Thankful Thursday #92

This week I'm thankful for...

• playing Hide & Seek with my nephews
• riding my bike to work
• slow churned frozen vanilla custard
• Saturdays in my pajamas
• wearing my One Fish, Two Fish pajamas to school on Dr. Seuss Day.  Yes, I did ride my bike to school in my pajamas.
• riding my bike home under a double rainbow backed by gunmetal clouds
• arriving home on my bike just as it started to rain
• this present I received from a little one at my school:

How adorable is this bike basket/bag?  It gets even better...

TAGALONGS!!! There were Tagalongs inside!!! Surely I died and went to Heaven.

And look how my Sharpies look like a bright bouquet of happiness. Sigh. Perfection.

Back to School, Bike Style

Remember being a kid on the first day of school?  If you were anything like me, it was a bittersweet day, the end of summer nearly eclipsed by the excitement of a new year.

You probably woke up before your alarm clock sounded.  If you were lucky, your mom woke you with a kiss on your forehead.  You'd hurry into the bathroom to brush your teeth, but only the front ones because today was not a day to waste time on petty things like molars.

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After your teeth were clean enough and your hair combed to perfection, you'd pull on your First Day of School Outfit, laid out carefully the night before.  You'd check your reflection in the mirror and nod.  Looking good, looking REAL good.

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You'd top off your outfit with your brand new pair of shoes, pristine shoes scant of scuff marks.

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 You'd pack your lunch, a PB&J with the perfect jelly to peanut butter ratio, into your brand new lunchbox.

[caption id="attachment_4614" align="aligncenter" width="201" caption="image courtesy of pepperjackhome.com"][/caption]

You'd navigate your Trapper Keeper and your pencil box full of freshly sharpened pencils and place your lunch gingerly inside your backpack, the one you'd picked out specially, agonizing over the selection in the backpack aisle until you found the one that was just right.

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With any luck, you'd get to school early.

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Maybe even early enough to meet your friends on the playground for a little before school recess.

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And then you'd summon your courage and walk to class to meet your teacher, who upon first glance seemed a little nutty.

[caption id="attachment_4618" align="aligncenter" width="341" caption="image courtesy of bicycle-worldrecords.com"][/caption]

 You soon discovered that your teacher was the kind who not only loved music, but art, too.

[caption id="attachment_4619" align="aligncenter" width="480" caption="First Bike by Mary Carol Williams"][/caption]

When it came time for math, your teacher explained it in such a way that you, the kid who hated math, felt like Einstein.

[caption id="attachment_4620" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="image courtesy of frontpsych.com"][/caption]

Before you knew it lunchtime came around and nothing, nothing was such a relief as when a friend rescued you from sitting alone at the lunch table.

[caption id="attachment_4621" align="aligncenter" width="512" caption="image courtesy of alternativecommutepueblo.com"][/caption]

 After lunch and a sweaty recess of dominating the tetherball court, your teacher would lead you back into class, where you'd cool off, rest your head on your desk and maybe even nod off a second or two under the calming rhythm of your teacher's voice reading a good book.

[caption id="attachment_4622" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="Me and My Bike by Ander"][/caption]

Then you'd pull out your notebook, all the pages crisp and white, just waiting for your words, your magnum opus, What I Did On Summer Vacation.

[caption id="attachment_4623" align="aligncenter" width="471" caption="image courtesy of visithollywoodfl"][/caption]

If you were really lucky, you visited the library.  The librarian, who smelled like chocolate chip cookies and old books, helped you check out a stack of books to take home.

[caption id="attachment_4624" align="aligncenter" width="300" caption="image courtesy of bostonbiker.org"][/caption]

And just like that, the first day was over.  You'd race home and tell your mom all the details of the day.  And then before the summer sun settled down for the night, you'd ditch your school stuff and race out the front door to play with your neighborhood friends.

[caption id="attachment_4625" align="aligncenter" width="350" caption="image courtesy of cyclecenterct.com"][/caption]

After all, even Einstein didn't study all the time.

[caption id="attachment_4626" align="aligncenter" width="314" caption="Albert Einstein, Santa Barbara"][/caption]

Thankful Thursday #30

Hello, blog friends.  It's good to be back with you.  I've been away because my family arrived for a reunion.  There were about 35 of us and I'm afraid Redding will never be the same!

This week I'm thankful for...

• hot showers.  I've caught a bit of a summer cold and nothing feels better than a hot shower in the morning.


• my big, crazy family


• my mom, for gathering my big, crazy family together in one place


• kayaking with my eleven year old nephew, Ryan.  We saw bald eagle in a nest and he couldn't stop saying "This is awesome!".  I love him for that.

• my little brother, Pete,  who drove 11 hours to make it to our family reunion.  We rode up to Shasta Dam Sunday morning and it was beautiful.

• Terry for bringing my roses on my birthday and for not complaining that I wanted to go to a local greasy spoon and have brinner for my birthday meal.


• my friend, Abby, for making me this awesome birthday cake.  Yes, she made the bicycle, too.  And it was Funfetti cake.  Best birthday cake ever.

• my second cousin, Jack, who sang the cutest version of Happy Birthday to me about ten times yesterday.  He also gave me lots of birthday kisses, including one on the armpit.  Did I mention he's two?


• all my friends and family who donated to LiveStrong on my behalf.  I'm $90 from my fundraising goal.  Fingers crossed that I reach it by Saturday.  Fingers and toes crossed that I make it across the finish line Sunday!

30 Days of Celebration: Day 9, Bike Commuting

Today I'm celebrating the opportunity to commute by bicycle.  I live close to my school, so close in fact that I often walk to work.  In the time it would take me to pump up my bike tires, strap on my helmet, and get my bike gear on, I could probably be almost to the door of my classroom.  Then there's the whole issue of bringing a change of clothes, and shoes, and not to mention dealing with helmet hair.  Too much effort for what would equate to just over a mile.  Round trip.

But today I had a meeting downtown right off the river trail.  So I slipped into my bike gear, strapped on my helmet and pedaled out.  It was an easy ride from my house, just over 4 miles in the warm morning.  I rode along the river, thinking about the meeting at hand.

After the meeting, I pedaled home, mashing my pedals uphill in the summer heat.  Sweat trickled down my brow.  I didn't care.  It's summer and today I'm a bike commuter.

The Red Boat

Saturday afternoon I pulled on my tights and arm warmers and all sorts of other layers that would keep me warm on such a frigid day.  As I got dressed, my nerves bounced around like rubber bands being fired in my stomach, plinking off the insides of my ribcage.

It was the day of my first bike ride of the year.

I love riding The Rocket, but there is just something about the first ride of the year that makes me all a jitter.  Maybe it's that a new cycling season is so ripe with possibility.  Or maybe it's the fact that I haven't ridden outside in a couple of months and I'm afraid I've forgotten how to clip in and out of my pedals and I'm convinced I'm going to crash.  At least once.  Yeah, that's probably it.

The night before, I pumped up my tires and took a minute to get re-acquainted with The Rocket.  I checked her brakes, shifted and listened for any new squeaks.  After a couple of neglected months, she had good reason to whine, but no, she is a bike who holds her tongue, a lady who thinks before she speaks.

I gave her the once over, eyeing the little chips and scratches on her frame, each one a battle scar, proof that we have been places, that we've seen the world together.  I ran my hands over her, making sure all her parts were in working order.  She was in prime condition.

Saturday was frigid.  I think at one point the temperature got up to a balmy 39 degrees.  My friend, Laura, and I cruised down to the river trail.  We chatted and pedaled, our breath puffing around us as we rode on the mostly empty trail.  There are a ton of newly paved sections and I was excited to try out a nice, steady climb.

We turned onto the new part of the trail and a creek to our left burbled down toward the river as we pushed up the hill.  We were quiet, only a word or two popping between us.  I'd like to say our conversation lulled because we wanted to enjoy the sounds of nature, but the truth of the matter is after a couple of months off the bike, I had to choose between talking and breathing.

One of the best parts of cycling is that I never know what I'm going to see, every ride is a surprise.  And as we turned a corner, there it was.

A beautiful, old, red boat.



You might not think it's beautiful, but on a day when the sky was a gunmetal swath above the gray river, and the air was wrapped in fog, the red boat was a stunning punch of color in an otherwise subdued landscape.  I yanked off my gloves and willed my frozen fingers to work the camera.

A boat, a beautiful, red boat.  In the prime of its life, it could have held 30 men, maybe carried them down the creek into the river.  And here it was landlocked on the side of the trail.  I wish I knew the story of the boat, but there wasn't anything or anyone around to offer an explanation.  I slipped my gloves back on and tucked my camera in my jersey pocket.  I thought about that boat for the rest of the ride, inventing a history for it, keeping my mind busy while my legs turned the cranks.

The temperature dropped and a drizzle covered my glasses in a sheet of mist.  We hurried back to our cars, willing our legs to spin faster as our fingers and toes ached with cold.

Back at home, I stood in the shower, letting the scalding hot water needle my skin.  I piled on layers of clothes and slurped hot tomato soup under a blanket, but no matter what I did, I couldn't shake the cold from my bones, couldn't keep the goosebumps at bay.

I like to think the goosebumps on my skin that day weren't a result of winter's icy grip.  No, I think they were the result of standing tiptoe on the edge of a new cycling season, holding my breath knowing adventures full of unexpected beauty are just around the corner.

Black & White

A long time ago in a space that seems fuzzy and far away, before I owned a road bike or called myself a cyclist, my step-dad, Chris, used to take me mountain biking.  I use that term loosely because it's not like I was hopping up boulders or screaming downhill, whipping through singletrack or anything.  I was riding mostly flat dirt trails on my mountain bike.

Often Chris would bring along his dog, Jack.  Jack was the blackest dog I've ever seen.  His coat was a glossy obsidian color and as he ran alongside us, his pink tongue would hang out.  His tongue had one black spot right in the middle.  In his more nimble days, Jack would get so excited about riding bikes that he would bite at our tires.  I would nudge him away with my foot, half smiling at his mischievous side.  Not that I could relate or anything.

As I tootled along the dusty trails, I tried, with varying amounts of success, not to get lost and not to crash.  Quite often I got separated from Chris and he'd send Jack to find me.  I was never afraid of being lost when I rode with Chris because I knew Jack would always come back for me.  As I stood befuddled as to which way to turn on a trail, Jack would lope up to me, his polka dot tongue waggling at me.  I would say "Hi, Jack.  Thanks for coming to get me.  Take me to Chris."  And sure enough, Jack led me to Chris every time.  He was my own personal rescue dog.

Today Jack died.  And I am sad.  I know he was old and no longer spry enough to run rescue missions on the trails.  And I know he wasn't even my dog.  But I am sad.  Sad that he will never nip at my tires or grin at me with his silly polka dot tongue.

I rode my bike to school today and in the late morning Terry dropped by my classroom with a bouquet of stark white roses.  When it came time to go home, I jimmied the bouquet into my backpack and strapped on my helmet.  The roses bumped against the back of my helmet as I pedaled up the hill home.  Every little bump seemed to release a new wave of fragrance into the air.  It was lovely.

As I inhaled the scent of the white roses, I thought of black Jack.  I thought of how grief is anything but black and white.  It is shades of gray, birthed from black sorrow and white joy stacked one upon the other, like crying and laughing in the same breath.

When I got home today, I plunged the roses into a vase of water.  A lone petal fell onto the counter.  I fingered its pale skin, grateful today for the juxtaposition of loss and love.  I stood in the kitchen and gave thanks that in my life there is more laughing than crying, more love than loss, more white than black.

Seattle to Portland

208 Miles

208 miles is a long way to drive, let alone ride a bike, but last weekend, that's exactly what The Rocket and I did.  The Rocket took a road trip to Portland and then hopped a bus to Seattle.  I'm told she was well-behaved and didn't talk in her sleep too much.  While the Rocket travelled by land, Terry and I flew to Seattle.  The morning of the ride, I woke up at the unholy hour of 3:30 to yank on my Spandex and throw a bowl of Cheerios down the hatch.  As we fought road construction to the start line, my stomach was a ball of nerves.  With 10,000 cyclists participating in the Seattle to Portland ride, the start line was a hive of activity.  I met up with my pals, Joan, Laura, and Jim.  Terry kissed me goodbye, and at 5:15 we were off.  My favorite part of the morning was riding through Seattle watching the sun rise above the downtown skyline.

I also rode by green fields filled with wildflowers, like the ones I used to pick in fistfuls for my mother when I was a kid.

The sky was overcast most of the ride and temperatures hovered in the sixties and seventies.  It was a welcome relief from the scorching Redding heat and when it began to drizzle, I tilted my head back and let the sprinkles hit my teeth as I smiled, filled with joy to be on my bike.

3 Awesome Things With Wheels

With 9,999 other cyclists on the course, I was never alone.  I thought of the rules Gramma and I had on our trip to Eastern Europe.  Rule #1: See something new.  Rule #2: Meet someone new.  Rule #3: Eat ice cream.  I was riding by all kinds of new scenery and crazy bikes.  On the first hill, I rode past a three person wide bicycle.  Yes, I know that's not technically a bicycle, but since they were riding across, not front to back, it's not a tandem either.  I don't know what this thing was, but it was a bike with three riders that motored up hills like a sack of bricks.  I also passed a unicyclist.  I cannot even fathom what it takes to ride a unicycle 200 some odd miles.  I'm just going to take a moment of gratitude for my comfortable bike seat.  Maybe I'll write it a sonnet later.  While the brick of riders and the uni were incredible, the most amazing bike (and again, I'm grappling for the right term here) was this:

It is the offspring of an unnatural romance between a bicycle and an elliptical machine.  I saw two of these parked at the finish line which means there are at least two people on the planet insane enough to ride/run from Seattle to Portland.  Incidentally, when I showed this picture to Terry, he said something like "I think I'd be awesome on a bike like that."  He's right and that makes me feel a little bit stabby.  Anyway, now I understand why there is a separate room for spin bikes at my gym.  Who knows what might happen if they were left alone at night with the elliptical machines.

2 Creamsicles

After 100 miles there is a midline festival.  I'd heard rumors that when you ride into the festival, there are people there handing out Creamsicles.  I assure you, such Heaven does exist on Earth.  Before I get to the Creamsicles, I have to backtrack a little.  I'm a proud member of Team Fatty and on both days of the ride I sported Fat Cyclist jerseys.  This means that throughout the ride I heard "Go, Team Fatty!"  and "Fight Like Susan!"  This warmed my heart knowing that Fatty has touched so many people with his efforts to fight cancer.  When people rolled up next to me, they would usually open the conversation with a friendly "Hey, Fatty!"  Now, let it be known here and now that if you call me Fatty when I'm not on my bike, there will be punching.  Lots of punching.  People who don't know Fatty's story asked about my jersey and I told them the story of Susan and my own story of riding for my grandmother.

There was also a large contingent of cyclists that felt they had to make sure my self-esteem was properly inflated.  Hundreds, maybe thousands, of cyclists rode up to me and said "You're not a fat cyclist."  I'd say a quick thanks, relieved that my jerseys were ironic and not truth in advertising.  I've worked hard this season to trim up a bit, but after 50 or so people commented on my unfatness, I started replying a little differently.  Instead of just saying thanks I'd say things like "It's more of a state of mind."  People would laugh and then I'd tell them how I came to join Team Fatty.  At mile 99, with Creamsicles dancing in my head, another cyclist rolled up next to me and this was our conversation.

"You're not a fat cyclist."

"Thanks.  It's more of a state of mind."

"Oh, like p-h-a-t cyclist?"

"Yeah, sure.  That and if I beat you to the midline festival, I'm going to eat my Creamsicle and yours, too."

He sprinted to the festival and I sprinted right after him, passing him just in time to grab a Creamsicle.  He gave me his Creamsicle and I happily ate them both.  One for me, one for Gramma Betty.  Sorta like pouring one out for my homey.

1 Awkward Moment of Chivalry

I am a big fan of chivalry, specifically of men like Terry who hold doors open for women.  At each rest stop there were rows of port-a-potties.

Did you catch the manufacturer's name?  Honey Bucket.  Has there ever been a more ill-fitting name for something?  I think I've just found a new curse word.  "Oh, honeybuckets!"  or "Aren't you just a little honeybucket?"  Yup, it totally works.

So there I was on deck for a Honey Bucket, waiting for a door to pop open.  A man exited the last one, and I hurried over.  And then he held the door to the port-a-potty open for me.  It was awkward.  I just stood there for a second until he let the door go.  I don't really know why I felt so awkward except that nobody has ever held a port-a-potty door for me before.  I feel kinda bad because I was stunned by this act of chivalry and I'm not even sure I said thanks.  So, let me just say thanks to that guy now.  Thanks, nice guy who held the door for me.  I'll try to be less of a honeybucket next time.

1 Drawbridge

One of the best parts of the ride was crossing from Washington into Oregon.  We crossed over the Columbia River by riding over a drawbridge.  Joan snapped this photo as ride volunteers closed off traffic and let huge groups of cyclists go at a time.  Crossing the bridge shoulder to shoulder with hordes of other cyclists was thrilling.

1 Good Cry

At around mile 160, I passed a sign for Prescott Beach:

My grandfather's name was Prescott and when I saw the sign, I immediately thought, "I've got to call Gramma and tell her about this!" And there it was.  Grief bleeding through the scab that had begun to form in the months since my grandmother's death.  Most of the time, I'm aware that she is gone, but every now and then I'll see something that makes me think of her.  My reflexes react and I am left raw, missing her in a whole new way, grieving for all the things I will never get to share with her.  I pedaled and cried.  My legs were weary and my cadence was slow.

And then I thought of my mom.  The same weekend I was riding for Gramma Betty, my mom was closing up my grandmother's house for the last time.  Packing up her furniture.  Sitting in the backyard one last time.  Driving away with her heart in her throat.  Riding a double century is hard, but I thought of how my mom was doing something so much harder.  I thought of how my mom has been so strong and brave these last few months.  I thought of how my mom is so much like my grandmother and how I want to be strong and brave, just like both of them.  My legs began to pedal faster, my tears dried up and I sailed across the finish line.

32 Donors & 1,243 Dollars

Maya Angelou says "I will be myself.  I will speak my own name."  This season I have taken my hobby and used it to speak my grandmother's name.  And now I speak your names because you have spoken for cancer patients and their families.  Together we raised $1,243 for LiveStrong.  You have overwhelmed me with your generosity.  Thank you Adam C., Amy H., Andrea & Jeromy H., Anita J., Betty C., Cheryl P., Chris F., Christine W., Dale M., David & Vickey P., Debbie S., Diana P., Hayley L., Heather F., Jill S., John P., Katie G., Kathy V., Katie L., Krystle J., Marla M., MaryKay, S., Melody A., Nick W., Patti L., Peter K., Sallie C., Sam O., Sara S., Stacey R., Sue H., and Tracy H.

1 More Thing

It's been a fantastic, heartbreaking, beautiful cycling season.  Thank you for being a part of the journey.  I couldn't do it without you.  Oh, and there's just one more thing before I go:

Fondly,

Alicia

Cycling In June

Dear friends and family,

June arrived in Redding with showers and then made a scorching retreat with temperatures over 100 degrees.  Summer is here and with it brings the last full month before I ride 204 miles from Seattle to Portland on July 17th-18th.

235 Miles

With travel and other adventures, I didn't get as many miles in this month, but when I did ride, it was beautiful.  Summer has distinct scents and one of the pleasures of cycling is smelling the world around me as I pedal through it.  One particular day I rode just after a summer storm.  The sun eased from behind the clouds causing the rainfall to steam on the asphalt and billow up underneath my tires.  That smell is heavenly.  Another favorite summer scent are the blackberry bushes that tangle along the river trail.  The berries are still hard, green jewels not ready for picking, but in the heat of summer the scent of the bushes is intoxicating.  I ride by them with my mouth open because the air tastes like blackberry jam.

0 Crashes

I haven't crashed at all this season.  Not even once.  Shh, don't tell the crash gods.  You scoff,  You have never been blissfully riding along and then snacking on pavement two seconds later.  I'm telling you, they're real and full of vengeance.  I'm knocking on everything wooden within reach as I type this, which is actually mildly embarrassing because I'm writing this in a cafe.  The waitresses are giving me strange looks.  Anyway, I haven't crashed once this season, but just the other day a friend and I were blissfully riding along (you see where this is going, don't you?) when suddenly she was crashing into me and skidding on the asphalt and tearing holes in her shorts and scraping her forearms and getting a fresh coat of roadrash.  She was pretty banged up and she didn't even cry a single tear.  I wanted to cry looking at her.  I kinda want to cry just thinking about it.  Gimme a moment.  Sniffle, sniffle, ahem.  Anyway, she was super tough and walked away without any stitches or broken bones.  So this is what I'm thinking, my friend's spectacular crash should appease the crash gods, right?  Again I'm knocking on wood.  And again I'm getting strange looks from the waitresses.

1 Tractor Mailbox

There are lots of things to love about cycling, namely Spandex and blinding tan lines, but another thing I love about cycling is seeing the ways people express their creativity.  For example this month I rode by Candy Cane Lane, Frisbie Lane, and Easy Street.  Clever street names, no?  Mailboxes are another place people display their creativity and my favorite mailbox is a tractor.  I've seen this mailbox before.

Many times actually and I always chuckle when I pass by.  Especially if I'm still upright.

1 Happy Mountain Bike

You may recall that I actually own two bikes, The Rocket, my super sleek road bike, and Frank the Tank, my beast of a mountain bike.  Since I've taken up road cycling, Frank has spent most of the time sulking in the garage.  On the off chance that I take him out for a ride, he throws me off because he is bitter.  I don't blame him.  Okay, I do blame him, but that's not the point.  The point is this.  I took Frank over to my brother's house for, um, a vacation-yes, let's call it a vacation.  My brother mounted a kid's seat on the back of Frank so he could take my nephew out for rides.  On Father's Day, Terry and I met up with my brother, my nephew, and my step-dad for a ride.  Riding with my favorite boys was so much fun.  It doesn't seem right that I got the best gift on Father's Day, but I'll take it gladly.

1 Big Hill

This month Terry and I traveled with friends to Cayucos, a lovely beach town.  We brought our bikes with us and rode in the salty air.  This particular ride included a huge hill.  It was long, steep, winding and long.  Yes, I know I said long twice.  Believe me, this hill merits both of them.  People often ask me how my heart is doing and most days it keeps time beautifully as I pedal and sends a flush up my cheeks when I'm really grinding it out on hills.  Most days my heart is strong and happy.  So there I was riding up this huge hill and my heart was working so hard it felt like it was going to leap out of my chest.  My heart began to ache and even squeak and I knew I had to get off and walk my bike.  I was crestfallen.  I was embarrassed.  I was ashamed that I wasn't strong enough to zip up the hill behind my friends.  It's hard for me to admit that my heart can't always do all the things I want it to, to admit that I am weak  when I want to be strong.  As I mentioned earlier there are many things I love about cycling, but this season the thing I've loved most is that it has given me an opportunity to acknowledge that I am weak sometimes.  And that's okay.  I'm trying to give myself the same grace in other areas of my life, which is so much easier said than done.  That day my heart calmed down as I walked miles to the crest of the hill, grinding away the cleats on the bottom of my cycling shoes and trying not to cry.  At the pinnacle of the hill, I threw my leg over my bike and began the sweeping descent.  As the wind pushed me home and I watched the ocean waves roll in, my heart was happy.  And so was I.

$908 donated so far

Thank you Adam & Suzy C., Amy H., Andrea H., Anita J., Betty C., Cheryl P., Chris F., Christine W., Dale M., Diana P., Hayley L., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., Katie G., Katie L., MaryKay S., Patti L., Sallie C., Sara S., Stacey R., and Tracy H.  I appreciate your support and generosity.

$1,092 until I reach my goal

If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation on my behalf, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley.  All donations are tax deductible.  All donations must be received by 7am, July 5th.  I look forward to sharing about my big ride next month!

Fondly,

Alicia

Support the Lance Armstrong Foundation by making a donation here:http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley

Cycling in May

Dear friends and family,

May was an incredible month to cycle in Redding.  Cooler temperatures gave us a real Spring this year and on days when the rain let up, I hopped in the saddle and pedaled my heart out.

411 miles

I've never ridden 400 miles in a month before and it was a fun goal to chase after this month.  From riding in my living room to climbing up to Shasta Dam to turning the cranks up to Shingletown, every circle of the pedals inched me closer to my goal.

1 Butterfly Kiss

On the first of May, I found myself riding out in Whitmore, enjoying the cattle ranches and volcanic rock fields that pepper the landscape.  I was riding along, pondering important things like world peace and ice cream, when a butterfly twittered on the breeze in front of me.  You may recall the Kamikaze butterfly that hurled itself into my helmet last month.  This time I was prepared.  I kept a careful eye on this beautiful creature, being careful to give it plenty of space to my right.  Just as I was coming up next to it, this butterfly launched a surprise attack and flew right up between my eye and the lens of my glasses.  Being trapped in between my eyeball and my glasses made this butterfly a bit hostile.  It was flapping and flitting and causing a big commotion.  Meanwhile I was flapping and flitting and causing a big commotion as I tried to rip my glasses off and stay upright at the same time.  As soon as I tore my glasses off, the butterfly winged away, leaving me shaking my head at this aggressive interpretation of a butterfly kiss.

1 Rescue

When my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer my little brother, Pete, felt called to join Team Fat Cyclist and raise money for LiveStrong by riding a century.  His generous friends and family emptied their pockets and Pete started joining me on rides.  His century ride was at the beginning of the month and I simply couldn't let him have all the fun, so I rode with him.

Well, I rode with him until we were climbing up to Shasta Dam he said "Something's wrong with your back tire."  Those are not my favorite words to hear.  Our step-dad, Chris, a remarkable photographer and graphic designer, snapped pictures of us up to the Dam.  Yes, I travel with my own paparazzi because I am a Very Important Cyclist.  Okay, maybe just an Important Cyclist.  Uh, maybe just a Cyclist.  Anyway, back to the story.  It turns out that what Pete meant by "something's wrong" was that my rear tire was so worn it split wide open, making it quite unsafe to ride on.

Enter Chris, my awesome paparazzi.  He popped my bike in the car and hustled me down to my favorite bike shop while Pete continued on.  We got there just before the bike shop opened and Chris plunked down the cash for new tires and then shuttled me out to where Peter was riding.  Chris gets the hero of the day award because Pete and I had a fantastic time together and seeing my brother cross the finish line of his first century made me so very proud.

100 Miles of Nowhere

 

It's no secret that I feel passionately about raising money for cancer research and so a week after I rode with Pete, I rode  The 100 Miles of Nowhere.  100% of the entry fee went to LiveStrong for Team Fat Cyclist.  All sorts of companies donated cool swag like t-shirts and seat packs and books and water bottles and lions and tigers and bears, oh my.  On a Saturday afternoon, 3 of us gathered in my living room, mounted our bikes on trainers, popped in a movie and went nowhere fast.

Conditions were excellent in my living room.  It turns out my living room is all downhill and the only wind came from the ceiling fan above us.  My mom came and cheered us on and fixed us snacks.  I'm proud to say that my time (3 hours and 6 minutes) made me the clear first place winner of the "32 Year Old Teacher/Writer Cycling In My Living Room In Redding" category.  It matters little to me that I was the only racer in that particular category.

1 Big Climb

 

I love riding around Redding because there are roads I know like the back of my hand, roads that are filled with history, and the Anderson metric century is a ride filled with these kinds of places.  It has the stretch of road where I tried a new sports drink and had a reversal of fortune in front of hordes of itty bitty soccer players.  It has the road wherein I discovered Creamsicle scented sunscreen attracts scads of flies.  It also has an incredibly steep climb.  I have faced this climb before.  And lost.  The last time I attempted this climb, I had pneumonia and a broken toe and I alternated between walking and riding, depending on which hurt my toe less at that particular moment.  This year I was determined to beat that climb, to take down Goliath.  Everything was working in my favor that day.  I'd applied regular smelling sunscreen, filled my bottles with water, and I wasn't fighting any illnesses.  Even the weather was a surprisingly cool 80 degrees.  I was having the ride of my life when I turned the corner, dropped into my lowest gear and started to climb.  I pedaled and breathed regularly all the way to the top of the hill.  I grinned as I rode through the pine trees and into the rest area to wait for a friend.  Several minutes passed and she did not show up.  Many more minutes passed and she did not arrive.  She was out of water and in need of a little help.  I filled my bottles with cold water and turned around, riding back down the hill until I found her.  After a lot of water and a banana, she was good to go.  We saddled up and then I faced the steep hill for the second time, a little unsure if I could do it twice in a row.  I tucked my head down and my strong legs and steady heart carried me to the crest again, and let me tell you, my teeth hurt from smiling so much.  Twice!  I'd ridden the hill twice!  As I coasted through the pine trees I thought about how blessed I am to be healthy, to have a heart that keeps time as I pedal through the beauty that rises up to meet me on each every ride.  Some days are perfect and I will always remember this as one of those days.

$828 donated so far

Thank you Amy H., Andrea H., Anita J., Betty C., Chris F., Christine W., Dale M., Diana P., Hayley L., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., Katie G., Katie L., MaryKay S., Patti L., Sallie C., Sara S., Stacey R., and Tracy H.  I appreciate your support and generosity.

$1,172 until I reach my goal

If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation on my behalf, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley.  You can donate in memory of a loved one's life cut short by cancer or in support of a loved one who is battling cancer now.  I look forward to sharing my June cycling adventures with you soon!

Fondly,

Alicia

Castles, Cows, and Rocks: Cycling in April

Dear friends and family,

April blew by in a rush of wind and rain, but when the weather cooperated, the sights from my bike were the kind that made me pull over and drink in the beauty that unfolded beneath my tires.

273 Miles

I set out to ride 400 miles this month and fell dramatically short.  Weather was uncooperative, but also my month was filled with writing classes and the only thing I love more than riding my bike is writing.  So, the goal of riding 400 miles is my carrot for May.

1 Herd of Scottish Steer

On Easter morning I went to my Gramma's church. (Yes, it starts out as an Easter story and ends with cows.  That happens more than you'd think on a bike.)  Where was I?  Yes, Easter morning at church.  Easter morning was particularly hard in the wake of my grandmother's death.  It's always a day brimming with emotion for me anyway, what with the whole Christ rising from the dead thing.  It moves me to tears, but the fact of the matter was that I was also profoundly aware of the separation between my grandmother and myself.  She is in Heaven.  I am on Earth.  The time and space between us crushes me.  And so there I was a weepy mess because of the goodness of the Lord and the profundity of my heartbreak.  What's a girl to do with all that raw emotion?  Work it out on the bike.  Terry and I yanked on our spandex for the second annual Easter ride with my Uncle Jon.  I say "second annual" because I'm hoping it will become a third and fourth and fifth annual Easter ride.   When I travelled with my grandmother, we had three daily goals: to see something new, to meet someone new, and to eat ice cream.  On that Easter afternoon we stopped at a convenience store where I met two men who marveled at how far we'd ridden.  It was only a short ride for me, but I took care to puff out my chest and throw my head back in my best superhero pose to properly accept their accolades.  Meet someone new?  Check.  As we rode, I brought the bike to a screeching halt.  Okay, not a screeching halt because I never ride fast enough to make my tires screech, but you know what I mean.  I stopped my bike and yelled "What are those?!?"  To my right were large, hairy, straight horned animals.  They had the body of a cow and the hair of a yak.  My uncle calmly replied "Cows.  They're cows."  I eloquently said something like "Nuh uh!"  They were Scottish Steer.  They are the coolest looking cows I've ever seen.

See something new?  Check.  And that night, we ate ice cream.  It was the perfect cure for missing my Gramma.

2 Stinky Jerseys

There comes a point in a cyclist's life when jerseys take on a life of their own, a stench of their own.  A point when they stink straight out of the washing machine.  A pair of my jerseys had reached this point and I had only two options: burn them or find a solution.  I don't even know if jerseys will burn.  I imagine they just glow and then the flame extinguishes itself in the face of all that neon.  I clicked around and found a website that claimed the smell was from bacteria living in my jerseys.  Things living in my jerseys?  Blech.  Let's all just put our head between our knees and breathe for a sec.  The website suggested washing the infested items in hydrogen peroxide.  So into the wash they went with a healthy pour of hydrogen peroxide.  And they came out all bright and sparkly.  I bravely held one up to my nose.  Know what I smelled?  Nothing.  And nothing has never smelled so good.

2 Insects

I rode East toward Whitmore this month, out next to the fields of volcanic rock spewed from Mt. Lassen.  It was beautiful.  There I was marveling at the views when I spotted a butterfly headed toward me, flitting through the air, rising and falling in the breeze.  I thought of how butterfly wings are powdery and delicate.  I watched the butterfly pick up speed.  I watched it pick up speed and hurl itself right into my helmet.  It make a surprisingly loud "Thwap!" against my helmet, shook itself off and flew away.  More power to you, kamikaze butterfly.  I do not possess such positive feelings about the second insect.  I was standing in my driveway after a ride with Terry when something began biting me inside my jersey.  I rushed into my open garage, shoving my bike against the wall and yanking my jersey off while screaming at Terry "Something's biting me!  Something's biting me!  What is it?  Do you see it?".  He did not.  He could barely keep a straight face as I stripped down to my bra and spandex and yelped like a crazy woman.  I never did see the thing that bit me, but I did catch a glimpse of my neighbor across the street chuckling in my direction while he mowed his lawn.

1 Castle

Somewhere in Millville there is a small castle by the side of the road.  It has a sign that says "Look in here." with two eye holes.  I peered down into the holes and saw nothing except a pool of water.  I swept back the ivy twisting along the top of the castle and was delighted to discover that it's called the Blarney Castle.

In the front of the castle, there's a sign that has been washed away by time and weather.  I tried to find the story behind the tiny castle.  Who built it?  What was I supposed to see?  Does it have anything to do with the real Blarney Castle in Ireland?  It remains a mystery, one I'll have to investigate further as I ride by it again next month.

1 fifteen Passenger Van

A mile or two from home, I rolled up to a four way stop.  Perpendicular to me was an approaching 15 passenger van with the license plate KID MKR.  If you take populating the entire earth as a personal challenge, that's your prerogative.  It's not my bag, but to each his own.  After stopping and waiting my turn, I proceeded with caution through the intersection.  I say with caution because Mr. KID MKR was busy policing his multiple back seats and couldn't be bothered with a pesky stop sign.  He would not have even looked up had it not been for Mrs. KID MKR, who upon seeing me, swatted at him with a rolled up newspaper.  He stopped and looked at me like I'd appeared out of nowhere.  Mr. KID MKR, it's obvious that you and I differ on our ideas of how to responsibly populate the planet.  And that's okay with me.  It's okay with me right up until the point when you start easing the overpopulation problem by taking out cyclists.

$493 donated so far

Thank you Christine W., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., MaryKay S., and Sallie C.  I appreciate your support and generosity.

$1,507 until I reach my goal

If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation on my behalf, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley.  You can donate in memory of a loved one's life cut short by cancer or in support of a loved one who is battling cancer now.

1 field of rock stacks

On the ride out toward Whitmore, there are stacks of volcanic rocks, giants looming on the horizon, casting their shadows over the fields.  I love these rock towers.  They remind me of the story of Joshua leading the Israelites across the Jordan River.  As they crossed the riverbed, they lugged 12 boulders on their backs, one for each tribe, and built a monument to remember that God was with them in their hour of need.  I don't know who built the rock towers in Whitmore.  I don't know why they took time to stack them one atop the other.  What I do know is that they remind me that the Lord is with me in my grieving, in my hour of need.  And that is something I desperately needed to be reminded of this month.

Fondly,

Alicia

http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley

Honeyrun

Honeyrun.  Even the name brings goosebumps to my arms.  It's one of those words that I feel like I have to utter in hushed, reverent tones.  Honeyrun is the towering mountain on the Chico Wildflower bike ride.  We go way back and my memories of Honeyrun are anything but sweet.  There was the time I couldn't ride all the way to the top and had to hoof it for miles.  Then there was the time my pants kept falling down, showing a full moon in broad daylight.  These memories are punctuated by frustrated grunts and unchurchly words spewed while my legs and lungs threatened to collapse.

Today I faced Honeyrun again.  The morning was cool and the fog that sometimes masks the valley below was nowhere to be found.  I'd begun the ride early enough that I had Honeyrun mostly to myself.  I dropped into my lowest gear, spinning slow, careful circles, craning my neck to see the pieces of the valley that had previously been kept secret from me.  The green of the trees was the deep green of growth, of roots pressing down into the soil and drinking deep.  Everything was hushed, save for the quiet rhythm of my legs pressing and pulling my pedals.

Each year, people spray paint messages over the gritty asphalt of the road.  This year someone had spray painted the words "hope and serenity".  As the words passed underneath my tires, I pondered them, savored them in my mouth like a rich chocolate.  Amazingly enough, I was not out of breath and I chatted with other cyclists who passed me or the occasional cyclist that I happened to pass.  But mostly I kept to the quiet of my mind, thinking of hope and serenity.

I thought of how I hoped the crest of the hill was just around the next corner.  I thought of how serene Honeyrun really is before she is crushed by throngs of neon clad cyclists, carving her corners and cursing her voluptuous hills.  I thought of how hope is hard to have in the envelope of grief.  I thought of how serenity has eluded me so much of the year.  And yet here they were, serenity and hope, rising up from the pavement to greet me on Honeyrun.

Further up someone had painted the Olympic rings and the Olympic Creed "Citius, Altius, Fortius."  Swifter.  Higher.  Stronger.  I know the Olympic Creed because my grandmother and I talked about it during the last winter games.  I wished I could send her a picture of the Olympic motto, painted yellow against the black asphalt.  How appropriate to be pressed with being swifter, higher and stronger here on this particular road that was carrying me higher until I touched the top of the treeline.  And the simple act of turning the cranks over again and again was making me stronger right here, right now.  As for swifter, well there's just no hope of that.

And there I was again, thinking of hope and serenity.  I thought of how serene my grandmother looked when she was asleep and I kissed her goodnight one last time.  I thought of Psalm 31:24.  "Be strong and take heart, all you who hope in the LORD."  I thought of how my heart was keeping time so effortlessly up this climb.

Before I knew it all of this thinking and pedaling brought the crest within sight.  I was sorry to leave the beauty of the valley, sorry to turn onto a regular road void of words to ponder.  I looked over my shoulder at Honeyrun splayed out behind me and for a second I thought about riding back down and pressing up that mountain again.  Instead I took my heart, full of hope and serenity, and pedaled to the top, making sure my pedal strokes were just a little bit swifter than before.

Letter #1: Dear Gramma

Dear Gramma,

The day before you died I walked the pier, breathing in the tang of the salty air.  Beneath me volleyball nets stretched taut across the sand and balls popped in the air like popcorn.  Surfers dotted the ocean below in their wetsuits.  They bobbed in the water, feet dangling, black sea dwellers waiting for the right wave to curl up underneath them.  An old surfer paddled alone on a bright red longboard and I thought of the bright red lipstick marks you used to leave on my cheek and then I thought of all the blood that had to be transfused into your body, how the cancer ruined all that pristine blood.

I stopped in a shop on the pier.  It was a kaleidoscope of windsocks and flags shivering in the wind.  The kid behind the counter said “How are you today?” and before I could stop it, the word “fine” fell out of my mouth and broke into pieces on the ground.  Tears threatened to spill onto the floor with it, but then my eye caught sight of a dragonfly flag and I thought of how you are a dragonfly, waiting to break free from your old skin, waiting to soar away.

I walked to the end of the pier behind Ruby’s where you and I used to slurp chocolate milkshakes.  A fisherman baited all of his poles and leaned them in a row against the railing.  I stood between the poles and leaned over the edge watching the gray ocean turn against the pillars of the pier.  And then my tears slid down my face and dropped into the deep.  I watched them fall and wondered how much of the ocean’s water is birthed by grief.  A pair of dolphins porpoised in the water below me and I marveled at how time and again they came up for air and slid back into the water with such ease.  I thought of your breathing machine and I prayed that your lungs would easily fill with air each time you needed it.

I walked in the shaded sand underneath the pier.  I wished that we were walking arm in arm together, but my arms were empty save for the socks I’d peeled off and stuffed into my shoes.  At the shore the water washed my feet and the sand was covered in thousands, maybe millions of shells.  I picked one up.  And then another.  And then another until my hands were full and I poured the shells into my sock.  I fingered each one hoping that by collecting these fragile pieces, I was keeping pieces of you.  I picked the smoothest ones, scrubbed clean by the sand under my feet and my tears in the saltwater.  They clicked against each other in my sock as I approached the number nine lifeguard station where we always met.  I set my shells inside my socks, inside my shoes on the sand and traced the smooth, black nine with the palm of my hand.  I snapped a photo, amazed that the view was the same as the one in my memory.



The day before you died I stood by your hospital bed and told you about the beach and how much I loved you and how much I’d miss you and how you were the best grandmother a girl could ever want.  I talked to you until there was nothing left to say except “I love you”.  And so I said it over and over again.  I kissed your silky forehead and held your hand and rubbed your swollen legs.  Your room was filled with our family laughing and crying, sometimes both at the same time.  Uncle Murray recited a verse about everything coming to an end, except our love for you.  I saw your face in his and wished you could see it, too.

The night before you died, I told you good night and kissed your forehead.  I slept in the bed next to my mother in your house.  I’d borrowed a sweater from your closet and after I’d taken it off, I fell to sleep with the scent of you on my skin.  Under the covers I dreamed that you died and that our family took a trip together.  I wish I could tell you our destination, but the ringing phone pierced my dream and then it pierced my heart.

The morning you died I held my mom as she sobbed listening to the news that you’d taken your last breath while your oldest daughter kept watch, holding your hand.  My mom felt heavy under the weight of her grief and we held each other.  All the words I said to comfort her felt inadequate, falling short like words plucked from a greeting card.  I wish you’d been there to comfort her, to tell her all the things she needed to hear.

The morning you died I brushed my teeth and looked in the mirror to see if I could see your face in mine.  I looked for the smiling dimples you gave me, but they were ghosts.  I pulled on your sweater and drove your car, with the glove box full of peanut M & M’s, toward the hospital.  An accident blocked traffic for hours, and try as we might we could not get to the hospital to see your face again.

The afternoon of the day you died I sat alone in your house, surrounded by your pictures and the memories you collected from the corners of the world.  I willed my legs upstairs into your room where I turned one of your chairs to the window.  The trees bowed their heads in the wind as it coaxed mournful sounds from your house.  With my eyes closed, I pretended that the sounds came from you writing letters in your office or eating ice cream at the kitchen table.  I opened my eyes to see your bed empty, the covers pulled taut.  Everything in your house was still, except for my fingers writing this to you and my tears dropping onto the chair in your bedroom.



The day after you died I rode my bike, crying when I crept up behind the mountains you loved, wrecked by the fact that you would not see these earthly places of beauty again.  I pedaled by a cacti farm and wished you were there so we could talk about that cactus that had a heart filled with liquid that replenishes itself.  You would have known the name.  I took my empty heart and pedaled back to your house, half believing that you would be there to hear about my ride.

The week after you died flashed by with arrangements and plans and flowers and phone calls.  It was so fast and I wanted time to rewind or slow or stop or do anything but whip by so callously.  I put together a photo montage of your life.  You always told me that I’m a writer, a storyteller.  We always said that everyone has a story.  Your life is my favorite story of all and I loved weaving it together.

At your memorial, I spoke about our trip together and about how you used to tell me I was the perfect child.  A lump bobbed in my throat and my knees knocked so violently that I thought I was going down.  I wished you were there because we would have laughed at how grief and nerves almost did me in.  There were so many times during your memorial that I looked for you, to catch your eye during a funny story or to watch you humbly accept the compliments your loved ones lavished on you.  At memorials, people tend to exaggerate about the wonderful qualities of the deceased, but not at yours.  You were such an amazing woman and you lived such a remarkable life that it left no need for exaggeration.

The day after we lowered you into the ground, I went to your church for Easter service.  I cried when the pastor talked about Jesus’ crucifixion and ascension to Heaven.  It always makes me cry, but especially this year because you are in Heaven and I am on Earth without you.  I know I’ll see you again, but the expanse of time between now and then crushes me.

The day after Easter, I returned home.  I took the sweater I borrowed the day before you died.  And I took your mini trampoline.  Terry just shook his head when I asked him to load it into the car.  I always laughed at the sight of you bouncing around on your trampoline.  After all the times I teased you about springing around on that thing, it now sits in my living room.  Twice now I’ve started dialing your number only to get halfway through before realizing you can’t answer.  I read books and think of you.  I watch Amazing Race and wish I could call you to talk about it.  I wish I could call you to talk about lots of things.  I miss you.  I miss you so much.  And do you know what makes my sadness recede to a bearable amount?  Jumping on your old trampoline.  How’s that for irony?

I’m presenting at a writing conference Saturday and I’m nervous.  You always knew the right words to say to make me feel better and now I wish I’d written some of them down.  My mom is saving scraps of your writing that she discovers in your house because I find myself desperate to squirrel away your words, even if they’re in the form of grocery lists and reminder notes.

I love you, Gramma.  I love you in grief.  I love you in joy.  I have loved you all my life and even though cancer proved to be a swift thief, Uncle Murray had it right: my love for you does not end.

Love,

Alicia

Saying Goodbye: Cycling In March

Dear friends and family,

What a month March was, full of laughter, wet with tears and crammed full of cycling.  I'm glad you're with me for another season of adventures.

85 years

My grandmother lived 85 vibrant years.  In March she was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia and on March 25th she left this earth peacefully in her sleep.  Many people, in an effort to find the right words, have said to me "Sorry for your loss."  The sentiment is sincerely appreciated because in times of mourning, there aren't right words, but saying something lends comfort.  At her memorial service, my husband, Terry, said that something can't be lost if you know where it is.  My grandmother loved the Lord all her life and I know where she is, but I still wish she were here with me, kissing her trademark red lipstick onto my cheek.

323 Miles

March began with a friend of mine committing to cycling 300 miles in a month.  The gauntlet was thrown down and I saddled up to ride 300 miles, too.  At the beginning of the month, I was angry at cancer for having invaded my grandmother's body.  Initially, the doctors gave her 6 months to live.  Then 6 months withered into only a handful of days and my anger was washed over by grief.  I spent much of the month sitting with my grandmother in the hospital in Southern California.  I read my latest poetry to her, watched her grin as I fed her an ice cream sandwich, and told her how deeply and truly I loved her.  I will treasure those days for the rest of my life.  In between my trips to the other end of the state, I rode my bike.  I rode my bike for my Gramma Betty.  I was determined.  I was broken.  I was fierce.

1 Cactus Nursery

In the shadow of things I could not control, I clung tenaciously to my goal of reaching 300 miles.  The day after my grandmother passed away, I was still short of my goal and so my uncle took me on a ride.  I believe grief wears many faces and I have worn them all this month.  I laughed as I struggled to unclip from the pedals on my uncle's bike, almost toppling over at every stop sign.  The sweeping green foothills that surrounded us brought me to tears as I realized my grandmother would never see them again.  My tears and laughter both faded as I climbed uphill and my uncle snapped my picture in front of a cactus nursery.

I once heard about a type of cactus that has a heart filled with a liquid sort of like water.  If you cut out the heart and drink the water, it will be full again by the next morning.  The day after my grandmother died, I held my "Win, Gramma Betty!" sign in front of the beautiful blooming cacti and I felt a little drop of happiness settle into my heart.  There is still so much of my heart that is feels empty, but I have hope that each morning I will wake up with just a little more of the joy that was a hallmark of her life.  It was on that ride that I surpassed my goal of riding 300 miles in March.

2 Pairs of Underwear

Don't get all flustered and blush like I'm going to tell you about my underwear.  I'm not.  Mostly because cyclists don't wear underwear under cycling shorts.  Now we're both blushing.  See how I made us both feel awkward so you wouldn't be the only embarrassed one?  You're welcome.  Even in times of sorrow, life is funny and there are always things to laugh at on the bike.  In early March, I was on the road to Keswick Dam when I saw a pair of men's black underwear on the side of the road.  I zipped by, pondering what exactly was going on in that car.  The next day I rode in Platina, a gorgeous little place West of Redding.  It has sweeping views of canyons and snowcapped mountains.  I was riding uphill when I saw another pair of underwear hanging in a bush.  This time they were men's black long underwear.  Seriously, what is going on in those cars?  Allow me to make a quick public service announcement:  If you are doing anything other than driving while operating a vehicle, please pull over and stop while you do it.  And when you are finished, please retrieve your underwear from the side of the road.  Thank you.

3 Funny Names

Since I am a slow cyclist, I get a kick out of anything that makes the ride go by quicker.  I'm especially fond of the names people come up with for streets and things.  Three names in particular cracked me up this month: Sharpen Up Ranch, Go Away Ranch, and Rosannadanna Creek.  Gotta love a little Saturday Night Live humor out in the middle of nowhere.

44 and 3.9

My top speed was 44 MPH.  I was cruising downhill with the wind at my back and a smile on my face.  My slowest speed was 3.9 as I grunted uphill, completely unaware that my brake was rubbing my wheel.  Needless to say, I fixed that immediately upon discovery and will have to come up with a different excuse for being so slow next month!

$213 donated so far

Thank you Christine W., Heather F., Jill S., John, P., MaryKay S., and Sallie C.  I appreciate your support and generosity.

$1,787 until I reach my goal

If you'd like to make a donation to the Lance Armstrong Foundation, please go to: http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley.  You can donate in memory of a loved one's life cut short by cancer or in support of a loved one who is battling cancer now.

1 Winner

Last year Team Fat Cyclist rode in support of Susan.  Our slogan was, "Win, Susan!", and when she passed away, our slogan became, "Fight Like Susan".  This year I've adopted my own mantra, "Win, Gramma Betty!".  Although my grandmother has passed away, I can't bring myself to change my sign because she won in so many ways.  She was an amazing wife, mother, aunt, friend and grandmother.  She lived her life seeking out the best in others with reckless abandon.  And so in April, when I am tackling my goal of riding 400 miles in a month, I'll be pushing up mountains and dropping down hills all the while crowing, "Win, Gramma Betty!", because her life was the greatest win of all.

Fondly,

Alicia

http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley

WIN, Gramma Betty!

Dear family and friends,

The trees are revealing buds they’ve secreted away all winter and the sun is showing its face a little longer each day.  It’s perfect cycling weather.  On the heels of a difficult few months with my heart, I intended to enjoy leisurely rides and take a break from cycling for a cause.  Last year I was proud to raise funds for cancer research via LiveStrong as a member of Team Fat Cyclist: Fighting For Susan.  Often I was asked about my connection to cancer.  I was grateful to reply that I had no immediate connection to cancer and my reason for riding for LiveStrong was that I wanted to keep it that way.

I hope you’ve never received the news that a loved one has cancer.  It’s a moment that turns everything upside down.  This month I received the call that my Gramma Betty was diagnosed with cancer.  Since I was a kid, I’ve marveled at the postcards emblazoned with photos of her riding a camel at the pyramids or parasailing over the ocean.  In her office hangs a world map covered in pins marking all the countries she’s visited.  Gramma Betty is an explorer at heart with a passion for seeing all the beauty this world holds.



My grandmother’s cancer is advanced and she will soon leave me with only memories of our time together. The realization that I cannot save her is one that jolts me from sleep in the quiet hours of the night.  The only thought that quells my sadness is the fact that I can raise money for researching a cure.  And so this season, I’m pulling on my Fat Cyclist gear to ride for LiveStrong, to ride for my grandmother.

When people ask me about my connection to cancer, I will swallow the lump in my throat, brush aside my tears and tell them about Gramma Betty who used to ride camels and who has made a mark on my life so lasting and deep that it cannot be marked with a pin.

On July 17^th-18^th, I’ll ride 204 miles from Seattle to Portland.  It’s fitting that I’m riding a double century this year because I’m twice as hurt that cancer has made this battle personal.  Please join me in my fight against cancer by making a tax-deductible donation online at http://sanjose2010.livestrong.org/aliciamccauley. I can’t thank you enough for your generosity and support.

Fondly,

Alicia

I love...

Sometimes after a challenging day at work I need to remember that there really is a lot to like in this world, a lot to love even.  This was one of those days and so turning the corner into this blissful three day weekend, I'm focusing on the parts of my life I love.  It is not a comprehensive list by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, I'm going to come back and add more over the weekend.  I hope you'll let me know about all the things you love in the comments section.

I love the smell of Terry just out of the shower, wrapped in steam with stray drips of water still behind his ears.

I love when we're laying in bed and Terry reaches over and touches my leg, acknowledging I'm there with him.

I love the steady beat of my heart.

I love reading blogs in the morning before work to see how friends in other parts of the world are starting the day.

I love tucking under a blanket with a good book as the rain streams down my windows.

I love riding my bike the long way up to Shasta Dam just because I can.

I love the pink casing on my bike that matches my jersey and my water bottles.

I love going to church and closing my eyes to worship.

I love praying with Terry as we part ways in the morning.

I love when my nephew begs for more tickles and kisses me with crackers in his mouth.

I love when one of my students says "I love writing."

I love eating summer blackberries from my backyard.

I love writing.

I love writing so much I'm putting it on the list twice.

I love talking to other teachers about how to foster young writers.

I love visiting new places, but I love coming home even more.

I love Abby and her candy drawer.

I love Nick because he believes I'm a better person than I really am.

I love my Gramma because she understands the worst parts of my life and doesn't judge me for them.

I love green vegetables.

I love when my principal has my back.

I love my grade level team for making me a better teacher.

I love my home.

I love burritos.

I love parasailing over the turquoise Caribbean ocean.

I love the Olympics.

Heart of a Warrior

I'm pretty sure I'll never be one of those girls who bounces out of bed at the sheer prospect of riding my bike.  Don't get me wrong, I love riding my bike.  I just also love burrowing in my warm cozy bed.  Because my love of cycling can be so easily trumped by my bed, I resort to trickery.  I round up the troops and make them ride with me.  I might stand myself up, but I won't leave a friend hanging.  So this morning, I set out in the good company of Terry, That Laura, Nick and Abby.

This morning I ate the cycling breakfast of champions: oatmeal, skinned grapefruit and a banana.  The last time I rode, I had eggs for breakfast and almost had a reversal of fortune on the side of the road up to Shasta Dam.  (Note to self: Eggs are not a good cycling food.)  But back to this morning, I slipped on my Team Fatty gear, dismayed that the fatty part, while once ironic, is now just truth in advertising.  I'm working on that.

The weather today was so perfect, blue sky, cotton ball clouds and barely a hint of wind.  It was warm enough that I didn't even need tights.  We headed out to Millville Plains, my most favorite place to ride.  You can see for miles and miles at the top of the Plains.  The cows grazing there must be the happiest in all of California.  My favorite tree lives there, too.  She was all sticks and bones standing guard over the plains, but I know she's secreting away green buds for me underneath her black skin.  Spring is coming, spring is coming I told her as I whipped by.

My legs were strong most of the ride leading me to believe that maybe, just maybe, my spin instructor isn't entirely evil.  My legs were strong enough, but my heart, my heart was fierce.  I had the heart of a warrior today.  It pumped away pressing uphill, screaming downhill, and keeping time on the flats.  It was glorious and I smiled so much my teeth hurt from the cool air.  Not even the five putrid dead skunks I passed or the pair of pitbulls that chased me could dampen my joy.

Thirty three miles into the ride and three miles from home, my legs began to ache.  The sort of ache that feels like my bones are hollow and might shatter any second, but I've had this ache before and I know it passes if I just ignore it.  Well, I complain about it and then ignore it.  Same difference.  I willed my legs to circle me back home.  At home I rested in the front yard.  Not even the fact that I'd locked myself out of my house could ruin this ride.  I waited for a friend to arrive with spare key and as my legs pulsed complaints, my heart was steady, calm even.  I sat there making a sweaty print on my walkway and realized I'd just had one of the best rides of my life.  Now that just might make me bounce out of bed to ride next time.

Mini-Resolutions

January is almost gone and I wonder why it left in such haste.  Wasn't is just Christmas like five minutes ago?  When I realized I'd not posted a single thing in January, I was dumbfounded.

For the first time ever, I made some resolutions.  I've always thought new year's resolutions were ridiculous.  If I want to make a change, why does it have to be January 1st?  What's wrong with December 17th or even July 3rd?  This year I was inspired by a friend who'd been looking to change her life.  She wrote down some things to help her do that.  She keeps them with her on a tiny paper in her wallet.  The thing is she didn't write down huge, impossible goals.  She wrote down little attainable things that would make her daily life better.

I was inspired to do the same and I'm proud to say I think about my mini-resolutions every morning and I'm doing a pretty good job at keeping them.  They're not going to end world hunger or anything miraculous like that, but these small goals I've set for myself are making my life incrementally better, more satisfying.

One of my mini-resolutions is to record the things I cram in my piehole.  I don't have to stop cramming, but if I bite it, I've gotta write it.  You'd be surprised at what a deterrent that is.  It's just not as fun to eat a block of cheese knowing I'm going to have to write it down.  The whole being disgusted with myself thing wrecks it completely.

Another of my mini-resolutions is to ride my bike or go to spin class at least once a week.  I'm loving being back at spin, dripping giant sweaty pools onto the floor as I grunt my way back into a less doughy frame.  I love the torture of hovering over my bike as my quads light on fire and I invent bad names for my spin instructor.  I love pressing my heart to the limit as beads of sweat leak from every pore, including the tops of my arms.  I leave spin class drenched.  And stinky.  And happy.

I've lost 10 pounds so far, leaving only a gazillion to go until my knees don't violently punch my stomach when I ride.  I gave my fat pants away.  No good can come of having a closet full of fat pants ready for me to expand back into.  I'm starting to court my skinny jeans, to beg their forgiveness for abandoning them for who knows how many months.  We are not yet back together, but I feel a reunion coming soon, very soon.

Brave

Fearless is a word I don't have much use for.  Being fearless is sometimes touted as this great character trait, but there are things to be afraid of, things worthy of a shake in my shoes, a shiver up my spine, and a sweaty nightmare or two.  I am not fearless, but I've got bravery in spades.  Or at least I used to.

These past few months I've taken care to follow doctor's orders to rest my heart.  While spiders laced cobwebs through the spokes of my bike and my most favorite cycling season fell to the ground in a blush of yellows and reds, I waited for my heart to be sure and steady.

While I waited I pursued my love of words.  I wrote a novel.  I wrote poetry.  I wrote about teaching and life in general.  As the air whispered out of my tires, my fingers flew across the keys tapping out this life of a writer.  Writing can be a frightening affair and I faced some of my writerly fears head on.  When I reached a stuck point in my novel, I tucked my head down and pounded away at the keys until my characters moved my story along for me.  I'd heard of that happening, but I thought it was just something writers tell each other to get past the quicksand that secrets itself away in every newborn plot.  But no, it turned out to be true, even in my meager novel.  I dipped my toe into being published and faced my first rejection letter.  With bravado to spare, I tackled two fears at once: public speaking and reading a piece born of my own hand to a large group people I know.  It turned out to be one of the most rewarding days in my life as a writer.  So this idea of facing fears is one I've grabbed hold of with both hands in my life as a writer.

It's puzzling to me then that this boldness in my writing life would come at a time when I was paralyzed by fear of riding my bike or doing anything else that might press my heart beyond it's capacity.  The weight of the heart monitor was so much more than the half pound of space it occupied in the corner of my purse.  It sat in that dark corner, unwanted and untouched for almost a month.  My little heart beat away happily, normally as if my heart knew of the monitor's presence and decided now was the time to play nice inside my chest.  For months I was careful not to strain my heart in the least.  Trust me, I've got the gelatinous thighs to prove it.

It was at the tail end of this time that a friend asked me "Is this the life you want to live?"  Well, not really, but the "live" part of that question was of more import than the quality of living I was doing.  On days when my heart was a sloppy quick step and my arm throbbed, living was enough all by itself.  Honest to God it was.  But is that a way to live a life?  No.  Definitely no.

Eventually the time came to turn in my heart monitor.  Enough days had passed without incident or pain that I was free to resume life.  And yet, I was afraid.  Quivering in my shoes, waking up in a pillow of sweat, eyes wide as moons kind of afraid.

What if my heart started to race in the middle of nowhere on my bike?

What if I lost feeling in my arm and crashed?

What if?  What if?  What if?

As I sat on my couch pounding out tales of my brave writing life, my fear of turning the cranks came to a head.  I could not stand the stagnation of my life a second longer.  It was time.  It was time to pump air into my tires, to pull on my gloves and brush the dust off of my saddle.

It feels appropriate that my reunion with my bike happened on Christmas Eve morning, a day full of anticipation.  On Christmas Eve Terry and I found ourselves in Sacramento, near my old friend the American River and it's seemingly unending bike trail.

That morning I pulled on my tights and armwarmers, my nerves bouncing just inside my skin.  The what ifs rose to every surface of my being.  I forced them back down as I tightened my helmet strap and velcroed my shoes, breathing deeply before facing the morning air.

It was a frigid thirty degrees when I rolled the Rocket out to the street.  I said a prayer and watched my words float above me in bleached puffs against the blue sky.  I wanted to ride 25 miles.  25 miles is nothing on a bike.  Barely long enough to warrant filling a water bottle.

Three of us set out that morning.  My legs moved in unsure circles after so many months off.  I thought about the time I was cycling in a dream and sleep pedaled my sheets into a lump at the foot of my bed, but this was no dream.  We moved onto the American River Trail, the river rushing to the left of us.  My heart was steady.  Steady and happy.  It was a slow and beautiful ride.

After 26 miles I unclipped and rolled to a stop back at our starting point.  Steam rose from the vents in my helmet and the morning air was cold on my teeth as I smiled.  I packed my bike into the car and breathed a sigh of relief.  I patted my heart for a job well done.

A few minutes after our ride, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  These last few months, my increasingly chubby cheeks or my multiplying chins have been the first things to catch my attention when I look at my reflection, but not this time.  This time I was taken aback by the expression on my face.  It was familiar, but something I hadn't seen in quite some time.  It was the expression of a girl who'd faced fear and found it wasn't so terrifying after all.  Welcome back, brave girl, welcome back.

Marathon Man

Yesterday Terry ran a full marathon on the elliptical machine at the gym.  Let that sink in for a minute.  26.2 miles on a machine with no change in scenery.  That guy has mental fortitude in depths I cannot fathom.  I went and cheered him on for the last 2 miles.  I'm amazed at him.

I'm also disappointed with myself.  When he originally told me this crazy idea, I said I'd come and walk part of it with him.  I wanted to.  I so wanted to.  But my heart has been increasingly bothersome and I was not physically able to do it.  It was all I could do to drag myself into the car and go cheer him on.

This has been happening more and more frequently, my heart keeping me from doing what I want to do.  The Rocket has cobwebs on her crossbar because I can't ride right now.  I can't count how many times I've cancelled plans with friends because I have to rest.  Sometimes I can't even carry a full laundry basket into the house because I lose contact with my left arm.

I was dealing pretty well with most of those minor inconveniences, but when I couldn't keep a promise I'd made to Terry, it really got me down.  I put on a happy face, but I really wanted to be a part of this thing he was doing.  And I couldn't.  I can't.  I won't be able to for some time.

Admitting I couldn't physically do it makes me sad.  So sad I can't actually say the words out loud.  Instead I say happy words like "I'm really proud of you, honey."  Those words are true, too.  I'm eager for the day when my heart is strong again and I return to a life where couldn't, can't and won't are erased by can, will, and do.

Death By Chocolate Cake

I haven't ridden my bike in almost two weeks.  I have a litany of excuses related but not limited to a pencil stabbing and birthday cake.

I am exhausted from the first week of school.  This week is usually completely tiring, even when all goes well.  All did not go well.  In the span of one week my precious students dealt me 2 bouts of vomit, 1 rush of pee on the playground, 1 pencil stabbing, 1 punch in the face, and a long string of profanity.  I'm going to have to dig down deep this year.

My body tends to tell me when it's time to rest by getting sick.  I woke up Saturday with a bit of a stomach bug.  I laid on the couch and watched a lot of bad tv.  Sunday I woke up with fever aches, but by Sunday afternoon I was feeling well enough to go to the grocery store.

My step-dad, Chris, has been taking amazing care of my mom as she recovers from eye surgery.  Sunday was his birthday and I wanted to do something nice.  Since I love my step-dad, I didn't bake for him.  No, I bought him a shimmering quadruple chocolate monstrosity of a cake.

As I carried the cake and an armload of groceries from the car to the house, I noticed that the washing machine had leaked all over the garage for the second time that weekend.  I stepped carefully because flip flops do not have the greatest traction.  I'd almost made it to the door when my feet slipped.  I held the cake aloft.  Oh no, oh no, please don't let me ruin the cake.  Wait, please don't let me hit my head or ruin the cake.  No, wait, please don't let me hit my head, rip the seat of my pants or ruin the cake. With a thud and a weird "Oof" of air, I landed squarely on my tailbone.  Pain shot up my back.  I cringed.  What about the cake?  What about the cake?

I peeked in the bag and to my great relief the cake stared back at me in perfect condition.  It's all about priorities, people.  Tailbones heal.  Cake does not.

And so there it is, my list of excuses as to why The Rocket is in the garage, stewing with Frank.  That's never good.  I'll ride soon and I hope that when I do, The Rocket will forgive me without demanding penance for my inactivity or for the divine piece of chocolate cake I inhaled.