fun friday facts:
today's vehicle count is in honor of my friend connie t: 7 vehicles heading east up the canyon, 11 vehicles heading west down the canyon.
this morning's star count: 0
this morning's airplane count: 2
temperature when I left my house at 5:30: 55 balmy degrees
number of other outdoor exercise enthusiasts seen: 0
number of big unidentifiable things in the middle of the road: 1
what an odd morning it was: absolutely perfect for halloween. clouds covered the sky, blocking my view of the stars and keeping the temperature up. I could feel the humidity just sitting in the air particles sweeping past my face, and it felt as though I might by riding through the mist of low-hanging clouds. scotland, I thought, then perhaps san francisco. somewhere along the coast, somewhere less inhabited than san francisco, perhaps the oregon coast. I rode for miles without seeing a car or another body. I heard nothing but the rattling of leaves as the wind pushed them into each other, and the gentle crashing of water against rock in the creek.
no hooting owls, no howling coyotes, not even a scampering rabbit or squirrel.
it was a perfectly calm and eerie, dark halloween morning.
my friend connie has a thing about the numbers 7 and 11, in combination. she often finds this 7-11 popping into her life: significant moments, when she glances at the clock and sees that it's 7:11, perhaps a bit of news that comes to her on the 11th day of the 7th month. ( I have a thing about 6:25, as that combines my birth month and day. every time I glance at the clock and see 6:25, I smile and give thanks for my being on earth. ) so I was thrilled with my vehicle count this morning, and give connie this small gift.
as for the outdoor exercising enthusiast count: it has been a weak week for early morning sightings. which could be due to the incredibly excellent afternoon and evening weather we've been experiencing . . . many people might choose to exercise in daylight when the temperature is in the upper 60's and 70's instead of in the dark when it's in the 40's. go figure.
wednesday morning I saw just one runner, mr. christmas tree, with lights on his shoes and in a triangle on his back. yesterday, a lone runner with just a headlamp. and this morning, not another soul, running, biking, walking, or standing. all week, no bikes. no bikes at all.
as for the indecipherable object in the road: I have no idea whether it was a wind-filled plastic grocery bag, a porcupine, or something somewhere between the two. I was coming downhill, at a healthy speed, riding in the middle of the lane because it feels safer than being in the bike lane on the edge of the road, where junk and rocks and dead animals are more likely to congregate. I receive plenty warning from the headlights of descending vehicles, allowing me to move over to my own place (the bike lane) before they get too close. so this big thing in the middle of the road caught me by surprise, as I caught just a glimpse of it as I sped past, luckily a foot or so to the right of its location. porcupine? bag of garbage? hallucination? I'm not really sure, which is one of the fun things about riding in the dark . . . you are often left with unanswerable questions, an excellent place for someone with a creative imagination to be.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 30, 2008
manhattan
I love manhattan.
I love the people, the energy, the old architecture. I love the ripe smells you encounter walking down side streets, I love the battered taxis with bald tires. I love that no two people are the same, and I love that everyone has their own role to play in the incredibly complex drama that is life on this overly populated island.
I love the city lights, the hundreds of buildings that rise up to rub shoulders with their neighbors, the thousands of windows lit from within. the decorative lights on the chrysler building (my favorite building, ever and always, bar none) and on the empire state building, the simple lights that enhance the elegance of grand central station.
I can see myself, one day, living in manhattan.
and this is where I have to knock myself on the head and say, you can't have it both ways.
so then I think, well, perhaps I could just live there part time.
sure.
this morning I was glorying in the fact that an hour's ride can take me to a remote, gloriously beautiful area that fills my soul with peace and joy. I love this area, these acres of wide open land that exemplify freedom and harmony and contentedness. it is quiet, it is still. there are no artificial lights, and often, no human bodies save mine. life is full here, but it is a life with little human intervention, a simple life where plants and trees move through their life cycles and animals make their homes or travel through on their journeys.
if I lived in manhattan, an hour on a bike wouldn't get me to a spot like this.
there is a place in emigration canyon where everything changes. you've been riding for miles through this gently rising, gently winding canyon on a road shaded by trees, when suddenly there is a big U turn and the canyon opens up and the hills that rise to the summit become visible.
in the mysterious morning darkness, the hills are silhouetted, deep dark earth shoved against a slightly less deep indigo sky. stars blink, the world is silent, and the silhouettes stand strong and enduring.
there's a slight glow from the city, so far below, and as you near the top you can actually see, down through the opening of the canyon mouth, a small delta of city life and light. the glow lifts itself up and infiltrates the deep night sky that still blankets us, lending greater contrast to the silhouetted hills.
the north hillside of the canyon is dotted with a smattering of house lights, gradually increasing, as the inhabitants wake and begin their days.
and I am there, drinking in the solitude and the strength of the solemn hills that will carry me through my day.
as I reenter the city, two miles from home, the spread of city lights in front of and below me almost causes me to gasp. and it is at this point that I am reminded of manhattan. the lights, the hundreds of thousands of lives, the buildings, the busyness. though there is really no competition between the two cities, they are both in such strong contrast with the space and solitude that I have just left 15 minutes before that the comparison leaps into my mind.
I love manhattan.
and if I could have an emigration canyon two miles from my manhattan apartment, I might just make that move.
I love the people, the energy, the old architecture. I love the ripe smells you encounter walking down side streets, I love the battered taxis with bald tires. I love that no two people are the same, and I love that everyone has their own role to play in the incredibly complex drama that is life on this overly populated island.
I love the city lights, the hundreds of buildings that rise up to rub shoulders with their neighbors, the thousands of windows lit from within. the decorative lights on the chrysler building (my favorite building, ever and always, bar none) and on the empire state building, the simple lights that enhance the elegance of grand central station.
I can see myself, one day, living in manhattan.
and this is where I have to knock myself on the head and say, you can't have it both ways.
so then I think, well, perhaps I could just live there part time.
sure.
this morning I was glorying in the fact that an hour's ride can take me to a remote, gloriously beautiful area that fills my soul with peace and joy. I love this area, these acres of wide open land that exemplify freedom and harmony and contentedness. it is quiet, it is still. there are no artificial lights, and often, no human bodies save mine. life is full here, but it is a life with little human intervention, a simple life where plants and trees move through their life cycles and animals make their homes or travel through on their journeys.
if I lived in manhattan, an hour on a bike wouldn't get me to a spot like this.
there is a place in emigration canyon where everything changes. you've been riding for miles through this gently rising, gently winding canyon on a road shaded by trees, when suddenly there is a big U turn and the canyon opens up and the hills that rise to the summit become visible.
in the mysterious morning darkness, the hills are silhouetted, deep dark earth shoved against a slightly less deep indigo sky. stars blink, the world is silent, and the silhouettes stand strong and enduring.
there's a slight glow from the city, so far below, and as you near the top you can actually see, down through the opening of the canyon mouth, a small delta of city life and light. the glow lifts itself up and infiltrates the deep night sky that still blankets us, lending greater contrast to the silhouetted hills.
the north hillside of the canyon is dotted with a smattering of house lights, gradually increasing, as the inhabitants wake and begin their days.
and I am there, drinking in the solitude and the strength of the solemn hills that will carry me through my day.
as I reenter the city, two miles from home, the spread of city lights in front of and below me almost causes me to gasp. and it is at this point that I am reminded of manhattan. the lights, the hundreds of thousands of lives, the buildings, the busyness. though there is really no competition between the two cities, they are both in such strong contrast with the space and solitude that I have just left 15 minutes before that the comparison leaps into my mind.
I love manhattan.
and if I could have an emigration canyon two miles from my manhattan apartment, I might just make that move.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
sight
have you ever played the game of "which sense would I rather not live without?"
I've had this discussion with myself ever since I was a kid. taste, smell, and touch aren't really even in the game: it always comes down to a tussle between sight and sound.
I think of classical music when this topic arises, and of sunsets and star-filled skies. I think of gurgling brooks and waterfalls crashing down steep canyon walls, and my children's voices.
I usually end the mental exercise in a state of "I give up," because there is not an acceptable answer. sight wins, but by such a slender margin that it makes my teeth ache to even make this statement.
there are blind cyclists. there are deaf cyclists. and there are blind-deaf cyclists.
while I hope to never become a member of any of those groups, my heart expands just thinking that they exist.
this morning, riding under the star laden sky of a new moon, I became a blind cyclist for moments.
on a gradually rising road that I know like the back of my hand, top speed about ten mph (though I couldn't see my cyclometer because it was dark), I closed my eyes and pedaled. I felt the wind, I focused on the turn of my pedals, the push of my quads. and then popped my eyes open to check for safety.
and then closed my eyes again. pedaled, felt the air, the cold, the ripeness of morning, the slight incline of the solid road beneath my wheels.
opening my eyes again took effort. I wanted to stay in that place of different awareness.
not forever, but for longer than I dared.
there are a million different experiences out there, and I am to live just one of them. just one. I have a desire to know different lives, different experiences, different paths, and perhaps this is why I read so much: how else can I begin to know what others go through in their lives? cycling stirs my thoughts, and has exposed me to many new things, but I am still me, living my own life, my own journey.
I don't wish to lead a different life, but I find great joy in learning new things and experiencing the unfamiliar. not for the thrill of it, but for the deepening of my awareness. okay, sometimes the thrill is great, too.
like this morning. in the dark ~ the absence of light ~ and in the dark ~ the total lack of vision. for brief moments, I felt what a blind person might feel while riding on the back of a tandem. for those moments, I had a sense of what it might be like to be my son, cruising through a world without visual clues to make sense of it.
I loved it, during my momentary visit, and I am thrilled that someone decided to try having a blind person sit behind a sighted person on a tandem bicycle.
if I were to lose my sight, my hearing, my capacity to pedal a bike, I hope that I would continue to seek opportunities to experience the world through "adaptive" means. that I would keep finding ways to fill my life with dark cold mornings and warm sunny afternoons, with rainstorms and blazing heat and snowflakes and crunchy leaves.
and, most importantly, whether it be the people from SPLORE, or from Common Ground Adventures, a friend, or a partner, I hope that someone would care about me enough to be my "pilot" on the front seat of a bicycle built for two.
I've had this discussion with myself ever since I was a kid. taste, smell, and touch aren't really even in the game: it always comes down to a tussle between sight and sound.
I think of classical music when this topic arises, and of sunsets and star-filled skies. I think of gurgling brooks and waterfalls crashing down steep canyon walls, and my children's voices.
I usually end the mental exercise in a state of "I give up," because there is not an acceptable answer. sight wins, but by such a slender margin that it makes my teeth ache to even make this statement.
there are blind cyclists. there are deaf cyclists. and there are blind-deaf cyclists.
while I hope to never become a member of any of those groups, my heart expands just thinking that they exist.
this morning, riding under the star laden sky of a new moon, I became a blind cyclist for moments.
on a gradually rising road that I know like the back of my hand, top speed about ten mph (though I couldn't see my cyclometer because it was dark), I closed my eyes and pedaled. I felt the wind, I focused on the turn of my pedals, the push of my quads. and then popped my eyes open to check for safety.
and then closed my eyes again. pedaled, felt the air, the cold, the ripeness of morning, the slight incline of the solid road beneath my wheels.
opening my eyes again took effort. I wanted to stay in that place of different awareness.
not forever, but for longer than I dared.
there are a million different experiences out there, and I am to live just one of them. just one. I have a desire to know different lives, different experiences, different paths, and perhaps this is why I read so much: how else can I begin to know what others go through in their lives? cycling stirs my thoughts, and has exposed me to many new things, but I am still me, living my own life, my own journey.
I don't wish to lead a different life, but I find great joy in learning new things and experiencing the unfamiliar. not for the thrill of it, but for the deepening of my awareness. okay, sometimes the thrill is great, too.
like this morning. in the dark ~ the absence of light ~ and in the dark ~ the total lack of vision. for brief moments, I felt what a blind person might feel while riding on the back of a tandem. for those moments, I had a sense of what it might be like to be my son, cruising through a world without visual clues to make sense of it.
I loved it, during my momentary visit, and I am thrilled that someone decided to try having a blind person sit behind a sighted person on a tandem bicycle.
if I were to lose my sight, my hearing, my capacity to pedal a bike, I hope that I would continue to seek opportunities to experience the world through "adaptive" means. that I would keep finding ways to fill my life with dark cold mornings and warm sunny afternoons, with rainstorms and blazing heat and snowflakes and crunchy leaves.
and, most importantly, whether it be the people from SPLORE, or from Common Ground Adventures, a friend, or a partner, I hope that someone would care about me enough to be my "pilot" on the front seat of a bicycle built for two.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
the weather man
I have a friend who wants to be a weather man when he grows up.
he is, of course, already quite grown, being in his mid-forties. but there are two things going on here: first, our belief that we're never quite grown up, and second, that we all have fantasy careers.
let me tackle the first, first.
age is just a number, certainly not a behavior pattern. and what I've learned over the last twenty years or so is that "old" keeps moving further and further away from where I currently am. in my twenties, I thought women over forty should never wear shorts. yes, I did. now, thankfully, I think that women can and should wear shorts if and whenever they choose. even at eighty. or ninety. or one hundred and five.
but I still feel young. I can't remember what it was like to be the me of twenty-plus years ago, but I know it was different in more ways than just my thoughts about women and shorts. I know I felt privileged, full of that invincibility of youth. I felt somewhat superior to everyone older than me, just because I had fewer years in.
now I see the fallacy, and just appreciate where I am. as I appreciate where everyone is, whether they are chronologically younger than me or older. youth is great; the wisdom of having lived longer is great as well. in fact, every stage of life is full of wonder and amazing experiences, growth and the opportunity to increase our personal strengths.
I don't want to be twenty-something again, but I surely don't feel a handful of years away from the mid-century mark, either. I suppose I'll just keep being thankful that many others have paved a beautiful path for me to follow.
now, for career choices when we grow up. I've written before about my fantasy career: the backup singer. and my friend wants to be a weather man. my kid's dad wants to teach middle school math. I know someone else who wants to move to taos and become an artist.
are we meant to reach these paths? or are they our carrots, things that keep us moving forward, eager, intrigued? for some of us they might just tickle our souls, but for others, they move our deepest selves to pure joy.
I don't truly believe that I will sing backup for a band one day. but I love holding that dream somewhere in my heart. I don't even think I mind that it just stays there. it's enough to just hold it, to know that the idea of it fills me with passion and joy.
will my friend ever become a weather man? I don't know. he speaks of it, jokes about it, follows the weather, knows more than I'll ever know about thermals and fronts and pressure systems. but will he take that leap, someday? I can't know. and perhaps, neither can he.
and now for just one little cycling-related observation: today was a yoga day. and I missed my cycling. for I've discovered that my morning rides give me two gifts: some level of peace, and a sense of accomplishment.
yoga works well for the peace, but it's just not the same for me as far as accomplishment goes. my beloved miguel no longer teaches class, so I am in a period of adjustment, learning to work with new teachers. the focus is different, and I am bending in new ways both literally and figuratively. therefore, I don't feel a very strong sense of accomplishment. I end class feeling like I made it, I did okay, and I guess I just have a long way to go.
which is perhaps the way I felt earlier on in my riding.
and perhaps the way we all feel sometimes in life.
but I'm pretty sure tomorrow morning will find me on my bike, in the dark, earning my peace and sense of accomplishment.
and, perhaps, thinking about my carrot.
he is, of course, already quite grown, being in his mid-forties. but there are two things going on here: first, our belief that we're never quite grown up, and second, that we all have fantasy careers.
let me tackle the first, first.
age is just a number, certainly not a behavior pattern. and what I've learned over the last twenty years or so is that "old" keeps moving further and further away from where I currently am. in my twenties, I thought women over forty should never wear shorts. yes, I did. now, thankfully, I think that women can and should wear shorts if and whenever they choose. even at eighty. or ninety. or one hundred and five.
but I still feel young. I can't remember what it was like to be the me of twenty-plus years ago, but I know it was different in more ways than just my thoughts about women and shorts. I know I felt privileged, full of that invincibility of youth. I felt somewhat superior to everyone older than me, just because I had fewer years in.
now I see the fallacy, and just appreciate where I am. as I appreciate where everyone is, whether they are chronologically younger than me or older. youth is great; the wisdom of having lived longer is great as well. in fact, every stage of life is full of wonder and amazing experiences, growth and the opportunity to increase our personal strengths.
I don't want to be twenty-something again, but I surely don't feel a handful of years away from the mid-century mark, either. I suppose I'll just keep being thankful that many others have paved a beautiful path for me to follow.
now, for career choices when we grow up. I've written before about my fantasy career: the backup singer. and my friend wants to be a weather man. my kid's dad wants to teach middle school math. I know someone else who wants to move to taos and become an artist.
are we meant to reach these paths? or are they our carrots, things that keep us moving forward, eager, intrigued? for some of us they might just tickle our souls, but for others, they move our deepest selves to pure joy.
I don't truly believe that I will sing backup for a band one day. but I love holding that dream somewhere in my heart. I don't even think I mind that it just stays there. it's enough to just hold it, to know that the idea of it fills me with passion and joy.
will my friend ever become a weather man? I don't know. he speaks of it, jokes about it, follows the weather, knows more than I'll ever know about thermals and fronts and pressure systems. but will he take that leap, someday? I can't know. and perhaps, neither can he.
and now for just one little cycling-related observation: today was a yoga day. and I missed my cycling. for I've discovered that my morning rides give me two gifts: some level of peace, and a sense of accomplishment.
yoga works well for the peace, but it's just not the same for me as far as accomplishment goes. my beloved miguel no longer teaches class, so I am in a period of adjustment, learning to work with new teachers. the focus is different, and I am bending in new ways both literally and figuratively. therefore, I don't feel a very strong sense of accomplishment. I end class feeling like I made it, I did okay, and I guess I just have a long way to go.
which is perhaps the way I felt earlier on in my riding.
and perhaps the way we all feel sometimes in life.
but I'm pretty sure tomorrow morning will find me on my bike, in the dark, earning my peace and sense of accomplishment.
and, perhaps, thinking about my carrot.
Monday, October 27, 2008
musing on a day off the bike
the following came into my life a couple weeks ago:
hold on to what is good, even if it is a handful of earth.
hold on to what you believe, even if it is a tree which stands alone.
hold on to what you must do, even if it is a long way from here.
I could probably stop right now, because those three lines are so full, so rich with wisdom and possibility, that what I can add is truly superfluous.
but I can't stop, because that's not who I am.
first I have to share this example of just how literally I take everything.
I read the second line, and thought, okay, I guess some people believe in trees. that they see a solitary tree, and feel the strength, the power, the rootedness, the deep spirituality of a single tree. okay, I get that.
it wasn't until perhaps my third or fourth reading of that line that the meaning sunk in: oh, they mean your beliefs may be standing alone, without support. that what you believe in may be criticized, negated, made small or even outlawed, that it may have no support from anyone or anything else. and that you must still believe, if that is what you are meant to believe.
sometimes I don't know where this literal thing came from; it's like a blanket I constantly have to remove from my back.
but it's the third line I love. no matter how far away it is, you must move toward it. you must hold on to it, you must remain the you who was placed here for a reason. no matter how very far away it may sometimes feel. for as far away as it may seem, it is within you, as well, which is as close as it can possibly be.
this Pueblo blessing ends with these two lines:
hold on to life even when it is easier letting go.
hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you.
I often wonder why it is that Native American peoples expressed so much wisdom about life and our physical world. how did they retain their rootedness when so many other cultures moved away from that and placed their focus on less holistic goals and concepts?
perhaps my love of cycling helps connect me to the beauty of the earth, with its handfuls of dirt and solitary trees.
perhaps the miles and miles I cycle are moving me closer to where I will go to do what it is I must do.
perhaps my cycling has helped me to understand the importance of holding on even when it seems easier to let go.
and perhaps it is giving me the steadiness to remain upright even when that which I love moves away from me.
159 miles in this week: I am exceedingly grateful for this amazing, "Indian summer."
hold on to your own dirt, your own trees. and keep moving in the direction of what you must do.
hold on to what is good, even if it is a handful of earth.
hold on to what you believe, even if it is a tree which stands alone.
hold on to what you must do, even if it is a long way from here.
I could probably stop right now, because those three lines are so full, so rich with wisdom and possibility, that what I can add is truly superfluous.
but I can't stop, because that's not who I am.
first I have to share this example of just how literally I take everything.
I read the second line, and thought, okay, I guess some people believe in trees. that they see a solitary tree, and feel the strength, the power, the rootedness, the deep spirituality of a single tree. okay, I get that.
it wasn't until perhaps my third or fourth reading of that line that the meaning sunk in: oh, they mean your beliefs may be standing alone, without support. that what you believe in may be criticized, negated, made small or even outlawed, that it may have no support from anyone or anything else. and that you must still believe, if that is what you are meant to believe.
sometimes I don't know where this literal thing came from; it's like a blanket I constantly have to remove from my back.
but it's the third line I love. no matter how far away it is, you must move toward it. you must hold on to it, you must remain the you who was placed here for a reason. no matter how very far away it may sometimes feel. for as far away as it may seem, it is within you, as well, which is as close as it can possibly be.
this Pueblo blessing ends with these two lines:
hold on to life even when it is easier letting go.
hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you.
I often wonder why it is that Native American peoples expressed so much wisdom about life and our physical world. how did they retain their rootedness when so many other cultures moved away from that and placed their focus on less holistic goals and concepts?
perhaps my love of cycling helps connect me to the beauty of the earth, with its handfuls of dirt and solitary trees.
perhaps the miles and miles I cycle are moving me closer to where I will go to do what it is I must do.
perhaps my cycling has helped me to understand the importance of holding on even when it seems easier to let go.
and perhaps it is giving me the steadiness to remain upright even when that which I love moves away from me.
159 miles in this week: I am exceedingly grateful for this amazing, "Indian summer."
hold on to your own dirt, your own trees. and keep moving in the direction of what you must do.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
milestones
100 days . . .
I've reached another milestone: today I am handing myself a 100-day chip.
because like a person in AA, I have made a commitment and stuck to it. and, like a person in AA, I benefit from receiving outer, verbal and/or physical acknowledgment of achieving a milestone.
and also like a person in AA, I have a long time to go before my next one.
in AA they start off with 30-day chips. not all AA chapters are the same, but in general you receive a chip at the end of 30-days sobriety, then at two, three, four, five, and six months. the next chip is typically after nine months, and then again at one year. after that can be an 18-month chip, then they become annual.
rewards are heavier in the beginning, when it's logical that one needs more support. the acknowledgments taper off as one moves deeper into the program, with the idea being that one doesn't need quite as much acknowledgment as one settles into their sobriety.
like toilet training, once we start peeing correctly every time, we're less likely to receive M&M's for doing so.
well, here I am, giving and receiving my 100-day chip. and since I'm in charge, I get to decide when the next one will be awarded.
logic tells me it should be at one year, while my inner child is insisting that 200 days is well worth another reward. my adult self is quite capable of living another 265 days before giving myself kudos, but that little girl inside me is thinking some kind of acknowledgment 100 days from now is exactly what she needs.
as I count it out, I see that my 200th day of posting here will arrive on february 3rd.
I'm thinking my inner child may be right.
because all through these first 100 days, I have had a huge external reward: my bike rides.
this may not seem logical to you, but in susan's world these things are connected. I ride, I write, I ride again. my writing here drives me to ride again, to soak in that inspiration. and my riding fuels my writing. so, although my rides aren't truly a reward of my dedication to writing, they are a side benefit, as it's not as easy to write about cycling when one isn't cycling.
got it?
today's reward was glorious: I rode to draper, taking wasatch boulvevard until it swoops down and meets 17th east, then eases around and down to 13th east, until it meets with highland drive somewhere in the heart of draper. I love wasatch boulevard. not for it's wide shoulders (which come and go) or its smooth asphalt (which comes and goes and when it goes, disappears in great chunks), but for its views. at different times, you have a view of the entire salt lake valley, or of draper and the jordans, or of places I don't even know the names of. from wasatch boulevard you look down on a crazy quilt pattern of multi-colored trees. and this time of year, every hillside and mountain slope and tree along the edge of the road is glistening with bronze and gold, with deep yellows and intense reds. fall colors are not my favorite, but I can't help but be amazed by the ochre, umber and sienna display.
a rich reward indeed.
and come february 3rd, I will have had many, many days without that reward.
so it stands to reason that my little girl self will be made giddy and joyful if I surprise her with some kind of "200-day" treat.
the perfect reward would be a trip to somewhere warm and beautiful so I could ride my bike.
but I may settle for 200 M&M's.
I've reached another milestone: today I am handing myself a 100-day chip.
because like a person in AA, I have made a commitment and stuck to it. and, like a person in AA, I benefit from receiving outer, verbal and/or physical acknowledgment of achieving a milestone.
and also like a person in AA, I have a long time to go before my next one.
in AA they start off with 30-day chips. not all AA chapters are the same, but in general you receive a chip at the end of 30-days sobriety, then at two, three, four, five, and six months. the next chip is typically after nine months, and then again at one year. after that can be an 18-month chip, then they become annual.
rewards are heavier in the beginning, when it's logical that one needs more support. the acknowledgments taper off as one moves deeper into the program, with the idea being that one doesn't need quite as much acknowledgment as one settles into their sobriety.
like toilet training, once we start peeing correctly every time, we're less likely to receive M&M's for doing so.
well, here I am, giving and receiving my 100-day chip. and since I'm in charge, I get to decide when the next one will be awarded.
logic tells me it should be at one year, while my inner child is insisting that 200 days is well worth another reward. my adult self is quite capable of living another 265 days before giving myself kudos, but that little girl inside me is thinking some kind of acknowledgment 100 days from now is exactly what she needs.
as I count it out, I see that my 200th day of posting here will arrive on february 3rd.
I'm thinking my inner child may be right.
because all through these first 100 days, I have had a huge external reward: my bike rides.
this may not seem logical to you, but in susan's world these things are connected. I ride, I write, I ride again. my writing here drives me to ride again, to soak in that inspiration. and my riding fuels my writing. so, although my rides aren't truly a reward of my dedication to writing, they are a side benefit, as it's not as easy to write about cycling when one isn't cycling.
got it?
today's reward was glorious: I rode to draper, taking wasatch boulvevard until it swoops down and meets 17th east, then eases around and down to 13th east, until it meets with highland drive somewhere in the heart of draper. I love wasatch boulevard. not for it's wide shoulders (which come and go) or its smooth asphalt (which comes and goes and when it goes, disappears in great chunks), but for its views. at different times, you have a view of the entire salt lake valley, or of draper and the jordans, or of places I don't even know the names of. from wasatch boulevard you look down on a crazy quilt pattern of multi-colored trees. and this time of year, every hillside and mountain slope and tree along the edge of the road is glistening with bronze and gold, with deep yellows and intense reds. fall colors are not my favorite, but I can't help but be amazed by the ochre, umber and sienna display.
a rich reward indeed.
and come february 3rd, I will have had many, many days without that reward.
so it stands to reason that my little girl self will be made giddy and joyful if I surprise her with some kind of "200-day" treat.
the perfect reward would be a trip to somewhere warm and beautiful so I could ride my bike.
but I may settle for 200 M&M's.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
52 degrees
clothing for an afternoon ride, heading up emigration, temperature at home 52 degrees:
sports bra
cycling tights, capri length, standard black
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, orange print
wind jacket, neon green
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, headband for descent
outcome: sweaty at times on the way up, chilly at times on the way down, did not need headband, on average, perfect.
clothing for late afternoon ride up big mountain, temperature at home 58 degrees
sports bra
cycling shorts, black
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, white with red trim
wind jacket, neon green
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, headband for descent
outcome: a little sweaty on the way up, freezing at top of big mountain, cold all the way home, incredibly thankful for headband.
note to self: next time wear capris and bring full gloves.
clothing for early afternoon ride up emigration, temperature at home 62 degrees:
sports bra
cycling shorts
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, Lotoja 2008 design
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, wind vest
outcome: perfect on way up, used arm warmers on way down, absolutely perfect temperature for a fall ride and clothing choice was superb.
I own just about every piece of cold-weather riding gear I could ever need: I have full booties to cover my shoes, and long thick "tights" with wind-panels on the front of the legs. I have a skull cap, and I have my well-loved and very-well-used arm warmers (which are an awful lot like long, dramatic fingerless gloves: I feel incredibly sexy when I wear them).
but I'm really not excited about dragging these things out and making them part of my everyday wardrobe.
and that is why I am squeezing in every last little ride I can this fall. I plan as if every ride may be my last . . . my eyes searching every hillside and every inch of sky to try to imprint the sights in my brain.
for now I live by the weather channel, I skip a few chores, and I revel in the glory of the changing hillsides and vistas.
and I carefully put on exactly what clothing I think I'll need to wear, then stuff a few extra things in pockets, and just say a little prayer that mother nature will protect me for at least one more ride.
sports bra
cycling tights, capri length, standard black
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, orange print
wind jacket, neon green
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, headband for descent
outcome: sweaty at times on the way up, chilly at times on the way down, did not need headband, on average, perfect.
clothing for late afternoon ride up big mountain, temperature at home 58 degrees
sports bra
cycling shorts, black
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, white with red trim
wind jacket, neon green
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, headband for descent
outcome: a little sweaty on the way up, freezing at top of big mountain, cold all the way home, incredibly thankful for headband.
note to self: next time wear capris and bring full gloves.
clothing for early afternoon ride up emigration, temperature at home 62 degrees:
sports bra
cycling shorts
ankle socks
short sleeved jersey, Lotoja 2008 design
fingerless gloves
toe covers on shoes
stuffed in pockets: arm warmers, wind vest
outcome: perfect on way up, used arm warmers on way down, absolutely perfect temperature for a fall ride and clothing choice was superb.
I own just about every piece of cold-weather riding gear I could ever need: I have full booties to cover my shoes, and long thick "tights" with wind-panels on the front of the legs. I have a skull cap, and I have my well-loved and very-well-used arm warmers (which are an awful lot like long, dramatic fingerless gloves: I feel incredibly sexy when I wear them).
but I'm really not excited about dragging these things out and making them part of my everyday wardrobe.
and that is why I am squeezing in every last little ride I can this fall. I plan as if every ride may be my last . . . my eyes searching every hillside and every inch of sky to try to imprint the sights in my brain.
for now I live by the weather channel, I skip a few chores, and I revel in the glory of the changing hillsides and vistas.
and I carefully put on exactly what clothing I think I'll need to wear, then stuff a few extra things in pockets, and just say a little prayer that mother nature will protect me for at least one more ride.
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