Desperately Trying to Find the Zone

One of the ways I managed to lose 25 pounds last fall was to eat fewer calories than I expended through my ADLs and exercise. In fact, I increased my daily physical activity by 20%. Committed to keeping my weight at a healthier level, because of my risk for heart disease and diabetes, I am continuing to go to the gym at least twice during the workweek, and every Saturday and Sunday. At least during the winter months, when it is either too cold or too dark to safely exercise outside.

And OMG, do I think going to the gym is boring.

To mix up my routine, I decided to try (for the third time) the Couch25K program to train myself to run 3.1 miles without dying or embarrassing myself.

And guess what? I also think running is boring.

I started to struggle with boredom midway this morning's "run" (Week Four/Day 2 of C25K). The self-talk that goes through my head reminded me that serious runners talk about getting into "the zone". In fact, I've felt "the zone" while biking - the feeling that all I need to be doing right now is pedaling one leg at a time to keep myself moving forward. It is a wonderful, zen experience.

But I haven't hit "the zone" with my "running." I have, however, developed some strategies for keeping myself engaged in my workout. As a gift to you, I share them below:

• Count every stride I take, and when I reach 60, check the clock to see how close the pace of my counting came to the actual pace of time. Make adjustments to syncopate my counting with real time. Repeat.
• Look around the room for words or phrases that are static (e.g., the name of gym painted on the wall, the name of the workout machine I'm using, signs that might be nearby, etc.). Make as many new words out of these words as I possibly can. For example, how many words can YOU make out of "hydromassage"?
• Silently imagine what I would say to the people within my field of vision about their exercise habits and general state of fitness. Things like, "You look unhealthy. You go girl for being at the gym! Rock it!" and "You do know that I can see you itching your butt as you crush it on that elliptical, right?" 
• In the same vein, I also tell stories about the people within my field of vision. Just yesterday I saw a man within my age range with an incredible and HUGE head of hair wearing the tiniest, tightest running shorts I've seen in a while. He seriously looked like a bobble head. I then imagined that those were his favorite shorts from his collegiate field and track days. And while they clearly NO LONGER FIT HIM, it is also clear that he is unnaturally attached to the shorts, perhaps as a symbol of his younger glory days. And every time he wears them, his spouse yells at him to get rid of those ridiculous shorts because, the tiny shorts make him look ridiculous and sad and what if he runs into someone they know, and so on.  
• Inspire myself  by repeating the following mantra over and over again, "No one gets better at anything if they quit. I can do this. I can do anything for (however long I have left in the workout or the interval) minutes." Then I start wondering about all the things I might not be able to do for xyz minutes left in my workout. Like endure water boarding at the hands of terrorist captors, or swim in an alligator-infested swamp, or tolerate Donald Trump or Ted Cruz as President. 

It's not my knees or my general state physical fitness that will end my running career. Instead, it is the boredom.

So I ask you, before I make yet another trip to the gym where I'll rearrange the letters in "Judgment Free Zone" (men, gene, jug, mug, dug, tug, zen..." to entertain myself:

• Are you a runner who gets into the zone? 
• What does it look like or feel like? 
• How do you get to that place?
• What advice do you have for a novice runner? 

Help me!

The two grossest things I ever saw at the gym were...

Yesterday, at the Planet Fitness in Hingham, the guy next to me on the upright stationary bike was pedaling hard and fast. When I mounted my bike he had already cycled 11 miles at an average RPM (revolution per minute) or 97. (My pace, in comparison is 88-91 RPM.) About 2 miles into my "ride," out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a puddle on the floor. "Wha?!" I thought. "Is his water bottle leaking?" I look a little closer and realize the guy next to me is sweating so hard that salty human brine is literally pouring off of him. The puddles on either side of his bike was fast encroaching on my space, with the square footage of the water increasing so rapidly that I thought I might not be able to dismount without slipping in his sweat.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Because that's what I did when I realized, if I stayed where I was any longer, that I would have to walk through the evidence of this guy's workout in order to leave.

So, I decided to get off the bike and find something else to do to get my heart rate up.

But, this isn't the grossest thing I've ever seen at the gym.

"What IS the grossest thing you've ever seen at the gym Clownface?" you clamor, wanting more.

More than ten years ago, while in the common area of the locker room at the HealthWorks in Porter Square Cambridge, I was changing into exercise clothes. The locker room had several pods - with wood paneled lockers clustered around a central bench that could easily accommodate people on all four sides. I was in a pod with one other person who was also partially undressed - either wrapping up or preparing to start her fitness routine. We did not interact, or even acknowledge the other person was there.

Now this is an important detail, because I HAVE to believe that the other woman in the pod with me forgot there was another human being in her presence because what happened next was the most gauche thing another woman can do in the presence of a stranger. She reached between her legs and pulled out a bloodied tampon. Yup. That's what she did. She inspected it, then wrapped it in tissue, and set aside for her next trip to the toiler area.

Did you just throw up a little in your mouth? Maybe a lot? Yeah, me too.

Irony

Would it be considered ironic to say, "Now that my car was wrecked by a bus I have NO WAY to get to work," if, in fact, the only way to get to work is on a bus?

I don't think it is ironic. It just sucks.

2011: The year in review

Let's take a look at the milestones of 2011, at least in my personal universe:

January is neutral:

Same old, same old

February is not so great:

Travel to beautiful Sanibel Island, FL to visit my "MIL" and "FIL." "FIL" is dying, so this visit is, in many ways, about saying good-bye to him in a place he loves. Tear ducts - and heart - are preparing for the inevitable.

March is neutral:

The pallor of death casts over everything, making the same old, same old feel hard.

April sucks:

"FIL" dies - devastated beyond belief.

May is high and low:

Prearranged, week-long trip to the Happiest Place on Earth with BMG, my mother, youngest sister and her family. Contrary to all expectations, we have a great time.

The day we get back from Disney World, my favorite cat (sorry Ducky) is struck by a car and killed. Devastation again.

June is steely:

Inspired by a friend who quotes Goethe in Panera, I decide it is really time to look for a new job.

I celebrate my birthday by buying a kayak. Summer fun here I come!

July is neutral:

Same old, same old. Knowing I'll be leaving my job soon (can you say confident?) I don't take a vacation.

August is great:

Bad economy be damned! I have a new job! Quitting the old job is tough, but 100% the right thing to do. I run the Warrior Dash with my friend Sarah and my sister E.

September is great:

Start the new job - transitions are hard and I find them energizing.

October has ups & downs:

Funeral for friend Ellen's mom early in the month, grand opening of Massachusetts' firstWegman's store, and a late month trip to Baltimore to visit with my sister and her kids make this an active and emotionally neutral month.

November is a mixed bag:

Another trip to Florida (that's three this year) for Thanksgiving with BMG and his family; celebrating without the "FIL" is emotionally difficult. I'm glad I'm only there for 3 days.

On the plus side, we are approved for a mortgage to buy our house, and meet with our architect to discuss extensive renovations.

December is a mixed bag:

Happy about Christmas (participate in a sing-a-long in downtown Boston, have a great party at Brasserie JO with BMG and our friend Ellen). We close on the house.

Having my car decommissioned by an MBTA bus puts a damper on the celebratory spirit. A funeral for Lardito's dad was beautiful, and reopened some wounds.

*****

How would I characterize 2011? A year with an enormous amount of major changes. Two deaths, new house AND new job? That is a lot of change for one year. And it will only continue as BMG and I prepare to turn our lives upside down with a major home renovation in 2012.

Looking back on 2011 a toast starts to rattle around in my brain. On new year's eve I will life my winestein high and say,

"Here's to coming out on the other side of 2011 stronger because of all the changes - stronger in attitude and spirit. May 2012 bring more quiet moments to enjoy the blessing of my life from the vantage point of my bike, my kayak or my skis."

Happy end to 2011 and happy 2012!

Hello 42!

You've heard the question before, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" Or, "What are the first things you would you do if you won $700 million in the lottery?" Both are variations of the now popular "bucket list" idea. You know, where you make a list of all the things you want to do before you die?

I welcome the start of my 42nd year on this planet tomorrow. Birthdays always put me in a reflective mood - considering how I've grown in the past year, and who I want to be in the next year. The start of my 40s was filled with excited anticipation, and the prospect of being free to really dig into my "bucket list", which includes:
1. Live in NYC and/or Paris for at least six months
2. Learn to speak French
3. Successfully grow a giant pumpkin
4. Carve a giant jack-o-lantern
5. Hike Mt. Kilimanjaro
6. Provide some sort of service work (e.g. Peace Corps, NPS VIP Corps, etc.)
7. See as many of the US national parks as possible
8. Be a more diligent biker or kayaker
9. Do "the" road trip across the US
10. Water ski.

At first blush the last year has been a disappointing one because I haven't come substantively closer to achieving any of these things.

No one WANTS to be disappointed with themselves. Well, at least I don't. So I dug a little deeper. How would I characterize my 41st year?

One of the most significant changes is the evolving sense of peace I feel in my relationship with my mom. A light bulb was turned on and I realize that, while I am fundamentally different than she is, this doesn't preclude our having hundreds of ways we can appreciate and enjoy one another.

"Coming to peace with mom" isn't on my bucket list. But it probably should have been. Not only because being at peace with one's parents is a noble endeavor but also because, for me, the energy I put into my psychic wranglings with my mother (my childhood, my (mis)perceptions of my adult capacities) kept me from feeling the confidence I need to take bold steps towards achieving my goals.

I'm one year deeper into my life, and not outwardly any closer to crossing anything off my short list of aspirations. But inwardly, I'm ready for year 42 to begin.

10 things you might not know about me

The blogosphere is rife with lists of resolutions, non-resolutions, 2010 "best of" and 2011 "trends to watch out for" lists. I love lists, but don't want to be derivative. So...here is my list...of 10 things you might not know about me. I invite you to share your list in the comment section.

1. Like Filmmaker Ken Burns I love the National Park Service and have visited eleven national parks including the remote Dry Tortugas (FL), and Guadalupe Mountain and Big Bend (TX).
2. I was hit by a truck while riding my bike to work in October 2001 and literally saw my life flash before my eyes.
3. I lived in a commune for two years.
4. I will always consider myself bulimic, having lived with this disorder from 1986-1995.
5. Since I started working at age 11, I have held more than 30 different jobs yet I have never worked in a restaurant.
6. I published several academic articles on reform in medical education.
7. I am trained as a liberal sexuality educator using the Our Whole Lives Program created by the Unitarian Universalist Association. If I could make a viable living teaching I would.
8. In spite of this training and experience, I consistently find myself challenged by transgender men and women. The good news is I know it and am able to learn through these challenges.
9. I have two regrets in my life: not accepting my placement with the Peace Corps in 1992 and not going to public college for my undergraduate degree.
10. I am actively afraid of worms, snakes, and any creature that moves on land without benefit of legs.

What are 10 things I might not know about you?

Smells of Summer

Some of my favorite summer smells include:

• Fresh basil in the refrigerator


• Tomato plants


• Newly mown grass


• The beach at low tide


• Sea spray


• Baking ice cream cones


• Hot asphalt


• Freshly sliced limes.

Every one of these smells evoke a memory of a favorite summer activity or a feeling of decadence and relaxation. What are your favorite summer smells? Why?

An imaginary conversation with my dying self

An old acquaintance whom I respect mightily recently included me on a mass email inviting her friends to think about their "bucket list." She didn't use that made for Hollywood phrase, but instead couched the invitation within the context of dying without regrets.

So, I imagined myself lying at home in cozy jammies with a glass of wine at my side, knowing that my life is shortly ending. "What," I thought, "DON'T I want to hear pass through my brain or my heart at this time?" I don't want to say,
"I wish I had hiked Mt. Kilimanjaro,"
"I'm sorry I never made it to Hawaii or the Caribbean,"
"I don't know why I never bought a house,"
"I wish I had taken each of the kids - nieces and nephews - on a special trip,"
"I would have liked to have lived in New York City, even for a short period of time,"
"I could kick myself for never having tried to live in Paris or somewhere else overseas."

If I listen just a little more closely, I might hear the following:
"I'm sorry I didn't have a bigger wedding,"
"It would have been cool to work for the National Park Service,"
"Not going into the Peace Corps when I had the chance was mistake I'll never forget,"
"I regret I didn't give more to ease the ache in my heart over homelessness,"
"It would have been fun to enter a giant pumpkin - or something - into a county fair,"
"Why didn't I apply myself more as a biker (or a kayaker or a hiker or a xc skiier)?"
"I wish I had seen my daddy one more time."

These are some of the imaginary conversations I'm having with my imaginary, dying self. The timing couldn't be more perfect as I prepare to start the second 40 years of my life. Turning 40, for me, means embracing my adult decisions, lifestyle, attitudes and values with confidence and enthusiasm and purpose. As I head into the final six months of my thirties, I will ask my real self, "How do I prevent as many of these imaginary conversations from happening in real life?"

Are you willing to have imaginary conversations with your dying self? What would might they sound like?

In Defense of Talking to Strangers

My mom broke her pinkie while she and I were visiting Martha's Vineyard this week. She slipped getting off a bus and, in her frantic effort to right herself, she torqued the pinkie on her left hand out of joint and broke it at the base.

We were in West Tisbury, en route to a connecting bus that would take us to Aquinnah and Gay Head, the most remote area of the island. We had no car. And my mom broke her finger. Sigh. Rather than getting back on the bus to a more populated part of the island (and an ER) we pushed forward and continued our journey. Our bus driver, alerted to the problem, flagged down a bike cop as we approached the stop at Gay Head and he met us with an ice pack for my mom's finger. We secured the pack to her hand using a white linen shirt I was wearing. We walked to the highest point at Gay Head, mom's hand looking rather claw-like, took a half-dozen pictures of Gay Head cliffs and Gay Head Light, and then parked ourselves at a picnic table to wait 45 minutes for the next bus out of there. (The picture at the top of the post is AFTER we had iced it for 30 minutes.)

The break was bad. Her pinkie was sticking out at a right angle from its base. Always a good bruiser, my mom takes blood thinners and the hematoma evolving in her palm was spectacular. It was 3:00 in the afternoon and we were three bus rides away from the ferry terminal and at least another 90 minutes from the mainland from there. And the ice pack was melting.

I left my mom at a picnic table and headed to a food vendor to get some more ice for her finger. Ahead of me was a woman in bike gear looking to buy a Gatorade. As we waited I asked about the biking conditions on the island and we chatted about road versus off-road biking. As the biker was being served she mentioned she also wanted a cup of ice. I chimed in that I wanted one too, for my mother's broken finger. The counter girl ruefully informed us she'd have to charge us $0.50 for the ice. I started to trot off to grab two quarters from my purse when the biker with whom I'd been chatting pressed a quarter into my hand. "For your mother," she said. When I returned to the counter with a second quarter to pay for my ice the biker was still there. As we continued to wait she said to me politely, "Is your mom going to be all right?" "She's being brave," I replied. "But the break looks pretty bad. We need to get off the island and get her to an emergency room."

Then the biker said something extraordinary. And this is why it is important to talk to strangers. She said, "My husband is an ER doctor. I'm sure he wouldn't mind looking at it." In wonderment, I fetched my mom and we met the ER doctor, fully outfitted in HIS bike gear. He affirmed the finger was broken, yanked it back into place and asked me to go ask a shop keeper for some tape, even cellophane tape, so he could affix the broken digit to its neighbor. My mother, go-getter she is, was already ahead of me, in the entrance of the nearest shack selling Wampanoag handicrafts. The artisan, upon hearing of the situation, pulled a first aid kit off a shelf, rifled through its contents and offered gauze for the cause. He also has a roll of masking tape, which was deemed a suitable substitute for the first aid tape missing from his kit. The ER doctor, using supplies in the first aid kit of the Native American crafts person, stabilized my mom's broker finger.



After my mom made it back to her home town she visited urgent care and learned her pinkie is indeed badly broken. And the ER doctor pulled it perfectly into place; no additional work was needed on it. She does need to have her hand guy take a look at it to follow up (she's had extensive hand surgery over the course of her young life), but for now she just needs to wait until it heals.

A message to all roller bladers

You take up too much space when you "blade" (which should NOT be a verb, at least not in my universe, which shall be described in detail in a later post) down commuter bike ways and sidewalks. And, you are rarely paying attention to the world around you, choosing instead crank up your iPod, which swings back and forth as you hyper extend your arms in that rhythmic pumping motion, zooming along as if you think you are Eric Heiden. Find an indoor track! Or, if you DO plan to use your roller blades in public space, turn down the iPod (or take it off) and make an effort to listen to the people with whom you share the trail.

Victory!

Hooray! I did it! With almost no training, I biked 102.6 miles in just under 8 hours this weekend (that's an average of a 13.25 miles per hour). I accomplished this century ride , along with 1,999 other riders supported by the Narrangansett Bay Wheelmen on Sunday, September 9th.

I woke up at 4:30 AM on Sunday, expecting to leave BMG's 984 square foot slice of paradise by 5:00 AM, so I'd be at the starting point by 6:30 AM. I was expecting the worst - a 10 hour sojourn on my bike. (How long was my longest training ride you ask? 47 short short miles. Boy was I unprepared for this!) Imagine my disappointment when I noticed bright flashes of lightning in the sky, hardy rolls of thunder, and the sprinkle of warm summer rain moistening the deck. I love to bike, and I am a fair weather biker. The forecast did not predict rain in coastal Southeastern Massachusetts, and I decide to wait out the rain a little bit.

At 5:52 AM, I decided to hit the road, the rain had only gotten more persistent. But, I didn't want to doubly disappoint myself by (a) training poorly, and (b) punking out. So, I folded my bike into my car and hit the road. Worst case scenario? I'd have a groggy drive to UMass Dartmouth, and I'd merely turn around and play video games at BMG's all day.

The weather did clear up just south of Brockton, and my spirits were buoyed as I whizzed past each on ramp to the highway, which dropped increasing numbers of cars stuffed with bikes and spandex-clad people onto my southerly route. After my nervous check-in, I hit the road through flat farm land along the Massachusetts/Rhode Island border.

Biking for me is a solitary sport. I get into a space where I am thinking about nothing but my legs spinning. I watch and listen to the scenery. I saw cows (dairy and beef), sheep, goats, horses, and myriad egrets, cranes and herons. One of the first birds I saw was an ominous hawk slowly circling overhead right after the start of the ride. "Waiting for the first biker to fall?" I wondered as I reverently biked out of the raptor's field of vision.

I was reminded that biking is a team sport by the well-organized pace lines that whizzed by me early in the ride. They apparently assign one person to scream the contents of road signs out for the entire team. I got one scary earful by a petite, middle-aged woman yelling "TRACKS" as we bumped over a railroad crossing. So loud was she that I jumped and yelled "Jeez! I can read the sign too." At which point she apologized, and I later gave her annoyed looks when I espied her at rest areas. "Who is biking at 20-25 miles per hour and needs someone to read street signs to them?" I wondered to myself. These same pace lines also use simple hand signals to point out road hazards. The same query applies. "If I am paying enough attention to watch your hand signals, I'd rather just pay attention to the road." Who needs the screaming middle man?

I had a couple of minor mishaps. One flat tire (predicted by the brilliant and helpful BMG), which was changed with the assistance of Eric and Val from just outside of Providence. Volunteer mechanics from East Providence Cycle gave mechanical support during the ride, and fixed a loose rear derailleur (the mechanism that controls the gear shifting). This helped me smoothly glide into the easy gears as I became progressively more tired along the way.

I talked myself encouragingly through the last 30 miles. "You can bike another 5 miles, come on CF!" and later "You can bike 1 more mile, come on CF!" When I realized I was going to make it, I started to cry. And I was a little worried. Because I did it without training. I struggle so much with my motivation to reach physical goals. Finishing this 102 ride represented the achievement of a goal I had set for myself, and it also represented achievement without much work (except on the day of said goal accomplishment). I lamented this fact to BMG later, as he kindly fed me candy bars and murmured words of congratulations to me in my tired haze. His wise response? "If you trained, you would not be as tired. If you trained, you would have been able to keep up with the pace lines (if I wanted to, which I don't). If you trained, you'd feel even better about what you did today." He's right, and I feel great.

Thwarted!

I was 38 miles into my 46 mile bike ride today, feeling exhausted and jubilant that I was going to meet my goal of cycling 45 miles before heading to France. I had increased my average speed per hour, and was in the home stretch. Then. POP! My rear wheel had a blow out. Luckily, I had just picked up a new tube at REI, along with a new tire pump. With a little phone coaching from BMG, I started to change the tire. I took the new tube out of my Camelbak. And I realized it was a Schrader valve, not a Presta valve. It was useless to me.

Now, I'm stranded in Middleton, about 7 miles from my car. Ergh. Second bout of luckiness ensued. I had my travel club card with me. And, I pay an extra $10/month for bike roadside assistance. So, I called. (The company, by the way, is Better World Travel and they ROCK!) And, they arranged for a tow. Of me and my bike.

When Doug and his girlfriend, Dina, found me they started laughing their butts off. They were expecting a motorcycle, not a pedal bike. Doug must have called every one of his friends to tell them what he was doing. He kept saying "A pedal bike. I've never heard of anyone towing a pedal bike." As we drove through the suburbs I regaled Doug and Dina with stories about my having been caught in a bike sting operation set up to keep bicyclists from blowing through red lights in Cambridge, and my experience having my bike towed for being parked illegally. Yes, I had to go to a bike tow lot and pay a fine before my bike was released to me. (Who knew Cambridge had a 24-hour bike parking rule?) They giggled and shook their heads.

When I got back to my car, conveniently parked at REI, I returned $25 worth of bike equipment in a self-satisfied snit. Grabbed an Iced Venti Decaf Nonfat Vanilla Latte at the closest Starbucks, and made it home.

Phew.

I still haven't biked 45 miles. But I know I can. When I get back from Paris, I'll do another 45 mile ride (once BMG helps me put my bike together again). I'll then pump it up to 50-54 miles (a 10-20% distance increase) and am certain I'll be ready to do 100 with the Narranganset Bay Wheelmen on September 9th. Hooray!

Almost 45

I did 36.5 miles on my bike today. I'm slow, but working on my muscle endurance right now, rather than speed. I'm registered for the Flattest Century of the East ride on September 9th. My goal is to get to 45 miles by the time I leave for France in one week. I'm almost there, and believe I can do it.

*****

About 1/2 way through my ride today, I realized the Tour de France started today. It was fun to be speeding along imagining I was one of the racers.

Tour de France

BMG and I head to France in eleven days for our two-week sojourn in Paris to play, read, eat and watch the Tour de France. You can stay on top of our travels and the tour by reading BMG's blog. I'll post pictures and stories when we return!

Up all night

One of the ways I cope with stress is by singing to myself. It is a self-soothing mechanism. As I type the title to this post, the first in nearly three weeks, I find myself singing the Boomtown Rats song by the same title. As I start this, it is 1:54 AM and I've tried going to sleep once already tonight. I am too keyed up to sleep, unable to quiet what practitioners of Buddhist mediation call the "monkey mind."

• "Will I be able to pull off staff orientation for my summer interns next Tuesday?"
• "Will I be able to get the Mayor and the Police Chief to sign off on the Memorandum of Understanding to accompany the $6 million proposal I'm coordinating?"
• "How am I going to explain that I didn't use the poster presentation the admin team in my office prepared for two days because I am not going to that conference tomorrow morning?"
• "When will I make it to the bank to get cash for the week?"
• "Will I remember to make an appointment to get my eyes checked, teeth cleaned, and hair done before I leave for Paris?"
• "How am I going to get everything done that needs to be done at work before I leave for Paris?"

It has been more than a month of non-stop stress and pressure in the workplace. I used to laugh. Now, I am pining for quiet in my work life. I crave long stretches of time to ride my bike. I crave time to cook and eat healthfully. I crave the space to take care of the package that is my body, and the soul this body encases. I don't know how to do this and manage the pressure I feel - and experience - in my job. I keep reminding myself that this is temporary, that the pressure will let up after next Friday, but I feel myself starting to crack.

I don't like this feeling, this ride down the slippery slope.

To be certain, I am privileged. I am worrying about going to Paris. I am not worrying about putting food on the table. But, worry is worry. As I count my blessings and try to stay grounded in what I know is right and good (listening, being honest, loving, kind and strong) there is a brief pause in the stress. And then it overtakes me again. This is what feels so difficult, as the stress is so much more powerful than the blessings.

When life calms down, the goal will be to find strategies for developing power in the blessings, so they can keep the stress in check. Maybe now I can get some sleep?

Celebrating humor

I'm working 55-60 hours a week at work, and starting to get embroiled in back room politics. I have millions of dollars for which I'm responsible, am working on a brand new publication that is two months late and is likely to come in 6 months late. Work is stressful. At home, I've gained weight, am struggling with the effects of a new kind of medication, and cannot seem to make the time to exercise (see work stress above). My niece has cerebral palsy and is bleeding out of one side of her head for reasons no one can explain. I head to Hingham to visit BMG in what I call "the vacation home" and get stuck in traffic that leads to the 20 miles trip taking 2 hours. That's 10 miles/hour folks.

How do I react? (How would you react?)

I laughed. Hip hip hooray for being able to laugh.

Zelig

This was my day, on Friday, May 11th.

8:00 AM - 1:30 PM: Work from home as confident grant writer and strategic planner
1:30 PM - 5:00 PM: Tool around Boston; Watch Spiderman 3 in a theater crowded with teenagers who were CLEARLY skipping school
5:00 - 6:00 PM: Drink wine and eat Italian nibbles on Newbury Street, watching beautiful people
6:00-7:45 PM: Sit in Somerville City Hall listening to hippie liberals and cool young 'uns debrief their experience in the Somerville Conversations Project
7:45-9:00 PM: Sit in the student run cafe at Somerville High School with townies, at a reverse Keno-like Bingo game, hoping to win $10,000 (didn't - sigh).

I'm now in tony Hingham, getting ready to take a bike ride along the Atlantic coast.

How lovely to be able to bounce between Euro-trash, urban hip hoppers, zealous liberals, and parochial old-timers, making connections and observing amusedly the group dynamics around me.

Haiku

When I was 11 years old, I received honorable mention in a regional poetry contest for a morose haiku I wrote. It goes like this:

Gently falling down
The rain spatters all my dreams
Dotting all my thoughts.

While skimming through my email account that tends to get the most junk mail, I read the online newsletter, Kicking Asphalt, of the Better World Club. (Quick sidebar: This is an alternative to Triple AAA, the travel club. They provide the same services, but instead of directing lobby efforts towards increasing the number and quality of highways, they direct lobby efforts towards environmental protection. One of their best features - they offer not only roadside assistance for cars, but also for bikes. I've never used this feature, so I'm not sure how it works in practice, but I love the idea of it. Now, back to our story.)

In the newsletter, they unveiled a series of haiku written by Better World members, focused on the apparent fight to get an auto emissions waiver designed to let the state set even tougher limits than the U.S. A quick google search will reveal myriad stories about the emissions waiver effort -- supported by the Governor, who has threatened to sue the EPA if they don't grant the waiver. Do your own research into the issue, if you need to. Click here to read the haiku. Here is my favorite, from Chris in Ithaca:

Tundra's, desert's oil,
Pumped madly into the sky:
Oops! No more seasons.

Happy and TV-Free

BMG and I are sitting side-by-side on the futon, with our respective laptops in our, well, laps. Playing web-boggle. Well, he is. I've quit to blog a little. It is nice to be chilling out a home, playing games and not watching television. I feel happy.

I went to Girls' Group tonight. I bicycled there and it felt so nice. Biking home in the cool, dark night I felt so at peace. If I had not been concerned about biking in the city without a headlamp, I would have kept going. I love to bike, it makes me feel strong, and I feel good about myself when I'm done. Why don't I do this more? (Stupid weather. I don't feel so great about myself when I've been biking in rain and I don't like being cold on my bike.) Okay - pledge to self - ride bike when weather is nice nice nice!

With a little help from the Girls, I decided to head to Europe for two weeks this summer. BMG and I were already planning to go for a short while. But, I was afraid of intruding on his "Ex-Pat Writing in Europe" routine, so I was going to make it a short trip. But, I realized that I can make it a long trip - and just take some time for myself - to bike, explore, and simply be. I feel glad to have made this decision, and am excited at the prospect of heading onto a train and going someplace I've never been before. Hooray! Hooray!

Trek 1200

Okay. I did it! I bought a bike. I was thinking about getting the Trek 1000, those of you faithful readers might remember. Well, at the International Bicycle Center in Boston I got a really great deal on the Trek 1200, so 200 more bicycliciousness than the one I was planning on investigating further. The cost? $600. Pedals come separately, and BMG tells me they'll run about $100. And new shoes? Another $100. So, for $800 bucks I get a new bike that is custom fit for my body. I'm nervous and excited - about having the right gear to really meet my goal to become more hard core about my biking.

BMG suggests we might want to buy a spare pair of shoes for me to have, and some more clothing - ideally an "outfit" or two that complements my bike colors (grey, red and black). My orange and black jersey may not cut it any longer. So, I'm excitedly looking at silly jerseys online. Think I may get this one. Fun!