Dr. River

How do you know your kid is a good mom? How do you know for sure that she and her wife are great parents? How is it possible for your heart to melt and hold more love than you thought it could? Here's a story. 

Wednesday night, Kati, Cass and River came for dinner. Since we weren't going to spend Thanksgiving together, the night before seemed like a great option. And after almost a 2-week isolation due to COVID, I was finally free to see people face-to-face. 

It had been a long stretch, too, as COVID was preceded by an 8-day trip to Arizona for me, which was preceded by a too-long period of schedule conflicts, colds, and the like. 

Let's just say, I was ready to get my hands on that baby! 

She arrived. Bitty Baby in hand. With enough smiles, hugs and kisses to light up the room. (And for the first time, she even brought me a lovely piece of art to hang on my fridge. Gah! These are big moments!) 

As you'd expect, she headed right for the toy drawer. In it, she finds an old cordless telephone and brings it out to get down to business. She then grabs the TV remote off the coffee table and gives the phone to me, showing me which buttons to push. She's using the remote, and its buttons, as the second phone and before I know it, we're having a conversation. 

"Hello, doctor," she says. I respond in kind. "Hi Dr. River. Can you help me?"

I get some of that adorable toddler chatter that matches the tone of a real conversation, but to my untrained ears, it's mostly gobbledygook. 

My turn to talk. I ask Dr. River to fix my knee. I tell her my knee hurts. And the look on her face is priceless. A wave of concern washes over her and before I know it, she's taking a cupped hand and patting it all around my knee. Gently, carefully, and earnestly looking for a response. 

I gush and thank her for helping me. I ask if it's all better now and, ... 

... without hesitation, she plants the sweetest little kiss on my knee. Her first instinct was to kiss it and make it better.

Then she looks up at me to see if it worked. 

Oh, it worked. It worked, sweet girl. 

She shows love because she knows love. And this grandma's heart is full. 

 

God Bless Who?

The girls spent the night at my house last night. We went shopping in the afternoon. We grilled some hot dogs for dinner and ate on the porch. We eventually had a bonfire and went to bed.

All in all, a rather "normal" day and night. We giggled as Livy told bad jokes after dinner. We giggled at Jim's sexy old man shorts and over-the-calf socks by the fire. We giggled harder when Bella fell out of her lawn chair onto the soft grass, thankfully away from the flame.

Through the course of it all, they got on each other's nerves. They didn't always hear me the first time when I made a request for help. They played songs on their phones too loudly and left a mess on the island.

As I looked at them in the firelight, I couldn't help but marvel at how far we've all come in a year and how long ago that all seemed. I also thought about how good "normal" feels.

About 10 p.m., I sounded the "it's time to get ready for bed" alarm. Off they went to brush teeth, put jams on and start to settle in.

B was in bed first. Our routine, since they were wee babes, is for us to say our bedtime prayers. They used to sleep in the same bed, so it was easy. Now, they each have their own room and the prayers are often separate events, depending on who jumps under the covers first.

Tonight, for whatever reason, we all climbed into Bella's bed for the festivities.

This is how the prayer goes. It's the same one my mom used to say with us when she tucked us in, a lifetime ago. Maybe you say it at your house, too:

"Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

(I will admit that there were times in this past 18 months, where my voice cracked during the last line and I was grateful to be in the dark so no one could see the tears streaming down my face.)

The rote memorization of that little prayer is always followed by a question from me: "God Bless who?"

Here, too, the answers can be fairly rote, depending on how tired/uninterested or chatty/wanting to delay sleep they are. "God Bless mom and dad and Livy/Bella, Maya, Gumma, Abuelita ..." Sometimes, if they're feeling particularly Eddie Haskell-ish, Jim and I will rise in the mention order. Occasionally, they'll have a specific reason to add someone to the list, based on something that was going on in school or in the world.

It's on those chatty/wanting to delay sleep nights that we can have some really interesting conversations. It's when they'll talk about someone at school who is having a hard time or something they saw on the news that's bothering them. It can also be a time for questions that lead to more questions that lead to giggles and silly stuff.

Last night, in the middle of all the new-found "normal," it took an interesting turn.

"God Bless who?" I asked.

B, never one to wait to answer, said, "Sophia, Sophia, Ellie ..."

"Who are Sophia and Sophia?" I asked.

"Cancer friends," she replied.

I knew what that meant. They were girls she had connected with through the wonders of the internet. And their role in B's life is very important. They are the ones who REALLY understood what she is going through, the de facto support group. They are the ones who can say the things we couldn't. They are the ones who hold each other up when the rest of us don't know how.

I also knew Ellie was from England and that she and Bella chatted quite a bit. But the other two girls were unfamiliar to me.

"Where do they live?" I asked, cautiously. I wasn't sure how much she'd want to talk about them, nor how I would handle the answers.

"One is from Australia," she said. "She's 15, too."

"What kind of cancer does she have?" And as I asked, I had dozens of conversations like this flash through my mind in a second. Conversations that sound completely "normal" in tone and pace to any other conversation you've ever had about the weather or what's for dinner or plans for Friday night, even though they are a billion light years away from those conversations in actual content. Conversations about what type of port she wanted. Conversations about whether or not she'd ever have kids. Conversations about chemo and fears and dreams.

"Osteo," she replied, meaning osteosarcoma, or cancer in her bones. "She just got some bad news."

The voice in my head says, "DO NOT LET YOUR VOICE WIGGLE."

She let her fingers fly on her phone as she tries to pull up a conversation. Miss O hasn't made a peep this whole time.

"Here, look at this," she says and she shoves the phone at  me.

There in the darkness, I can see this is a huge string of back and forth between Bella and others. The reality of what it is begins to sink in.

I start to read it out loud and she admonishes me. At first I think it's perhaps that she doesn't want the words to have a life of their own, hanging out there in the air. Then I realize she just doesn't want Livy to hear them. Protective big sister.

And my heart breaks a little. DO NOT SHED A TEAR, the voice in my head commands.

"Hey guys," the text reads. "Got some bad news today. While the tumor in my lung is gone, the cancer is spreading from my pelvis."

DO NOT SHED A TEAR.

"My treatment options are few. It's not what we were hoping for."

DO NOT LET HER NOTICE YOU CHOKING BACK THOSE TEARS.

"My plan is to live as much as I can, travel as much as I can, do as much as I can for as long as I can."

DO NOT LOSE IT.

I look at B. She's calm. She's seemingly comfortable with this conversation, at least on the outside. Though I know her well enough to know she's not remotely comfortable with it on the inside. And then all my thoughts of "normal" go right out the window.
"
While I have been thinking how nice it is to have this "breathing room" with good news from scans and while I have perhaps been a bit impatient with her inability to move forward at school, etc., I have forgotten how this looks from her vantage point.

Hell, I didn't even know that she had these conversations with cancer friends. How many cancer friends has she lost? How terrified must she be when she hears information like this? How dare we expect her to just get over it and move forward?

This is a part of childhood cancer that I hadn't considered. Just when I thought I knew the depths of hell it presented, I learned that there's a whole new hole.

There is no such thing as normal. There never will be again.

And all of a sudden I realize, again, how impossible this is for a 15-year-old child to process. Her friends at school are talking about prom dresses and summer vacation plans and boys. She's talking to other 15-year-olds about what it feels like to know you're dying.

She's also wondering when her turn will come. If her turn will come. Let your head settle on that for a bit. Imagine what that's like ... every minute of every day.

There are days I think she's a little immature. A little impulsive. Occasionally obstinate. (Wonder where she gets that from? Let's just say she comes by it all honestly.) There are days I get frustrated with what I interpret as a lack of desire to move forward.(After all, she's "cancer free!")

But I have to remember that I don't know shit about being her. And I have to remind myself that she's got a whole bunch more working behind those beautiful brown eyes than I can truly understand. She's having conversations and processing realities that I can't get my own 49-year-old head around.

Back in that room, we talk about living every day. We talk about how no one knows when their time will come. I know it's vapid and meaningless as the words come out of my mouth. But we both pretend like it matters.

I eventually kiss them both goodnight, in their respective beds, and tell them how much I love them.

Because, I hope, that does matter somehow.

I lay awake in my own bed for a long time, visualizing that conversation I saw on her phone. I think about her, facing truths and giving pep talks and providing comfort like a woman wise beyond her years.

I'd give anything if she didn't have to do any of those things.

God Bless her.

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If you want to meet Sophia, here is a link to her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/sophia.gall.5?fref=nf&pnref=story

It's not easy to watch.

If you know someone who might know someone who can get to Ellen or Ed Sheeran, please pass it on.
.

I Wore Fancy Earrings Today

Today was the fourth time that I wore "fashionable" earrings in more than a year. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it was a very big deal to me.

------------------------

Those of you who know me have a good idea why I've been absent from this blog for the past 16 or so months. 

It's not because I gained nearly all of my weight back and sort of feel like a fraud ... though that's true. 

It's not because I grew tired of writing ... I'm not sure I ever get tired of that. 

It's because something much bigger happened in my life. In my family's life. Something so big, so painful and so terrifying that I simply could not put words on paper about it. It was too real. Too raw. And too personal. 

Deep breath. Because the words are still so very hard to produce: 

Just before New Year's Day 2016, my then 14-year-old niece was diagnosed with Rhabdomyosarcoma. 

And our whole world turned upside down. 

I may find the courage to write about it someday. I really think that writing about it may be the only way I will ever actually process is. 

But right now I can't. At least not totally. 

I can, however, tell you that I wore fancy earrings today as a first step to breathing.

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It's funny how rituals start. When my business closed in December 2013 and I was out of a job, I had the very good fortune of receiving nearly a year of severance pay and negotiated an additional stock payout. I landed a great job. I felt kind of invincible. 

Jim and I took some of that extra cash and went to Alaska for two weeks. We got a few house projects done. And I walked into a jewelry store and bought a pair of diamond earrings ... just because. 

Now, they were earrings that were on sale, mind you. (I hadn't completely lost my connection to reality.) But they were the most expensive earrings I'd ever bought. In my head, I called them my "freedom" earrings. To me, they represented the hard work I had put in for the past 20 years. They were a little reminder to myself that I had EARNED the success I had achieved, in some part ... that it hadn't been ALL luck. 

Maybe that seems silly to you, but they were important to me. I wanted them to be a symbol of power and positivity in a new, sort of scary, future. I convinced myself that they would bring me good luck as I stepped out into a new world. 

Well, that first new job quickly led to a second new job, even more exciting. But that second new job fizzled shortly after almost 7 months. And then I was out of work for 6 months, trying to find my footing. 

I held onto the feeling behind those earrings, wearing them for job interviews and whenever I needed a boost.

-----------------------------------------------

When Bella was diagnosed, I was so scared I didn't know what to do. I couldn't stop crying. I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't allow myself to consider all of the alternatives. I prayed every moment of every day. I started looking for signs that things were going to be OK. 

I started wearing those earrings as a shield. I needed that boost every morning as I tried to drag myself to work. I put them on, every day, in hopes that they really were some sort of good luck charm. 

I wore them. Every. Single. Day. I ritualized the way I put them on. First, I took them both out of my little jewelry box and set them on the dresser. Then, and only then, could I pick one up and put it on. 

The left one had to go in first. Every time. 

It didn't matter what the outfit. It didn't matter what the season. I wore those earrings with them all. They were my badge of courage on days when I had none. The certainty of "streak" of wearing them became a way to face the uncertainty of every moment in the chaos that consumed all of us.

Then, one day last summer, as I was popping them in my ears, I dropped one of the little silver backs onto my bedroom carpet.My eyes darted around, quickly, looking for that sparkle. When I couldn't find it, I dropped to my knees, assuming I'd find it in a second. But I couldn't find it. I could feel the bubble of panic starting in the pit of my stomach. The more I looked, the more panicked I got. My breaths got shorter and faster. I needed to find it ... and I couldn't find it. 

By the time Jim walked in to see why it was taking me so long to get ready, I was in full meltdown. I was raking my fingers across the pile, pressing my face down in it to look sideways across, hoping for a glimmer of metal. With tears streaming down my face, I screamed, "I can't find the back of my earring! Help me find it. I can't lose it! I have to wear them!" Bewildered, because he had no idea what I was talking about, but sensing my urgency and making no judgement on my come-apart, he hit the floor, eventually going to find a flashlight. 

We were unsuccessful and I was nearly hyperventilating. After I explained the whole story, he quietly convinced me that I could still wear that earring with another back. I wasn't a 100% convinced, but I had no other option. 

The new back was yellow gold, not white gold. And it became part of the ritual, too. The "original" back went on my left ear. The new back went on the right ear. 

Those earrings became my security blanket. Nothing bad could happen as long as I wore them. 

So I wore them. Every day. Every outfit. Whether they "matched" or not.

-------------------------------------------

My niece's treatment ended at the end of November. Her scans showed "no visible signs of cancer." But still I wore those earrings. I couldn't tempt fate. I couldn't change the luck. 

When it was time for her February scans, we all held our collective breath. Hallelujah! The news was good again. Still no visible signs of cancer. 

Last week I got to go on her Make-A-Wish trip. We lived like kings for a week at Disney. We ate too much, slept too little, fought a bit like sisters do ... and had a blast. She took on every roller coaster with sheer joy. (I joined her on all but one with sheer terror, much to her delight.) We celebrated the end of treatment and the end of a year in hell. It felt for a while, like things were finally back to normal. 

So the time seemed right to take another deep breath and allow myself to take the leap of faith that everything was going to be OK. Without the earrings. 

I've got three days at work with three different pairs of earrings under my belt. It feels strange. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a bit unnerving. 

But she is ready to take on her new life. So I have to be, too. 

We are a couple of weeks out from her next scans. That day, I will wear them. 

The Secret Pine Cone Picker Upper

I went to say goodbye to a friend today.

A real goodbye. We're leaving for a week of vacation and I suspect that she won't be here when we return. By then, the cancer that's spreading within her will have won ...

... and the world will have lost this beautiful, kind, smiling woman.

It's a strange thing ... saying goodbye for the last time. Jim and I were nervous as we drove to the tidy, little house where my friend lives with her darling husband, next door to our first house. We knew she was sick and that things weren't going well, but neither one of us had any idea what we were going to say when we walked through her door.

"We're going to be cheerful and not cry," I said, when Jim asked what we were supposed to do once we got there, his bewilderment matching my own. It was the only reasonable way I could think to approach it.

---------------------------------
We'd gotten a call early this morning from the gentleman who bought our first house. He said that our friends had come home early from their annual California trip and that there had been a lot of activity since they returned.

We knew what that meant.

So Jim called that tidy little house. I was upstairs and he was down in his office, but I could hear him on the phone. While I couldn't make out the words, I could tell the conversation didn't take very long. Then I heard Jim climbing the steps.

I knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth. His tears had already started and mine quickly followed.

"He said we should come see her today or tomorrow," Jim said.

I'm pretty sure there was a string of expletives. And more tears. We both stood there and hugged and cried. I wanted to throw things and hit things and kick things. But I did none of that. I just sobbed.
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I was expecting her to be in bed. I was happily surprised when I heard her call out as we walked in the back door.

We had a quick exchange with her husband as we kicked off our shoes and could tell what the situation was, though no words were said. Cheerful and no crying. Cheerful and no crying. Cheerful and no crying. I just kept repeating it in my head as I rounded the corner.

There she was, fully made up, sitting in her cheerful, sunny front room, on the new furniture I'd only seen once before. She had her feet up on the ottoman, a pretty light blue fleece hoodie on and a cozy blanket tossed over her legs and feet.

All of the nervousness quickly dissipated. We sat down, like we had a hundred times before, and had us a visit. A good, old fashioned chat.

They told us about their trip to California to see their son. They updated us on their grandson's progress as a professional umpire. She quickly filled us in on their rather hurried departure from the San Diego area as soon as they knew that things had taken a turn and of her short stay at the hospital here.

We told her a few funny stories. I showed off some pictures of Bella's new hair and Jim talked about Kati's new puppy.

She said hospice was now coming to the house. She didn't have to say that the hospital sent her home because there was nothing more they could do.

But we all understood that loud and clear.

I could see her getting tired, so it was time to go. I gave her a hug and told her I loved her. She said it back. Jim did the same.

We gave her husband another squeeze at the back door, We said all the things you're supposed to say ... "if you need anything, let us know ... "don't be afraid to call" ... "love you" ...

And we left.

A goodbye without a goodbye uttered.

Cheerful and no crying has left the building. My heart is heavy, and the tears are still flowing.

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THE STORY OF THE SECRET PINE CONE PICKER UPPER
There once was a young woman who bought her first house in a cute, well-kept neighborhood on the west side of town. She didn't know much about running a household of her own, but managed to get the lawn mowed every week and the dishes done on a relatively regular basis.

One day, she came home from work and noticed that the front hedges had been trimmed. Other strange things also happened. Sometimes the leaves seemed to rake themselves. Occasionally, the sidewalks would be miraculously clear after a daytime snowfall.

The young woman began to suspect the retired man who lived next door was secretly taking care of her house. And she began to thank him profusely. She brought him gifts. She made sure he knew how much she appreciated him.

In the front yard of this house was a very, very tall pine tree. To be honest, it was a bit out of proportion for the small yard and tiny little ranch house. Its lower branches easily created a 20' diameter canopy. When the young woman would mow her lawn, she was able to stand up under the pine tree's bottom branches ... because the kindly neighbor man would keep them trimmed.

Again, she made sure he knew how much she appreciated his help.

But there was something very strange about this pine tree.

Never did it drop a pine cone. Not one. Was it some sort of mutant hybrid pine tree, the young woman wondered? It dropped a zillion brown pine needles, to be sure, but never a pine cone.

Little did she know, the kindly retired neighbor man had a secret accomplice.

Her name was Margaret and she collected pine cones from that big pine tree daily. Just to be nice.

She never mentioned it. She never did it when the young woman was home to see it. She let the young woman think her husband did all the work.

That's how she is.

And so is this:
She makes sun tea in a big jug on her patio table by the back door. She also likes to have a happy hour cocktail out there when the weather is nice. She walks miles and miles around the neighborhood, enjoys lemon desserts and prefers the color blue. She adores her grandson Sean and always refers to her kids as "My Jean" and "My Jim." Her Christmas Village graces her bay window in her front room every year, complete with angel hair snow. She nursed her husband Dick back to strength after a few heart-related scares and she loves to tell their love story. (It is one for the ages!)

I wish you could know her.

Olympic Coaches ... and Me

So, I did it. I mustered up the courage to walk into a room full of runners and take a coaching class.

My assumption was that the room would be full of marathoners. And I was right. I'm pretty sure I was the only one who had not completed one.

I also assumed I would have the least amount of actual running experience. I wasn't entirely right here. There was a guy who had only been running for about a year.

However, he ran the Boston Marathon two weeks ago.

(You have to qualify for Boston, which I knew, meaning he had run at least one other marathon ... an official Boston qualifier ... before that. What I didn't know was that hitting the official qualifying time of 3 hours and 30 minutes isn't enough to guarantee you a spot anymore. You really have to do BETTER than that to earn a place. I can't even ...)

What I didn't expect was that I'd be the only person in the room to have never stepped foot on a track and who had no idea what tempo runs, repeats, ladders, 4x1600s, goal pace, marathon pace, cadence, and all those other track words meant.

I also didn't know how technical running was. I thought you strapped on a pair of tennies and hit the road, going a little farther each time. I'm such a simple creature.

I REALLY didn't know that there were people so serious about running. You know, about getting better times. People that treat a marathon like a RACE where you're trying to beat someone, not just finish. Maybe that sounds stupid. Of course I knew people train so they can improve their prior time. I just didn't fully grasp how serious some people are about it. Like they hire a coach. They make multi-year plans. They measure their heart rates every morning on the toilet. They can calculate their rate of glycogen depletion on the fly. I'm not sure why they do this, entirely, because I'm not wired that way. But I find it fascinating.

And, last but not least, I didn't expect to be in the same room as people who coach Olympic athletes. And collegiate athletes. And athletes from Spain and Tokyo and anywhere in between. Seriously, one guy came from Singapore for the class. Singapore!

So, when I say I was a bit out of my league, I'm not being self-depreciating.

I'm being honest.

With that in mind, however, I learned a LOT.

I came home with knowledge I can apply to my own running. And maybe a little I can pass on to people like me.

However, if an Olympic athlete calls, looking for a little help, I probably won't offer much advice.

Other than to pass on the names of the really smart people I met.

New Year, New Start

It's time for me to come clean.

I haven't been here in a while because I'm a bit embarrassed.

I have put pounds back on and I haven't had the courage to tell you about it. I haven't wanted to admit it to myself, number one. I haven't wanted you to silently feel sorry for me. I also haven't wanted you to cheer me on/up/forward with a "You got this, girl!"

(And I know you mean well with that last one. But truly, it makes me feel like the most lame-o, narcissistic, pathetic being. As if I'm intentionally feeling sorry for myself out loud, hoping you'll chime in and pat me on the back. I'm sure that a therapist would have a wonderful time with that.)

Here are the facts:
Most of my clothes don't fit. Those that do are tight and unflattering ... and I'm uncomfortable in them. I only have two bras that sort of fit and even my underwear is too small.

My hair and my skin look tired. My eyes are puffy. I ache and I no longer feel strong.

I am tired, moody, emotional and sort of difficult to live with. I am mad at myself. Disappointed, really. And I'm letting it get to me.

I am still running. About 16-20 miles per week. But it's getting harder and harder as I get heavier and as I let the negative talk take over my brain. I was lifting a couple of times a week, but a shoulder injury has put the kibosh on that for now. And I have not been to RIPPED in ages ... my schedule has just not lined up with available class times.

I am eating with abandon. Essentially nothing is off limits and my ratio of healthy vs. non-healthy choices is waaaaaaay off.

So, what did I do today to try and counter all of that?

I registered for a weekend class in Lake Zurich IL in April where I will become a certified running coach.

Seems obvious, right? My whole process is a shambles, so I think sitting in a room full of "real" runners and perhaps fitness professionals seems like a great idea! I can't keep my own shit in order, but I'll go find out how to tell other people how to organize theirs.

My single goal is to LEARN ... and if I'm the only one who ever uses the information, so be it. Of course, it will also give me some incentive to get back on track between now and then. That's an extra bonus.

Perhaps the best thing, though is that the mere thought of it scares me to death. I'm guessing I will likely be the most inexperienced person in the room. Or the heaviest. Or the one with the least self-confidence about being there.

I firmly believe doing something scary is a good way to get over a hump ... to shake the cobwebs out of your head and force yourself into a better place. The challenge, and the completion of it, turns up the volume on your "I can do it" meter.

The saga continues.

Forward

Hey. 

I hope you didn't forget about me. 

I didn't forget about you ... I've just been a little sideways. 

I was out for a 6-miler on Sunday, on a road I've traipsed a zillion times, lost in my head, making things far more complicated than I needed to, as usual. I was doubting my ability to finish my intended route. I was beating myself up about my failures over the past few months. Then I saw this: 

A simple blob of tar or road patch or blacktop on the pavement. Pointing forward. 

Letting me know that "forward" was where I needed to go. 

So I went. 

And I'm still going. 

I hope you are, too. 

Gears, Pedals and Seats, Oh My!

Welcome back to Part 2 of "Bikes for Beginners." Or "The Completely Non-Mechanical, Non-Scientific and Non-Expert Description of Road Bikes and Mountain Bikes." (Catchy title, right?)

Today, we'll talk about some personal preference items ... gears, pedals and seats.

GEARS: Gears mess me up.

Not because I don't know how to make them work but because I'm not great at knowing when the right time to shift is. Also, I have this caveman spot in my brain that says I should pedal for as long as possible in the hardest gear I can stand, because then I'm getting a good workout. Sweat = good. Of course that's not true. But my skull is also thick ... you know, like a caveman.

I think bikes just come with the number of gears they come with. (You're riveted by this expert commentary, aren't you?) I suppose you can modify them to be something different, but why? That being said, there is a difference between our two bikes.

The sole purpose of gears in the first place is that they allow you to keep a steady pedaling pace as you move up hills, down hills, all around town. A steady cadence helps you go farther with less effort. If you're a good shifter, you gear though inclines with ease.

I have a potential for 16 gear combinations ... my chain can move between two sprockets on the front and eight on the back. Jim has 21 total gear combinations ... three sprockets on the front and seven on the rear. In my opinion, neither one is better or worse. I'm guessing the more varied the terrain, the more gear combinations you may want to keep that effortless, steady pace going.

All I know is that I need the easy gears to get me up steep, long hills. And I'll find them wherever they are. Advice from my expert brother-in-law? Shift before you think you need to and never under strain.

When you change gears, your left hand directs the chain where to sit
on the sprockets by the pedals. I have two rings there, and Jim has
three. Your right hand moves the chain between a set of rings (sprockets)
on the rear. I have eight stacked up there and Jim has seven. 

PEDALS
This is a basic pedal, much like the one on Jim's bike and just like the one you remember on your banana-seat one speed from 1973. It's functional. It works. You already understand it.You push it down, the bike moves forward. Period.

This is a pedal with a "cage" on it It's what I have on my bike:

It's a bit smaller than the first pedal and the toe of your shoe slides into the basket-like part. What this allows is you to use some "pull" in addition to "push" when you pedal, thereby giving you a bit more umph. (That's the technical term.) On the normal pedal above, one leg is always relaxing and one is working. With the cage, both legs can be working to move you down the road.

Then there's this contraption:



They're known as "clips" because your specially-purchased-and-sort-of-expensive bike shoe literally clips ON to the pedal. Yes, your feet are attached to the bike.

They strike fear in me. I am too scared to try them. I picture myself approaching a stop sign and suddenly unable to unhook my feet from the pedals, ass over applecart as the bike falls over with me on it. I also find the noise the shoe makes when you walk into a gas station to use the bathroom a little silly. Think tap shoes.

The clip set-up gives you even MORE pull than the cage, which is why people like it. It makes you faster and gives you more bang for your pedaling buck.

Full disclosure: If you ever sign up for a bike riding event, all the cool kids will have bike shoes and clips. Some may even look at you and your pedal cages or naked pedals with little smirks. Let it roll right off of you. The amount of benefit you get from either is absolutely negligible to the average Sunday driver. If you plan on long routes, and want to work on decreasing your time, look into them. If you want to enjoy 7 or 8 miles on the bike trail, don't worry.

SEATS: And now perhaps the most important thing ... the seat. Officially it's called a saddle, so consider yourself forewarned should you get into a conversation with a purist.

My seat is on the left, Jim's on the right. Mine has essentially no padding and is flatter, narrower and overall smaller.

Prior to this week, I would have told you that all seats are so similar, it would be hard to tell the difference ... and as long as you have good padding in your shorts, it just doesn't matter that much. That's truly what I thought, in all my worldly expertise.

I stand corrected.

And I'm standing because my mommy parts still hurt from riding Jim's bike for one ass-numbing day.

So here's what I know about seats:

1. They're adjustable three ways on a good bike. Up and down (height) is the obvious way. They also adjust forward and back (front tire to rear tire) and angle (nose to heel).

2. More padding isn't better. I liken it to a pillow top mattress, which I hate. The padding can get worn from the way your but fits the seat, causing weird pockets of pouf. What seems like a little thing  at the beginning of a ride is a very big thing after an hour.

3. It's completely personal. Your butt is shaped different than mine. Our sit bones are in different places. We weigh different amounts. Our height is different. Our rides are different. And what's comfortable to you may not feel good to me.

4. The goal is to sit light, not heavy. When you get tired or when you're not in biking shape, you tend to sit heavy in the seat. You hunker down and push your pedals. The heavier you sit, the more your butt hurts. Riding light, if that makes sense, is just easier on your butt. Put your weight in your feet. Stand up and stretch every now and then. Gear properly so you're not forced to push so hard. The seat isn't there to "ride on." It's there to support you.

5. Seats have different scoop outs, contours, some even have holes in the middle and are marketed as more comfortable for men. As you can imagine, daddy parts don't logically line up with the whole bike seat concept. Since I don't have daddy parts, I can't speak to the benefit of any of these. But I can say, with complete certainty, that Jim's seat is a torture device for mommy parts, so I can only imagine what it does to him. We're shopping for a new one this week.

Tomorrow we finish with gear. (And don't lie. You secretly laugh when you see someone on the bike trail all duded up like Lance Freaking Armstrong when you know he's only going 4 miles. It's OK. You can laugh. But I'm still going to dress that way and I'll tell you why.)

The Difference Between a Road Bike and a Mountain Bike

I am not a bike expert. As with most things mechanical, I could honestly care less about the gears and sprockets and spokes and carbon fiber this and derailleur that.

I could not tell you a single thing about the latest Trek models or why Bike A is better than Bike B. I also don't believe that someone who rides like I do really notices much of a difference between a bike that weighs 2 lbs. 2 oz. and one that weighs 2 lbs. 6 oz. ... or whatever. Can elite athletes tell when their performance is aided by a smoother gear shift or carbon fiber? Yes, probably. But I'm not that athlete.

I am a bike rider, thought, so by default I have a bit of working knowledge. And, I also have access to two bikes (three, really, but one never leaves my basement) and there are distinct differences that I thought you might be interested in ... should you be shopping for a basic bike.

I'm going to show you my road bike, a Trek Lexa S, and Jim's sport mountain bike, a Trek 3 Series 3500 ... that's been modified a little from factory stock to make it a bit more road-friendly.
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TIRES: First, notice the difference in tires:



A road bike has skinny tires, inflated to 100-120 psi. They're smooth (no nubby stuff) and they ride "hard" ... not a lot of give when you're rolling over uneven surfaces. My driveway is long, hilly and gravel. I always feel sorry for my tires on it, because they just don't handle it well. They almost skid across the loose rocks and ping a few out sideways every once in a while. They're made for pavement. Period.

Jim's tires are much wider. The original tires on his bike were very nubby. Nubby is good for mountain biking. There's give and grip for uneven terrain. But nubby is not as good for road/bike trail riding. So we've traded for smooth-and-wide tires, which require inflation of 40-80 psi.

Jim's bike will handle an off-road trail and the pavement ... well enough for me to get back and forth to work or for a 20-30 mile ride comfortably. To the contrary, my bike would SUCK on an off-road trail.

If the two bikes started at the top of the same hill together, with a rider of equal weight and proportion, my bike would go down the hill faster. How do I know? I've been the rider on the slower bike. In my unscientific brain, it's because the wider tires mean more contact with the road. More contact with the road equals more "drag" ... and if I'm wrong, don't tell Mr. Raasoch. He'd be as unimpressed with my grasp of high school physics now as he was then.

HANDLEBARS: The second most obvious difference between the two bikes is the handlebars.

Mine: Curled down, like the 10-speed of your youth. They sit lower, forcing your hands a bit more forward and lower. You have the option of holding onto the curly part, too, causing a tighter tuck. You must hold them on the curly part to brake. Your brakes are on the front, meaning your hands are palms-in when you brake. Since road riding doesn't generally require a lot of braking, sharp turns or precision control, this position is OK ... it allows you to stay in that tuck.

 

Jim's: Straight out, hands a bit further apart.They are also a bit higher, allowing your body to sit more upright. Because your hands are wider and your brakes are on the ends, you brake palms down, with downward pressure on the front fork. That means more control and power when you twist and turn on an off-road trail. Your more upright body position can also mean a more comfortable ride.



Now, I'm sure that there is some aerodynamic benefit to the tuck vs. non-tuck position. A wind tunnel would certainly prove that. However, the way I ride, this measurement is completely pointless. If I'm a twentieth or a tenth of a mile per hour slower because I'm riding more upright, who the hell would notice and, more importantly, who the hell would care?

FRONT FORKS: Next up, the front fork.

Mine is rigid, skinny, flat, and not all that exciting to look at. There's no give. Remember when I said my tires rode "hard?" So does the fork.

Jim's has suspension ... like a shock in your car. It's two beefy cylinders, one inside the other, to absorb bumps a bit when you go over them. When you combine this "give" with the wider, lower psi tires, you get a smoother ride on that pesky gravel in my driveway. And over the railroad tracks. Or bridges made out of old railroad ties. However, it also makes the bike heavier.

BRAKES: The other main difference between our bikes is the brakes themselves.

I have rim brakes.

Rim brakes work by simply applying pressure to the rim of the tire. The harder I squeeze my hand, the more brake I get ... it's not terribly complicated. The pads come down and apply pressure to the rim, and, voila! ... slower rotation.

Jim has a disc brake on the front.

A disc brake uses hydraulic assist to apply pressure to the rotar ... the little silver ring in the center of the tire. The benefits of a disc brake are these:

1. In wet conditions, the holes in that ring "dry" the surface out as it's turning, allowing the pressure to work faster/better. Compare that to the squeezing of the rim on my bike ... if the rim is wet, the pads just don't work as well. Or at all.

2. The hydraulic assist allows for a smoother, more controlled/constant pressure ... not dependent on how hard I am squeezing. More controlled/constant/smoother equals faster stopping.

3. In muddy conditions, like an off-road trail, that little silver ring with holes in it is farther away from the gunk on the ground and less likely to get mucked up ... allowing better, more reliable braking. If the rim on my road bike gets muddy, the brake just can't work as well because the pads can't get to the rim, perhaps.

4. A rim brake CAN cause wear on the actual rim, which can affect tires.

So if disc brakes are so awesome, why does my fancier road bike not have them? It doesn't need them. Road bikes don't ride in mud. Road bikes don't need to brake that much ... their job is to go fast in a straight line, not twist and turn through fancy obstacles.

(Kind of the way a good Thoroughbred race horse is different from a reliable, sure-footed trail horse. One is built to go forward fast and has very little skill in anything else, no fancy footwork, no back-up or sideways walking. The other will never win a race, but will take you over streams and rocks and up and down mountains safely.)

Disc brakes also add some weight, though, again, for the kind of riding I do, that doesn't really matter.

Tomorrow, gears, pedals and seats!

Just One Stinking Tank Top

I ran this morning. A quick 4 miles in the basement, because I'm convinced that if I run outside I will get attacked by the neighborhood cougar. 

(And I don't mean Courtney Cox, HRGirl.)

When I was done, I came upstairs and headed to my bathroom for a shower. And I caught a whiff of myself. 

O.M.G. 

Rank doesn't begin to describe it. 

I smelled like a locker room full of teenage boys after a night of hard boiled eggs and beer. With Limburger cologne. 

As I peeled off my running top, I knew what the problem was. 

It wasn't me, so much as it was the 2 years worth of me that has accumulated in this particular running top. 

Peeeeeeeeeeee-yeeeeewwwwwwwww! 

Now, just in case you're thinking, "Doesn't she WASH her workout gear?" Yes, of course I do. I generally hang it to dry before I shower and wash it at night when I get home. But my two favorites are more that two years old and they've been worn and sweated in a LOT. 

They are Energy Zone brand from Shopko. Tanks with built-in shelf bras. And I love them with all my heart. I bought them at half price or about $14.99 ... not because I remember, but because I only buy them at half price. Shopko seems to have a sale every month or so. I used to have a whole rainbow of colors. But over the years, I've had to toss them out, one at a time, as they got stinky. I'm down to my last three (my two favorites and one other one). 

So obviously, your next question is, "Why have you been wearing the same, stinky shirts for two years?"

I've been wearing the same, stinky ones for two years because apparently, they don't make tank tops with built-in shelf bras anymore. Well, at least the folks at Shopko's Energy Zone brand do not. 

I look. I look every time I go there. I even make special trips to look on occasion. I have bought the separate jogging bra and loose-fit tank and I just don't like running in that. I don't want to put two things on, take two things off and wash two things when ONE will do. I like the tight fit of the bra-included tank. So sue me. 

So tonight I took to the web to find something similar. How hard can it be? 

Apparently, It's almost flippin' impossible. 

A search for Energy Zone confirmed they no longer make my favorite kind of shirts. Next step, searches on self-bra tank, sHelf-bra tanks, running tanks with bra, running singlet. All return a few things from Sierra Trading post for brands that I've never heard of, items not in my size or brands built for yoga (read: not enough support for running), things with bad reviews or this: 

This is a cute tank, in my size, with a bra, for $84.99. Yes, I said $84.99!
It had better run FOR me for $100 after shipping! See for yourself here.

Yes, I have checked Athleta and Reebok and Brooks. (Ordered two pair of shoes there, but no tops.) Yes, I have looked at Kohl's ... I own a couple of the FILA brand they carry and don't like them. The seams under the arms are killer chafers. And they're $30+. 

Guess more than one thing about this whole scenario stinks. 

Ominous Beginnings

This was the view on my bike ride into work this morning. There was a bit of a damp chill in the air and misty evidence on my bare legs and shoulders of the dark clouds that were headed east.

It made for a nice start to the day, though.

And I like the metaphor. I chased the dark clouds away and dragged in the sun.

Grocery Day Prep

Let me start by saying,

I HATE GOING TO THE GROCERY STORE.

Especially on a weekend. Especially on a weekend at Woodman's. But go, I must, at least once a week. (For the record, I barely survived today's trip ... between the construction and the approximately 873 other people in the store, I made it out just before I flipped my lid.)

But then I got home and was happy to put all of this together:

• Carrots peeled and cut. 
• Red peppers, deseeded and sliced.
• Seedless cucumbers, one sliced for snacking and one currently in the process of becoming 24-hour refrigerator pickles. 
• Jicama, peeled and matchsticked.
• Corn on the cob, shucked for dinner this evening.
• Iceburg, washed and chillin' for BLTs Monday night.
• Green grapes, rinsed and ready. 
• Bowl full o'cherries, duds removed.
• Seedless watermelon, cut up and getting cold for tonight's snack. 

After yesterday's German Fest fun, it's back to good stuff for the week. And now that it's all ready for me, there are no excuses for not eating well.

If It Feels Good, Do It

The concept is incredibly simple. Easy, almost.

Do what makes you feel good.

The hard part is knowing what feels good. And identifying what feels bad.

I read this the other day and it has stuck in my cranium:

http://well.blogs.nytimes.com/2015/07/20/rethinking-exercise-as-a-source-of-immediate-rewards/?smid=tw-share&_r=0

What is says, in a nutshell, is that perhaps it's wise to think of exercise /eating better in a new way. Perhaps we should ot think of it as means to an end ... like weight loss. But as a way to feel good. Really good. Down deep inside good. For a long time.

Or at least that's how I interpreted it.

So I started thinking about what makes me feel good. Really good.

I attack the day better, think clearer, handle stress better when I work out in the morning.

I worry and kick myself less when I eat right.

Do I like sleeping in? Yes. Do I like cake? Yes. Yes, I do. But both of those things really end up making me feel worse, not better. It's just not always the easiest thing to remember when my eyelids are heavy and there's frosting just a few feet from me in the breakroom.

When I stop and think, really think, the choice isn't as hard as it seems.

(This is Day 3 of relatively clean eating for me. The first 3-day streak in a long time.)

Efficiency

I'm still riding my bike to work a couple of times a week.

There is still no hot water.

This is how you take an ice cold shower:

1. Get washcloth, soap, shampoo and conditioner in the ready position.

2. Turn water on about half-speed and immediately jump under it, washcloth in hand. Your goal here is to get your body as wet as possible, as quickly as possible, with the water that's "in the pipes" and therefore NOT ice cold. Ignore your head at this point Your hair isn't the most important thing yet. Making sure you get the sweat and stink off is the key outcome of this step.

3. As soon as you are wet, turn water OFF. Use washcloth to scrub away. As soon as you are soapy ...

4. Turn water back on ... again at half speed. (You don't want to use that "in the pipes" water too fast.) Rinse as you spin quickly under the trickle. Get hair as wet as you can. Keep that washcloth under the water as much as possible.

5. Turn water off. Shampoo.

6. Turn water on to rinse hair ... but bend forward to do so, so that your butt/body is out of the water and only your head is in. The water is getting colder now.

7. Turn water off for lather #2. And curse the amount of "product" you have in your hair that requires two shampoos to get it all out.

8. Turn water back on for final rinse, again head first. Water is really cold now.

9. Turn water off and apply conditioner, the smallest amount you can. The less you use, the less you have to rinse out.

10. Rinse conditioner from hair. By now, the water is FREEZING and it hurts the back of your head as it hits.

11. Turn water off. Use washcloth to get the last bits of soap off.

12. If you need to make one more swipe of the important parts (my grandma called them the 3 Ps), use the wet washcloth you've been holding on to.

13. Done! And there is no steam to mess up the mirror or wreck your hair. If I had to guess, the water ran for less than 3 minutes.

The good news is that my boss has searched out parts to fix the innards of the faucet on Amazon. He says that I will eventually get warm water. And I'm not going to lie.

I can't wait.

I Am Strong

Today, I am loving my body.

I've been pretty down on it lately. It's too big. I'm carrying too much weight. There's too much squish and my clothes are not fitting properly. 

I'm really not fond of the muffing top that appears with my jeans. 

But you know what? 

I still love my body. 

I ran Saturday morning. Lately, every mile has been a real challenge. I've been feeling big and lethargic and heavy. 

Saturday morning I felt at home. The best way I can describe it is comfortable in my own skin. My feet hit the pavement methodically, one in front of the other. My breathing was even and steady. And I covered 5 miles after a 1-hour RIPPED workout with relative ease. 

It made me feel like a million bucks.

This body has been bigger. This body has been smaller. When it was bigger, I didn't trust it. I didn't trust that I was good enough or strong enough.

Today, I know I am good enough. I am strong enough. My body will take me where I want to go, when I want to go there. Through this whole process, and it is an ongoing process, I have learned to trust me.

It hasn't come easy. It's taken practice to believe that I can do "it" ... whatever it is.

But today, at almost 48 years old, I know I can.

I love that.

P.S. Here's one more thing I love. I got a message from our old friend New Runner today. This morning she logged a personal best distance of 6 miles!  That's SIX MILES ... that's the distance between Fort and Jefferson, y'all! What I love most about it is that I know she's feeling the same way about her body tonight. She's proud of what it can do.