peeing etiquette

I'm quite certain emily post never wrote an essay about bicycling etiquette.
and even if she had, she probably wouldn't have covered the topic I need to have covered:
The Proper Way to Deal With Male Cyclists Who Are Relieving Their Bladders.

I never know what to do.

they are out there in just about every event I've participated in, back to the road (usually), hand(s) occupied, stream sometimes visible.

emily would be appalled, I'm sure.
then she would tell us to ignore the spectacle.
which is what I do, mostly because I'm caught somewhere between being disgusted and being envious.

today, however, I found myself in a strange position, and was saved only by the fact that the men doing the peeing ignored me.

I rode my usual ride up emigration, down to the reservoir, then east to the gate. the snow has pulled back gradually over the past few weeks, and each time I slip around the locked gate I check the mileage to see just how far I can get before the road is blocked by a frozen white barrier.
two days ago I could ride four-tenths of a mile, but the temperatures have sucked every bit of ice from the reservoir---it had an ice cap covering a good sixty percent of it two days ago---and dried up more of the road. I could see where the bare asphalt ended as I approached the snow, and I could also see two cyclists stopped, standing by their bikes at the side of the road at that point.
I drew closer, as I always like to ride to the very last point of surface I can, and as the shapes became distinctly male, it also became clear that they were peeing. their backs were to me, and I came close enough to see a pretty strong stream of pee arcing into the snow beside the road. I didn't know what to do.
did they hear my coasting click-click-click as I slowed my approach?
did they assume there could be no one else nearby?
did they not care if there were?

I wanted to say hello, I wanted to not be there. I wanted them to not be there.

so I turned a bit earlier than I would have liked, and headed back toward the reservoir.

emily, what's the answer?

anyone?

the great escape

here's a not-so-secret secret:
I have been in intensive therapy for the past almost-five years.

I've changed therapists a few times, from a rather heavy, stable, predictable gal to someone a little more streamlined and frosty, to my current therapist, a gal named ruby who is sleek and slender, sharp and responsive, understated yet subtly persuasive, and always ready and available for a session.
the best thing about my therapists is that they all--all--work outdoors. none of this sit-on-a-couch stuff. they're into movement and nature, and they've all been extremely tolerant of less-than-perfect conditions.
they don't mind getting a little wet.
they don't mind cloudy skies and temperatures in the 40's.
they don't even seem to mind those 100 degree days, though I'm tempted to believe they prefer heading up canyons when the air gets that hot.

I've been with ruby for over two years now, and have spent so much time with her you'd think I wouldn't need her anymore. but the thing with this kind of therapy is that it becomes a regular, almost standing, appointment. it's more like yoga and meditation: daily practices that heal and soothe, center and relieve one of stress and anxiety.

ruby and her predecessors have helped me learn many things, not the least of which is that I am capable of more than I thought I was.
I've also learned:

• no matter how long the road before you, the only way to shorten it is to move forward.


• one's mind will opt out long before one's body will.


• the only way to get up a hill is to start pedaling, and keep doing so until you reach the top.


• the less baggage you carry, the easier it is to move forward.


• some baggage is necessary for caring for yourself along the way. it's okay to carry a little.


• rewards you earn are more enjoyable than those just given to you.


• we all need an escape at times.


• what hurts for a little while will ultimately make you a stronger person.


• it doesn't matter whether those rivulets running down your cheek are tears, sweat, or a result of wind-irritated eyes. it's all good.


• before you can go anywhere, you have to be where you are.

and then this:

all the training in the world won't get you anywhere unless you possess and exercise some courage.

the initial investment in my therapy made me gulp, and changing therapists can be expensive, too. but the daily expenditure is minimal, and mental health is truly priceless.

no more no

I have a new life philosophy.
I have decided not to accept "no" anymore.

I've spent years in this meek, subservient place of "okay, whatever you say," and it's time for that to end. I've reframed, I've accepted, I've been nice. I've been kind, supportive, understanding, patient, enduring, tolerating, one big ball of acquiescence.
ENOUGH!
I'M DONE!

it's time to start expecting "yes," and not putting up with "no."
the world is forewarned: I expect nothing less than everything from now on.

does this strike home? do you ever find yourself just sitting in a place of mediocrity, going along, tolerating, dealing with what is because that's all there seems to be? I woke up the other day to realize that I'd fallen into this (terrible) place of not expecting anything better than "just okay." here's an example:

my son is applying for college, and his number one pick has placed him on their waiting list. they promise nothing, and make it clear that those on the waiting list have somewhere between a zero and a 25 percent chance of making it in. oh, probably not worth sitting on that list, might as well just say "no thanks."

my reaction was WIMPY!

the me who just woke up the other day has a different response: of course he'll sit on that waiting list, and he'll call them and write a letter and let them know that he intends to be one of those who get admitted. why not?? why give up a dream just because someone says, "well, maybe . . . "

I'm also in the process of securing an agent for my book. (not trying to find one, securing one.) so far, many have said no thanks. but I'm not done. not at all. I will find one, because I will no longer take "no" as a permanent state of the world. I am done with that.

so there.

I just registered for lotoja. this will be my 5th, and I am going to kick its butt this year.

so there.

that 206 mile thing

it's here.
officially, I'm two days late in commenting on it.
I have five more day before I'm too late to sign up.
and I don't really want to talk about it.

maybe that's because it's gray outside, ugly and windy and disheartening to someone (me) who wants it to be gloriously spring. it's hard to dredge up enthusiasm for a twelve-hour bike ride when I only want to be snugly wrapped in a blanket, sitting on my couch, reading a book or perhaps even dozing.

my legs are tired. my hips are in that painful transition back into yoga, where their ridiculously-tight selves are being asked to loosed up and relax. (yes, I could still add more pigeons to my life.) I've squeezed in a few bike rides lately, alternating between toe covers and full booties, braving the temps the other day by wearing capris instead of full tights.
I'm tired of full gloves.
I'm tired of headbands, beanies, and jackets.
I'm tired of goosebumps and shivers and ice cream headaches from the cold.
and I'm really, really tired of gray.

yesterday the sun shone brilliantly for hours. everything seemed possible: I even thought about visiting the lotoja website and signing up. today gloom has resettled itself upon us, and there's no way I'm going to www.lotojaclassic.com.

the grass outside my window is greening up nicely, but it's also bent over sideways, and a few straggling leaves dance past every now and again. bare branches bend and dip, and my terribly brave daffodils bob and dance, their stems more resilient than I can imagine, having survived the blizzard last sunday and continuing to lift their heads skyward.
I should pay attention to those daffodils.
it's not just their heads that lift high, they are lit by a life force that begins in their roots and continues upward, strengthening the stalk and enabling this cheery, faithful, tolerant, irrepressible life form to thrive regardless of what the world throws its way.
take a lesson, susan.

gray comes and goes.
sometimes it lingers longer than I'd like it to. sometimes it colors my world in a way I wish it wouldn't. sometimes it's so thick I forget that there's blue up there, above it, just waiting to have access to my space again.

206 miles isn't really that far, is it? and twelve hours isn't really that long to ride a bike, is it?
nope. not really.
it's all possible.
if those darn daffodils out there can do it, so can I.

fissures, explicated

saturday, fissures.
today,
a crack runs across the reservoir surface, south to north, dividing the icy crust in two.
the storm moving in later today will bring rain, then snow perhaps, upon the reservoir, but I am certain that the crack will not repair.
next week the reservoir surface will have two large floating ice sections, gradually diminishing, and soon there will be tens if not hundreds of smaller segments, floating, drifting, decreasing, melting, slipping away into the body of the reservoir itself.
and then, dear friends, it will be officially spring.

fissures

a western meadowlark, yellow chest shining, it's cheerful song dancing across the road.
a prairie falcon, sitting atop a narrow, bare tree, seemingly immobile, perusing its vast, austere estate.
a yellowed, weathered rib cage, likely cervidae, off to the right side of the road, shocking me by its abrupt appearance: how long has this been there?
wind pushing steadily from the south, the west, determined, undeterred from its path.
the reservoir, frozen still but losing its battle with spring, ice pulling back from shorelines, fissures opening across its expanse, surface rough and uneven.
early april in dell canyon, the hillsides having released their snow, the life beneath ground not yet showing itself, not yet sending up shoots and blades of green.
perfect riding weather, temperature in the upper fifties, cool enough to remind me it's still early in the season, warm enough to allow capris and fingerless gloves and a head that's bare under my helmet.
though I love the falcon and the chipper song of the meadowlark, it is the fissures in the frozen lid of the reservoir that capture my interest, my soul. they decorate the top, one here, another there, no rhyme or rhythm to their placements, and the glance into the depths below that they allow is simultaneously flirtatious and dangerously seductive.
a dash of dark amidst the eighteen shades of white that compose the textured glacial surface, each fissure is an opportunity, a space between, a place to initiate change.
leonard cohen would tell us a fissure is where the light comes in; I first see the fissures here as exciting, a sign of progress. I liken this to personal growth: we cannot move forward until a crack appears and we widen it, splitting it apart and letting what's new and fresh, different, better, make itself known.

today I saw the season's first earthworms, plump and curled, brought to the pavement by last night's rain and snow.
the seasons change, often slowly but always, inevitably. ice melts, snow fades, plants send forth new shoots.
fissures happen.
things change.
we grow.
and we eventually find ways to let the light come in.

how to measure a female

well, with a tape measure, of course. and her numbers better fit into that ideal 36-24-36 model.

and that was my joke for the day. now back to topic.

since yesterday I discussed measuring a man, it's only logical that today I look in the opposite direction.
how do I measure a female? almost completely by the sincerity of her smile.
that is the only way I have of knowing how genuine she is, which in turn tells me how safe I am around her, and how much I want to get to know her.
and there you have it.

now let's all go ride a bike.