A New Haircut

I feel so spunky!

On Biking and the Tour de France

I have been opposed to bikes since my freshman year of college. I discovered that biking was not easy, especially when faced with the near endless seeming hill from south campus to north. Also, it made me look like a drunken old woman or a spindly legged spider…at least more than I usually did.
My scorn continued after I graduated. I moved to the UofA, where parking permits cost more than saffron encased in diamonds. But a bike provided me with an affordable way to get to and from class. My miserly ways overcame my hatred for the contraptions; I bought a bike.
In foolishness, I bought a used bike that needed some work. It was a cruiser, an old Schwinn with front and rear fenders, a fully steel frame (read: fucking heavy) and maybe 16 gears. It seemed perfect. It was cheap, sturdy, and reliable. Except for one thing: it needed a derailleur cable. For those of you who don’t know, the derailleur cable is what changes the gears. Without one, you’ve got a single speed. Lucky me, my bike’s chain was stuck on a high gear. Which meant accelerating was a bitch. On the whole, I did not enjoy riding my bike.
But every once in a while, I would get this euphoric feeling….I loved the wind in my face, the smells of the desert around me, and seeing the houses blur by me. It was weird and rare, but a welcome respite the normal drudgery of my daily commute.
Amidst all this, I met a very nice boy named Eric. We started dating. He got into cycling and bought a bike. A nice one, complete with derailleur cable and Italian brand name. And suddenly, a completely different attitude toward biking was in front of me. He liked riding his bike. It was ‘fun.’
I’m still sort of skeptical about that ‘fun’ part, but Eric has gotten me to start watching the Tour de France. I thought watching professional cycling would be akin to watching golf. Boring. But its not. Its amazing to watch these guys. They’re machines. Their resting heart rates are in the 40s. That’s basically dead. Honestly. And their heart rates when they’re really exerting themselves are in the 180s. They’re not people, they’re robots! They sustain 25mph speeds up mountain highways, like the one in Oak Creek Canyon. On a fucking bike! Its ridiculous. And sort of inspiring.
Its really got me thinking its time for a new bike.

Nostalgia is a bitch

I miss the past. I miss Flagstaff. After a weekend there the proverbial old days seem even farther away. I saw Gen. Everyone else was gone. And then this morning, little nuances of the past kept popping up. Fraser comments on my bolg this morning. I stumble upon Lobe's myspace page. Andy rhapsodizes about his favorite band, just as he used to. Its all just creeping around in my head and I"m not getting a thing done. I should be packing. I'm moving in a week. Not to Portland like Gen, or even to New Zealand like Chris did, but really just down the street. Its not hard. But I'm sitting here listening to "Growing Pains" and all I can think of is Fraser, Karen and I dancing like crazy hippies and drinking beer and Flag Brew. The beer was the same on Friday night, but instead of shoulder to shoulder dancing drunken fools, the place was packed with yuppie families, reveling in how neat the place was. I miss it the way it used to be. I miss the comeraderie of Flag. How it never mattered who was there and who wasn't...you just had a good time with who was around. There were no plans except for "we're going out tonight...want to come?" We never even had to be doing anything. Just sitting around somewhere talking about whatever was the best time. Where did that go? Away, for sure, and I know people wax poetic about stuff like this, but that doesn't seem right. It just doesn't seem like it should be that hard to find that again, but it seems like "what's lost once is lost forever." I guess all there is is to keep looking, keep having a good time, and the stupidly fun (as in so fun its ridiculous) times come back. At least I still have my Lobe cds.