Tour of Israel. Ride hard, pray harder.

Is it just me, oh Lord, or dost thou not think this is a dangerous idea?

The Tour of Israel? Five days cycling in the Middle East — what — and broker a cease fire while you’re there? Pack the passport, diplomatic corp and a dozen mercenary body guards to pedal along side you? What kind of heat will you be packing in the jersey pocket?

Sounds almost as bad as the Tour of Kabul or Bicycle Baghdad, doing cyclo-tourism with the Taliban. We scratcheth our head, oh Lord. Is this a safe place to go for a ride without being shot at, kidnapped, tortured, blown to pieces or worse, have your bike stolen?

Why oh Lord? Thou leadest me on two wheels across the desert, thou bringest me to the eternal feed zone and carry my soul onward as I pedal to paradise but right now? Is this a good time, oh Lord?

Shouldn’t they hold the Tour of Israel some time in the future, say 100 years from now, when things have simmered down? When Gaza and the West bank are nice, quiet suburbs with Ben & Jerry’s ice cream and Starbucks without bullet-proof glass windows? When the Hamas have merged with the Quakers and gone pacifist?

Sample scenario: Israeli Government — “okay, we’ll trade you two terrorists for the twelve abducted cyclists.” Hamas — “Fine but we’re keeping the bikes, especially the Pinarello.”

The Tour does the full Biblical greatest hits itinerary: the hills of Galilee, the Jordan Valley, Mt Hermon, the Red and Dead seas. It’s most likely as inspiring and fulfilling as it is scary. Lots of praying on on the Tour of Israel. Plus, you can mix your Holy Water with Cytomax and have your Powerbars blessed.

Hold on, I believe I simply made that up without checking first. Personally, the back-roads of the Napa and Sonoma wine region sound better to me but I’m an alcoholic buddhist. I think that makes me a weed in God’s Garden as the Catholics like to say.

We’re not an expert in current events in the Middle East. Too busy following Lance and Alberto, but riding anywhere in that Middle East shooting gallery strikes Twisted Spoke as unwise, low on prudence, borderline insane.

Lord, they are but sheep on bicycles and your flock is in danger. This Tour of Israel is fraught with danger. Couldn’t you just re-scheduleth? Your call, as always.

7 am tomorrow morning will mark the beginning of our bike adventure to SF. Our panniers can barely zip and our saddle bags are packed with our favorite snacks from Mother’s Market! I don’t think I fully understand what we are getting ourselves into.

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major mondo picture posts when we return!

xo

I just posted lots of great Ballona events and forgot to announce an event that I’m a part of!

Electric Lodge is hosting a weekend eco-film series, Green Screen.  Sunday morning they are urging the public to get off the couch and on a bike to tour parts of the Kenter Creek and Ballona Creek watersheds.  I’ll be your traveling talking-head on the tour, promising a stop at the Kuruvungna Springs and Ballona Creek.

The ride is $20, includes brunch and a van-ride back to your cars afterwards. Follow the Green Screen link (above) to register.  Come on out! it’s mostly downhill, folks.

Stats: 49.28 miles, 14.4 avg, 33.9 max, 3:25 hours

The mountains began after I passed through San Alberto. After biking 40 miles through intense heat, I was struggling up the hot incline. I wanted to quit, but I felt I had to get to Bucaramanga, about another 40 miles away. I stopped to rest in some shade, and I put my thumb out to a passing truck. It didn’t stop. Destiny, I guess. I had heard that hitchhiking was difficult in Colombia. So, I got back on the bike. 100 yards later, I passed a stopped box truck. The driver taking a pee, and as I passed he said something to me. I asked if he was going to Bucaramanga. He told me to get in. Flow like water.

Henri was really friendly. He joked around and asked me lots of questions, and I did my best to understand and answer them. After a few minutes of getting to know me, Henri told me that he could give me another ride the next day as he’d be driving his delivery truck further towards Bogota, and that I would be welcome to stay at his house in Bucaramanga with his family.

Henri was reckless on the road. He didn’t have any patience as he’d overtake cars around blind curves. He risked both our lives frequently. At one point, there was a huge line of semi-trucks struggling up a bend in the mountain. Henri boldly went for it. I braced myself up against the back of the seat as we spent 15-20 seconds in the oncoming lane. His intuition worked.

Here’s a clip of cycling through a small town in Colombia, a little outside Aguachica.  I was testing out my new handlebar camera mount.

Two days ago District Columbians dressed up in their best and most authentic tweed attire to ride their vintage bikes around the streets of Washington in attendance of the city’s first “Tweed Ride,” the Victorian inspired bike tour. Apparently these have been going on in a few different cities like San Francisco, LA and Chicago. Love this purple girl with the elfish hat! More images found on NPR

blog site for bicyclecruisers. we collect material and make it available to other bicyclecruisers and you should help us with your own ideas and your own secret information about ports accessible by cruise ships

We’re scheduled to visit Roatan Honduras in December.  It’s been compared to  the TV Fantasy Island.  Check out the map here.  Note that the island is 33 miles long and only three miles wide.  The spine of the island is more than a few hundred feet above sea level.  So the island has been used for triathlons where the bicycle part is challenging.  Where possible, therefore, I’ll try to avoid crossing the island over the hills.  The ship lands in the city in Coxen Hole near the west end of the island.

Among the things Bicycle Cruising has learned to look for (Honduras/Belize Travel Site and GoNomad) are the varied cultures, the beaches and diving sites, a few special viewing facilities for Iguanas and butterflies, and to beware of the sand fleas.  Roatan has few or no remaining natives from before the Spanish arrived, but there is a Caribbean-African Garifuna community at Punta Gorda along with influences from the Spanish and, particularly, the British, who decided to compete with the Spanish in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  Thus, most of the people speak “Caribbean English.”  I found a lot of hotels and rental sites who rent bicycles and many of the villa owners who provide bicycles, so I presume the island is bicycle friendly.  I’ve learned that paved roads are available but that potholes may be a hazard and the roads may be slippery, especially in the rainy season which lasts from November to February–the time we’ll be there. (Take our rain gear).  But there are also many unpaved roads, some of which may be navigable for Marilyn and me, but some which may be more challenging than we want to take on.

Prior to leaving the ship, we will have breakfast and collect some food to carry in our backpacks.  This will include some fruit, some muffins or pastries, and some bottled water.  We’ll carry the food in some sort of a box to protect it from getting crushed and a plastic bag to avoid contaminating the rest of the backpack in case something comes loose.  There are three areas in which we will be interested, actually four.  The first area is the area around the port in Coxen Hole, where there will be a market and other vendors.  Since the market areas are best visited in the morning, we’ll start there with the actual market.  We plan to taste food from some of the carts and especially pick up some fresh fruits to taste there and to eat during the rest of the ride.  The second area is the West End which houses most of the resort area and the better restaurants, but also has attractions like the Butterfly Garden and the Carambola Botanical Gardens.  We may try a beach in this area if one looks good.  The distance to the end of West End is approximately 9 miles and we should easily make this in an hour.  We’ll try the attractions on our way back toward Coxen Hole, but still in the morning.  Once back in Coxen Hole, we’ll take off toward French Harbor, a trip of about 6 miles.  In French Harbor, we’ll take a look at the Iguana Farm and check out other beaches.  During the midday, we’ll also be looking for someplace to eat lunch.  I really want to try something with conch in it.  I’ve heard some places have French Fried conch sandwiches which are wonderful.  The trip to French Harbor is another hour out and an hour back.  That gives several one hour opportunities to see places like the Iguana Farm and beaches.  I’ll be looking for remnants of the pirate past for Roatan and I’ll try to get photos for the blog after we’ve done the trip.  I’ve read that pirates buried some of their loot on this island.  Maybe I can buy a treasure map and come up with some real buried treasure.

The fourth area I want to visit is the Garifuna Village at Punta Gorda.  Garifunas are the remnants of the Black Caribs who were brought to Roatan two or three hundred years ago.  Punta Gorda is the area where most of them still live and I am really interested in learning about their culture.  But this area is about thirteen miles from Coxen Hole and about 6-8 miles beyond French Harbor.  The time to get there and back is probably longer than we will have available on this trip, so we’ll probably have to put this off till our next trip to Roatan.

Finally, I am aware that Honduras is undergoing some political turmoil.  I’m convinced Roatan is isolated from most of that and we are unlikely to see anything which would cause a problem.  I look forward to a great ride and a great time.  I’m stoked, aren’t you? Bicycle Cruising

Stats: 104.73 miles, 15.5 avg, 6:45 hours

Since I had stayed an extra day in Aracataca, I wanted to get as far as I could to get back on schedule to make it to Bogota on time to meet Jessica when she arrived. I left Tim at 7:30 am, stopped at a panaderia to get some bread for breakfast, and then got on the road.

Northern Colombia is mostly flat but the heat was intense. It was at least in the high 90s and I was feeling like I was going to explode under my helmet. When my body temperature became unbearable, I would hurry to a spot in the shade, and throw off my helmet and sunglasses with urgency.

After going over 100 miles, I was happy to stop in San Roque. It was a tiny town close to the intersection of two roads. I got hotel for 7000 pesos ($3.50) which included a private bathroom and a fan.

I walked around the town looking for some jugos naturales – I lived for these things. Every chance I got, I stopped for one. But San Roque was barren. People stared at me as I walked by. I’m sure they were wondering how this lone gringo got here, and why he was staying. I asked around about the jugos, and I was directed to an empty table outside someone’s house. An older guy came out and I asked if he served jugos naturales. He said he did. I told him I wanted a mora, which is like a blackberry juice. He scurried off to a nearby store to get the supplies, and I waited. This was typical of Latin American small business – really casual. Not keeping supplies in stock, and not having any change when you paid with a pretty small bill, like $10.

Webcam shot in my residencia in San Roque

The remarkable Canal du Midi links the Atlantic to the Mediterranean, its lower sections passing through historic centres such as Carcassonne and Narbonne.

From the Mediterranean..
We start in the historic town of Pezenas, famous for local dishes, such as petits pates, olives and honey, as well as fine regional wines. Riding along a network of quiet country roads we make our way south to the coast at Marseillan for a visit to the famous Noilly Prat cave where the renowned vermouth can be sampled. Next we head west through several small villages to reach the Canal du Midi at Vias, then along the canal to pass the nine locks of Fonseranes before arriving in Narbonne, one-time capital of the Visigoths.

Along the Canal du Midi..
A free day allows an opportunity to explore the town’s narrow streets and squares at leisure or to make an optional ride along the Canal de la Robine or perhaps to the lagoon at Bages and Peyriac where an abundance of wildlife can be found including, on occasion, flamingos. Next we take an attractive, mainly level route along the Canal de la Robine to rejoin the Canal du Midi and make our way to the market town of Lesignan Corbieres.

To Beautiful Carcassonne
This is wonderful rural France at its best! Towpaths lined with wild flowers make for easy access to less visited corners of the area, revealing the true nature of the region. Traditional villages pass by one after another as we wend our way gently to beautiful Carcassonne, replete with its battlements and witches-hat towers. En route you can pause to swim in the lake at Jouarres or make a detour to visit the old Cathar village of Minerve. A last, free day brings with it an opportunity to explore Carcassonne town or for rides along the canal to Bram and Villepinte or, for those who enjoy a challenge, a hilly option to visit the dramatically sited remains of the Cathar Chateau de Lastours.

Source: Nature & Kind Travel Collection

After spending a sleepless night in half a sleeping bag each, I think we were all too pooped to even wake up in the morning. But we had to…kyon ki…Mission was incomplete. Early morning dew combined with some rain made it a cold and wet morning. We pulled ourselves out of the tent and starting packing up to leave for our next leg of the journey which was also supposed to be our last leg. We had 160Km to go, out of which the toughest leg was supposed to be crossing the Lachulang La Pass at 16,466 Ft above sea level. Before hitting Lachulang La Pass we had to traverse Nakeela at 15,550 Ft. But since we had already done Baralacha La at around the same level we weren’t too worried. Now, as we were packing up, someone looked up at the sky and spotted the spoiler for the day….big dark clouds far away..almost on top of the passes. Damn..this kinda messed up our heads and didn’t do any good to our morale. Sleepy, tired, hungry with 2 potentially unwell riders, groping with wet weather which threatened to get worse – this was gonna be some ride.

Finally, after some effort of kick starting the bikes, we started on the last 160 KM of our journey hoping to make it to Leh before evening. As we started up the hill again, the landscape changed from being dry, and beautiful to wet and dark. We were riding into the rains and it got worse with the water hitting our faces and making it quite cold. Before we started, we decided we don’t really need to eat anything because there was supposed to be a small village right across that mountain, where we were very confident of getting some good breakfast. As we rode into the bad weather, with our stomachs growling, me and Aj started getting a bit worried. With our previous horrible experience of bad weather screwing up things, we were very worried of a repeat this time. We kept talking on how to counter this bad weather, and what is our backup plan if it gets worse. We decided that we will have to cross Lachulang La in any case, since the weather is likely to get better the other side. But what we forgot, was that Nakeela Pass had to be crossed before Lachulang La. The road to Nakeela was winding and beautiful. Had the weather not played spoil sport, we would have stopped for a lot of pictures. Crossing Nakeela seemed more difficult and for a while we thought this was actually Lachulang La. Later, we were disappointed to see the sign board saying we were on top of Nakeela and not Lachulang La, with no hotels/dhabba or even a tea stall in sight. Here in our tired state, we met a young lad who was riding alone. He seemed very happy and cheerful and we helped him click a few pictures.

We wanted to descend Lachalung La before the weather got worse. So we quickly left Nakeela and started descending to get across the next mountain. Between these 2 mountains are 2 small valleys called Brandy and Whiskey Nulla. I wonder how these valleys got their names, cos these valleys didn’t really live up to their names!!Whiskey apart, there was not even a decent tea stall there. As we were getting down Nakeela, Barad’s bike behaved funny. It stopped suddenly. We got off and tried to fix it. Suddenly, the young lad who we had met at Nakeela was passing by and he decided to help us with it. But then we managed to fix it on our own. Continuing on our journey, we realized this path through Whiskey Valley had a lot of heavy vehicles traffic. The road was also quite bad with a lot of gravel etc. on it. On one of the turnings uphill, Chavan’s bike skidded and he lost his balance and fell down. Luckily Aj and me were right behind him, and we helped him up. He didn’t seem to have any injuries and that was another good thing. Up further ahead, Barad’s bike had stopped again. We tried everything in the book (our book had just a few pages of bullet know how ) but still we couldn’t manage to fix it on our own. Enter man Friday…the lad from Nakeela. This time around we found out his name..he was Anand. He was from Coimbatore and was glad to know that I come from Chennai. Anand seemed to have done a PhD in bullets and knew exactly what the problem was. Since we were on a higher altitude the setting on the air, fuel combustible mixture had to be changed, cos the air up there was quite thin. So that’s what we did and there…Barad’s bike started peacefully. From this point on, Anand a lone rider was not alone any more. He decided to ride with us, he got company, and we got a reliable guy who could help us fix the bikes. The partnership was indeed memorable, read along and you will know why 

Anand was cast in a different mould. This guy knew everything about bikes, was always cheerful, and extremely helpful with everything. The best thing is…he carried garam chai in his flask which he was more than willing to share with us. Getting up and beyond Lachalung La was getting tougher and tougher especially with the weather being stubborn and stormy. But we overcame it. We beat the stubborn weather and got past the mountain. Down the other side, as we were beginning to celebrate the good weather, we realized that the clouds didn’t give up on us. They chased us across the mountain and continued to be with us for quite sometime. There again, we had to stop because of bike problems. This time it was a really long break because the fuel was leaking from the mouth of the tube and it took sometime to get it fixed. Chavan was really tired and unwell and slept on the road, occasionally giving way to trucks and bikes. Soon it was afternoon and we realized we hadn’t eaten anything since morning and still had to go another 100 Kms to Leh. Suddenly, the bike related problems, the hunger, the exhaustion and ill health cast a gloomy shadow on the whole idea of making it to Leh that day. All we wanted to do was get to Pang (a small village settlement before Moree Plains) and have something to eat. So there, we fixed our bikes and decided we wont stop now till we hit Pang. The weather was playing good cop bad cop with us. But there was this patch of bright sunshine on the way down from Lachalung La. There was a frozen water body in a valley surrounded by mountains. It almost looked like a huge skating rink. We decided to get down and test it out ourselves. Barad demonstrated his long flying jump skate stunt, but all he could do was land with a thud and get stuck in the ice. We spent some good 15 mins playing in the ice before getting back on the road again. Finally we managed to reach Pang. We got into a small tent and were glad to have some hot roti, dal, aloo and rice. As soon as Chavan parked his bike, he rushed into the tent and hit the sack. He didn’t wake up till that night!

As we finished our lunch, we had another casualty in Barad. With 2 of us down, 4 hrs of sunlight remaining and a good 80kms of ride to go which included crossing another 16000 ft pass, we were not sure how the rest of the day was gonna shape up. While most of us wanted to chill out, take it easy and were not in a hurry to get there, the thin air up there screwed up my mind. Like I said before, getting to Leh was more of mission to me than anything else. Suddenly I lost sight of a lot of things and the only thing playing on my mind was that we are not going to make it to Leh today. This upset me a lot. I started getting demoralized and wanted to literally force everyone to get back on the road. I was afraid we might not make it to Leh at all…I was afraid, the weather might again get the better of us and we will be forced to return without getting to Leh. I was afraid we would come this close to Leh and not get there. There was too much playing on my mind. I must confess that I pretty much screwed up everyone’s mood that evening by brooding about it. Poor Aj got the worst of me. I must apologize to everyone for my eccentric behavior.

Soon, I pulled myself up. We spent the rest of the evening, chatting up with our tentman, Dorjee. He came from a village on the Indo China border and was telling us stories of those times, when things were better. Old Monk, an upset soul, some good food, chatty Dorjee and my friends next to me…this is how I fell asleep on the 3rd most eventful night of the trip.

Marilyn in Porto. Note the bridge in the background with the city on the left and the Port Caves on the right with all of the Port demo buildings. This path is typical of good riding paths along coasts and rivers in Europe. We also saw many large wading birds and other birds along the river.

We’re always ready with the right equipment.  Note the brace on Marilyn’s leg.  She lost her anterior Cruciate ligament in her knee as a young girl.  This makes it difficult when she is twisting to dismount the bike.  The brace stabilizes her knee and lets her ride with the pros. 

We always wear helmets, too.  Marilyn got her bike stuck in a railroad track in  Lisbon and fell.  Luckily, her helmet prevented any injury.  As was typical in Europe in our experience, a passing truck driver got to her well before I even noticed she had fallen.  The driver helped her up and helped move her and the bike to safety.  She suffered a skinned knee which was patched up in a nearby restaurant while we tasted the local fish cooked Lisbon-style along with a bottle of Mateus wine which I hadn’t seen since my days in college in the 60’s.  Remember the rounded bottle we saved to burn candles in?  The wine had a slight sparkle to it and was light pink.  And only $3 a bottle.  I don’t know why we don’t see it in the US any more.  But the important thing was the helpfulness of the restaurant staff when Marilyn walked in.  By the time I arrived after locking up the bikes a minute later, they were pointing me to the ladies’ room and handing me a first aid kit, telling me it was OK to go into the ladies’ room because they would lookout.   We normally keep our own first aid kit for these little emergencies.

And don’t you think the hat under the helmet is stylish?  We always get a lot of weird looks from the hat.  But Marilyn believes it is necessary to prevent the sun from drying and wrinkling her skin.  Works for me! 

We prepared for Portugal by printing a small 8-page playing card-sized phrase book in Portuguese.  As I shouted Hello in Portuguese to everyone we passes, almost everyone responded with a quizzical look and only a few responded back.  In the restaurant, when I mentioned that to the waitress, she asked me to repeat it.  She then told me that my phrasebook was in Brazilian Portuguese and the word for Hello in Portugal was different.  I can imagine that everyone thought I was a Brazilian foreigner with a bad accent.

How did I get started on bicyclecruising?  A travel agent arranging a cruise for me told me of the adventurers she had when traveling in Europe on a cruise.  Her husband was an avid bicycler and wanted to bicycle with her while they were on their cruise.  They shipped their bikes to the cruise ship start in Amsterdam and stored them in their cabin.  They took the bikes off the ship each morning when in port and cycled around the town for 5-7 hours, visiting museums, scenic points, and getting enough exercise that they could eat everything the ship offered for meals at breakfast and dinner.  They took some food with them each day for lunch but stopped for any special foods or at a restaurant if it looked interesting.  Sounded neat to me!  You too?  Read on.

We found this place in A Corunha Spain. That's me, Bob in front of the two bicycles we bought in London. We cycled around town and as we came down a hill to the water, we found this Cerveria (beer house?) around lunchtime. We ordered what we thought was sausages and received a delicious potato omelet typical of this part of Spain. It went very well with a small bottle of white wine.

We (my wife Marilyn and I) secured our first bicycle cruise on Marilyn’s first trip to the continent in late Fall of 2007.  We flew to London for four days in town before the cruise left from Dover.  We purchased two collapsible bikes, one used from a Craigslist entry, and one new from a bike shop in Chelsea, where we were staying at the Football Stadium.  We rode around town and took them to the train station after the four days for the train ride to Dover to board the cruise ship.  We needed special large taxis to carry the bikes and our luggage.  The cruise ship attendants took our luggage and bikes right from the taxi and we found them in our rooms after we processed onto the ship.  Even our inside cabin was large enough to store the bikes on one side of the bed each night.  Enough, if not plenty of room.  It would have been better if the ship had been willing to store the bikes in one of their holds.  I know they can do this, because we noticed other people taking bikes off the ramps some days and eventually found out these were crew members using bikes owned by the ship for the express purpose of letting the crew see the ports themselves.

Now we had prepared for the bicycle cruise by filling a three ring binder while searching the internet for each port to get maps of the harbor area, ideas for places to visit in each port, and advice, from bicyclists from the town or who had visited the town, about which roads were safe or best for bicyclists and which places to avoid.  We got great advice for really different things to do, which restaurants to try, where to meet the locals–just the kind of info a bicyclecruiser really wants–if you are anything like me.  We were travelling with my brother-in-law and his wife and they also wanted some of the material we had.  We took it to the cruise staff and arranged to get a copy.  Later, when my brother-in-law met us for dinner, he said he had a great time and he saw lots of other people with the same maps and site descriptions we had given to him.  At the second port, we mentioned that to the cruise staff and they said they had taken the liberty of making a few extra copies and given it out to people who had asked for info.  They agreed to copy our stuff for no charge under these circumstances. 

Needless to say, we had a great time and came back with great stories about places never mentioned by the cruise lines because they were frequently accessible best by bike.  Places like Marina del Pisa in Italy with long oceanside drives lined with cabanas for the local Italians and open markets.

That’s what occasioned our idea for a blog site for bicyclecruisers.  We’ll collect material and make it available to other bicyclecruisers and you should help us with your own ideas and your own secret information about ports accessible by cruise ships.

We find that one shouldn’t expect to bike more than 50 miles each day since the cruise ships frequently allow disembarkation around 8am and require reboarding around 6pm.  That gives us eight hours to bike.  I therefore make a 25 mile circle around the port site and expect to bike at a speed of 8 to 12 miles per hour, although you can go faster in a pinch and might be kept to slower speeds by traffic in the city.  I plan to bike for up to an hour at disembarkation, then stop for a place to visit or to get something to eat.  Sightsee and eat for an hour or so and then take off for another hour to another site.  This gives me about four separate places to visit and uses up as much as 3000 calories.  Add that to my daily normal burn of 2000 calories or so and I can really enjoy the sumptuous meals aboard ship without worrying about gaining weight.  I can even hit the chocolate extravaganza and the midnight buffet. 

By the way, bicycle cruising isn’t just for the triathlon crowd.  I’m 66 years old myself and I weigh 5 or 10 pounds more than I would like to weigh, although my doctor says I’m in great health.  I already get lots of bicycling time because I am a bicycle commuter, although I own two cars.  I don’t suggest bicyclecruising for someone who has never ridden a bike or who is not comfortable on a bike.  But biking is a great way to lose a few or a lot of pounds and to begin to get in shape.  Take at least a few weeks to get ready for the bicyclecruise.  But if you are then comfortable on the bike, bicyclecruising is a great way to spend your vacation time.  It is great for couples or families to spend the time together biking on the cruise and also preparing the information before the cruise.

I plan to be cruising this winter in the Caribbean and am searching out South American cruises for the first part of 2010.  In the next days and months I’ll show you some of our plans, the pictures from the cruises, and provide some special tips on how to ship your bikes, where to get bikes in port, tips on restaurants, cafes, wine bars, vineyards to visit, local food, and many other ideas.  Keep in touch!

It’s a gorgeous day here in Boulder and I was prepared to spend it inside yet again in order to complete  the remodel of my bathroom. I think I’m pinpointedly (my word) obsessed about finishing because I can’t stand having the pipe open, even though it’s covered with two layers of plastic, and because I cannot stand living in a discombobulated home. But, alas, I need days to dry coats of chemicals for the subfloor and therefore have had to come to peace with the extended journey. Which means, of course, I get to enjoy this seventy-degree weather. I love it when the lessons are easy.

But maybe they aren’t so much. I struggle with the desire to go for a long bike ride, and maybe even a swim. But a swim would take me indoors and a bike ride would stress my already aching body. Remodeling is incredibly hard work. Yet it’s been days since I’ve ridden. Okay, two. But before that, it was days. Am I obsessed, or just passionate?

Of course, I can cut back the sunflowers that died with the frost. I can phone about getting my porch redone. I can call back several friends, including one with whom I cancelled our lunch because I thought I’d be busy completing the bathroom, or the other who invited me to lunch. God forbid I even consider sitting in the sun for another few minutes. No, I had to jump up and get my laptop. What is this drive that keeps me going so hard?

Easy answer: I cry when I get quiet. I think about this year’s losses, and I don’t want to. As much as I desired to move out of the numbness, I now want to move out of the tears. So I dive into a remodel as if it needs to be done yesterday, a remodel, mind you, that I have put off for eight years. I complain about the difficulty prepping the floor, even though all the scraping and chiseling was cathartic. Not only did it help my mind, but it swung me out of whatever bug I’d caught. But I don’t notice that as much as the pain in my shoulder and lower back. It’s all a dance. A dance to distract me.

It’s been heartbreaking, this year. But I don’t know it by feeling it. I know it in my head. Feeling it goes too deep. Numbness is a salve that keeps me from breaking.

The holidays are coming. I don’t usually celebrate. When I did visit family, I didn’t care about the holiday any more. The traditions were changed, I changed, and being childless, I felt I had no part, no place. I was an outsider, one of the old aunts who looks on and comments but is ignored (even though I wasn’t–mostly). Mom would be upset when I didn’t come back for Christmas, but when I did, I felt that there was no reason for me to be there. I guess I’m trying to simplify the complex truth that I really don’t know what to make of the holidays this year. My best ones have been spent alone in hiking meditation about spirituality, not religion. But I’m afraid to be okay with being alone this year. I don’t know what I’ll do. Again, the holidays aren’t here, only approaching. But I distract myself with the end.

I joined a Hospice bereavement group and it starts tonight. I’ve felt guilty for joining the “newly bereaved” group, even though I fit the parameters (it’s for people who had a loss within the last six months). I still feel as though I’ve given this enough time, that it’s time to move ahead. Despite the fact that tears fall as I write.

I’m not  liking admitting that I have a hard time slowing down to enjoy the journey because philosophically, it’s in the journey where I believe the juice of living is. I don’t like our prepackaged culture that allows for a week to mourn and supersedes relationship with tv or activities, that tells us not to be sad, as if there is no use for such an emotion. And yet here I am, living life in such a way. I pushed away friends in my rush to finish the bathroom, then when time opened up, I felt too tired to let them back in. I suppose it’s natural to judge in the world what we don’t like about ourselves. And, I’m in awe that I’m just realizing my impatience for what is.

I saw a wonderful performance of Mozart’s Requiem last Sunday, and as much as I’d looked forward to it, once it started, I wanted it to be over. Grief is uncomfortable. It’s got a purpose, but it’s like hacking at the subfloor. It needs to be done, but is tedious and brings up a lot of emotions. There is much to be gained from it, including a new beginning. But it’s a process, and the beginning starts in pieces.

As it takes me days to prepare my floor before I can lay the vinyl, I suppose I can say that going through the grief is sort of like sorting through my life so that when I move onto the next layer, I don’t have any dents or protrusions marring the new surface. Maybe that’s all that peace is: getting rid of what we can and then mending all the rest. Of course, I know this. But maybe not as much as I do now.

Again, I apologize for any awkwardness in my writing. My head turns to mush when I try to write about my grief and I have a hard time comprehending my own words. Still hoping for my brain to return. But for now, this is what is. I hope it speaks to someone.

For some reason, I got in my head that before I go out on an extended bike tour or trip, I need to get my home in shape. I suppose I’m trying to be responsible, or maybe just trying to avoid having my roof fall in. Or, perhaps, I’m simply procrastinating. What I’m finding, though, is that like grief, you can’t run away from your demons.

Today, mine is impatience with the journey. As I sat inside for hours on a perfect bike riding day scraping off the floor in my bathroom, I again wondered why I didn’t simply hire someone. In the cranky mood I was in, the logic of cost didn’t come into consideration, but rather the fact that I was sore and spending too much money anyway on a gorgeous day in order to be inside inhaling chemicals.

But then I realized that I had looked forward to doing this project, and to finally seeing my bathroom with a  new floor and low-flush toilet–things I’d wanted to install when I first moved in years ago. And as hard as they are, home improvement projects give me  a lot of satisfaction. And, I like doing them right. Not craftsman right, but in a way that will last. Yet there I was, complaining about the effort of having to scrape the paper backing off the floor, whining as if I was the only person ever whose home improvement project took more time than anticipated.

I could have been done with the whole project by now if I had just installed the new floor over the old vinyl floor. Instead, I’m not even a third of the way through and my shoulder is screaming. But when I pulled off the vinyl, it separated and left that stupid paper. Leaving that old backing felt kind of like reusing old carpet padding; it just wasn’t right. So as I scraped, I had to ask myself, if this is what I wanted, then why get all pissy about it?

I started to think about being on a tour. I could see myself hating the journey, wanting to get to the next destination, to the next leg, to the end. With that, I realized that this impatience of mine has nothing to do with being stuck inside all day, but rather is about wanting to be done. Wanting the end the result. Wanting the story.

So I’m trying something new. Instead of waiting for the “before and after” pictures to get back to writing, I decided to take a break and sit here and write. To not wait for the end, but document the process. I suppose I’m already doing this by blogging about my grieving process and bike tour fantasies, but those are projects are somehow different. I’ve already accepted that grief is not something that can be rushed, and the bike tour is still just a fantasy. This bathroom project is now.

It feels odd to be sitting here in my discombobulated home and writing when there is so much “real” work to do. Yet writing is my work, too. I’m not making money at it yet, but it is my work. My passion. What I am here to do.

I really don’t know where I’m going with this. My head is foggy from chemicals and it’s hard to think when everything from my bathroom’s linen closet is spread around my bedroom and I’m sleeping in my office which is packed with things that were displaced when I got the stuff from Mom’s house. I feel like every post needs a conclusion of some sort, some revelation or even realization. But today, I’ll just try to accept that impatience is my demon and I still have to scrape two-thirds of my floor, to paint the wall behind the toilet and prime the subfloor, to lay the vinyl, install the toilet, and, oh yeah, to figure out moulding. And that’s not happening yet, so why do I need to labor over a conclusion for this piece?

Breathe, Debbie. It’s all in the journey.

I was showing some people the blog today at school and realized I haven’t updated since June.

A lot of things have happened since June.

I moved to Chicago, started law school, and lost all free time I once enjoyed.

The good news is, I’ve been riding A LOT.  I try to ride to school (3.5 miles) as often as possible.  I’d like to say I’ve ridden every day this semester, but I’d pin it closer to 75%.

Hopefully I can keep that  up as it gets colder and snowier.  I’ve got knobby tires and will be buying some thick cycling gloves soon, which will both be necessary to battle the Chicago winter.

I’ll put some thoughts together on urban cycling in Chicago.  It’s certainly different from riding alone in the desert.  It’s a little funny that I can ride 3000 miles in 40 days and then ride 5 miles in Chicago one September afternoon only to come face to face with the rear passenger side door of a Toyota Camry.  More on that later too.

Here’s a shot taken by Carla when she visited in July.  I haven’t been that happy at school since then!

Okay, so my life is a mess. Maybe not if you’re looking at me from the outside; people would probably say I was crazy for saying that. After all, for the moment, I am taking time off and don’t have to deal with the stresses of a job. I’m not starving. I’m considering lots of options for the next phase of my life. What do I have to complain about?

Well, the first thing is that I don’t have a brain. Seriously. I have a book to edit and publish, and when I read it, it’s all gibberish to me. My edits from one day to the next are inconsistent and I can’t tell if they are helping or ruining the writing. Because I can’t work on it, I feel like a malingerer using Mom’s death as an excuse for my inability to move forward with my life.

Malinger. The word was used often in the past before post traumatic stress got its official stamp of approval. Post traumatic stress. I personally don’t like to add “disorder” because for me that conjures up images of the person going ballistic at the post office. The disorder never fit me, and prevented me from getting help for years because I wasn’t “that bad.” Now, I  refer to the term “post traumatic stress” on a contiuum rather than force a reference into a small disorder box on one end of the spectrum. I think a majority of people suffering from it, like myself, aren’t at the extreme. And it’s these other people that I write about in Breathing Color into Teal. The ones who can’t quite function to their full potential, but who function enough to get by. Who have big dreams but little capacity. Who may excel in some areas but the rest of their lives are broken or crushed. Who refer to themselves as malingerers because they can’t quite accept the fact that their incapacitations aren’t something that they can get over with shear will. Yet, we keep trying, bullying and shaming ourselves for being so weak.

I can’t edit my book. I can’t get my head around planning for the winter. I can’t stick to one goal or thought. Now I’m obsessing about all the projects that need to be done at my place: new roof, new deck, new toilet. There are countless decisions for me to make and I can’t even decide what to eat. The bike tour is a pipe dream. Indecision and absentmindedness are all apart of grief, yes. And so is anger. And for me, that is tightly woven into the post traumatic stress. The result: I can’t function. I do, but not to the degree that I feel I should be capable. (Should: an abusive word I make an effort to avoid, but can’t seem to these days.)

For example, I can’t figure out how to secure the legs onto the kitchen table from my childhood. The movers lost the fasteners that I begged them to take care of along with the side piece to the leaf that had fallen off. I should have packed them. I kept nagging at myself to pack them in one of my boxes, but instead of listening to my intuition, I forced myself to trust the movers. Trust not my intuition, but the movers. That is part of my deep wound: the brainwashing that trust is something to be invested in others, and not my own gut. Instead of listening to the red and yellow flags thrown up from my subconscious or wherever they come from, I close my psychic eyes tight like a little child holding her breath and force myself to give the person a chance. I ignore myself, but give some stranger the benefit of the doubt because I learned at a very young age that this is what I’m supposed to do. This was survival.

Trust others’ perspectives about right and wrong, not my own. Embedded at that moment of flight or fight when I froze, this is the lesson I can’t seem to learn. I comprehend it in my head, but embracing it in my being is like trying to wedge a crow bar under a four-ton block of steel. Okay, it’s not that hard any more, but when I regress back to disempowerment, it feels like I’ve moved nothing and gone nowhere.

Yesterday, after I tediously carved from an oak dowel pieces that I hoped would help me attach the table legs, I misplaced them. At first my search for them was rational, but when I checked everywhere I thought they could be and didn’t find them, I became irrationally ballistic. Notice the use of the word “became.” It’s my lame attempt to soften the rage I went into. There I was,  spewing the derogatory crap my father ingeniously planted into my head while barely uttering 500 sentences to me my whole life. I haven’t heard these tapes in years, and here they were again, loud and clear. My heart was breaking and I couldn’t stop. I threw all the clean linens sitting on the dryer up in the air, knowing I was being a complete lunatic yet unable to stop myself. I kicked at them in anger. I looked under the beloved black cashmere coat I took from my mom, throwing it like a rag behind me. All for four pieces of dowel that took me two hours to carve. It wasn’t like I threw them away or lost them outside. I knew I’d find them eventually. But I couldn’t in that moment and I was hating myself for being so stupid.

Even as it was happening, I felt so much shame. Why was I regressing like this? What was the trigger? I suppose that is one advantage of having done all the trauma work; instead of asking these questions three years down the line, there is actually a rational part of me that I can access during moments like this. Another advantage from the work is that these moments are very rare these days. It’s been years since my last seemingly untriggered rage, the kind where I simply have no clue as to where it is coming from. They are ugly and scare the heck out of me. What if I have one when someone else is around? Will I be like my father, and make it that person’s fault?

I found the carved pieces next to the table and felt like an idiot because that was the one place I hadn’t looked. Still angry, I glued them into place, knowing as I did that this solution wasn’t going to work, either. That snowballed into a rant about my general incompetence and how could I install a roof and a toilet if I couldn’t even fasten a stupid leg onto a table? Still, I went ahead with the project, trusting the stranger’s opinion instead of my instinct. At least I only experimented with one leg instead of four.  I won’t know if it’s successful until later this afternoon when the glue is good and dry.

Afterwards, I went out to meet a friend for coffee. Still, I was unable to identify the trigger. Was it because I was rushing to finish the project before we met? My perceived lack of control of time? I didn’t notice then that even though I said hateful things toward myself, I didn’t believe them as I would have in the past. I could identify them as part of the rage, and they didn’t go in. Yes, I have some reservations about my abilities to install a toilet, but not to the point where I won’t try or will belittle myself into doing a bad job. There has been a lot of improvement in my psyche, especially over this past year. Which is why this rage caught me so off guard.

When I returned home, I was able to link the triggers, all of which by themselves were mere inconveniences, not triggers. However, together, they produced a cyclone. First there was the eggnog. I bought some pre-made soy stuff and drank a nonalcoholic toast to my father, who was famous for his eggnog. I was making an attempt at forgiveness, but it was apparently premature. The eggnog, of course, got me to thinking of the written recipe as compared to the very long pours he used, and the resulting drunkeness of the guests. Then, of course, there was the kitchen table of my childhood, and god knows what unconscious associations I have with that. My inability to set up the table, using some of dad’s tools, which brought me no magical fix; the juxtaposition that I’ve spent days walking around all of this stuff shipped from my childhood home, that my own life has been hindered because of the seemingly endless organizing and cleaning of a few boxes and some furniture, which is the sum total of what is physically left from Mom; the anger that I can’t go back and retrieve more of her. And of course, all those tapes playing in my head nagging me about bad decisions and stupid ideas.

My therapist would applaud that I recovered so quickly, within hours rather than days. In the past, it’s literally taken me years to untangle the mess in my head. I try to take  this in, but I am not satisfied that healing doesn’t relieve me of these episodes, that my healing is about successfully managing symptoms when they come up. I don’t want them to come up. Ever. I want to like myself and not rage. I want to be able to buck up and edit my book rather than wait with compassion until I can. I want my head to work and not be distracted so that I can remember where I put things. I want to be able to go out into the world for as long as I want and not feel like I have to run back home in order to manage the stimuli. I want to be able to “just let go” or meditate without the physical wiring in my brain tripping me up so that isn’t possible. I don’t want to be handicapped any more. I’m tired. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I want to connect with a nice man who isn’t worse off than me because I feel like an ogre around people who don’t know what rage is like. I want to make choices based on my potential rather than on whether I’ll crack. I want to live fully. I want to be done with convalescence. I want my brain to work.

Others have healed from their traumas. I’ve met them and know it’s possible, though I still have doubts. I know I’ve come far. And, I want to be done.

For now, all I can do is at least try to accept what is rather than loathing myself for unmet expectations. Perhaps I can soften the fact that I’m not done by seeing my expectations as something to strive for rather than having to exist now. That puts them in the same category as publishing my book or going on a bike tour and reinterprets them as an adventure to look forward to rather than failure. Hm. Something to think about.

I have to thank my friend out in western Colorado for the inspiration of that last paragraph. Yay Mr. B! I’m feeling better already.

Again, I have to laugh. I dream of pedaling cross country, and yet a few days ago, pedaling out to Lafayette, which is two towns over, seemed like a huge deal. We’re talking maybe eleven miles one way!

Okay, fine, so I did go swim at East Boulder Rec before I headed out, and it was a damp cold in the 40’s, but geesh. I think my sense of grandness of the route is probably more about the newness of riding roads I haven’t biked on yet, but still . . . this is where I live and I’m not going that far. Maybe I’ve just hung out with too many experienced tourers and feel self conscious about my trepidation of taking a new route, no matter how short. Maybe it is a big deal to ride out there. For me. For now.

I went out to Lafayette because I had to go to my dentist. Again. With all this stress from grief, I actually broke my nightguard. Bit right through it and broke off a piece of hard plastic custom fitted to my bite and teeth. How’s that for tension. Since Mom died, I’ve chipped my front tooth, knocked off a chunk from a crown on a molar, and broken my nightguard. I think I definitely have jaw issues. Or mental issues. Okay, fine–both. I suppose I clench all my numbness between my teeth. That night I stayed with Mom in the hospital was hell for many reasons, and one of them was because I didn’t have my nightguard. I was terrified I’d break every molar clenching my jaw that night. Maybe that wasn’t the first thing on my mind, but I do remember my jaw, neck and shoulders being sore, and it wasn’t from the lounge chair bed I used. I suppose that tenseness hasn’t gone away, as proven by the broken plastic.

I had to ride out to 95th and Arapahoe to get a fitting for a new one. I took the bike path from the Rec Center to Baseline, then turned north on Westview. But not before these two older people passed me. ME! You know, I’ve been advised by bike buddies to do that spinning thing instead of what I call the elephant walk. With spinning, you pedal faster in an easier gear, which means each rotation of the pedal takes you a shorter distance. Guys think Lance Armstrong. I think Wicked Witch of the West (“Okay, my pretties!”). I feel like I’m going nowhere and panting like a madwoman. With my elephant walk, I pedal slower in a harder gear, but each rotation gets me a lot farther. I still get an aerobic workout, but I don’t tire my lungs. My legs are well used to the extra effort. But because Lance keeps winning, his way is the “in” way. There are pro bikers who cycle in the more difficult gears; they just don’t win as much. And so therefore, my way has been labeled as amateurish, despite that I’ve been commuting for ten years now. Hmpf.

But why do I care what others think? And I’m not in this to win. Sort of. When I do the elephant walk, I pass people all the time. And I like it. But passing isn’t so easy while doing this spinning thing because I can barely get my breath. Plus, I feel totally like a neurotic type A, my cadence inspiring a high-pitched chant, “Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go” in my head. And to make it worse, while spinning, I get passed by people who were at least fifteen years older than me? Well, it makes me want to just give up on this spinning thing. Okay, so I’m an ageist. But these guys weren’t even breaking a sweat while I felt like I was giving my all to a sprint. Yeah, sure it probably has more to do with gear ratios, but I don’t have a clue about all that yet so I’ll just rant about spinning. I don’t like it. Because I suck at it.

Anyway, Westview wasn’t the huge hill I expected and dumped me on Arapahoe before it has a bike lane. I didn’t like that, but told myself the road was probably more like what roads in the rest of the United States will be like. It is truly awful, riding with no shoulder, even with sympathetic drivers passing you. I tried to ride fast, and arrived at my dentist’s office a whole twenty minutes early. I’ve never been that early before. I thought it would take me much longer. Maybe my jaw, neck and shoulders were egging the rest of my body on, not wanting me to miss my appointment.

I admit, despite being passed, I gloated a bit about riding all the way out there. The temperature was dropping and there was a chance of rain, or even snow. I was pleased. Again, who else is going to pat me on the back? Even though I’ve ridden longer and harder, it’s taken me what–eight, nine years to finally ride my bike out there? I finally did it. I achieved my goal. I conquered Arapahoe. What’s wrong with a little victory dance? It was that or berate myself for not doing it sooner. I decided to celebrate the positive.

And then I remembered my hair. How to ruin a moment. It’s bad enough with helmet head, and it’s worse when it starts out wet under the helmet. And it’s even worse than that when it’s wet under a wool hat under a helmet.  But that day, I had also used the blow dryers at the gym, which in itself is a curl killer. So now I was into blow dried without a diffuser and damp under a wool hat under a helmet. We’re talking beyond ugly and into scary. Think Bride of Frankenstein meets Rosanna Rosanna Dana. Yeah. Wicked Witch of the West gets hit by lightening. My gloating, whether earned, was quickly snuffed by the frizz that emanated from my head. For this reason, when it’s cold, I usually go straight home from the gym, and that’s probably why I hadn’t ridden out there sooner. Luckily, I managed to slip into the bathroom and knit together a french braid before the appointment. I have no desire to distract someone working in my mouth with crazy hair.

I took 95th up to Valmont on the way home. I love that part of Valmont, with all the farms. There was much less traffic than usual because 95th was closed north of Valmont, so I was able to relax and enjoy the scenery. I was looking forward to seeing how long the ride would take me so I could do it again for my next appointment, but I was having a hard time remembering what time I left. I do that a lot. I look at the clock, take note of the time, and then forget. Must be a message in that; perhaps time isn’t important to me. Still, I was distracted by my absentmindedness, which took me away from the present and caused me to somehow miss whatever ended up creating a flat in my NEW and EXPENSIVE back tire as I crossed over 75th. I pushed my bike to Munsens’ vegetable stand to get off the road, and proceeded to change my tire.

It was another chance to gloat. I’d done it before, and I just learned how to do it better from my bike mechanic friend. I had my tire levers, my patch kit, my pump, and even a new tube. I even had latex gloves to keep the grease off my hands. I could do this. No problem.

Seriously, gloating does not become me. I am programmed to screw up as soon as I do. I remember jumping over a chain fence that was about ten inches off the ground when I was in the seventh grade. I knew it would be ridiculously easy and decided to make fun of it by pretending it was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I guess I pretended too well because like an idiot, I didn’t clear the chain and dug my shin across it. I still have scars from that.

Despite my bravado, basically, I forgot everything I’d learned about changing a tire, and then some. First, I forgot to release the brake before I flipped the bike over. In flipping the bike over, I somehow managed to catch the front wheel with the cables and the brakes or the cables and the reflector–I don’t know what I did, but the tire was facing backward and I couldn’t move it back to normal. In that position, the bike wouldn’t balance. I scratched my head and tried to make sense of it until I finally said forget it and punched it out of its hold, not caring that I could have set something out of whack. I kept reminding myself that I was only six or seven miles from home, that it wasn’t raining, that it wasn’t too cold where I was, that I wasn’t on a tour. Even so, my mind was on the day I would be on a tour, and what if this happened and then that happened . . .

I got the tire off without a problem. It was the back tire, and so I was proud of that. Oh oh. Pride must be like gloating, except that it takes longer to manifest the fall. I unfastened the bead of the tire okay and the tube came out with no hitches. I checked the inside wall with my fingers and the outside with my eyes, looking for the cause for the flat. I found nothing. That didn’t surprise me, because I’d rolled the bike a few feet to get it off the road.

I looked at the tube. How was I going to listen for a leak if the sound of the traffic would drown out any hint of escaping air? Oh yeah. I had to inflate the tube again. Silly me. I attached my trusty pump and pumped like a mad woman spinning her wheels. Nothing happened. The tube remained flat. No problem, I thought. I have a new tube. I’ll deal with the old one when I get home. Proud (oh oh)that I had a spare tube, I took it out and started to pump it up. This one didn’t inflate, either. That meant I either had two flat tubes or my pump wasn’t working. Oh god, I thought. What if that were to happen on a tour?

But, I was only six or seven miles from home. Even if things got that bad, I could buy a squash at the vegetable stand to sustain me. I could walk. Things were not that bad. But in my head, I catastrophized that I was already on my tour, and then what? Who could I call? What would I do? I glanced at the guy who had just parked his van near me. He didn’t look like someone who’d have a bike pump in his back seat. More panic. I called my neighbor. I don’t know why. If they picked me up, I’d have failed. The whole reason to commute by bike is to release my dependence on cars. But I called, anyway. Just because. My friend’s daughter answered. She was the only one home. I realized that no one in that house had a bike rack, anyway. Then I’d have to leave my bike and drive back with my car to pick it up. Yes, there were other options, but I wasn’t thinking I could take the tire and walk back with it fixed. No. My head had me on some abandoned road in the middle of a cold night–what would I do if this happened on a tour? What if there was no pump for fifty miles and I had yet to set up camp and eat . . .

I called my bike maintenance buddy. Maybe he could ride out and help me. I hated asking, but now I was thinking hypothermia. I was warmer off the bike and  I still had two layers stuffed into my panniers. He thankfully didn’t answer. I thought it was intentional. He knew, he just knew, that I’d screwed up and gotten a flat and was being a girl and needing a savior. At this point it wasn’t at all evident to me why I need to wear a nightguard. I have no issues. It’s everybody else.

Finally, sense returned. I asked myself, okay, what would I do if I was on a bike tour? I calmly answered, I would ask around for help. Bingo. I am actually finally being brilliant, except this time I don’t notice because asking for help has always seemed like failure to me. Not an adventure or a learning experience, but a failure. I was sure I was being an idiot for going to the people at the farm stand. Why would they have a pump? I rationalized that they did have farm equipment that had wheels . . .

The men were Colorado kind. You know, the type of people who exude a genuine kindness that tells you they truly want to help, not a fake nice that wants to appear pleasant more than assist. I describe this quality in my book. Anyway, to my surprise, they have a pump. Not some hand or foot deal, but a real compressor. One of the guys offers to help me because it’s an odd contraption with jumper cables, too. How it works is beyond me because it wasn’t plugged in, but the thing did work.

We pumped my tire to 70 psi just in case the gauge was wrong. Even though the tire felt soft, I wasn’t taking my chances. The young man wished me a safe ride back as I packed up my things, and I was on my way. But not before promising that I would be back within the week with cash to buy some vegetables. I felt so grateful.

As I rode past the Indian cows on Valmont, I was wary. Even though I’d checked and rechecked to be sure the tube wouldn’t be pinched before we blew it up, I could have missed whatever object caused the flat in the first place. I kept looking at where the tire met the road, seeing that it wasn’t as inflated as it had been before the flat, though it hadn’t lost any air since I replaced the tube. I made a mental note to be careful of bumps, despite that I was well above the minimum pressure for the tire. As I rode down Valmont, my old route when I used to live out off 75th, I relaxed a bit and reminisced about the days when I’d first started commuting by bike. I was real slow then, doing the elephant walk with my chunky mountain-bike-turned cruiser and thirty or forty more pounds on my body, and there was no light at 63rd–

As I approached that light, I realized that in all my anxiety, I forgot to reattach the brake. Oh my, talk about failing the lab practical. How utterly stupid. And after I’d had my official lesson in how to change a tire, too. I first noticed that my leg kept hitting something. I thought it was the pannier, but it was the loose brake cable. I vowed to never to tell my friend (and I hope he never reads this) because I’d hate for him to think this had any reflection on his teaching, because it didn’t. I am glad I noticed before I hit the brakes, because I didn’t go over my handlebars. Sheepishly, on  a busy road, I got off my bike and reattached my brake, hoping no one could tell what I was doing.

I must have learned something, though, because as I attached the cable, I was completely present, not thinking of what could have happened or the myriad of predicaments I could have been in if I’d been on a tour. Nope, this time, I was right there.

So maybe the lesson wasn’t really about changing tires, and maybe I wasn’t punished for my pride and maybe I didn’t fail. Maybe I simply needed another lesson in getting present. And maybe I passed with flying colors.

Today, I’m supposed to receive my shipment from Mom’s house. It is also the first day of her estate sale. I have been feeling emotional all week, and have been attributing it to these two events. Receiving and letting go. As I open my heart more to the loss, I want t o slam it shut. It’s very difficult to balance. The stuff is just stuff, but it’s stimulating the feelings I’ve been numb to and therefore becomes overwhelmingly important.

I just read today’s piece in the Daily Om about “Empathy in Action,” which talks about appreciating what we have by having empathy for those who do without. I wonder if that’s the whole reason behind wanting to do the bike tour: doing without in order to appreciate what I do have.

Or, maybe in my case, it is to reach out from this numbness. I don’t know if I’m afraid to feel, or if I simply can’t. For most of my life, it’s been survival to simply ignore myself. Living in Boulder, in this healing epicenter, has given me the permission to listen to me, and yet I still feel incredibly selfish and self centered for doing so. Tending to my emotional state brings up labels such as “whiner” and derogatory thoughts such as “you’re being such a woman.” Mom used to love to accuse me of being selfish because I started to know myself and what I needed and wanted. It was a sexist comment on her part and I finally asked her why she didn’t accuse the men in her life of the same.  I don’t remember her exact answer, but it confirmed that I was supposed to play by different rules or be a “bad” female. I wasn’t supposed to take care of myself. That was somehow selfish and unfeminine.

I refer to the schpeal from the airlines a lot, where they tell you that if you have a children, to give yourself oxygen first so that you can help them with theirs. That’s been sort of my motto since I ended my marriage almost twenty years ago, and yet I am still haunted by guilt for tending to my needs. That is why I dream of doing a solo bike tour. It will stretch me not only to take care of myself in order to survive, but to ask for help when I need it. The physical feat will be hard, yes. But I have a sense that this is going to be an emotional Everest for me. I think that stripping my life down to the bare necessities–tent, clothing, food, water, and bike–will relieve me of the distractions that convince me that I’m acting spoiled for tending to me. By American standards, I’m not at all an extravagant person, but by world standards, I live in luxurious abundance, both emotionally and physically. Not only can I eat good food, but I can take the time to be with myself. I don’t have to suck it up and move forward. I can grieve. I can ship some of my childhood back to myself even though it’s value is less than the cost to do so. And I feel as grateful for that as I do guilty. I’m high maintenance, or “too sensitive,” as my mother was always telling me.

Somehow, in my mind, this all links together, though I can’t seem to get it to fit together with words. I’ll throw this post out there, anyway, and keep chipping away at the peace I am looking for. I know it’s within me, and I know all this babble and convoluted thinking is a puzzle I need to unravel in order to reveal that peace so that it can be more than just a glimpse. I don’t like being publicly awkward and clunky, probably because it tells me I’m being emotional. I can’t think when I am emotional. But here it is. I am numb, yet an emotional mess, and that is revealed in my awkward attempt to communicate about that which I don’t want to know.

I don’t have all the answers, nor can I make sense of the questions. I’m just throwing the words up on a wall and hope that they come together eventually into something useful and coherent. If they don’t, they are just another failed experiment. But failed experiments have their place and usefulness, too. If not to help the experimenter find her way, to help other seekers find theirs.

Okay, so I’m planning on doing a bike tour, possibly as early as late winter/early spring 2010, and yet I still haven’t chosen my bike frame, let alone the components. I am so not a techno geek, and, I am incredibly picky about the feel of my ride. I know nothing is perfect, but I would like to make the ride as comfortable as I can. Yet, there are bikes that I can’t try out first because they aren’t stocked in the local stores. It’s very cruel, this process.

First on my list is the Surly Long Haul Trucker. I’ve mentioned this one in a past blog: Enjoy Your Life and Other Messages from Mom. It’s the name that I recalled out of the blue when I was sorting through Mom’s stuff. It’s also the bike that members of Adventure Cycling seem to really like. However, this is one of the bikes that I can’t test ride because it’s not stocked in local stores. I did, by chance, run into a man at McGuckins who just bought one, and I do plan to call him and see if I can check his out, though I don’t think his is in my size.

Aside from the fact that I can’t test ride one that would fit me, another negative to the LHT is wheel size. Their smaller frames take mountain bike sized tires, which are a little smaller than road tires. When I switched from my mountain bike to my hybrid for riding around town, I noticed a big difference; I’m sure I’d notice a difference on a long tour. Yet, because I pulled the name of this bike out of the blue, I’m not sure if it’s a sign to get it. Perhaps that sounds silly, but I have learned not to pooh-pooh such information.

There is another bike that is getting a lot of buzz called the Salsa Fargo. That bike uses the 29 inch tires, which are bigger than a road bike’s but as beefy as a mountain bike. The one I saw in the store I am sure growled at me. It was a huge frame and with those wheels, I felt like I was eye to eye with a Mack track. It is pretty, and I am told the stand over height is better for women than the LHT–but I can’t know because I can’t test ride a Surly. Very annoying. I did post on a couple of list serves that I was looking to test ride a Surly Long Haul Trucker, and the only responses I received were jokes about the propriety of using the service to find a grumpy, 52 cm man.

Another difference between these bikes is that the Fargo comes with disk breaks, which have positives and negatives for touring. The positive being they work better in wet conditions, the negative being they are not as easy to maintain on the road. Also, if you wipe out and mess up your wheel, I don’t think you have a brake. I was also told by one salesperson that disk breaks don’t work as well with a load. Others have told me that’s bunk. I’ve never used them, so I don’t know. However, I can test ride the Fargo in my size at a local store. It is significantly more expensive, though. Oh, and a bit hokey with its six (yes, 6) water bottle cages. I mean, come on. If I have to stop to pee after I drink two, who cares if I have to swap them out or refill? Must be a boy thing. Though, I suppose I could use one to carry the battery for my light.

Yesterday, a friend pointed me to a custom Independent Fabrication bike. The base price is comparable to a Fargo, but once I get what I want, god knows what I’d be spending. He did his up with 29″ wheels and a special hub. I’m drooling, but honestly don’t want to be riding something that requires a 20 pound lock. However, I do like that these bikes are made in the USA. My brother owns a custom metal fabrication shop, and so in an off-handed way, I like the idea of supporting his industry.

I’ve also looked at, but not yet tested, the Trek and Cannondale touring bikes. I’ve heard the Trek runs long for women, and the Cannondale uses shifters that are more difficult to fix. However, the advantage of going for some of these prebuilt bikes is that the decisions about components are already made, and you can choose what is best from the lot and then make it work. Rather than endlessly worrying about making one hundred right choices, you can sort of rationalize that you made one good one. It’s definitely a head game, but one I tend to play.

I just emailed a local bike fitter to help me with all of this. God knows what that will cost me, but perhaps it will be worth it in the end. At the same time, no one knows my body like I do, and if I order a bike, its fit will still be a best guess. Yes, you can tweak stuff to get it just right, but that adds to the cost, too.

Basically, what it comes down to is that I’m a high maintenance fit with a pauper’s pocket. I hope to eventually find the right balance and get what I need.

Today, I rode down to my mechanic friend for my last lesson (for now), and it was wicked cold, even though it was about 28 degrees. But, then, I took a ride afterward when the sun was out, and 41 degrees didn’t feel quite so bad. I’m taking this as a positive omen. Maybe I don’t have to drastically change my plans. Maybe I will. Time will tell.

With the early snow this year, I am already again yearning for warmer weather and questioning whether starting this bicycle tour in late winter, even though I’d be in the South, is the smartest thing to do. Riding a bike in the cold isn’t so bad, but in the cold and damp, for me, it’s pure torture. The wind bites like icicles ripping into my pores and I can’t seem to keep warm despite an extra layer. It’s why I hesitate to tour in Ireland. I spontaneously envisioned touring there when I didn’t know touring existed way back when I was in college. I wasn’t even close to riding a bike back then, but oddly enough, it is the seed of my dream and I continue to consider it. Denmark is another place that came to me in a dream some time last year and I don’t know why. I don’t like biting cold, and cold bites me when it’s wet and in the 40’s, which could be the kind of temperature I’d be looking at in a Southern winter.

Last year, when I returned from my short tour on the Big Island, I came back to a week-long span of extreme cold. I don’t even remember if it was in the teens or in the negatives–it’s all the same to me–bitter. Back then, I started dreaming about moving to Hawaii and living in a hut eating mangos and macadamia nuts. Sounds like heaven. But after Mom and Chelsea died and I had the freedom to move anywhere, I guess that dream started to scare me. I have yet to see most of the States, after all, and it would be easier and cheaper to tour here if I lived on the mainland, where I can leave from my home or take a bus to my starting point.

Flying a bike one way is a ridiculous $175. Sending it to Hawaii via UPS isn’t much cheaper. It’s actually costs less financially to rent a car. So when the airlines ask for me to pay extra money into some bogus account to offset the footprint of my travel, I silently give them a raspberry. I have been on the phone for hours trying to convince the airlines to reduce the cost of sending a bike as luggage, to no avail. I figure if they’re really interested in reducing the carbon footprint, they’d say yes to my request and support gas-free travel at my destination. This offsetting offer in my mind is just another money maker for them; there is no real interest in helping the planet.

But I digress.

Now that the cold weather is here, my plans are again thrown up in the air as I contemplate what is best for me. I am having health issues due to the cold, and am not so fond of sticking around for what I’m sensing is going to be a tough winter. The rain and weather in Hilo last January was very cold to me, but reports say that Kauai is temperate year-round, more like Kona, where the vog (volcano smoke) just about kills me. Kauai is a tempting prospect, but then there are the costs. I need to do more research to determine if Hawaii is an option for me. I also need to look deep into my heart to understand my true wishes. I suppose I should also wait for the warmer weather to see if that changes my tune.

Rosemary Carstens said to me in her personal comment about my last blog, ” . . . be sure to keep in mind that sometimes we have a dream and, as we investigate its possibilities further, it takes a different direction–as yours did when moving from motorcycle to bicycle.” Maybe it will now move from cycling to climbing macadamia nut trees.

Perhaps that’s part of my lesson: that I’m okay being a mind-changing Gemini after all. If nothing else, it does keep life interesting.

The Caletti at the border between Centre and Rhone-Alpes.

So, I made to Lyon. Actually, I’ve been here since Friday, but there was laundry to do and dance parties to attend. I’m staying with some very cool and creative kids in the urban part of the city. I met them in Barcelona way back before I went to Egypt! First they came to the bike workshop at G’s co*op and then we saw them play a show at a street festival later that night. Four of the folks from Lyon perform as a group called TuDanseMonChou, which I think means “Would you like to dance, my little cabbage” but I could be wrong about the cabbage part. Anyway, they set up fake portable computers and pretend to be techie DJ’s. But, really, they’ve picked the playlist in advance and they just ham it up and dance around, while playing an epic mix of mambo, marimba, soul, funk and old rock ‘n’ roll. It’s more than a little brilliant. They had a show on Saturday night and they we had a dinner at the house where I’m staying last night that escalated into a dance party. Last night, I chose the music, starting with James Brown and later on (after almost everyone had gone home and the neighbors complained about the noise) we played 2Pac, Snoop Dogg, Selena, TLC and Bel Biv Devoe at a reasonable volume. The French kids were glued to the computer screen, transfixed by the exotic videos of 1990’s America. Cultural exchange at it’s best.

My love for the music of James Brown is sometimes more obvious than others.

The ride into Lyon was lovely, despite the rain. Charlotte met me at the summit with a picnic and escorted me into Lyon. It took six days between the farm and the city, although I only rode for four days. The first two days were short rides of about 50km with perfect, cool, foggy weather. I surfed a network of organic farmers along the Loire and Allier rivers, intending to camp in unused corners of the fields and always being invited to sleep in the spare room and stay for dinner. One of the farms was a large operation near Moulin with 20 employees and the owner offered to pay me if I wanted to work for a few days, and I did. It was strange to see and participate in the workings of a larger operation. They used ten times as much land as the farm where I’d lived for seven weeks and provided a significant portion of the domestic, organic vegetables for the Paris markets (most comes from other countries, however). I met some really cool people, and folks that were unlike what I’d been exposed to thus far: working class people, among others. As usual, they were friendly and generous. After two and a half days of work, I rode away from Moulin and across more farm and pasture land. That day I passed through rolling hills and it rained all afternoon. I stayed at a hostel in Roanne, warm and dry. The last day, Friday, was the big one: 110km and the most elevation change I’d experienced in France. It was very damp in the morning, but the roads were lovely. I saw two young men touring on a tandem, zooming down the hill in the opposite direction. I saw them coming, smiled and hollered “bonjour”, but I immediately wished I’d yelled “arret” and chatted with them about their tour. I’ve seen exactly zero people on bike tour ourside of the flat, boring, touristy river paths, so it was exciting to see a few of them in the hills outside of the busy tourist season (and on a tandem!).

Today and tomorrow I want to explore the city a little bit and get ready to continue on the bike. Among other things, I’d like to find a book in English, see a film in English, and visit the textile museum.

Rosemary Carstens has become my new official hero/mentor. I just finished her book, Dream Rider: Roadmap to an Adventurous Life (Longmont, CO: Black Lightening Press, 2003), which is about her journey toward her goal of riding a motorcycle. I found so many parallels to my own vision of pedaling across the States, I simply must include a link to her site: http://www.carstenscommunications.com/books.html. If you have a dream that you think is silly or frivolous or just downright impossible, you may want to check out this book. It’s a great, inspiring read for people of all ages.

What I especially enjoyed is that my own current vision of bike touring started with me on a motorcycle, riding up to hike and camp at Rocky Mountain National Park. I feel there’s something wrong about driving alone for an hour in my big car every week to get out and enjoy nature, especially with all the beetle kill around to remind me of the costs of using a gas guzzling vehicle. A motorcycle would be much more efficient. I fantasized about getting some sort of trunk to hold my gear and also wondered if I’d be too tired after a day-long hike to get on a motorcycle to go home. Safety was definitely an issue that held me back. And it’s an issue Rosemary addresses early on. In the book and her life, I liked that she tackled that first rather than letting it be an excuse to stop moving forward.

It’s funny, because I’d learned of Rosemary’s book at the time I started considering getting a bike, but wasn’t quite ready to read it. Perhaps if I had, I’d be moving toward a different dream. But I didn’t have the money for a bike and didn’t want to drive myself nuts with stifled inspriation. Plus, I argued that there was the issue of noise. I am so not fond of the sound of motors of any kind, and I actually just read that their constancy in our lives may contribute to a child’s predisposition to lower intelligence and even autism.*  Driving along with my own engine roar not quite drowning out the sound of others on the road wasn’t quite the peaceful travel I wanted to experience, especially after a day in the quiet woods. However, it’s not like anyone can escape the sound of motors in this day and age, anyway, and  I continued to dream about getting a bike, fretting about the investment I’d have to make and research I’d have to do to make it happen. I even fantasized attaching a folding bicycle to the back of the motorcycle so that I could travel somewhere and then get around motorless once I set up camp.

Then one day, I asked myself if it would be crazy to consider pedaling a bicycle to my destination. A quiet, nonintrusive, clean bicycle. And instead of wondering if I could do it, if I had the strength and stamina, worrying about weather and its effects, I simply–smiled. A big, broad smile. Bingo. I had had the wrong dream.

That happened around the time I was feeling ready to leave the cocoon of healing I’d encased myself in, which also coincided with Mom’s diagnosis. Rather than give her more to worry about, I put my dream on hold. Plus, if I was on the road, how would she reach me in an emergency? I know, way too codependent, but so there it is. It’s always handy to have someone hold our fears.

Now, I am ready to go for it; I have no excuses. With Rosemary’s book egging me on, I’m about to run out for my second lesson in bike maintenance. Even though I continue to ride my gas guzzling car up to Rocky Mountain National Park (but only three times so far this year), I am moving toward my goal. She took small steps, and I am taking even smaller baby steps. I have to admit, despite my usual stubborn desire to do things quickly, I am thoroughly enjoying this journey.

* Doidge, Norman, M.D., The Brain that Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science (New York: Penguin Books, 2007), 80-82.