the moose in my canyon

monday morning the road was damp. 
wet in places, puddles collected in potholes and deep cracks in the asphalt. my bike's headlight, on low beam, shot silver across the dark road and lit each pool and spill. the air, damp as well, carried scent of soil, pungent stalks and fragrant sage. 

heavy clouds bunched grey and fat a hundred feet above the summit, their outline clear to me only after I'd pedaled halfway up the dark road into the lightening morning. two kilometers from the top my headlight was no longer necessary and the night's rain was beginning to sink into the ground.

at the peak I paused to pull on a windjacket, then swooped down to the reservoir, eyes searching the hillsides for deer, secretly hoping for a coyote. as I neared the final curve before the reservoir, I saw two dark shapes by the shoulder, four-legged, all of those limbs long and spindly. I braked, slowed, looked left, saw three deer on the hill gazing down, and then I looked back at the two moose. yearlings, I first thought, and as I neared them I realized one was much bigger than the other and I swallowed, mom.

how fast can a moose run?
how was I going to sneak past them on the way back up the hill, where my top speed might be 12 mph?
mom observed me as I cruised past, not 15 feet away. the deer uphill followed with their eyes.
at the reservoir I circled and headed back up the road, heart beating wildly, silently asking the moose to let me pass peacefully. the deer, now on my right, remained firmly planted, heads turning with my movement. the moose, dark, knobby and gangling, watched me as well, immobile but for their staring eyes. I stole looks at them all, heart fiery, palms damp inside my gloves, as I pedaled round and round, moving past, leaving them all to their early morning feast.

glee

when I stand on my pedals to coast over wide speed humps,
I am eight again.

nuff said.

anti anhedonia

I haven't ridden my bicycle since november. two long months ago.
perhaps that's why I've been in a slump.
the blues, lethargy, anhedonia*.

instead of splashing creeks, crisp air, chattering squirrels and birds, soaring hawks, wide-eyed deer, the kiss of sun and the cooling rush of air, I've been sitting on an uncomfortable saddle (which some describe as the head of a shovel) in a rectangular room with tinted windows, rubber mat flooring, while listening to someone else's (sometimes great, sometimes not so great) playlist.

I want my bicycle back.

because with it comes inspiration, exhaustion, rejuvenation.
peace, effort, exhilaration, joy, pleasure, playfulness, accomplishment, fear and fearlessness.
swooping.
delight.
achievement.

in the spin room I have camaraderie, shared pain, heat, sweaty towels, and cyclists in front of me I can never catch. (on the other hand, neither am I ever dropped by them.) I have a fan for a tailwind.

yesterday I hiked in the snow. I walked for miles along the pipeline, a favorite mountain-biking trail for many locals. thick with snow, it traverses the mountainsides high above millcreek canyon road, edged at times by rough rocks, canopied at times by scrub oak, often completely exposed, a narrow track cut into a sloping hillside. the drop-off, at those exposed sections, is vast and steep, and I do best to keep my eyes averted.
as I plodded through newly fallen snow, ice crusting my hat, my boots water logged, I longed for the speed of my bicycle, its ability to take me from one place to another in that perfectly paced span of time.
I thought about a fat-tired bike. each time I skate ski on my favorite road that leads up big mountain, I see men on fat-tired bikes, riding on the snow.
I tried to picture myself, riding the snowy pipeline trail on a big, fat-tired bike.
I smiled.
it cheered me up.
however, I think I'll have to patiently wait for a dry day, a sunny day, when the snow and ice have pulled back from the bike lanes, the snowmelt keeps to the edges, and the bicycle gods whisper in my ear,
come play.


*anhedonia:  the loss of interest in previously rewarding or enjoyable activities

mind shift

my bicycle has 22 gears.  you can almost think about them as being on a continuum, moving from least-helpful to most-helpful, with just a bit of overlap in the middle.
our brains have an infinite number of gears, and I suppose you could place them on the same type of continuum.
my bicycling brain, however, has seemed to have very few gears, namely

• go hard
• go less hard
• don't go

don't go, of course, is a complete recovery day.  these are the days that increase your strength as your overtaxed muscles rebuild. usually once a week.
go less hard is a riding-recovery day, when I (try to) keep my heartrate at a mid to low level. maybe once a week.
go hard is every other day.

but I threw a spanner in the works this year.
april, 2015, came and went, and I didn't sign up for lotoja.  first time in 8 years.
without the carrot of a 206-mile race in september, I, mmm, well, relaxed.
no pressure to ride for 80 miles every saturday, nor to do frequent multiple canyon rides. my longest ride of the summer was 82 miles, and my typical saturday ride has been about 60.
I've ridden at least 1000 less miles than I usually have racked up by the end of september, and I haven't missed the training stress one iota.

however, I still have been limited by those same 3 mental gears. go hard, go less hard, don't go.

until yesterday.
I'd had a draining week, and was squeezing a ride in around other commitments. I knew I was mentally depleted, so I promised to go easy on myself. I would ride how I rode, with the only goal being to have a good experience.
the universe gave me a 69 degree start, gentle wind, someone to draft riding to the canyon mouth, and a tailwind all the way back.
I made such good time I stopped at great harvest for a treat on my way home.

I now have a new gear. a fourth gear. I call it go well.
and I plan to use it more frequently.

outlook

I find more to be right with the entire world
when I begin my day with a pre-dawn ride
up a canyon.

ode to the commuter

to see one riding on her way
across the asphalt road
with bags attached and fenders strong
legs afire, this transporting mode

keeps air more clean and particle-free
and works his muscles well
chain marks on his calf, or narrow pant
are often the cycling tell

panniers on the rear, one left, one right
carry her work, her clothes
while she wears helmet, glasses, gloves and coat
and covers to protect her toes

he rides with caution and with ease
the streets he knows by heart
snow and rain and wind and hail
he from his bicycle won't part

I ride behind her fully at peace
I trust her every decision
her movements are so smooth I am
captured by the vigilance and precision

I am not nearly so strong and true
as to daily ride my way around town
I admire the commuter, each her, each him,
my highest respect and regard are theirs, hands down.


yesterday was SLC's Mayor's Bike to Work day, with mayor ralph becker and county mayor ben mcadams.
a hundred or so cyclists showed up at the starting point, and moseyed through bike paths and city streets to the city-county building downtown.
I've never felt so confident riding behind cyclists:  these commuters are steady, vigilant, smart, and wise.  thus the ode. (which proves why I am not a poet!)

hats off to every commuter, everywhere ~  hats off, and helmets on.

nine dollars

The road up Big Mountain, gated during winter months, offers surprise and delight each spring. Receding snow pulls back inch by inch, revealing moose and deer scat, red rock gravel tumbled down from hillsides, new cracks and frost heaves. A bolt from a snowmobile, a mangled and misshapen glove, a ski pole basket. Familiar landmarks, and the intangible but certain promise of new growth.

While the road is still closed to motor traffic, intrepid cyclists ford fingers of snow and ice to reach bare asphalt and continue their upward journeys. This year the plow came early, shoving aside, during the first week of March, what little snow remained. On a bright April day the road, though free of snow, is not free of gravel and rocks and red dust, nor the rare but deadly shard that pokes up and into unfortunate bicycle tires.

I felt it, argued against it, doubted myself, convinced myself it was true, and finally, braked to a slow stop. The rear tire—of course—the one with the complicated derailleur to navigate as I take the wheel off and endeavor to put it back on. The chain goes under this one—no, over—no, this way around the cassette . . .

Biking Buddy Bob played the hero role, removing my tire, stripping the deflated tube, then checking for the culprit, the minuscule piece of glass, rock, metal I had run over. Nothing. I handed him the new tube, the cartridge in its dispenser. Five minutes, maybe a few more, and we were again pedaling, heading down toward the reservoir, Little Mountain summit, home.

I ride thousands of miles, outside, each year. I bicycle our Wasatch canyons regularly, grunting and sweating as I climb, grinning like a fool as I descend. I clean my chain, wash my bike, re-lube. I keep a spare tube and cartridge and sunscreen in my tiny seat pack. Ten bucks and an expired driver license in my front bento box. And I get a flat tire perhaps two or three times a year. Tube, seven dollars. Cartridge, two dollars.

Each spring I participate in the greening of our world. Trees sprout buds, gray-brown trunks and limbs flecked with pale green hope. Red twig dogwood deepens in color, thickens. The shoots of winter-dormant plants green the hillsides, creeping their way up the canyon, each week another few hundred feet higher. Trees then burst into leaf and blossom, bird’s nests once again veiled by fluttering leaves. I tuck behind Biking Buddy Bob’s wheel and float down the canyon.

I pedal as summer heats the earth, as brilliant yellow arrowleaf balsamroot dies, cracks break apart earth, the creeks quiet and laze downhill. Crisp morning air, hot midday sun, sweat, dirt, grime, brownies at Brighton, a PayDay at the East Canyon Resort store. Sunflowers burst, their heliotropic heads following daylight east to west. When they, too, die, stalks thin and dry, and temperatures drop, the world again changes in front of my wheels, and I pedal up the canyon and skirt lumps of snow pushed against the berm. More layers, toe covers, pink cheeks, the thrill of a hot shower back home. The gate at the base of Big Mountain is once again locked. Snow falls, then melts.

Tube, seven dollars. Cartridge, two.

wildlife

stormclouds are hovering over the salt lake basin, sitting on our mountain peaks. they swirl, whisking away, returning, then tumbling down and releasing themselves, sometimes torrentially, sometimes as widely scattered sprinkles. they've been here for days and days.

they release rain in the afternoon, during the night, in the middle of the day.

I went to bed last night convinced that the night rain would stop sometime in the deep, black, early hours. my cycling clothes sat in a pile in the bathroom, and I'd pumped up my tires and checked my lights before I closed up for the night. alarm set for 4:45, I was going to have an early morning ride in between storms.
when I opened the garage door I looked at my driveway, noticing the damp cement that was beginning to dry, but also noticing hundreds of little dark spots that looked suspiciously like raindrops. I looked up, there was the almost-full moon, just a few thin clouds passing nearby.
clouds hung more thickly over the canyon.
well, hell, I was dressed, ready to go, what's a little rain?

it only sprinkled on me during the first mile, and for a few miles in the middle of my ride and I learned, many years ago, that I do not melt.
the pavement, however, was damp in the good spots, and plain old wet most everywhere else.
when I first spotted one, I thought it was a twig.
the second one was not a twig.
ten inches long, glowing with the reflection of my headlight, its tumid body slick with rain.

legless wildlife?

ick.
another one. eight inches.
another one, six or seven inches, then a big long twelve-incher.  little five inchers.
everywhere.
un-dodge-able.
I've heard that when you cut an earthworm into two pieces, each will grow into a unique body again. (apparently it depends upon where it is amputated -- the worm can possibly grow a new head or a new tail, or become two worms, or just die.)
I'm guessing that when I run over an earthworm, I'm probably cutting it into two pieces, and occasionally, cutting it in the exact right spot.
does this mean I'm increasing the earthworm population?

near the bottom of the canyon, on my way homeward, movement off to my right caught my attention. a deer, no, three deer. a fawn, two doe, grazing the hillside.

I prefer my wildlife to have legs.

girl versus gnarl

not me:  no cyclocross in my future
(cyclingpigs.tumblr.com)

spring riding means—for me—short sleeve jerseys. with armwarmers or a wind jacket for early starts, downhills, and cloud cover. 

but this spring (until the snowstorm two days ago) has given us plentiful warm, sunny days where nothing more than a jersey is needed.

unfortunately, I seem to always forget sunscreen on my arms, and thus, I have a farmer’s tan, a golfer’s tan, that terrible line across the middle of my bicep where skin changes from sun-kissed to fish belly white.

I was moaning about this to Biking Buddy Bob the other day, and he looked askance at me.

I’m always surprised, he said, I think of you as pretty gnarly, and every once in a while you show that you’re, um---

girly? I supplied.

yes, he said, girly.

I’m really more girly than gnarly.

I’d much rather be in a dress than in cycling jersey and shorts. but it’s difficult to ride a bike that way.

I’d rather be clean, with my hair styled, not sweated into disarray.

I’d rather not have grease, grime, dirt, and dust embedded in my pores.

I’d rather not have white salt stains running down the side of my face, and down the back of my shorts.

thank God there aren’t mirrors in most porta-potties, outhouses, and vault toilets.

my gnarly side is the one that says yes to adventure, I can do it to ridiculous rides.  it is gnarl that grits teeth and swallows pain.

it’s girl that can’t wait for that shower, clean clothes, face cream, a hair dryer.

the problem with being girly is that you miss out on adventure, epic experiences, and fodder for great stories. scars. grease tattoos.

so this girly person has traded some girl for some gnarl, and is happier for it.

well, happier after she takes that shower, dries her hair, and puts her dress back on.

snow fords

there are those who will cross snow, and those who won't.

and of course, those who will cross snow if it's no more than
10 yards wide
10 feet wide
3 feet wide
a foot

I know of a cycling couple who abide by a rule of never getting off their bikes to walk over snow. never. no matter what.
they'll come back the next day, the next week; they wait for it to melt. they are patient.

I will cross fingers of snow. sometimes really FAT fingers of snow.  maybe six or even ten feet wide.
but there must be a long stretch of clear asphalt visible on the other side.

this winter has given us so little snow that I'm able to ride farther up big mountain than usual for march. the top three miles of the climb twist, bend, and switchback upon themselves. as a result, some stretches melt clear of snow long before others.
yesterday, biking buddy bob and I rode up to the point where snow thoroughly covered the road.
and then we stopped. we knew that the snow before us probably only stretched a hundred yards or so ~ and then the road was probably bare for quite a ways, before it curved back into the shade where snow remained thick upon its surface.
"do you want to walk it?"  he asked.
"no way. you?"
"nope."
we looked up the northern hillside, red rock, almost completely free of snow. the road cuts across, and we watched two cyclists speeding down.
forders.
those who walk their bikes across snow.

we turned our bikes, and headed to the next canyon over.

grunt. sweat pooling on my forehead, trickling into my right eye, its salt stinging. I blink, close the eyelid for seconds at a time, try to clear the pain. quadriceps shrieking, angry, moments from defiance, a battle in my head. stop--no--another revolution.  stop.  no.  I cannot do this.  my granny gear won't hold, my mind tells my legs, you'll have to push harder.  harder. I ache to stop, I ache, triceps tight and stiffening, a trickle of electricity ripples my torso, sparks, my abdominal muscles shouting through the skin.

sixty feet. battle. wind presses my back and slips past me.  rushing upward. it cools my skin but my forehead still drips into my eye, stabs of pain, needles. I hold my right eye shut and look at the gray hillside, distraction, please.  snow-matted, ugly, bare sticks of trees, scrub oak bumpy and twisted.  thin clouds lighten the sky, fade its color to the palest blue.  twenty feet.  pain both dull and pervasive, and angrily sharp in fiery strips of muscle.  fifteen.  the road flattens in four revolutions, three, two.  five feet.  quads immediately hush, they loosen, quiver in delight.  buds, pale green, smaller than peas, peek, dirt-crusted snow lies at the edge of the road like a remnant of last night's party.  legs turn faster, speed increases, my eye is clear.
four more miles, some easy, some hard.  then the gate. beyond the gate, snow.

snow which I will not ford, but will look at with respect, before I turn my bicycle and my back, and fly all the way back down the canyon to a city that holds no snow, anywhere.

it ain't like riding a bike

the other day I was struck by the realization that I keep choosing things that are hard.
I was on my forearms, my hips a foot above the floor, in a plank position. the instructor told us,
"now lift your right arm, and your left foot."
sweat poured, and the part of me that wasn't straining to find a way to move my arm---just lift it the tiniest bit, come on, you can do this---was laughing.
it was nearly impossible.
they call it teeter-totter, and expect you to strain, wobble, touch again and again.
it was yoga, but a core class, all about strengthening core muscles by engaging them, pushing them beyond boundaries. sweating like hell.

when I bicycle, I go up hill. I push hard. I sweat like hell. my heart beats so fast and strong I hear the tattoo in my ears.

and this winter, I've taken up skate skiing.
which is hard---especially when you're determined to make it up that rise, to the top of the next hill, just like the ones who know what they're doing.  and even they sweat.

I've had four lessons so far. I've gone out twice, on my own, to practice.  in the moments when everything clicks, I love it. the grace, the glide. the flow of it all, shifting from one leg to the other, sailing on snow.
but climbing the hills sends my heart rate skyrocketing. and I push. I bend my knees, widen my stance, speed my tempo. get up that hill.
push.

and at the beginning of each session, I have to learn, all over again, how to be on skies.

I grew up skiing, first in michigan, then in utah. I skied until I had four children, when I stopped out of pure exhaustion.  and now, twenty years later, after 6 times on skis, my body is beginning to remember what it's like to be on skis.

it's not like riding a bike.

but it's returning. and when I have my rhythm, I'm in heaven.
when I'm pushing to get up those hills, it's hell.

some day, perhaps, I will learn how to back off.  how to take--and enjoy--a restorative yoga class.  how to go for a leisurely bike ride.  how to glide along on skis and take my time getting across the expanse of track and up the rises and hills.

but for now, I seem to be in a place of push. work. sweat. tackle what's hard.
it's not all about the chocolate cake at the end . . . though I do love my carbs.

it's deeper. it's about exploring boundaries. searching for edges. and at those places of pain and doubt, finding grace.

impatience

once again, I am waiting for my world to warm.
it's dreary outside, sunlight baffled by rippling clouds that stripe the sky. blue is unveiled in narrow strips, but nothing today makes a shadow, not building nor tree nor jogger with white breath.

it will warm, they say. it's barely surpassed my threshold, and I'm promised another ten degrees before the high is met, and thus I wait.  ten degrees is significant:  it is toe-covers instead of full booties, it is thin gloves not fat, it is the fuchsia coat alone, without another on top.

but I fear my patience is ebbing, as I've already waited for hours. the desire to move is more powerful than the desire to be warm.

I can ride low, stay in the city instead of climbing a canyon:  this will save me degrees, ice, snow, the rooster-tail up my back.
it will take from me some joy, and replace it with the frustration of cars and stoplights, but it will allow me to pedal away sooner.

I ache to leave. to put my body in motion, to out-pedal the discomfort of being unsettled, of wanting, of desire. budhhism suggests all temporary things and states are unsatisfying.  that it is our desires that cause our suffering.

I desire warmth so that I may outpedal my other desires.
but perhaps I will honor the budhhist path and ride in discomfort, to embrace that which is given me.

it's climbed another 3 degrees, and I have plenty layers.  my house is warm, I can heat water and wrap myself in blankets upon my return.

I could wait, or I could go.

the fat on the inside of my knees

life offers tremendous opportunities for self-improvement, from niggling neighbors who point out the shortcomings of your gardening skills to relationship disasters to hangovers.
there are self-help books, programs, therapists, doctors, landscapers, AA.
but when it comes to our bodies, there exist some tiresome, seemingly irresponsible design flaws, most prominently, the inability to direct weight loss to specific targeted areas.

ask any man over, say, middle age-ish, just how hard it is to lose those love handles.
ask any woman who's ever lost weight if it came from places she wanted (ha!) or didn't want it to.

my impossible zone is the inside of my knees, where my body has retained fat since the day I was born, preparing for that inevitable global freezing.  you know, those little chubby legs every baby is loved for, the ones most people outgrow?  my inner knees refuse to let go.  they are going to hold that fat forever, and laugh at the rest of the world when temperatures drop and everyone everywhere is freezing except me, warmed forever by that extra body fat.

the main reason I started cycling was to firm up my flabby upper legs.  and it's done wonders for that ~ everywhere except for the insides of my knees.
and after 8+ years, I don't see a big change coming.

so I'm prepared.  I'm ready.  let global warming throw it's best at me, because I am ready.  that stubborn, exercise-and-diet-resistant fat is going to ensure my survival in the wickedest winter weather, when all those slender-legged women freeze to death.  ha!  payback!
I will survive!

lessons from bob and andy

there's always something to learn.  a million things, actually.
and as much as I love cycling alone, losing myself in the rhythm of pedaling, the shortness of breath, the blue sky or clouds or mist or blinding sunlight, it's when I'm with my biking buddies that I often  learn something deeply meaningful.

from bob, lately, it's this:  saturday cycling is not at all about the destination, but completely about the company and the opportunity to be outside.  not at work, not performing chores, not shopping for necessities.  outside, away from the city, somewhere where the sky grows wider and trees fragrance the air and hillsides draw the eye up and up.

from andy, lately, comes this awesome lesson:  slow down.
andy is still in recovery from last february's significant back surgery, and he hasn't been able to train, put the miles in, as he has in the past.  he's a bit slower than usual, and to be social, I have to hold myself back a bit and, yep, slow down.
the world, for years, has been trying to tell me to slow down.  I don't listen well.

yesterday, I rode by myself but thought of bob and andy and worked to incorporate---take into the body---both pieces of wisdom.   and my ride was, mm, an experience almost beyond words.

I set off mid-morning, the sky pure blue, the air a bit chilly but fresh, invigorating.  and I rode like I was glad to be outside, and in no hurry.  I climbed a canyon, peacefully, astounded by the trees, the bouncing water in the creek, the silvery waterfalls, the mossy rocks and shining flat stream where fishermen stood in tall boots.  gratitude and restraint combined to make my ride one of the best of the year...
gratitude, and restraint.

there is much to learn from those around us.

namaste
 

ownership

today the coyote feigned nonchalance as I pedaled slowly past, a scant seven feet away, 

silently beseeching him to meet my eyes; 

it is as if by ignoring me he retains ownership of the land, 

the hill and even the asphalt strip on which he stands, casually staring anywhere 

but at me.

freeze frame

there are moments of my cycling life that I often wish I could freeze:  stop the action, take a 360 degree shot of the moment, somehow distill it into a memory drop that I can access again at any moment, feeling the thrill, the joy, the gloriousness of those incredible moments.

• swooping down little mountain, headed to the reservoir, after the 10-mile climb is behind me
• crossing the finish line at lotoja, especially that first year
• cresting my 6th high mountain pass on day 2 of the double-triple-bypass, knowing that it was all downhill from there
• riding past the bear, who startles and lopes off into a yard, his brown hind end high and shaggy
• coasting down into ouray, colorado, from red mountain pass, pedaling through "little switzerland"
• surprising and being surprised by the coyote the dozen times I have this summer
• laughing at the oblivious porcupines waddling across the road
• being face to face with an owl as daylight begins opening up the morning

I don't know the trick for remembering these---and more---extraordinary moments, except that it must begin with acknowledging them for the gifts they are, then writing them down in attempts to capture the essence if not the entire event.  too easily they slip to dark corners, get lost, disappear, much like those of our childhood, of our earlier lives, even of raising our own children.

I hope to hold these forever.  and I hope to keep adding to the list (and not just moments related to cycling) because I've been told there's limitless room in our memory banks . . . we might as well do our damnedest to fill them to overflowing, so that some day when it's dark and quiet we can relive them in our minds, reassuring ourselves of how fabulous it's been to be fully alive.

hair of the dog

lotoja was 2 days ago.
206 miles, logan utah to jackson wyoming, elevation gain somewhere around 8,000 feet, a long day in the saddle.
I completed my 7th, and as always, am incredibly glad to have it behind me.
what I felt at the end this year was not the elation felt in most other years, but gratitude that it was over---safely and completely.  I considered putting my bike away for the season, as quite a few do, or at least for a week, a few days, a while.

today I got back on my bike.

it's the hair of the dog thing ~ the only cure for exhausted, depleted, overly-strained muscles is to put them back to work.

and it was a great ride.  70 degrees, blue skies, cool in the shade up the canyon, a bit of a tailwind up at the bottom and a headwind at the top--both of which reversed for the descent.  trees are turning and the air is crisp, and numerous rainy days of the past month have kept foliage along the route surprisingly green.

those heliotropic (and non-heliotropic) sunflowers are bright as raw egg yolk, cheery and moving gently with the breeze.  we're in this amazing stretch of almost-autumn where the unrelenting heat of summer has passed and many of us creatures begin to revive, soaking in as much sun and air and beauty as we can before winter's hibernation creeps back toward us.

I ache here and there, glutes and hamstrings and peculiarly the instep of my right foot, but I feel strong and capable and the tiniest bit hollow as though I've left something behind somewhere that I can't quite remember.

but the hair has helped.  it's reminded me that life continues, it moves along, whether or not we believe we're ready for it.  it loosened me and challenged me and ultimately, helped me again feel at one with this beautiful land we live upon.

I'm glad to be this far into september, two days past lotoja, ready to welcome what autumn promises to bring.

signals

while cycling, I sometimes yell at cars.  a refined yell, not a scream or shriek.  just loud enough that I feel good about putting energy into the noise, yet restrained enough that I know they're unlikely to hear me.
and what I most often yell is
blinkers!
use your blinkers!

the other day my 18-year-old daughter and I were driving to an appointment and she commented on a motorist who didn't use blinkers to signal a turn . . . I can't believe how many people don't use their blinkers.  I hate it.  
I, of course, had a small moment of parental pride, yes! I've trained my child to use and respect blinkers!
I've spent a bit of time contemplating the blinker situation, why people do and do not use them.  I've decided that drivers who don't use blinkers to signal their intentions are some combination of ignorant, arrogant, lazy, and distracted.
arrogant tops the list.

my other daughter pointed out to me that one can apply for a driver's license and NOT have to take a driver education course if one is age 19 or older.  maybe some motorists are simply ignorant.

distracted drivers?  not too hard to imagine.
lazy?  ditto.

whatever the cause, motorists who don't signal their intentions cause me grief as a cyclist.
just as, I suppose, cyclists who don't signal their intentions cause grief to motorists.

so I try not to be arrogant, ignorant, lazy, or distracted . . . and use my blinkers in my car, and my arms when I'm riding.

there's not one thing wrong with letting the world know where you're going.

see you at the lotoja finish line next week!
and the bestseller list next year,
and at the mini dealership for my new car a bit after that . . .

I have no problem letting you know where I'm going.

under the perigee moon

last sunday night's perigee moon was one of three perigee moons this year, the moon appearing 30% brighter than normal and appearing 14% bigger as it reached the point of its orbit closest to earth - 221,765 away, but the closest it ever comes. 

this perigee or supermoon was the second, and biggest, of a trio of supermoons to appear in our skies this summer.

on july 12, a smaller supermoon occurred, while on september 9 another is due to appear.  the next after that will be september 29, 2015.

and isn't perigee a cool word?  peri-near, gea-earth.

well, guess what a big, huge, full, super moon means for this early-morning cyclist?

yep, you're right:  an incredible ride without a headlight.

last monday morning I walked my bicycle out of the garage and was confused by how bright it was outside:  had I somehow lost an hour?  usually 4:50 is ink dark, and it was lit as though by street lamps everywhere.  I grinned and looked up, and saw the moon grinning back at me.  everywhere.

I must have smiled the entire way up the canyon, riding through moon shadows made by trees lining the road.  I'd turn my front light on whenever I saw or heard a car approaching, and then quickly turn it off once they passed.  

the question, of course, is why.  why is this such a delight?  and the only answer that will unveil itself to me is that the absence of artificial light draws me that much closer to the natural world.  the real world.  the earth, rocks, hills and trees that surround and support us.   losing my battery-powered light allows me access to the authentic dawn, which comes subtly and particle by particle as I move slowly through it all.  I myself become subtle, I blend into my surroundings.  I am one with the morning, more peaceful, more delighted by my moon-given opportunity to shed edison's invention.

when sunflowers follow the sun

years ago I fell in love with heliotrope:  the word, the color (purple), the flower (sweet, delicate, and purple.)
over time, heliotrope faded into a fold of my memory bank and I hadn't thought about it until today when I began researching sunflowers.  no, there isn't a purple sunflower, but sunflowers do possess the attribute of being heliotropic, which sounds suspiciously like heliotrope but like many things in our intriguing english language, has nothing at all to do with being purple.

sunflowers have popped.  it's august, it's hot, and these cheery tall plants gently bend and wave along the sides of emigration canyon road as I bike past.  it's only been a few weeks since they burst forth,  and they've brightened my mornings as their little heads catch my light beams.

the first clump I noticed had blooms facing east, and I remembered that sunflowers follow the sun ~ facing east in the morning and west in the afternoon.  in the early morning dark they'd already turned their heads toward the sun that hadn't yet risen, and I thought, these flowers are just like me.

at night before I retire, I pull together the biking gear I'll need in the morning:  shorts, top, heart monitor and socks in the bathroom, cyclometer and lights on the bike, shoes, helmet and glasses by the door, water bottles on the counter next to a protein breakfast bar.  I prep before the sun comes up.

so too the sunflowers.  I thought.
until I noticed that some sunflowers, in the early morning dark, were still facing west.
and then some faced east.  random?  or was the story that sunflowers followed the sun just a myth?

to google I went, and while googling I bumped into a tweaked version of my old friend heliotrope.

heliotropism is a trait of moving toward the sun.  and sunflowers are heliotropic.  well, the actively growing parts of sunflower plants are heliotropic.  young leaves and buds still in need of photosynthesis are heliotropic;  once the leaves and flowers have matured, they no longer chase the sun because their needs have been met.
and this is how they do it:  during the day, the stem on the side away from the sun elongates, tilting immature flowers and leaves toward the sun.  as the sun moves, the stem adjusts, which allows the flowers to face first east and then west.  in the dark, the process continues, preparing the plant by pulling it back into position for the next morning's light.

mature flowers no longer need to follow the sun, and will face any direction, often hanging their heads from the weight of seeds.

so.
I guess I'm like the young, immature sunflowers, preparing ahead of time for what's to come.  stretching one part of myself to help another, keeping a vision of something bright always in view.  knowing what I need, and availing myself of that:  bikes rides, great conversation, a few baked goods,  fabulous books, strong coffee, hot showers, plenty water, productivity, a goal or two.
friends, love, hugs, a good chamois.  google.

and bike rides in the dark so I can learn about things like heliotropism.