This is, believe it or not, a photo from a bike ride at night, with the full moon showing off its sun-like capabilities in a long exposure shot.
If you were to look behind you, you’d see this:
I don’t know how it looks like day time in that first photo, because we hiked up a big rock to take the photo, and it was pretty damn dark.
But you know when you get a bike gang together, and you all put lights on your heads and on your handlebars, then go careening down trails at warp speed, seeing only two or three metres ahead? (No? Have you no insane friends??) It’s another kind of excitement; another kind of fun. Throw in a little low consequence jump trail where you can’t see the landings, and there will be whooping and yelping all the way down.
I used to ride in the dark by myself sometimes. It wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve done, but it was eerie, magical, and kind of thrilling.
This is the first time I’ve done it with a big group. There were ten of us, and when you’re all following close to each other, the light is better and you can pretty much go the same speed you go in the daylight, only you see nothing but what’s in front of you and you might as well be riding in the vacuum of space. It’s bloody good fun.
In other news, it’s autumn again, and raining. Masks are required in the clinic again, and it all feels kind of like a bad let-down.
Hormones have resulted in bad shopping decisions, having purchased, in the past two days, a dinosaur-patterned fleece blanket-hoodie (for me), and a hoodie with an axolotl riding a bike printed on it (this gives me inexplicable joy). I am basically hunkering down in all manner of warm clothing, bracing for the winter season, though there’s probably another solid month of riding to be had.
But today, I’m at work, with a no-show first thing (hence this post), wearing a cashmere sweater that used to belong to my husband but that I subsequently shrunk, and now it fits me, albeit with sleeves that are just a wee bit short.
Happy Tuesday.
Do something this week that’s out of your comfort zone, and have fun!
It was a grey day, cool enough to be comfortable for sweaty bicycling up a mountain.
There’d been a flurry of messages in the week prior, all expressing a desire for another weekend adventure day, and we decided upon an area in the town south of us. Only two of the group had been there before, and friends of friends had provided a little map of the trails in the region, as they are unmarked and blacked out on Strava, though if you are good with picking through heatmaps, you can probably find them.
At 2 am that morning, one guy had sent a photo of two neon beer steins from a sign at the local beer fest.
Does that mean he’s not coming?
I pull up to his house and he is ready, but equipped with various containers of water, a thermos of hot tea and a bag full of snacks. He’s looking a little ragged.
On the drive, he proceeds to tell us of his date the night prior (it went well), and that he will need to sweat out the alcohol.
We bump our way up the service road with a rack full of bikes. I am told my mid-sized SUV will not make it up the next section, but soon after we park, we see a vehicle similar to mine zoom up the steep incline. We pile back in the car, and follow suit after a passing truck advises the road has recently been re-graded.
After a wrong turn or two, and a bit of pedaling and wandering, we arrive at the top of the trail.
This is the above hungover friend, taking a photo that may or may not be used on his Tinder profile.
The views are stunning, and there are slabs upon slabs of the uniquely grippy granite in this region. The slabs are variably steep and wide open, allowing you to choose whatever line you like, and so grippy you could creep them at a snail’s pace, or go charging down at breakneck speed trusting that you’ll have traction to slow down later.
Options. I like options.
There were so many that we kept riding back ’round or climbing back up to ensure we got to ride them all.
A view of my back end and my snack pocket. Snack pockets are the best.
The slabs went on for ages, glorious ages, and we took our time exploring lines, taking photos, and trying out various ideas to take interesting videos.
We are full grown children in adult bodies. I love it. I have found a whole town of similarly minded Peter Pans, for better or for worse.
The town below, with a view of the Sound and more distant mountains and islands, feels like another land. It’s like being an ant at the top of the world. I love feeling so small and insignificant. No one down there, living their lives, knows or cares that we are up here, toodling around.
We eventually dip back into the forest and arrive at a crevasse of vertical rock, a trickle of water rushing down below. A long, mossy log crosses the gap, clearly flattened on the top so one can walk (or ride) across. The other side allows access to a jump, seen in the below photo. If you don’t make this jump, you are very likely dead.
I look at the log, and I look at the rocky riverbed below. I’m vertiginous and mildly nauseated.
Come look at the jump!
I wander over and again, the dizzying height triggers more nausea. I drop to my hands and knees and peer over the edge. A few others follow suit. Of the six of us, there are probably two who have the skill and precision to do this jump, but both are being wise today.
“Nah. No f*cking way. This is not the kind of mountain biking I want to be doing. That’s insane.” I’d be willing to bet that there are those who think we are already insane for what we ride though. “True. Perspective I guess.” Live to ride another day. That’s the key.
We climb up partway to access another trail, and eventually arrive at another massive ridge slab. I can’t look over the edge without feeling really sick on this one either, but I focus on where I’ve got to go, and we ride out. The slab itself isn’t challenging, just the forcing of yourself not to think about the exposure. It isn’t until I find this video by FlowMotionAerials that I get perspective on just how massive it is (might need Facebook to view?). But SO beautiful and magical right??
We climb one last time to ride out on a trail aptly named Jungle Boogie, a tight, twisty, steep trail that weaves through the trees following the fall line all the way to the bottom. We are dusty and tired after our day of adventure, and really bloody hungry.
“Indian food!” suggests the no-longer hungover friend. He is so very German, with all the hard consonants and a hearty laugh. “Tacos?” suggests the youngest of our group. We go to the taco place, thinking it will be cheaper, but once we sit down and look at the menu, collectively thank the server for bringing us water and seating us, but um, we’re going to go now.
Indian food it is. Who knew it would be so perfect after a fall ride?
The German starts talking about how he wants to “get shredded”, and how he’s going to start counting macros to complement his training. I grimace as I shove another bite of naan into my mouth. “I did that once. Never again. I cannot be bothered to weigh and measure my food. No time for that kind of math. Also, I don’t care enough about my six pack. It’s under there. I can feel it.” My friend smirks at me. “Remember when we used to do stupid stuff like run hill repeats all the time? WTF was wrong with us?” I laugh. Yeah, now? Just feed me and take me biking.
Now I really want a truck. There are a whole lot of similar adventures waiting to be had, but I need a truck to get there.
I give the German the rest of my Butter Chicken sauce. The boys have nearly licked their bowls clean.
We make the drive home; stinky, full, and wholly satisfied.
Long ago, when airlines were fun and not desperate collections of paranoid androids, my dad won a trip for two to Jamaica. We lived in Calgary, Alberta then, land of cowboys and ranchers and frigid winters on the prairies.
My parents are immigrants, and the frivolity of a vacation to sit on sand overlooking an ocean doing nothing would be unfathomable. But when handed to you for free? Well then, my dad, ever pragmatic, could justify it.
I was maybe eleven or twelve when they went. I don’t know for certain what the state of my parents’ marriage was at that time, but they were struggling. Love-hating each other maybe, and now stuck in Jamaica together, for a week, sweaty and pale and looking for shade, forced to have conversations together on a beach and resort that I can only assume was supposed to be “romantic”. They’re not beach people, nor were they the lovey-dovey sort.
I should add my disclaimer: I am extrapolating and assuming, putting my Carraway-view on everything, tainting it.
They brought home cheap souvenir t-shirts for my brother and I, printed with cartoonish stick men wearing hats in Rasta colours, with the phrase “We Be Jammin’ Mon” in bubble letters at the top. There was a woven grass tote bag. A woven doll that acted as a toilet paper roll cover. Kitsch.
It was a conflict-habituated marriage filled with stubborn opinions, fiery tempers and polar opposite personalities. I remember arguments where plates were thrown and shattered whilst my then-toddler brother and I cowered under the dining table hugging each other; Saturday mornings that could turn into explosions over discussions for plans for the day. It could be so deafeningly loud, and then so devastatingly quiet.
In more recent years, my mother, with her decade old brain injury, tested my father at every turn. Screechy, irrational outbursts, a tension so thick in the air that no one dared breathe; their Corelle brand plates are near unbreakable, so they were no longer thrown.
In all this, never did I wonder if my father would leave. He was steadfast. Unwavering and committed. Committed to the end, refusing hospitalization over concerns about who would look after my mother. And as difficult as it was sometimes, he loved her deeply. Cherished her.
I will never know the private conversations and underpinnings of my parents’ relationship. I only know that it held. That it stood the test of time. That they made it into old age together, weathered, tired and wiser. It was never easy and in the end, it was ultimately death that parted them. They showed me that love evolves, but that it is never any less powerful.
My aunt, on my wedding day, came up to me and told me to prepare for things to be hard. I rolled my eyes internally and was annoyed that she would choose this day, of all days, to advise me of this. I know, I thought. I have watched my parents. I know.
Life carries you away with work and children and worries and play and suddenly you are ships passing in the night, sharing only administrative conversations and the odd high five.
My husband and I have been through years of long distance, the startings and endings of various businesses, medical residency, call, and the intricacies of praying the two small people we’ve created don’t turn into @ssholes. Now is a time of chaos for him. Getting uncomfortable. Building something new. We are in a rhythm, but I am learning that small gestures, two-minute phone calls at unexpected times, a hand grasp, ten second of unbroken eye contact, and the inanity of brushing our teeth beside each other all count to build a bigger sense of being in it together. I think that’s what it is. We are a team. We are in it together for the long haul. Bonus is that he’s pretty hot still, and he doesn’t mind my crazy.
Today, we have been married for fifteen years. Chump change compared to some, but it’s been a good fifteen years. I hope we make it to thirty. Forty. Fifty years. We’ll be old then. I hope we get the privilege of growing old together. If forever were an actual thing, I’d take it.
A bike friend once reminded me that all good things require maintenance. We were talking about bike suspension service, but he would not have been oblivious to its many other applications.
Here’s to maintenance, exceeding expectations, and another bunch of decades ahead, full of challenge, laughter, adventure and joy.
“So many camps. Our kids don’t know how good they have it.” I’m talking with my best friend’s husband. I haven’t seen the two of them in at least five years, and it would seem we’ve turned into curmudgeons.
I met her in sixth grade. We were instant besties. I met him in fourth grade. He sat next to me, in his matching sweatshirt/sweatpant set, and talked incessantly. I remember being so annoyed I drew a picture of a girl with her finger to her lips shushing, taped it to a piece of bristol board that was then folded in half and placed between my desk and his as a divider to stop him talking to me. Over a decade later, he would shatter both ankles in a climbing accident, and in her efforts to keep him encouraged after surgery, they fell in love, and I was re-introduced to my childhood desk-mate. He turned out alright, in the end, no longer an incessant talker, and generally a cool, affable sort.
Now they’ve got two kids, similar to mine in age and sass, and we have just hiked up a mountain as our day’s activity. The kids are no worse for wear, but we’re tired and sweaty.
In the past three years, she and I have both lost our fathers, and they’ve recently moved from the chaos of New York City to the foggy, wooded calm of Washington state. Now we’re only five hours apart by car. We each drive a bit, and ta-da!
“Right? Bike camp, outdoor adventure camp, hockey camp. I just sat around at home in the summers and tried to find friends who were free to roam.” I say this with a tone of derision, because my children are probably spoiled.
“Yeah, but wouldn’t you have wanted to do all those things? Like if our parents had the means back then? I totally would have. It’s so much fun!”
We are, the three of us, all first generation North Americans, our parents all immigrants.
I pause. We have the means. We have so much of what we have because our parents took some big risks and got really uncomfortable, so that future generations could reap the benefits of their hard work. That’s the party line, anyway.
Isn’t that our job now as parents? To give the best of ourselves to this future generation?
“It’s going so fast,” he muses. She chimes in. “Yeah, when they were little, we only had to keep them alive. Now it’s like, hard. I have to be so much more attentive and intentional.” My best friend has, as always, nailed it.
Attentive and intentional. I worry about my daughter, that if I am not on it right this minute, she will be lost to me forever, and we will become the toxic mother-daughter complex that people write about in psychology books and all manner of fiction. There’s a whole genre of it, I’m sure. I worry about my son, the man he will become, the way he will behave in his future relationships because of his interactions with me. Another genre, no doubt.
Then I spend hours agonizing over the example I’m setting, and every time I mess it up. Hours thinking about how to enrich their life experiences, their activities, their socialization, all thwarted by my laziness and a default to letting them on their screens. I suppose my objective to is to have my children grow up without trauma. Well, parental trauma anyway, as that’s all I can control.
But then what? Kids are known to be a terrible return on investment. In the end, there is still no guarantee they turn out okay; that they turn out to be kind, empathetic, altruistic humans who contribute something positive to society.
So, attentive and intentional I will aim to be. But I shall still have all my fingers and toes crossed, with a desperate, whispered prayer to the greater powers that be, Please, please, let the kids be alright.
“UGH. What’s in there? It’s a mole! Whose mole is that?!” Our clinic office assistant is tidying up my exam room for me. On Tuesdays, I borrow the room of a colleague who is known for her scatter-brained chaos. Most clinic rooms are tidy, but hers always looks like a tornado has blown through, littered with little scraps of paper reminding her to call a specialist, send a form, fill out a referral, and every now and then, a crude drawing of a bladder or a spine. There is not one, but two stethescopes strewn about. Why would anyone ever need more than one stethescope? The cleaners are loath to clean the room in case they move something important. Like a mole or something.
Yesterday, she has resected a mole and left it in a container with fixative, no name attached. As I clear and organize her desk to be my workspace for the day, the office assistant sighs an exasperated sigh. Our assistant does actually know whose mole it is, and she will sort out the paperwork. An astute office assistant is worth her weight in gold.
“What’s going on with the coffee pods?” I ask. “There are some blue ones left. They go so fast, we can’t keep up. D drinks a million cups a day.” I wander to the Nespresso machine and make myself a mediocre coffee. I’ve already had one this morning, made at home on my own espresso machine. I take a sip of the acrid stuff and am reminded that coffee at home is always better. There is therapy in the process (the whir of the grinder, the pressure of the tamp, the solid stop of the portafilter locking into place) and Nespresso takes the process away. I’m tired. Stayed up late reading. It’s too hot to sleep.
My right lower eyelid starts to twitch. It’s been doing it periodically every day for the past week. As a neurologist, I know it is within the realm of normal, influenced by caffeine, fatigue, or stress; perhaps all three. I get referrals for this every now and then, when a patient won’t believe their doctor that it’s normal. I debated the muscle movement with my Chief Resident once upon a time. He became a neuro-ophthalmologist, and I remember, one early morning, after I’d had all the terrible coffee to make it through the day, my eyelid started twitching and I absently held a finger up to stop it while presenting a patient case. He glanced and me and said, “Myokymia.” Electromyographically, myokymia sounds like marching, a group of muscle fibres firing rhythmically all at once. As I type this, I can see the waveform in my mind’s eye, hear how it sounds electrically, how that sound changes as I move the needle tip away from that group of muscle fibres. I did my fellowship in neuromuscular disease, and myokymia has a satisfyingly distinct and uniform sound. “No,” I say. “I think it’s a fasciculation.” A singular muscle fibre, rapidly firing, semirhythmic and maddening in its unpredictability. It’s a fasciculation. I’m still convinced he is wrong. But it does not matter.
Because my eye is twitching. And I have a ten hour day of patients to see.
By 630 pm, as I sign off my last dictation and the office is quiet, the eye begins to twitch again. My contacts are dry from the air conditioning and the many hours staring at a screen. I scrunch my right eye shut and start my billing. I can’t remember my first patient from this morning, it was so long ago. I re-read my note so I can fill out a diagnosis on the billing form, and her face comes back to me. Her story. The same thing happens for the next one. And the next. It’s as though my brain punts out each person to focus on the next.
Then suddenly there is silence, nothing else to remember, nothing left to think about.
I leave the clinic, opening the door to a blast of hot hairdryer air and close my eyes for one hot minute, and the twitching calms to stillness.
Once upon a time, a collection of the coolest of mountain bike buddies told me about an adventure mission of a ride. No one is really sure what it’s called. Some call it Slabbatha. Some call it Black Slabbath. And some call it Black Slabbatha. A rose by any other name though, would smell as sweet.
“Bring trucks,” they warned. “Prepare for a 6-8 hour day. It’s work, but it’s reward.”
There’s another little mountain valley five minutes north of town where the river snakes through in deep s-shaped curves, glittering in the sun.
They weren’t kidding though. You need a truck. Because it makes it infinitely easier and faster to shuttle to the top.
Once at the end of the steep, rocky service road, there are tall grasses, and a narrow, steep dirt path that heads straight up the mountain. It’s called Soo Tip Mountain, overlooking the Soo River Valley. Even at that point, the views are beautiful.
But then begins a steep, arduous hike-a-bike. I don’t enjoy hiking on any day, really, but to hike for two hours straight up while pushing my bike? I wanted to die.
Not a bad place to die, right? Like if I just gave up? I’d roll a long way down. Maybe be stopped by a tree. The breath is laboured, the shoulders, triceps, and calves are on fire, and I’m getting blisters on my heels. I think we all are.
But then, we get here, our first little break in the alpine, and the air is cooler, offering a slight breeze to dry the sweat pouring out of me.
Goofy photographs and laughter are mandatory. We are the only people out here. A few snacks, a few gulps of water, and we continue on our way. There is more uphill hiking, with a smattering of rideable alpine rock, where if you lose the group, you’re cawing and hollering to find the trail again because it is not obvious.
From here, we have to traverse to another ridge line a few humps away. The views are spectacular though, and before we get too far, we all contaminate this little alpine lake with our sweaty, sticky bodies.
The water is cold, fresh and clear. We all only really know each other through bikes, and now we’ve all seen each other in our undies, and no one really cares, because there is nothing quite so refreshing as jumping in a lake at the top of a mountain where there is no sign of human life except for us.
The pedaling continues.
And continued across rocky, high alpine terrain, interspersed by fun little rocks like this one:
Finally, after I don’t know how long, because I’ve lost all track of time at this point, we reach our summit point. The views are unbelievable, and even though numerically it’s not that high, it feels like we’re on the top of the world, on our bikes, about to ride down a mountain. No photo does the views justice, but I think it’s safe to say this captures the spirit of things pretty well.
We gather together, shirts sweaty, muscles fatigued, and take a group photo. One phone, precariously balanced between the knobby branches of a grey-weathered tree, captures the photo that is going to one day be reflected upon in nostalgic montages.
But now, now comes the fun part. We get to lose all that elevation gained, but on two wheels.
It’s steep and full-on. Technical dusty corners, steep rock faces, fast flow, all challenges in courage, brake control, and technical skill. It’s also a world of fun. There is one overgrown section where our faces are being whipped by leaves and branches and we can barely see the loose, rocky trail we’re hurtling down, and all I am hoping for is that none of the foliage is poisonous and boy am I glad I’ve got bike glasses on. I’m listening and following the sound of the bike hub in front of me, as I can’t see my fellow riders, and I have a giant grin on my face because this feels so ridiculous and free.
Mixed in to this are good number of blind lips into steep, long, rock rolls, and whoever’s in front keeps hollering, “roll through, it goes!” or “hold on for the compression!”
It’s exciting, not knowing what’s coming.
It’s a long descent, and again, I’ve no idea how much time has passed, only that it’s been exciting and fun, and now I’m well and truly tired.
After a few more steep, dusty chutes, and a few of the boys deciding whether a line was rideable or not (“Meh, that doesn’t go”, then someone would try an alternate line, and it would look sketchy as hell, and the rest of us would then hike precariously with our bikes down and wonder if maybe it would’ve been simply easier to ride it than to risk tumbling down a moss-covered ledge) we arrive at a service road.
Now comes a three-parter trail I’ve mentioned before. PhD. It’s commitment, and a long, steep, difficult trail you’ve got to have all pistons firing for. I’ve got no more adrenaline. I’m tired, and I know if I drop into upper PhD, it is an accident waiting to happen. We’re back into civilization and mapped trails now, with cell service again, so I tell the group I’ll take the road to middle PhD and meet them there. All but three decide they’ll do the same. Three of the strongest riders decide to ride it, and two of them wipe out on the loose, dusty rock, with thankfully no injury.
At this juncture, I just want to ride something cruisy, so the rest of us skip all the PhDs, and finish on a trail called Whiskey in a Jar; fast, janky flow peppered with little jumps everywhere. We arrive at the bottom where we first met in the morning, and we load up bikes and send one car back up the service road to retrieve the truck.
The rest of us go to a nearby gas station to load up on slushy drinks, go through photos, and sprawl out in the sun by the parking lot, reflecting on a day well done. All told, with shuttles, it was a nine-hour epic. The shower I had that evening was the best shower I’d had IN MY LIFE.
This morning, I woke up feeling like I’d been hit by a truck.
But with a smile on my face.
I don’t think I’ll be doing that again, but I’m pretty pleased I’ve done it. 🙂
After so many months, all the pieces (the many, many pieces) came together.
Why the Rutabaga? I think a while ago, I had written about how the “men’s” variation of this bike was called the Bronson, and with a swapping of a link to increase rear travel, people effectively managed to make a bike with the plusher suspension of the burlier version of this bike called the Nomad. The hybrid was deemed a “Bromad”. Juliana is the “women’s” branch off the company. Frame geometry is the exact same, but colours, marketing and touchpoints are different (smaller grips, women’s specific saddles, lighter suspension tunes). The Bronson equivalent is called the Roubion. The burlier version is called the Strega. Roubion + Strega = Rutabaga. Yes, I giggled about it for a solid week after I thought of it. It’s appropriate too, because the bike is pink.
I would like to draw your attention here to the blue pedal pin accents. Please also see the hubs. Yes, they are blue. The widgets (not seen at this angle) are pink on the sides of the hub.
Grip collars were swapped out to blue, and the stem, which I initially thought was too chunky and masculine for this bike, actually gives me joy now, because it’s like a little TV window, and I am going to find a sticker of a rutabaga to put in it.
I wanted to build the bike myself, and not just send it off to a mechanic to build it and pick it up later. Trouble is, I don’t know how to build a bike. So last week, I made a plan to meet up with my bike friend/mechanic/parts dealer, and he’d supervise my attempt. “It’ll take two hours. Maybe three if you’re doing it all.” Four hours later… I guess I ask a lot of questions. And maybe I’m just not very deft with the tools (yes, you can repeatedly pick the wrong size hex key fifty thousand times in a row), and I have never in my life seen some of the tools he has. Each tool serves an incredibly specific purpose, and in this purpose, it is brilliantly and efficiently designed. It is mind-blowing.
I look blankly at the frame as it hangs on the stand. Where do I start? Headset. Plumber pipe tool to cut the steer tube down. Score first. Not too short, in case you want to adjust later. Here’s how you figure it out. File down the edge. Outside edge, then inside edge (different file), then final top file to make sure it’s all smooth. Here is how you use this thingy to bang the crown race into place. Here is how you use this other thingy to bang the star nut into place. You want it 1 cm below. Wait for the sound to change and you’ll know you’re there. This frame already has a cup molded in so you don’t need this extra ring, some don’t. Grease it. What rise bars? What width bars? How many spacers. Carbon? Put the bars on at the end, because you’ll need to walk around the bike a bunch still. This hole for the derailleur cable, this one for the brake. Use a pick to fish it out. The internal routing on this frame will not allow you to pass this through, so you need to cut the olive off. This is what the olive is. Here is the tool to do that. It will also help you put a new one on. And because you’ve cut it off, you’ll need to bleed this brake. Just this brake. Front brake cable always runs along inside of fork, so if you brush the fork leg against something, you’re less likely to get it caught. This hole for the dropper cable. Run housing through, then wire goes here. Shifter cable goes here. Run it a touch longer than the brake cable, so if you do get caught up on something and it rips a cable out, you will at least have brakes, even if you can’t shift. These rotors are 2.3 mm thick. 203 mm diameter. You need a 23 mm adaptor on the back, because this frame accommodates 180 mm on the back. Do you want a matte adaptor? Or shiny? We can get them in colours later too if you want. There are all these different rotor widths and diameters. These are the reasons why. Shimano does this, TRP does that, and Sram does the other. These brake pads are organic. Not the metal. Know for when you replace them. Mount the rotors to the wheels while I do this other thing. How tight? Newtonmeters? Nah, use the Fs – either finger tight, or f*cking tight. Rotor screws should be f*cking tight. Bottom bracket: drive side screws in this direction, other side screws in the other direction. Need this tool with these grooves to do it. All these cogs on the cassette have these grooves in them. Match them up, they’ll only go one way. Then they mount here, like so. These hubs have no pawls. Hence the instant engagement, and the feel. It’s going to be a joy to ride. This is how you tune the gears. This is what B tension is. Suspension is set per factory recommendations, but we’ll need to swap out the spring once the link comes in. They only have one blue one left for this bike. They should be in town this weekend for Crankworx, and you’ll have to look see if the blue is the right blue.
I get home that night around 1130 pm, and have to be up at 5 am the next morning. I’m so excited though, and don’t really sleep. I have had a crash course in bike mechanics, and my brain is buzzing. I can ask AAALLL the questions, and he just answers them.
The link manufacturers are in town. I get a text. “They’ve got the blue. Bring the bike by and have a look. I’ve got the black one but we can swap it out if you want the blue.” I’m so behind on work. I meet a friend for coffee and she walks with me through the village to their booth. I feel like everyone is staring at my bike. Everyone is staring at my bike. Yes, the blue matches, and it’s a go.
Today, I stop by the friend’s again, and he swaps out the link, which necessitates swapping the coil and taking some spacers off the shock. He shows me a graph which involves compression curves and a lot of physics I no longer remember, but I don’t know how this line will translate to how it will feel. He attempts to explain. Also, these bearings are sealed. Original is not, so if you swap out later, you need to pump grease through this port. Before he puts the new link in though, “Look inside,” he says. The lining of the holes drilled through the link is pink. WHAT?! It’s like it’s meant to be! Are they usually pink? “Nope. No idea why they are this time. It’ll be one of those little things that only you’ll know.” Ah, I’m so pleased.
My brain is so full of words and pieces and precision manufacturing awe and I just hope I remember it all.
Finally, we are done. Done done. Complete. It all fits together so beautifully. He pauses to look at his handywork. It is a moment of silent admiration.
So. What are we riding tomorrow for Monday Night? Because I’m bringing the Rutabaga.
Also, how does one express adequate gratitude for so many hours of time and tutelage?
I’m back on the bike! And it feels SO GOOD! This was the view from Friday’s ride before starting a most spectacular descent. (Then we got turned around trying to find our way out of the mess of trails at the end and got an extra hour of cardio in.)
Sunday afternoon, I rode a trail I’ve never ridden before. A friend took a shot of me riding a loose chute and of course nothing looks nearly as steep and committing in photos as it does in real life, but I was definitely a little nervy as evidenced by terrible body position and hanging off the back of the bike.
While the shoulder niggles still, the brain is screaming on high alert. “TOO SCARY!” she says. “TOO RISKY! You could hit that tree! Or wash out there! Or catch a pedal there!” I want to tell her, “I KNOW! Now STFU and buckle up the big girl pants to ride!” but I don’t. I am frustrated by the brain. I know all the features I’m walking around are things I am capable of riding, and riding well. I know they are comparable to things I have ridden before. And yet. And yet. I suppose self-preservation isn’t all bad. But the little trembling chihuahua in my brain is.
Monday Night Rides had the benefit of pushing me to ride things that were scary. I was often the only girl, and the weakest rider. Everyone was showing me how to ride things, and stoked for me when I did. But lately, I’ve been hanging back. Walking things or taking the ride-arounds on things I’ve ridden before. Why? Because it’s all in my head.
It will come, they say. The confidence will come back. Just keep riding.
Keep riding the hard stuff, because if you’re not continually looking down something steep, it starts to get scary again.
But instead, I think, it’s too much adrenaline right now, so I go to the airbag and practice tricks. The airbag is an absolute joy with very little consequence.
Here’s a fuzzy screenshot from a video, but I managed to get the 1 footers down. (That’s me! With my right foot decidedly not on the bike! While in the air! And I got it back on in time before landing!) I managed a few no-footers too, but not consistently. And managed a seat grab and tire grab and all round felt like I accomplished something. I also met this woman who is not only gorgeous with really great teeth, but friendly/famous AND an absolute shredder and she complimented me on the one-hander I did, then outlined the steps to do a Tbog, but um.. I’m working on step two. And it feels like there’s a pretty big gap between step two and three.
I also haven’t been reading anything but patient files and legal reports so I haven’t been able to write anything. Well, anything good. Or anything that doesn’t read like a medicolegal report or an irritated email to some poor receptionist who has nothing to do with it, and then trying to soften it at the end because it’s not her fault a firm is sending files 500 pages more than advertised a week late. It’s not her fault I have to sit here all weekend and review files while I fail at being a mother and give my children over to Minecraft and Taylor Swift music videos.
Anyone can see the road that they walk on is paved in gold, and it’s always summer, They’ll never get cold, they’ll never get hungry, they’ll never get old and gray. You can see their shadows wandering off somewhere They won’t make it home but they really don’t care They wanted the highway, they’re happier there today ~ The Way ~ Fastball
I used to love this song. I still do. I think it’s about dementia. I don’t know where I got that from, but it makes perfect sense.
It’s freedom at its best, an idyllic escape.
I write this as I sit out my third Monday Night Rides. The shoulder is coming along, but when it’s a warm summer’s night, and pretty perfect for a bike ride, I lament the fact that I am at home, doing a whole lot of wall push ups and shoulder rotations. And I lament the fact that I’m doing more work, after the work day is done.
I had a moment today, thinking of the people who just have evenings free to do anything they want, without any work obligations weighing overhead. What must that feel like? They must make incredible dinners, or be so fantastically fit. Or maybe they paint pictures or write songs.
I am proud of myself today though. I made dinner. It was a sausage with bag salad and box mac and cheese. The 20-something dude re-staining our deck (for the second time, I might add, because the first time he did it the paint company gave him the wrong blend and he just put it on and then realized it was a strange shade of pink, and no, my husband said, we cannot just leave it pink, so now he’s got to redo it) looked over at the dinner plates I laid out and probably decided in that moment that he would one day have to ensure he found a partner who could cook.
Whatever. They are not starving. And overlooking a newly nude deck.
In other news, I need creative input. This Thursday is Chromag’s (a local bike company) annual Show and Shine party. Anyone who wants to can bring their Chromag bike and set it up for display. The more creative the display, the more votes you are likely to get. You win, you get a sum of money to spend at Chromag, and you go down in Show and Shine history. I’m going to bring this bike, because it’s got a cool basket contraption and some fun old school parts. My dirt jumper is also from Chromag, but it’s not fun or interesting. It’s just elegant and pretty. But this has potential.
In the past, some have poured shots whilst standing next to their bike. Last year, a guy handed out little dime bags of weed for every vote he got. One person has suggested calling it Shotgun, and having shot glasses lined up in the basket for people to enjoy. I briefly considered calling it the Green Fairy and offering up absinthe, but that’s actually a terrible idea, because last year, by the end of the night, people were bunny hopping bikes over the fire. I also thought about calling it Verve, with a slight wordplay on Veuve Cliquot, where I’d pour wee gulps of bubbly, as Verve’s definiton is “vigor and spirit or enthusiasm”.
I am, of course, especially open to ideas that do not involve drugs and alcohol, and ideally much cheaper treats I can find at the dollar store. Because we are, at heart, a town of gigantic children riding bicycles.
Please mum, it’s for a good cause. Just one quarter. Please? You’re just standing in line to pay for groceries anyway! Drop the quarter in. Watch it roll, ’round and ’round and ’round. ‘Round and ’round some more, and it continues longer than my attention span will tolerate. Little feet rise on tiptoe, watching it fall, finally, into the abyss below. *Plink.*
My shoulder range of motion is excellent, but the stability isn’t there. My clavicle rolls and I feel little tendons shift out of place as I do my physio exercises. To compensate, every muscle surrounding my shoulder is doing its misguided best, and each and every day is spent willfully ignoring the tight, screaming spasms they produce. Today it’s my teres major and my levator scap. Yesterday was the trap and infraspinatus. I can identify each and every muscle based on pain localization alone. I tell my physiotherapist this, and he proceeds to stick needles in every sore muscle, chit-chatting while I try not to cry out, while I focus on breathing. I leave with tape holding things in place, and, for the first time in a week, an ability to fully turn my head without pain.
I post a positive thinking post to social media. I have successfully, for the hour surrounding that post, managed to talk myself out of feeling sorry for myself.
A friend calls the next day. “I read your post, and you know what my first thought was? You’re a f*cking liar. I know you.” she laughs. “But really, how ya doing? Did you hear? The Swede broke his hand. All my riding buddies are dropping like flies.”
I message the Swede. Surgery pending. 2 months off the bike. He is annoyed. I tell him to book a ticket to the next local race apres, a riotous annual party at a local bike manufacturing shop. I’m just going because I miss everyone. Not even going to ride the race beforehand. We can show up as our gimpy selves and see our friends. He does not commit, but jokes that maybe he will ride the race on a unicycle; no hands needed.
How am I though? I’m kind of a miserable cow. And, because I’m not doing much by way of sweating my little heart out in the sunshine whilst pedaling up and down mountains, I went and got my eyebrows touched up. If you didn’t know, I get my eyebrows tattooed on. This requires touch-ups every year or two, so I figured I may as well, since I’m not doing much anyway. The thing about eyebrow tats though, is that they are REALLY dark for the first few days until it flakes off and leaves behind a more natural looking shade. Until then, though, I look like an insane Chaplin-esque Kardashian. Well, that’s how it feels anyway.
Combine this with my ridiculous work week and four hours sleep last night and I kind of just want to lie on the floor. I also feel like this time, my brows are a bit asymmetric. To match my shoulders, I suppose.
The Dentist Project isn’t even giving me joy. “Would building your bike help with the crushing pain of not riding?” says the bike friend who is helping me with my build. No. I have decided. It would not. So tomorrow, instead of building a bicycle, I’ll just work, I guess. The wheels still aren’t here anyway. Crushing indeed.
Bikes, Brains, and other Musings 