How to care for the undercarriage?Undies or no undies? Butt butter? Shammie or bibs? Learned a lot this weekend from my fellow bikin’ ladies. Also had some serious Type 1 and Type 2 fun.
Back in the Saddle
Other stuff
Bikes. Spain. Covid 19.
Two of my favorite people planned the most epic bikepacking trip to Europe. And for two weeks it was just that, epic. And then the coronavirus hit – hard – and they had to figure out what to do. Here’s a short conversation with them (part of the Hear in the Gorge podcast) and a video of Jonathan, feeling not-so-epic at the Spain airport.
A He-Too Moment
So I was having a conversation with my mom this morning. It was preceded by two text messages from her that read, and I quote:
Yesterday 6pm: “Hardest person in THE WORLD to communicate with.”
Today 10:09am: “Ditto what I said above.”
Apparently she had not been satisfied by my response times. The fact that she didn’t drop the f-bomb or call me a cretin, seems like a real win though (except now that I’ve Googled cretin to find out what she’s been calling me all these years, it does seem a bit un-PC if not entirely inappropriate, which, I guess, only makes me love my mom more).
I share all this is to say that I did finally call her back. Dad answered (for you kids out there, confused as to why my dad answered a call to my mom, it’s because I was calling on something called a land-line, which is rough piece of twine attached to an empty soup can.)
So dad picks up, and fills me in that mom is “feistier than usual” [chuckle]. Then goes to hand her the can, errr, the phone. Well mom gets right down to what she’d been wanting to talk about. Just run-of-the-mill mom stuff. Worrying about how she did her kids wrong and feeling guilty about it. I assured her that I don’t recall feeling like I missed out on anything and while I’m sure she fucked me up in other ways, it certainly wasn’t the result of not getting spring-break trips to Hawaii.
Once she got the mom-guilt out of the way she was able to move onto more pressing matters. “YOUR father came into the studio this morning and saw that I HAD A HUGE BANDAID on MY finger and he asked me what happened and I told him that I’d sanded part of my finger off and then HE launched into a litany of HIS INJURIES.”
And at that very moment, I KNEW EXACTLY WHAT SHE WAS SAYING.
If you have a husband, I bet that you know, too.
Because while our sweet, sweet husbands do so much right, there is a nasty little habit that many/most/all(?) of them have. I call it a “He-Too Moment” and it’s particularly egregious, because of it’s timing.
When your finger is gushing blood or you’re taking a moment to rest your head on the toilet between pukes, it’s at THAT VERY MOMENT where things go wrong. Because instead of leaning in with a hug, a bandaid, a wet rag to wipe the chunks from your chin, instead, AT THAT VERY MOMENT your husband shares with you that he too had a bloody finger once and he too has been wondering if he might also be starting to feel vomity…
And so your moment gets slid aside so that he can share his moment. And while you sit there, blood dripping down your hand, barf drying in your hair, you begin to wonder how you will kill this heartless neanderthal.
I’ve seen it again and again, and not just with my dearly beloved. All generations. Husbands of all kinds. So finally, FINALLY I decided to do some research into the matter – ie. talk with my hubby about it. And lucky for you, I’m here to report back what I learned.
When I said to my hubby, “dude, it makes me feel bad when instead of just acknowledging my pain and maybe helping, you immediately share a story about yourself.” And you know what he said? “oh fuck off, Sarah.” And you know why? Because he said, “I was trying to show you empathy” – (full disclosure: we’ve maayyyybe also had this conversation a few times before and so he was feeling hurt and, well, you know, marriages.)
Regardless, his whole empathy-argument surprised the shit out of me.
It seems so contrary to what I think would be the natural reaction. I mean, when a kid comes up to you with a cut knee, you don’t tell her about the disgusting, gravel-filled, cut you got when you were her age and you tripped over a gutter outside the goat barn at the Clackamas County Fairgrounds. No, you dive in there and get the gravel out of her knee, wipe away her tears, and make her a snuggly spot on the couch. Maybe then you share a story of your own, but only after you’ve made it clear how much you care for her.
Alas, I take my husband at his word. I think he truly is trying to show empathy. And I’d like to think that most of the time, even when our fingers have been cut to the bone or we’ve blown a sinus during a full-throttle vomit sesh, and our hubbies have a He-Too moment, it’s truly because they’re trying to do what’s right – however wrong that is.
So, ladies, here’s my recommendation:
Regardless what happens to you – dismemberment, puke-tastrophe, whatever, let’s have a little more grace with each other – husbands and wives. When your man asks you what’s wrong, don’t brace yourself for his eventual story. Instead, give him a little guidance maybe have him read this blog post, let him know he’s not alone. And then the next time he asks what’s wrong? look him in the eye, wipe that puke from your mouth, and tell it like it is. I bet he’ll know what you’re saying.
This Week
This week, every year, stands out. It is the week, every year, that my dear husband spends THE WHOLE WEEK, INCLUDING OVERNIGHT at a river restoration conference that is literally only 29 minutes away (trust me, I’ve mapped that shit). And while I have come to see that maybe, maaaayyyyybeeee, he does actually need to be there for the whole time, because IT IS important, and IT IS very busy for him, it has taken me awhile to come to terms with all that (and to have kiddos old enough to make the week not all that hard without him).
But the real thing that makes this week stand out, is that in 2017, this is the week when I lost two dear friends – Jeff Douglas and Tom Standa, in.the.same.fucking.week – which was really hard. That’s actually the one year that the hubby came back from the conference for a night, because I was a bit of wreck. And so, inevitably, this week can’t pass without notice. In my head I hear myself saying things like “this is just always a hard week for me” as if the cosmos has somehow aligned itself to make that so.
This year, when the week arrived, I found myself wondering when a person dies, how long do you keep thinking of them? And then, of course, I realized there’s no answer. And, with guilt, I found myself thinking only three years in, Tom, and already I don’t think of you as much. God dammit, it wasn’t worth it.” Which, of course, has nothing to do with Tom.
And man oh man, I still regularly invoke the Jeff Douglas wisdom “it’s just TV” as a reminder to not take work/life/self, whatever, so seriously. And I wish to hell, that he could listen to what I’m doing now – and then tear it to shreds with feedback. And I would love to hear him laugh at how far I’ve come from that first day that I walked into his office at OPB. And if only I could ask him all the work questions that still prod me daily and make me feel like I know as little now as I did back then.
And so down this sad little rabbit hole I go until, before I know it, I’m here in my office, with tears in my eyes and wadded up toilet paper to blow my squeaky nose on (not to mention, an office-mate who I can only imagine is wondering what kind of nutjob she’s working with). But then this morning, I realized something new. I saw what a gift this week has become. Because year after year I now have a week, a ritual, of thinking about Tom and Jeff, their lives and their deaths – and how much all of that, how much these two men, will always be a part of me.
“at work” with Jeff.
striking a pose with Tom.
Old Bike, New Tricks.
A friend sent me one of his hunting pictures the other day. Not cuz I hunt. I don’t. But because he’s the proud owner of my first-ever mountain bike and he’s found some new uses for the old gal…
Hauling out elk haunches during hunting season. And yes, those are legs and hooves.
Snow Biking Part 2
I don’t know what the hell they were thinking, but the girls decided they wanted to go ride their bikes – in the dark, and the cold, while. It. Was. Snowing. I’m serious. And so they ask me to go do this and of course I’m thinking “no f-ing way.” Because, did I mention, it was cold, dark, and snowing?!@*#! But shit, when your kids come to you in full snow gear, headlamps in hand, helmets on, what else can you say, but “okay. Let’s go!”
Oh yeah, and then we played at the playground – while it was cold, dark, and snowy. Kids these days.
Here’s to you, Tom.
Tom
So today is Tom’s birthday. I happen to be in Bend (where he last lived); riding my mountain bike – a sport he first introduced me to, and so, of course, I think of him. Which makes me happy; because he was amazing and changed my life for the better. And sad, because we never got that one last ride together.
And if we had, I would have him help me with my cornering. I’ve been figuring it out slowly, but I know he’d use his patient, mellow voice, to help me do it better. Oh, and I’d get to follow him up a hill, staring at his calves….(focus, focus). And he’d laugh and get all twinkle-eyed when I wiped out trying (I would laugh, too). And he’d gleam his subtle pride when I finally whipped a corner like a pro.
And so here’s to you Tom.
I had a really good ride today. It was beautiful here in Bend. I got a few of those corners. I hit some kickers. I tried to pretend I was a climber so that I’d forget how much the hills hurt. And I thought of you.
Excited to find “vintage” skis on the side of the road.
Tom.
Butts Alive!
It ain’t just for the ladies! Here’s to fully-firing ass muscles for all! (Kipp, you’re cool if I share this, right???)
And if you’re wondering at the recent obsession with strong backsides, read this (and then, go donate to OPB, cuz it’s fall Pledge and you know you listen and have totally started sentences with ‘so I heard on the radio…’) You can also see the fabulous Julie “Jane Fonda” Caldwell rockin’ some backside busters in these 2 posts: Take That Dead Butts and AssMasters Part Deux.
Now go wake that butt up, folks!
And a Guitar
I was getting a little early morning work done when lo and behold I see a guy climb out of car across the street. He has a fat-tire bike and a variety of black gear bags. After the car pulls away I watch as he carefully places each bag in its appropriate spot – on his bike. Clearly, he’d done this before. Not long thereafter we are in conversation. Turns out he has been riding for months. Carrying all he needs on his 2-wheeled steed. Ryan’s his name, bikepacking is his game (although it’s really a means to another end as you’ll see). Quick to make honest conversation, curious to boot, he needed a ride to Portland and so Tate I loaded up his gear and we headed into the city – hearing and sharing stories along the way. Nice to meet ya Ryan – safe and fantastic travels to you!
(An a loving, long distance bit of love to Old Man Graka. May you heal fast and get back to bikepacking soon yourself!)
“AssMasters” Part Deux
Take it away Julie…
Take That Dead Butts!
So a couple years ago, I had my first encounter with Dead Butts Syndrome. So sad, really. And in sharing the horror of that experience, I had very little to offer in terms of remedying a very fixable rear-end situation. One that probably a lot of us are facing.
Alas, that was then, and this is now. And more importantly, this is Julie. You may remember her as my partner in bravery – facing down bears and cougars on an early morning ride. She’s badass in a lot of ways, but for this post in particular – she’s simply going to help you get a badass-ass. (After which, she’ll take you out on a mountain bike ride and simply kick your ass.)
Thanks Julie. Rumor has it she has a line of workout videos coming out soon – all filmed post-ride, in full gear, with a live audience. If that doesn’t work out, you can catch her at the Tucker Road Animal Hospital in her day job as a veterinarian.
Don’t Be a Monkey
Bike safety at its creepiest.
Learning to ride. 