Reversal of Fortune

Yesterday I managed to crack my own Top 5 Most Embarrassing Moments.  And that's saying something.

I've given it some thought, and I can say with assurance that what happened to me yesterday was more embarrassing than cutting myself out of a velvet party dress.  More embarrassing than walking around a cruise ship for a day with a gaping hole in the seat of my pants.  And yes, it was even more embarrassing, albeit less terrifying, than having a bird mistake my hair for a nest.  Yet, is was less embarrassing than accidentally calling the Personnel Director "bitch" while I was inquiring about the possibility of a job.

Yes, I do believe yesterday's, uh, episode has landed squarely in the #2 spot of Most Embarrassing Moments

It all began in my classroom, which is currently serving as a dragonfly nymph nursery and has a pungent, swampy smell.  I'm sensitive to smells and so when my stomach felt a little unsettled, I chalked it up to the funk and cracked my back door open for a little fresh air.  I felt much better and worked for another hour or so.

After school I stopped by the pet store to pick up some dragonfly supplies.  The smell of pet stores always makes me a little nauseated and so I thought nothing of it when my stomach gurgled.  I quickly paid for my items, declining the plastic bag offered by the clerk, and shoving the items in my purse as I rushed out the door for some air.

I was just coming around to the driver's side of my car when my stomach dropped and twisted sharply.  I looked around for a nearby trashcan.  Why didn't I just take that plastic bag?  Before I could hobble over to the trash can, I felt a revolution rising in my stomach.  I gripped my purse with one hand and the side of the car with the other.  Home was only 5 minutes away.  No way am I going to make it.  And no way am I going to puke inside my car.

And I made the decision then and there to let fly in the parking lot.  Or rather my stomach made it for me.  It's what competitive eaters call a "reversal of fortune".  And I was reversing all over the parking lot.

A man with a lap dog was on his way into the pet store.  When he saw me, instead of looking the other direction, he started walking toward me.  Chivalry is alive and well.  That's what ran through my mind while gasping for  breath and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.  He patted me on the back.  Incidentally the only thing that makes my stomach turn more violently when I'm puking is having someone touch me.  But this stranger was going out of his way to be nice and so I tried to quell the heat churning in my belly.

"Morning sickness is the worst," the man said, shaking his head.  Wait, what???

"What?" I said gulping air.

"Morning sickness is the worst.  My wife was sick for three months straight."

Dear reader, let me pause for a moment and catch you up to speed.  I AM NOT PREGNANT.  I have never been pregnant.  In fact I will never be pregnant.  Apparently I look pregnant, which is just about the worst information to find out while blowing chunks for a public audience.

Believe it or not, that's when things got worse.

I turned a deep, radish red.  I was SO humiliated.

I started to cry.

And continued to puke, narrowly missing his dog.  I should have aimed better.  There I was: a puking, sweating, crying mess in the parking lot.  I stopped heaving for a moment and the man said something like, "I'll go inside and get you some paper towels."  Honestly, I'm not entirely sure that's what he said.

My embarrassment was too loud.

The second he set foot inside the store, I jumped in my car and sped away, leaving a black tire mark next to my other offerings.  Back at home I had an encore performance and topped it all off with one more crying jag.

While recuperating and setting up my post as Couch Captain, I ruminated on a few lessons from this incident.

1. Listen to my gut.  Especially when it's making noises that can only be described as from the pit of hell.


2. Men, this one is especially for you.  The only time is it ever okay to assume a woman is pregnant is if you are in the same room actually watching her physically give birth.


3. This last one is more of a practical tidbit for me to keep in mind should I find myself in this situation again.  Aim better.  Aim for the dog.  No, not that one.  The one who somehow manages to add insult to injury by inadvertantly calling me fat.

Here's hoping you have a weekend full of good fortune, dear reader, and none of it in reverse.

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.

Getting Greasy. Getting Sick. Getting Chased.

Dear friends & family,

With increasing temperatures and daylight stretching long into the evenings, May was a great month to be a cyclist.  More accurately, it was a great month to be someone trying hard to become a cyclist.

.252 miles this month: Redding and the surrounding areas are splendid this time of year.  Shasta Dam holds a lake of sapphire water.  Millville Plains is bursting with wildflowers.  Whitmore's deep green pine trees fill the air with the smell of my childhood spent on a mountain in Oregon.  Mt. Shasta is tipped with white snow against a cloudless blue sky.  I live in a breathtaking place and The Rocket and I saw it in all it's splendor this month.

.1 Rookie Mistake: You know that saying "Hindsight is 20/20"?  Well, friends, I'm seeing clearly now.  One weekend in May, I set out to ride 65 miles in the Anderson Park Century ride.  I didn't have anyone to ride with, but I was surrounded by other cyclists, so I set off at seven in the morning.  I was riding along just fine.  In fact I'd even made a friend and we were having a great time riding up the never-ending Wildcat Road.  The heat rose up from the asphalt in waves and I drank routinely from my water bottle full of endurance drink.  I hadn't tried this drink before.  I know.  I know.  Even rookie cyclists know you never, ever try a new drink on a long ride.  As I pedaled up toward Shingletown, my stomach felt like it was being wrung out like a dishtowel.  My stomach cramped so fiercely that I gave serious pause to lying down on the side of the road and letting the buzzards pick at me.  And you know I hate birds.  When the thought of buzzards feasting on my innards began to sound better than riding my bike, I pulled over and made the Rescue Call of Shame.  My step-dad jumped in his van and I turned around to meet him.

.1 Cowdog: As I coasted downhill, fighting back the rowdy uprising in my stomach, I came across three cowboys mounted on horses and one energetic cowdog.  The cowboy entourage was taking up the entire width of the road.  I called out "On your left!"  The cowboys moved over, but the cowdog wanted to play my least favorite game, Crash the Cyclist.  The dog beelined right for me.  I called out "Watch out, dog.  I don't want to hit you."  Cowdog's owner offered up the very helpful suggestion "Just run him over."  I replied "That won't end well for me."  The dog charged my right foot and in the nick of time, I clipped out and kicked the dog.  He yelped.  I am not an animal person, but kicking a dog made me feel terrible.  I rode away riddled with guilt and dreams of lying down on the side of the road.  After a measly thirty-five miles, my step-dad scooped my up in his rescue van and returned me to my car.

.1 Soccer Halftime Show: After checking in with the ride coordinators to let them know I was no longer on the course, I walked back to my car.  I'd parked along a chain link fence surrounding soccer fields.  There were hundreds of itty bitty soccer players enjoying a halftime break.  As I walked the fence to my car, my insides did the Vulcan death grip on my stomach and before I could turn away from the cute, little soccer players, everything I've ever eaten began to revisit me.  I clung to the chain link fence and threw up.  A lot.  The soundtrack to my misery was a chorus of high-pitched "Ew!  She's puking!  Ew!  Ew!  Ew!"  As I was doubled over, all I could think of was that great soccer announcer bellowing "Gooooooooooaaaaaaallllllll!"

.1 Flat Tire: The next weekend, I was determined to take The Rocket out and expunge the memory of what competitive eaters call a "reversal of fortune".  I headed out to the garage to prepare The Rocket for a nice climb to Shasta Dam and a drop down onto Keswick Dam.  Go ahead and insert your own dam joke.  I'll wait.  I plugged my water bottles (full of water only) into their holders and noticed The Rocket was looking at me with one very sad, flat back tire.  Last month she got a flat front tire after driving home from S. California.  This time she got a flat after the rescue van pick up.  I think The Rocket is sending me a not so subtle message that she does not like riding in cars.  She likes to be on the road.  Message received.  Last month I successfully changed a front tire by myself, but I've never changed the back tire.  This involves removing the wheel from the chain and stuff like that.  I took out my trusty tire irons and set to work imitating everything I've seen other people do.  Miraculously, my pretend attempt worked and I changed my back tire all by myself.  My hands were black with grease and I knew my mechanic brothers would have been very proud.

.63 miles: Two days later I headed up to Whitmore with my friends Nick and Nathan.  It's a sustained climb with some steep pitches, but my legs felt strong.  A couple of times I had to stop to remind my heart that it is also strong and there is no reason for it to beat out of my chest like that.  After a quick breather and a stern talking to, my heart shaped up nicely and I enjoyed my longest ride of the season.

.1 more dog: After stopping at Whitmore School for some water and a snack, we turned around to enjoy the downhill home.  I was cruising along pushing in my big chain ring.  Nick and Nathan were behind me and I was lost in some monumentally important reverie about what kind of burrito I wanted for lunch.  Nathan interrupted my burrito planning session when he yelled "GO, ALICIA, GO!"  This wasn't the peppy yell of a cheerleader rallying the football players.  This yell had the distinct tone of immediate danger.  To confirm this Nick yelled "You're screwed!"  As I shifted into my little chain ring to pedal a little faster, I looked back and saw a rat terrier nipping at their heels at 20 MPH and gaining.  The dog eventually tired out and turned around.  Let me take a moment to provide a public service announcement.  If one is on a bike and would like to warn someone that a dog is starting a game of Crash The Cyclist, it's very helpful if you actually mention the word dog somewhere in your warning.  Yelling "You're screwed!" isn't as helpful as one might think.  Having said that, I loved Nathan's take on rat terriers: they're dangerous because they can get caught in your spokes.  Classic.

.2 more dogs, no seriously: After fun with the rat terrier, we continued toward home.  This time the boys were ahead of me, but within sight.  As we rode next to a hill, two bulldogs came tearing down the hill after Nick and Nathan.  The dogs were a blur of barking, growling, and serious running.  Fortunately my sloth-like speed made me invisible.  As the boys sprinted away, I began to realize that soon the dogs would tire out, turn around, and see me.  Oh, this did not seem like it would end well.  With the boys out of sight, the dogs turned around and trotted toward me.  I tried to be calm.  I tried to be cool.  I failed.  As they neared, I used a voice reserved for cute babies and adults who annoy me and said "Hi, sweet doggies.  Whatcha doin', you good wittle doggies?"  Bulldog #1 panted and wagged his tail at me.  Bulldog #2 was having none of that.  I don't blame him.  I can't stand it baby talk either.  He gave me a sharp bark that clearly meant I had three seconds to leave with all body parts in tact.  In a wavering big girl voice, I said "Ok, I'm leaving" and pedaled away, praying the dogs didn't want to play Crash The Cyclist From Behind.  They didn't.  I turned a corner to see Nick coming my way.  He said "We sprinted away and then I realized we'd left you behind."  I informed him that he was definitely 0 for 2 when it came to dogs that day.  There's that saying that when 2 or more people are being chased by something, you don't have to be faster than the something, you just have to be faster than the slowest person.  Let me tell you, being the slowest person stinks big time.  I've got to work on that or I've got to start packing milk bones in my seat pack.

.$1,195 donated so far: Thanks to Jean P., Amy and Steve P., Tracy H., Jeff W., Anita J., Carmen L., Chris F., Katie L.., That Unicycling Guy, Sue H., NVB employees, Kyra M., Janet M., Nancy W., and Debbie S. I appreciate your support and generosity.

.$805 until I reach my fundraising goal: I'll be accepting donations through the month of June, followed by my century ride in July.  So, if you'd like to help me meet my goal and support a great cause, click on the link below to donate online.  You can also write a check to The Lance Armstrong Foundation and I'll make sure it gets to the right place.  Thanks for your support!

Fondly,

Alicia

Fight cancer by supporting my century ride for The Lance Armstrong Foundation. https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=294743&supid=241282118