Tag: bicycling

Summer Top Ten

On By Alicia McCauleyIn The Junk DrawerLeave a comment

It’s late at night and Letterman is on, so, here we go Top Ten style.

The Top Ten Reasons I’m Giddy For Summer

10.  I’m hoping to re-vamp my backyard a little bit so it feels more like an oasis and less like a slab of cement surrounded by dead plants.

9.  I’m heading to the NCWP Summer Institute again.  That means new ideas, new people, and time to reflect on my practice as a teacher.  Not to mention regular doses of Jon & Bon’s frozen yogurt.  Mmmmmm…

8.  After two weeks at the Institute, Terry and I head to Alaska with four of our friends.  We will mountain bike to justify eating unholy quantities of delicious food.  Then we’ll take a zipline ride and throw it all up.

7.  Fourth of July will announce that it’s birthday week for Terry and I.  I heart fireworks.

6.  On my birthday I head to Southern California to hang out with a few hundred of my favorite high schoolers, not to mention some of my dearest friends at Western States.

5.  I fly from Southern California to San Jose where I will meet up with Terry and The Rocket to ride 100 miles and show cancer exactly what I think of it.

4.  A few days later I fly to Arizona to participate in The Writing Project’s National Retreat where I will soak up as much knowledge as I can in hopes that this bear of little brain can retain some of it.

3.  Five of my nieces and nephews will be spending a month in Redding.  I can’t wait to squeeze, kiss and snuggle them all, especially the boys who pretend to hate all that mushy love stuff.  Deep down they love it.  Deep, deep down.

2.  In August I’ll sit down for a second in my new and improved oasis, surrounded by dead plants, and laugh at the fact that I’ve once again failed to cure my brown thumb.

1.  Terry and I will celebrate another year together.  The best compliment I’ve ever received came in the form of two little words: I do.  The fact that he still does makes my heart full.

If The Trailer’s A Rockin’, Don’t Go A Knockin’

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures2 Comments

I do not embarrass easily.  Spinach in my teeth doesn’t phase me.  Tripping and falling in front of a large group of people?  That’s just a regular Tuesday.  I am the girl who once accidentally called the HR director a nasty name before begging for a job.  I am the girl who walked around a cruise ship with a huge hole in the seat of my pants. I find myself in embarrassing situations all the time and have thus built up a sort of superhuman tolerance to mortification.  Having said that, the situation I found myself in last Sunday embarrassed me to a such a degree that I hesitated writing about it because it still makes my face turn a sweaty crimson.

Last Sunday was Daylight Savings Time.  (Incidentally, did you know that even though Arizona does not recognize DST, the Navajo nation living in Arizona switch their clocks with the rest of us?  Odd and confusing.)

Anyway, on the morning of Spring Forward, I thought to myself What better way to celebrate an hour less of insomnia than heading out on The Rocket for a beautiful bike ride? Three of my friends met at my house and we set out.

What I mean by ‘we set out’ is the three of them were way faster than I was and I watched their backsides pedal away from me as I grew increasingly bitter.  I was especially irritated since one of them hasn’t ridden his bike in months.

During the occasional seconds he was actually riding next to me, I told him I was going to push him over.  I think he thought I was kidding.  Or maybe he knew I was serious because he never came within arms length.

It really was a beautiful day.  Crisp, dry and not a hint of wind.  Just about as perfect as a day can get.  We rode out towards Shasta Dam and took the turn that makes the climb to the Dam harder, longer, and much more scenic.  Of course my three friends were much faster at climbing than I was.  I was slogging uphill at around five miles an hour.  I have ridden this hill several times this year.  I know this hill well.  Even when my heart threatens to pound straight out my throat and when my quads are on fire, I know I can beat it.  In fact, I’ve ridden this hill enough times to say that I actually like it.  I like the challenge.  I like pushing myself when my body wants to quit.  And I like how beautiful the views of Redding are from up there.

I had my lone earbud in and Bruce Springsteen’s Secret Garden was the perfect soundtrack for the morning.  Go ahead and make fun, I love that song.  Aside from two cars that passed me on the beginning of the hill and a descending hiker, I had the whole climb to myself.  As I turned a corner, I looked down on Redding, still half asleep and hushed.  This seemed like the perfect opportunity to enjoy nature at her fullest.  So, I abandoned Bruce for the sounds of nature around me.  Birds chattered somewhere in the bushes.  There wasn’t even a whisper of wind.  It was serene.

As I continued around another corner I saw a truck with a camper in tow pulled over on the other side of the road.  From the camp chair outside the trailer it looked like they’d set up camp right there on the side of the road.  Who could blame them?  The view really is that pretty.  I pedaled closer.

Wait, is that trailer rocking?  No, it can’t be.  There isn’t even any wind.  Weird.  It must be on unstable ground or something.

Oh, I am so naive.  I pedaled further up the hill and unfortunately closer to the trailer.

Oh, man it’s definitely rocking.  Oh no, it’s rocking harder.

At this point I’d figured out what was most likely going on in the trailer, but I couldn’t turn around and go back downhill because my three fast friends were waiting for me at the Dam.  Curses for being so slow.

I tucked my head down and tried to pedal faster, but I was already going as fast as I could.  It’s a three mile hill, for goodness sake.  I couldn’t sprint up this thing.  With the trailer just ahead of me, I began to hear what was going on inside it.  This may come as a surprise, but camper walls aren’t very thick.  I am so not into other people’s intimate moments.  Movie sex scenes make me squeamish, no matter how “tasteful and artistic” they are.  I just don’t want to see or hear that.

When Terry and I were newlyweds, we moved into an apartment across a courtyard from The Screamer.  She often combined alcohol and marital bliss.  The Screamer would scream so loudly that the entirety of the complex would come out in droves to yell back at her.  Some people would even bang on pots and pans to drown out her enthusiasm.  Terry and I would close the windows and tuck our heads under our pillows.  Needless to say, we didn’t live there long.

So, there I was chugging uphill.  No window to close.  No pillow to muffle out the sounds.  I shoved my single earbud back in, but even Christina Aguilera’s pipes couldn’t compete with the Rock of Love Trailer.  I pushed harder and The Rocket responded by increasing to a whopping 5.7 miles an hour.  I began to sing along with Christina.  The noises grew louder.  My stomach began to churn.  My already sweaty face filled with a deeper flush.  I sang louder, pedaled harder, and fought back the heat threatening to erupt from my stomach.

Just as I became parallel to the trailer, the occupants inside reached their crescendo.  I was way too close.  I needed a brain scrubber stat.

Think about puppies.  Think about your grocery list.  Think about your favorite movie.  Think about any movie.  Think of something.  Think of anything else other than the fact that you are trapped in someone else’s private time.  Then it came to me:  The Forrest Gump prayer. Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.  Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.

Over and over it was my mantra until I passed the trailer.  The noises ceased and I didn’t look back.

Earlier in the morning I’d pondered What better way to celebrate an hour less of insomnia than heading out on The Rocket for a beautiful bike ride? Well, I guess I got my answer.

Stuff White People Like #61

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures3 Comments

A friend recently routed me to stuffwhitepeoplelike.com.  Go ahead and fire off those angry e-mails about stereotyping.  Some stereotypes are true.  And some stereotypes are funny because they are true.  Naturally when I discovered that #61 on the stuff white people like list was about cycling, I was intrigued.  The stereotypes mentioned in #61 are hilarious because they are true about me.  So here’s #61 in all it’s hilarity with a few observations of my own thrown in.

A good place to find white people on a Saturday is at a Bike Shop. Bike shops are almost entirely staffed and patronized by white people!  There also seems to be a tattoo minimum requirement in order to work at my favorite bike shop.

But not all white people love bicycles in the same way, there is much diversity. First up, we have the younger urban white folks who absolutely love their fixed gear bicycles. These are seen all over college towns, Silverlake in LA, Williamsburg in Brooklyn, Queen West in Toronto, and Victoria, British Columbia. Fixed gear bicycles meet a lot of requirements for white person acceptance. They can be made from older (i.e. vintage) bicycles, thus allowing the rider to have a unique bike that is unlikely to be ridden by anyone else in town. They are also easily customizable with expensive things Aerospoke rims, Phil Wood Hubs, and Nitto Parts. The combination of rare bicycles and expensive parts makes it easy for white people to judge other white people on the quality and originality of their bicycles. This is important in determining if someone is or isn’t cooler than you. I don’t need to ride a fixie to establish this.  Everyone is cooler than I am.  Except unicyclists.

White people also like Mountain Bikes because it lets them be in nature. It’s really not more complicated than that. I also find that Frank hands out regular lessons in humility.  Man, imagine how big my head would be without Frank chucking me to the ground every now and then.

And finally, they love expensive Road Bikes and the accompanying spandex uniforms. This enables them to ride long distances and wear really tight clothes without any social stigmas.  I love me some Spandex.  Especially if I can top it with a jersey so bright that even the shortest of glances in my direction causes retinal bleeding.

These types of riders will spend upwards of $5,000 on a bicycle and up to $400 on accessories, but will not ride to work. Perhaps because they cannot wear the spandex. You’d be surprised how comfortable Spandex are under work clothes.  It’s actually the helmet hair and the necessary change of shoes that keep me from riding to work.

It is important that you never question why someone needs a $5000 bicycle since the answer is always “performance.”  The Rocket cost far, far less than five grand.  She may not be fancy, but I’d give her performance an A+.

For the most part, these rules have been unisex. But there is a special category of bicycles that appeal far more to white women, the European city bike (pictured). White women have a lot of fantasies about idealized lives, and one of them is living in Europe and riding around an old city on one of these bikes. They dream about waking up and riding to a little cafe, then visiting bakeries and cheese shops and finally riding home to prepare a fancy meal for their friends who will all eat under a canopy with white Christmas lights. This information can be used to help gain the trust/admiration of a white woman, especially if you can pull off a lie about how your mother told you about how she used to do all of these things when she was younger. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I had a basket on the front of my bike with a giant loaf of bakery fresh bread in it.  Around mile 65 I will eat anything that’s not nailed down.  A loaf of hot bread would definitely do the trick and might even tide me over for another 1.7 miles.  Then I’d be back to scavenging through my seatpack for year old Clif bars.

And of course, it goes without saying that white people who ride bikes like to talk about how they are saving the earth. If you know a person who rides to work, you should take them aside and say “Hey, thanks. Sincerely, The Earth.” Then give a thumbs up. That white person will ride home on a cloud. Ok, this is especially funny to me.  Sure, I recycle.   I prefer a blanket to turning on the heater.  I wash my clothes in cold water, but I don’t consider myself to be an environmental activist.  People assume I am an environmentalist ALL THE TIME.  I drive a hybrid.  I enjoy walking to work.  I like riding my bike.  It just so happens that the things I like are environmentally friendly.  So, sure give me a thumbs up.  As for riding a cloud home, it sounds awesome, but I prefer to walk, thanks.

Pacelining, Profanity and Dogs

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures3 Comments

There is a little bit of background information crucial to understanding today’s vignette.  I promise to be brief if you promise tolerate a little cycling terminology.  I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have faith in you.

To begin with, let’s talk about the term ‘pacelining’.  Pacelining basically means riding very close together in a single file line at a uniform speed.  This means the person in the front of the line works the hardest, takes the brunt of the wind, watches for obstacles, etc.  And in an unofficial paceline, the person in the front sets the pace.  The riders in the middle make sure to keep close to each others’ wheels to ensure maximum efficiency.  The person in the back calls out approaching traffic, stays close to the person in front of them, and basically kicks back to enjoy the work done by everyone in front of them.  In real pacelines, there is a lot of “peeling off” which involves a constant rotation of the person in front moving to the back, but that does not apply to today’s story.  The thing you need to know is that it is never, ever, EVER acceptable for the slacker in the back to tell the person in the front to go faster.  Is is bad, bad form.

The second thing you need to know is I rarely use profanity.  I happen to think that I sound stupid when I curse.  Believe it or not, I try to avoid sounding stupid.  On the rare occasion that I employ a naughty word, it is NEVER done seriously.  I don’t curse when I’m angry, frustrated, or any other time I might actually mean it.  The sparse profanity is saved for humorous outbursts and a select group of people who share my slightly off sense of humor.

So, now that we’ve covered pacelining and profanity, let’s get to the story.

On Monday, I went cycling with my friends April and That Laura.  We rode out to beautiful Igo and then took a spin out to Happy Valley.  I was in the front, April was in the middle, and That Laura was in the back.  I was quite enjoying our pace and the interesting scenery that is Happy Valley.  For instance, we passed a house with a white flocked Christmas tree standing proudly in the front yard.  Hey, I had a pole in my Christmas tree stand, so who am I to judge?  There is also the house that is a shrine to Coca Cola.  Everything Coca Cola has come to die there.  Me, I prefer Dr. Pepper, but to each his own.

Anyway, we were happily pedaling along when That Laura yelled from the back of the paceline “Faster!  You have to go faster!”

Did she just tell me, the Paceline Leader, to go faster?  The audacity!  The moxy!  The cajones!  That Laura deserved nothing less than a sarcastic tongue lashing.  The words “You get up here and go faster, bi*ch!” were just about to launch themselves out of my mouth when Laura said these terrifying words, “Faster!  You have to go faster!  He’s gaining on us!”

He?  He who?  I looked back and running uncomfortably close to That Laura was a black dog, the kind that herd sheep and other smelly animals.  The owner was yelling at the little black blur, but the dog was obviously mesmerized by our tasty Spandex clad legs.  This dog was way too close for comfort.  We cranked harder and the dog turned and ran back home.

If you’ve ever spoken to me for more that five minutes, you know I’ve had several incidents with animals while on The Rocket.  I’ve raced with a turkey, been pooped on by a bird, hissed at by a snake, and was spooked so badly by turkey vultures that I almost wet my Spandex.  Never, ever have I been chased by a dog.  And never, ever have I been so frightened on my bike.  After the dog retreated, my heart pounded against my ribs.

So, the next time my friend, That Laura, tells me to go faster I will not think of sarcastic tongue lashings to deliver.  I will tuck my head down, spin my pedals extra hard, and go faster, bi*ch.

Snow Day

On By Alicia McCauleyIn Bike Adventures2 Comments

Fifty seven degrees is a little on the cool side.  Especially inside.  That was the temperature in my house when I crawled out from under a mound of blankets and started to pull on layers for a Sunday morning ride.

Bike shorts, wool socks, sports bra, thermal top, jersey, fleece cycling pants, earwarmers, shoes, toe warmers, jacket, full fingered gloves, helmet, and glasses.  Between the gloves and the helmet I realized I had to go to the bathroom.  So I peeled it all off and a few minutes later jimmied it all on again.

After a pair of clementines and a tasty bowl of oatmeal, I stepped outside and watched my breath float away in great, pallid puffs.  It was going to be a cold one all right.

As I stood in my driveway waiting for Laura, the tiniest of snowflakes began to tumble down.  If I looked carefully enough I could see one every fifteen seconds or so.  Laura pulled up breathless and rosy cheeked and we set off for a long climb to Shasta Dam.

We cajoled our bikes along the frigid roads, the flakes falling in even sheets, resting on my handlebars, forming an icy crust on my bike computer.  We climbed closer to the Dam and snow began to settle in the crevices of the mountains.

The air smelled clean and big gulps of it seemed to eradicate life’s turmoils.  My toes were frozen statues.  My nose was a faucet.  And I was carefree.  Carefree as snow dusted my helmet and melted on my gloves.  I grinned and stuck out my tongue, catching snowflakes as I pedaled.  We passed a mother walking with her little girl.  The little girl had her tongue out, too, and we exchanged smiles.  Laura and I rode in an almost giddy state.  Every few seconds one of us would giggle or exclaim “This is so cool!”  We reached Shasta Dam and took a moment to snap photos.  As sweat and snow dampened our clothes, we began the decent home.  The cold was bitter against my teeth and unprotected face.  Ice crystals pricked my skin and my eyes welled up with tears.  I could say that the tears were from the cold, but in truth they were an unbidden response to the splendor of the snow.

The world doled out beauty today and I was fortunate enough to catch some of it on my tongue.