, which means I met my other Publicly Stated Goal of carrying a few fewer pounds (6.8 of them to be exact) up that freakin’ mountain. So I’m about as ready as I can expect to be for 105 what in hell was I thinking miles with 11,000 what in hell was I thinking feet of elevation pain gain.

And the truth of it is, this crew isn’t in it for time, but for the TIME, if you know what I mean. And I fully expect it will be a large one — rain or shine.

Yeah. Since the forecast is fifty-fifty, do a little dry dance for us, wouldja please, maybe tip the scale a bit our way?

to veer

Were you up early enough to catch the sunrise this morning? Did it rise in the west maybe?

I ask because last night we’d planned to attend the premiere of this very cool new bike movie showing at the new art museum in town (the one with the, um, eye-catching architecture, feel free to click). We wanted to ride our bikes to the premiere, partly because it was a bike movie and partly because we believe in ridin not drivin when we can, but really mostly because I’d heard that they were having VALET PARKING for bikes. And that, in my book, is just too good to miss.

And because we wanted to ride down, the plan was to hire a sitter who would come HERE, to our house, as opposed to getting my MIL to cover the gig, because that meant we’d be expected to feed the girls and pack up their jammies and toothbrushes and take them THERE, spending some amount of time deemed appropriate on both ends visiting, ourselves, before bringing them home to wake up in their own beds. Because that’s the way it works. It is immutable and we do not ask the why. One might equally question gravity or photosynthesis.

But since, after umpteen calls, there was no sitter to be found, we called the MIL who obligingly said sure, we could bring them over. So we did. And then drove home again and got on our bikes and rode down, because we couldn’t possibly pass on that valet parking thing, even though it meant reversing the whole silly sequence on the back end.

We got settled into our seats and were well along into the fun when the MPM leapt up like something had bitten him on the butt and scurried out the door. He came back in but I wasn’t seated next to him so I couldn’t pinch him to make him give me the scoop, and he sat oblivious to the numerous “WTF??” looks I was beaming pointedly at him across the seat backs.

But after the lights came back on and we were collecting our bikes from the valet (THIS WAS EVERY BIT AS COOL AS I IMAGINED), he said, “Yeah, my mom called.” I waited for the bad news: the girls wouldn’t go to sleep, my FIL had fallen, something. She wouldn’t call for no reason.

What she’d called for, as it turned out, was to suggest that maybe the girls could STAY OVERNIGHT. Both of them. All night.

So indeed, I find myself this morning wandering about in a state of disbelief and, yes, questioning the stability of physical reality in the rest of the world.

And because I myself slept in well past sunrise, y’know, I just thought I’d ask: east? west?

this could save your life.

If you ride a bike regularly, chances are at some point you’re going to get stung by a bee.  There’s the classic bee-flies-in-your-helmet number — sometimes it flies out with no further ado, but more often it gets pissed off at your head for being in its way — and there’s my experience a few years ago of one smacking into my quadricep as I was travelling 40 or so mph on a descent.  I don’t know if the stinger was driven in especially far due to the speed at impact or what, but my leg swelled up like a football.  Very attractive.

And then there was my Sunday ride.  Three of my favorite people to ride with, a gorgeous route, perfect weather…  and one little buzzy thing drilling my buddy Frank dead between the eyes just before we started the long descent into the small crossroads town that marks about halfway.

He was stoic, but we could tell it wasn’t your average honeybee-in-the-clover sting.  We’d planned to stop at the small local gas station/convenience store anyway, so we pulled in to get him some relief in the form of an ice cube or two.

It was locked up tight, but happily after a few minutes of waiting the owner pulled in and said sure, he’d open a little early for us, and we got snax and ice and such and sat chatting.

And after a few minutes Frank mentioned that it was the weirdest thing, but he was starting to feel sort of itchy.

Well then.  We got some Benadryl in him, and rode somewhat sedately the rest of the way home.

Now.  Here comes the soapbox.  My blog, my box.

A decade or so ago I personally witnessed full-blown anaphylactic shock in a sizeable adult male, which I can tell you is an experience that will stick with you for the rest of your days.    And I will tell you too what the docs at the ER told me in the aftermath of that event.

If you are stung by something and you swell up big as a football, but it is AT THE SITE of the sting, do not fret yourself.

If you are stung and you get a reaction, no matter how seemingly innocuous, that involves any part of your body AWAY FROM THE SITE of the sting, know that this is your kind, gentle WARNING.  Call your doc immediately and Do Not Pass Go as you run, not walk, to the nearest drugstore for your very own Epi-pen.

Because that reaction — some hives on your stomach, itching of your hands or feet, or groin (sorry, Frank), or head — is letting you know that your body is reacting SYSTEMICALLY to that venom.  And that, friends, is a problem.  Because each time you are stung, your reaction will almost certainly escalate.   (We’ll step aside from discussion of the various types of stings and venoms and sensitivities, and just go with the take-home lesson here).

Take that man whose full-blown reaction I saw.   Fact:   He is alive and fully functioning today ONLY because by the grace of god and/or sheer serendipity (take your pick) someone at a party going on next door had an Epi-pen.   Fact:   His only prior reaction — which he’d never even thought of again — had been that his head itched after he was stung.

Am I writing that clearly enough?  Sting #1:  Itchy head.  Sting #2, years later:  Full collapse and airway failure.  In minutes.  In a six-foot-four, 200-pound male.  Requiring the Epi-pen, and, when the ambulance finally arrived, two additional shots of adrenaline.

Know too that a life-threatening anaphylactic reaction may very well take place at a dizzying speed.  You will not have time to drive home to your medicine chest, find your Epi-pen and take it out of its box.  In fact, you may not have time to go to your car and remove it from the glovebox.  Carry it with you.  Everywhere.

Really.

Addendum: Don’t miss the exciting GIVEAWAY — see the reply to Becky’s comment, below, and then leave your own to enter the random drawing!

Saturday, she was wet

So it probably would’ve been smart to check the radar BEFORE the ride.   But I was busy wakin’ up and such.

This is what it looked like AFTER, when I thought to amuse myself by glancing at it:

blowin' on through

Lord but we rode through, and through, and THROUGH that mess.

Midway into our chosen route there’s a great five-mile gradual descent that is, under ordinary circumstances, a complete blast, effortlessly flying along with a big grin on your face.

It was torture.  Chattering teeth, goosebumps, and numb fingers, riding the brakes to keep from building too much speed.  We huddled for twenty minutes or so at a tiny rural church trying mostly unsuccessfully to warm up a bit.  Bless them for their small covered porch, with benches thereon.

Rural, as in no cell coverage, because all four of us agreed that if ever there was a time to bail on a ride, this was it.  “Bailing” being a particularly appropriate term. We had one long slow ugly climb behind us, and a steeper one in front.  And as the one familiar with the route, my input was that the descent after that climb wasn’t anything we wanted to be doing on wet roads.

So here’s the obligatory grime-line photo:

note the raisin toes

And here, sadly, is another photo from the day:

you get the idea. there's more.

Yeah.  Rookie move.

Given my comment as we discussed our (foiled) bailout plan, you’d think that even though it stopped raining just in time for the climb, and the sun came out shortly before we summitted, all four of us together, and I was feeling so good and just plain happy… YOU’D THINK that I’d've exercised extreme caution on the descent.

Oh, I wasn’t screaming down it; I wasn’t being a comPLETE numbskull.  But by the time I realized I was going just that hair too fast, I was into the apex of the turn and braking would have been even dumber. And while a more skilled rider might have been able to pull off something to pull out of it, I performed what my buddy Frank — who’s watched twenty or so years of them — termed “the classic Tour De France slide.”

Right.  Yeah.  Except those guys ARE flying.  And they have, you know, a podium, paycheck, prestige, that sort of thing, all potentially waiting for them at the bottom of their descent.  Me?  None of the above.

I am grateful beyond words that each of my ride buds was able to avoid me and stop safely as I went about the process of removing skin from various parts of my body.

And thankful that my bike and I were both only scuffed, not seriously damaged, so that after a short assessment and brake straightening, we could remount and head for home.

And I realized on the way that it was the first time the MPM has ever seen me return any the worse for wear from a ride — meaning it’s been at least 10 years since I’ve hit the pavement.  Time to start the clock over.

If you don’t count the particularly unattractive saddlebag look from the swelling below my left hip bone, I’m surprisingly fine today, fetchingly adorned with a young fortune’s worth of Tegaderm, treatment of choice for road rash.  (I’m sure it’s a petroleum product, Reeechard, and I am grateful for it.)

And because I’m just a little twisted, perhaps, I’m gonna say that save for about 30 feet of it, it was a great ride. 

grime time

I convinced myself that the radar looked pretty innocuous. Just a few cells, nothing to get all worked up about and wimp out on the ride. We’re in the valley between a couple-few ridges, and those storms always break up when they come across the mountains.

Or not.

We took cover briefly — when it came down so hard it felt like someone was chucking handfuls of pebbles at us, and we plain lost our visual on the roadway — but mostly we just rode on.

Those aren’t mere grime lines, but grime RIDGES, where it collected at the top of my socks…

B2B

I’ve made reference before to the fact that once I publicly announce I’m going to do this or that, it’s a hell-or-high-water proposition, so I tend not to make many of those sort of pronouncements. But I’ve signed up, paid my money, made the plan, so I might as well dish: I’m planning to ride my third century ever (that’s 100 miles, for those of you not hep to bikin’ lingo).

It’s on September 20th, and when it first came across my radar some months back it was by the innocuous title of “Bridge To Bridge,” or B2B. Unlike “Mountains of Misery,” the very first century I undertook, back in 2005, one might be lulled into thinking that this could be a stroll, or roll, in the park.

Well, until one finds out that the actual title of the ride is “The Bridge To Bridge Challenge” and that it ends with a climb up the legendary Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina. Um. People cry on this climb.

Earlier this evening I was looking for a bit more information and ran across a bulletin board with some chatter about the B2B, upon which one encouraging soul had posted simply this phrase: “Prepare to die.”

Lovely.

So, well, there’s public pronouncement #1. I have got some serious miles to schedule for the next month. Long slow nasty climbs, my faaavorite. (Watch that the sarcasm doesn’t drip on your toes there.)

Public pronouncement #2 is that I weighed myself last week and the very accurate scale showed 137.4LB, and I have determined that the notion of carrying 5 fewer LBses up Grandfather Mountain has some distinct appeal. I’m not exactly the dieting type, but I’m saying HERE OUT LOUD that I’m going to make an effort to eat a few fewer desserts, especially in the middle of the day, and (sigh) give some second helpings a good leaving alone for the next 5 weeks.

But you can be sure I will be eating LARGE on the evening of September 20th. Reeechard, who is the causal agent of all of this proclaiming and anticipation of misery and such, has been running potential post-ride menus by me, the likes of:

Blackened salmon with a mango/black bean/poblano relish, rosemary risotto, and some grilled asparagus with garlic and kosher salt.

With Peach (if I can find some ripe ones) or Apple something with a big dollop of ice cream.

Large, I tell you. LARGE.

Saturday’s silver lining

It was a hell of a ride.

Note to self: when sweet Emily mentions to you that a given climb “really kicks my ass,” expect elevation of the sort and character that may require mere mortals to dismount midway to rest.

So we were right along at 50 miles for the day — gorgeous, spectacular, and ass-kicking miles — when we arrived back at her car. I’d completely drained both water bottles a few miles earlier as we traded pulls with two guys in full kit we’d run into, and wasn’t planning on being the least bit shy about helping myself on the drive home to the Dasani I’d seen in her console. Not one bit.

I’d just racked my bike when I heard Emily’s sudden intake of breath. “Oh, NO! No, no, no!!!”

She’d unlocked, tossed her shoes, wheel, and keys in the trunk, and then racked her own bike. And then somehow, when she shut her door, the whole thing locked. With the keys in the trunk.

With no shoes or wheel, she couldn’t ride back to her house. I could have ridden the 10 miles home — though it assuredly wouldn’t have been pretty — and gotten a vehicle, but it seemed to make a tad more sense to call the MPM and ask to be rescued.

Emily apologized 27 times before I even dialed the phone. (I counted.) “Won’t he be pissed off? I don’t want him to be pissed off. I’m sorry. I’m so lame.”

You’re not either, I said. These things HAPPEN. And nope, he won’t be. She looked at me doubtfully. I called. He asked a few questions, said he’d be on his way and hung up, patently Not Pissed.

A bit later it occurred to me that hey, maybe Triple-A offers lockout service and I should call them instead. So I did, and they do. When I called the MPM back to belay the rescue request, did he express annoyance that I didn’t think things through up front? Nope. Did he turn around at the next wide spot? No, by golly, he didn’t.

He drove on over with the huge honkin’ iced water I’d asked him to bring along. Hey, he said, he was most of the way there, and he knew I was thirsty. Told Emily she shouldn’t feel bad; that he appreciated getting some use for once out of our AAA membership dues.

And after he left, as Emily and I sat there waiting on the Triple-A dude, it led to a great conversation about how we so often end up in skewed dynamics with people who get annoyed at us in our human frailties, and are critical of us, trying desperately to please them instead of telling them to go jump in a lake.

And about some of the reasons I chose to marry the man I did, having dated over almost two decades a rather spectacular assortment of less-appropriate candidates, and how much his character matters to me. And as I sat there on the grassy overlook verbalizing those qualities, I felt my focus on them sharpen anew.

It was a wonderful wiping-clean of my Marital Small Annoyances slate, the one with “not a morning person,” “tea bags left in sink,” “dark socks in light hamper,” et cetera, scribbled peevishly thereon.

Especially when Emily dropped me home and I found the kitchen tidy, the girls fed (twice) and dressed, and the house appearing only marginally trashed after an entire morning of four children runnin loose. While my bike and I are off on another three five-hour outing.

Nope, you can’t have him. He’s mine.

a novel day

Today I did two things, though not at the same time, that I can’t remember having done in several years.  1)  I wore jeans in July.  In the South.  And didn’t regret it.  Because it’s been some kind of crazy cool around here this past week.  2) I went on the Famous Tuesday Night Beer Ride.

Well, I went on part of it.  And it wasn’t exactly intentional.  I had the opportunity to sneak out for a few miles, and I knew there was a chance that I’d bump into some portion of the ride’s staggered starters by leaving my house when I did and riding where I did — but I hadn’t expected to get caught up in the thick of it.

I struggle with huge group rides.  I’ve been on some, in other cities, where sanity prevails, where double pacelines roll smoothly, where there seems to be more orchestration and less chaos.  And more attention to sharing the road.  Yes, it’s hard — and not even desirable — for a gaggle of cyclists to cede the road entirely, but if a concerted effort is made, it’s truly possible to coexist in a manner that doesn’t lead to dangerous passing attempts and middle fingers flying.

My wish would be to be seen as a gentle voice of reason on these rides.  Instead I find myself a lone screecher of  “car back!  CAR BACK!!  CAR BACK!!” as the riders ahead of, behind, and around me casually drift into double or triple file, or end their pull with apparent utter disregard for the commuter traffic that is the Blue Ridge Parkway at that hour.

It stresses me out.  As does riding in close proximity to too many riders I don’t know and thus don’t trust.  So at the point where the group(s) diverged off the Parkway and onto surface streets, I did a one-eighty and headed home, solo once more.

Certainly a piece of it is that I’m not in the kind of shape these days that makes it possible to hang easily at the front of the pack, with the handful of guys who know what in heck they’re doing.  But a larger part of it is simply that there’s no culture of mentoring here, to bring novice cyclists — some of whom are plenty strong — along in the etiquette of pacelining and group rides.  And so the knowledge pool grows shallower and shallower, and fewer and fewer riders are schooled in the rules, and the doctrine and philosophy fade even more.  Entropy in action.

I dearly miss the synchrony and elegance of a well-oiled paceline, and the benefit of group tempo miles.  But I’ve had to accept that they simply don’t exist around here.  And the shame of it is, few others seem to feel the lack.  My occasional forays into discussions of paceline practice and tempo rides have met with blank stares and blunt “No one wants to do a ride like that” commentary.

Nah, I guess not.  It lacks the testosterone punch and the ego dance of the “every ride a race” approach.  What’s the fun of training like the pros do, after all?

Tomorrow it’s back to typical muggy 80s.   And shorts and small group rides for me.

smiles, and miles

Here’s a sadly bad photo of a really good time:

one of these girls isn't as sweaty as the rest. we love her anyway.

Happily, our Blue Moon rides have been occurring more than once in a blue moon this summer. Yesterday’s turnout was our largest to date, maybe, just maybe, because we actually thought ahead of time and remembered to invite more people, and it was so fun to have a sizable group of women on the road together.

There were a few who failed to succumb to beer pressure and persisted in ordering something other than a Blue Moon, and one who allowed as she didn’t care for fruit in her beer, but we’ll keep working on them. Maybe when we get the matchy-matchy jerseys they’ll feel more like joining in lockstep.

If we invite them back, that is. Can’t have dangerous maverick types wandering around stirring up trouble, you know. (Anyone else have a little Tina Fey flashback there?  Me, I can’t hear the word “maverick” any more without doing an involuntary whole-body shudder. And oh, wasn’t that just Some Speech last week?? Can you fathom that That Woman came That Close to the second-highest office in the free world? It boggles. It truly does.)

So we rode our 20, and then bright and early this morning I rode 40 and seriously had to fend off the urge to lie down on the gentle grassy sloping edge of the road upon which I rode.  Couldn’t fathom for the life of me why my legs felt most like somewhat shapely railroad ties affixed at one end to my hips and at the other to my pedals.

And finally, mile 37, following the moment I literally began to see spots in my peripheral vision — which I divined as a sign that I should perhaps stop standing on that climb and sit my ass down in the saddle until further notice — it dawned on me that on Monday, I trailered Kira to the zoo and then, later, downtown.   The zoo destination represents, oh, approximately 900 vertical feet of climbing in a few short miles.  Tare weight on the trailer = 18lbs.  Kira = 28lbs.  Going back up to my house isn’t flat, either.

And on Wednesday, I happened into a ride that ended up being me and one of those guys with less hair on his legs than I have, for a total saddle time of 2.5 hours.

And then there was Friday, above; not hard, not long, but miles nonetheless.  Hello, muscle fibers?  Day 4 of 6? Can you kick it in another 40, Parkway grade climbing?  NO?  You CAN’T?  Oh.

Yeah, and those Tour guys ride, what, 21 days out of 23,  covering 2000+ miles… sigh.  Ah well.  They are insane-crazy testosterone-driven boys in their twenties and thirties living on a razor’s edge of training.  I’m a 45-year-old mommy with a triple ring.  Who rides, in an average week, twice at most.

So can I just say, my legs?  Are so freakin tired this evening that I’m giving rightful consideration to the idea of sleeping on the couch just so I don’t have to climb the stairs even One. More. Time. tonight.

morus

A number of things harken me back to my childhood summers in small-town Ohio, but few of them so provocatively as the taste of a mulberry.

My dad has always delighted in free, as in foraged, food, and for several weeks starting around mid-June he, my brother, and I would head out in the mornings to eat our breakfast off one of the several trees that were within easy walking distance on our street.  I suppose it was more of a country lane, really; they grew on a fencerow along a substantial corn field.

Each tree had its own flavor, color, and shape of berry, and all these years later I can still recall the hierarchy of preferred trees on our regular route.  We had only one small mulberry tree on our own acreage, at the rear fenceline of the large vegetable garden, and I remember we disdained it; it had white berries with a markedly insipid flavor.

Mulberries prefer that sort of habitat, fencerow and wood edge; a tangle along an alleyway is always a likely spot.

Despite the song, which has the annoying habit of getting stuck in my head, it’s really not a bush, but it IS a weedy sort of thing, especially when it’s young.  Frankly, there’s little to redeem the tree unless you’re a connoisseur of the fruit, and even as one, I have to admit that when they’re fruiting they make a godAWFUL mess that no homeowner could possibly look on fondly.

So in our more-affluent neighborhood, without a fencerow in sight, any mulberry that might have had the nerve in the past decades to put down roots has long ago been chopped down and bid good riddance.

Used to be there was one only a mile or so away, with nice droopy branches perfect for pickin’, at the corner over there down past the hospital by the transformer station, to the side of a tiny brick ranch that never got mowed much.  But then someone bought it and fixed it up so nice, they tend that yard like a spoiled grandchild and put up seasonal decorations Christmas Valentine’s Easter 4th a July Halloween and all.  And of course they cut that bad boy down faster than you can say Pink Flamingoes.

My, I’ve been rambling all over in this post, especially if you know, not that you possibly could, that I started out to meaning to tell about the truly uninspired undertaking that was my Friday ride.  I couldn’t muster up the least enthusiasm for climbing anything, so after procrastinating all morning I finally headed out on the Greenway, which is flat and until recently was not an official greenway but a tiny little road along the river that flooded out every high rain and was home to any number of mulberry trees.

When they made the Greenway — which I love unequivocally, 100%, don’t get me wrong — for some reason they felt compelled to take out the natural growth and instead plant deciduous hollies every 20 feet or so.  They’re pretty and all in the fall, and they have luscious-looking red berries this time of year, but they are decidedly NOT edible.

So I rode along its mulberry-free length and took the turn at the sewage treatment plant to wend through the neighborhood there that leads to the next section of greenway, and it dawned on me that THAT neighborhood is more toward working-, or these days likely laid-off-, class, and I might just get lucky and find a tree I’d be required to stop to nibble off of.

Following nothing more than instinct, I took a quick turn onto a promising side street and immediately spotted the spoor, a circular spread of black pitterings on the pavement, and there they were:  three spectacular trees, with branches low enough I immediately pictured my girls picking from them.

Along with a smallish dog about to lose its mind, yelping frantically at its fence not five feet away.

And then another one, not small by the stretch of anyone’s imagination and chained outside the house across the very narrow lane, chimed in, basso profundo.  I was relieved to see its chain was short, and strong; but as I stood there astride my bike, in mid-pick, a patterned sheet hanging in one of the windows moved aside to reveal a gentleman who appeared neither particularly clothed nor particularly pleased about having his rest disturbed.

It seemed prudent to move on.

And I did, though not without casting a backward glance at the abundance so temptingly within reach.

All in all I rode about 15 miles, much of it greenway, pitiful in the scheme of training, yet highly fruitful in that I was able to suss out a good handful of trees with branches low enough to pick from.  The girls can hardly wait to head out over the weekend, and I love that their enthusiasm for the harvest echoes mine.

And I can’t help but wonder if they will pass the tradition on to another generation, with memories of their own.  I hope so.  Isn’t that what this gig is really all about?