Letter #7: Your Voice

Dear Gramma,

Today I woke up in the small morning hours and wandered out to the living room.  The house was cool and dark and I tapped away on my computer, writing in the stillness.  All the windows were open and the croaking frogs were the perfect metronome to my words.  When I was done, I crept back into bed as Terry was getting ready for work.  I drifted off to sleep for one last precious hour.

In that snippet of morning sleep, I dreamed that our family was having a party.  It was a backyard party with crisp white tablecloths snapping in the breeze.  Aunt Nancy poured some sort of exotic soup into bright white ramekins.  She filled one too full, and soup dribbled over the edge, seeping into the tablecloth like a tea stain.

My mom and I set the tables and I stopped for just a moment to watch Terry.  He sat near the grass and looked so handsome.  He didn't see me sneak a peek.  You always told me he just gets better and better looking with age and I couldn't agree more.

You arrived at the party and came up from behind me, putting your arm around my waist.  I put my arm around your shoulder and kissed your cheek.  It was so soft, like the cheek of a baby.  You said "Hi, honey."  Your voice was so clear.  In my waking hours I have trouble recalling the particular lilt of your voice, the rhythm of Texas buried under years of California.  But in my dream your voice was so familiar, so filled with love.

In my dream you had cancer, but it appeared you were undergoing treatment.  I asked you "How are you feeling?"  You squeezed my waist and said "Much better.  How are you feeling?"  I laughed and said "I'm feeling fine, Gramma, just fine."  You said "That's good." and patted my bottom twice, like you always did.  I have no idea why you always patted my bottom like that.  Was it because I'm so tall and you were so small?  Is that all you could reach?

There was music in the background and Uncle Jon and Aunt Jill danced close together on the patio.  Hayley was mortified until Katie pulled her on the dance floor.  Katie wore a gorgeous, dark pink dress that made her rosy cheeks even more striking.  Katie and Hayley danced and laughed.  Everyone laughed with them.  You and I stood there, your arm still around my waist, my arm draped around your shoulder.  You leaned into me, just the slightest little bit until your hair was touching my chest.  We watched them dance and we were so happy.

You turned to me and asked "Is everyone here?"  Before I could answer, I woke with a start back in my own bed.  I gasped for air like I was breaking through the water's surface after swimming down deep.

My dream hung around me like gauzy sheets and as I sat up in bed, I realized my alarm hadn't gone off.  I swung my legs over the edge and for a second my mind convinced me that my dream was real, that your cancer was responding to treatments.  That you were indeed feeling better.  That you were still here.  My feet touched the carpet and I realized it was not real, that it was just a dream.  A cruel dream that left tear drops on my shirt as I got dressed.  The dream looped in my mind, always stopping when you asked "Is everyone here?".

In the unforgiving light of day, I answered your question.  Everyone is not here.  And today that thought has seeped into me, leaving me stained with sadness.

I love you, Gramma.  Come talk to me in my dreams again soon.

Love,

Alicia

Bird Therapy

Okay, it's been long enough that I can write about this with a mix of humor and terror, instead of just sheer terror.  To begin with, I know nothing about babies.  It's important that I state that for the record right up front.  I will probably always know nothing about babies because this area right here is a baby free zone.  Anyway, I have friends with babies and they read books about babies and stuff.  There is a book out that says if you swaddle, (gently) shake, and shush your baby when it cries, the baby will be happy.  In fact, the baby will be the happiest baby on the block, although I'm not entirely sure how that is determined.  Do they line up all the babies on the block and compare them to see which one smiles the widest?  That seems weird to me, but again, I know nothing about babies.

What I do know is that when I am upset, shaking (no matter how gently) does not make me feel better.  Also, shushing me when I'm crying is a mistake that is not going to end well for anyone involved.  As for swaddling, I haven't tried that because Redding is just too hot to swaddle or be swaddled.  For the record Terry also does not like being shaken or shushed when he is upset.  Not that I tried it or anything.

At any rate the swaddle, shake and shush theory was fresh in my mind when we went to Mexico last month.  We went to the most lovely resort with so many swimming pools that I needed extra fingers to count them on.  It also had a private beach and it was on said beach that I found out parrots also do not care for being shushed.

Throughout our stay at the resort we saw photographers wandering around taking pictures of people with various animals.  One day there were incredible iguanas.  Another day there were cute little spider monkeys.  And then there were the parrots.  Hang on a sec, I just need to take a deep breath and go to my happy place.

Okay.

It is no secret that I am terrified of birds.  We have a history.  Birds like to poop on me, pull my hair and wreak havoc on me in general.  I won't even talk about the birds who nest by my front door each spring and buzz the tower whenever I try to enter/exit my own house.  Or the turkey vultures that nearly made me pee my bike shorts.  Horrifying, absolutely horrifying.

Anyway, where was I?  Oh, yes, the beautiful private beach.  So there we were relaxing on the beach when I spotted the photographer and his assistant walking towards us with two giant parrots.  The blood drained from my face and sweat trickled out of my armpits.

"Let's have our picture taken with the birds!" said Terry, who knows I am terrified of birds.

"No. Way. In. Hell."  I shook my head as the photographer walked closer.

"Please, honey, do it for me."  Terry begged.

"Senorita, would you like your picture with the parrots?" asked the photographer.  He might as well have asked if I'd like a pap smear.

"No.  Tengo miedo." I replied.  Roughly translated, that means "No.  All birds are in a conspiracy against me and they've found me here to peck me to death starting with my eyes."  Okay, maybe it just means "No.  I'm afraid."

"Tienes miedo de los pajaros?" The photographer and his assistant started laughing so hard that I think they actually cried.  Terry may or may not have been laughing with them.  I'm not entirely sure because I was keeping my eye on the birds.

"C'mon, honey, do it for my birthday." said Terry, who never asks for anything.  Terry had his picture taken with the birds perched on his shoulders.

"Senorita, c'mon.  Take your picture with the birds." coaxed the photographer's assistant.

"Come on, honey.  These are nice birds." said Terry, holding one of the parrots in his arms like a baby.

I edged over next to Terry.  And then the assistant put one of the parrots on my shoulder.  My bare shoulder that only had a bathing suit strap around it.  The bird claws were touching my skin!  My actual skin!

My shoulders shot to my ears and my head shot backwards, giving me no less than 19 chins.  Very attractive, I'm sure.

"Relax your shoulders, senorita." the photographer said trying to get a decent shot.

I could not relax my shoulders.  A giant parrot was on me.

"Saca la foto."  I screeched from between the gritted teeth of my nervous smile.

The bird inched closer to my head and began to caw in my ear.  My happy place was nowhere to be found.

"Relax, senorita."

The bird began to caw louder, more insistently.  Trying to remain calm and not think of how this bird was obviously seconds away from pecking through my skull down to my brain, I thought about that baby book.

"Shhhh, shhhhh, shhhhhhh." I shushed the parrot while trying to smile at the camera.  The bird moved closer and put its beak into my hair.

"Saca la foto!!!  SACA LA FOTO!!!"  I shrieked as fear ran all prickly through my veins.  The bird cawed louder.

"Shh, shhh, shhhh," I said trying to calm the bird and myself.  There may have been some shouting next.  Okay, there was definitely shouting.

"SACA LA FOTO!!!  SACA LA FOTO!!!!"  I implored the photographer, who was barely able to take the picture because he was shaking so hard from laughter.

Finally the photographer had the shots he wanted.  Okay, not the shots he wanted, but shots nonetheless.  The assistant removed the bird from my shoulder.

I walked over to where we'd previously been blissfully reading on the beach.  The assistant followed me with the parrot on his arm.

"Senorita, pet the bird."  I shook my head.

"It will be like bird therapy." He placed my hand on the bird and ran it up and down the parrot's back a few times.  After the assistant was sufficiently convinced that I was no longer afraid, they took the parrots down the beach where other people were overjoyed to have their pictures taken with such majestic creatures.

I remain terrified of birds, possibly even more terrified than before.  But I have learned two important lessons:

1. Parrots do not like to be shushed.

2. The photographer's assistant was right.  I need therapy.

Dear Shark Week,

Dear Shark Week,

Thank you for being at the beginning of August so I can lay around all day and watch sharks without feeling guilty.  As I've mentioned before, you rank in my top three favorite weeks of the year right next to Easter and Fourth of July.  Now don't be all mad that you don't have the #1 spot.  Resurrect the Son of God or shoot some fireworks and then we will talk.  At any rate, I love you, Shark Week.

Love,

The girl in the shark socks



P.S.-To buy a 'Live Every Week Like It's Shark Week' t-shirt, click here.  And then call me so we can wear them on the same day and be twinsies.

Dear Group Power...

Dear Group Power,

Thank you for making my arms feel like they've been fighting hordes of ninjas.  Underneath all that pain, there might actually be muscles.  My arms are too sore to do any housework, so thanks for that, too.

Love,

Me and My Spaghetti Arms

Letter #6: Postcards From You

Dear Gramma,

Last night I was enjoying the quiet of the wee morning hours.  I could hear Terry snoring in the bed as I sifted through a box of things my mom gave me.  There was a book of things I wrote in first grade that I can't wait to share with my class.  There were cards from my first few birthdays.  I traced your signature on the cards you sent me and I traced Grandpa's name, too.

Underneath the stack of birthday cards were items my mom brought back from your house, including the postcards you bought on our trip.  The backs of the postcards were blank and I sat in our office staring at their stark backs.  Tears welled in my eyes because those postcards will always be blank.  I sunk to the floor, wishing for your words to trace with my fingers.

I flipped the postcards over and ran my fingers across each glossy image of the places we'd been together.  It occurred to me that it was exactly three years ago to the day that you took me on that crazy bus tour for my birthday.  We had such a good time, didn't we?  As I studied the postcards, I remembered the day we visited Novi Sad.  Do you remember when we stopped on that bridge and I asked you to take a picture of me with the beautiful buildings in the background?

You took this:

I asked if maybe you could take another picture.  One that captured the buildings and especially the clock tower in the background.

You lined the camera up carefully and took this:

I laughed and asked if you could possibly take another photo with the buildings in the background and preferably my entire head.

For a third time you lined the camera up really carefully and clicked the button, confident that you'd certainly got a good shot that time.  Do you remember how hard we laughed when we saw this?

And then our bus was leaving so we never did get a decent shot of that clock tower.  Gramma, you were so good at so many things, but you were an awful photographer.  Just awful.  And I'm so glad because each time I think of that bridge in Novi Sad, I remember how hard we laughed that day and how relieved you were when I banned you from taking photos for the rest of our trip.

Later that night, we ordered banana splits for dinner in the hotel bar.  The bar was closing and you asked the waiter to take our picture.  We ate and talked well into the wee hours of the morning.

Thank you for taking me on that trip.  And thank you for never sending those postcards to your friends.  Three years later they have come back to me, reminding me that the things we saw on our trip paled in comparison to the time we spent together.

Love,

Alicia

The Windows Are Mornings and Evenings

Two nights ago That Laura and I went kayaking on Whiskeytown Lake.



I am a clumsy kayaker at best.  My fat little boat yawed back and forth as I slapped my paddle into the water and tried in vain to keep up with the other longer, sleeker vessels.  Truly it's a wonder Laura doesn't completely disown me out there.

We paddled out to Boulder Creek and then a little further around the lake.  The moon showed its milky, round face as the sun slipped from the sky.  The mountains changed from green to black and even the bright colors of the kayaks faded into shadows.  I watched the sun settle behind the mountains and for a second the lake was quiet.



I sat in my kayak, eating dinner, watching the moonlight stretch across the water.  The Color Green by Rich Mullins was the soundtrack in my head.  It is my absolute most favorite song ever on the planet.  You should listen to it right now.  Go ahead, I'll wait.

Rich Mullins was a beautiful writer and as I sat washed in moonlight, I thought of the first verse.

"And the moon is a sliver of silver

Like a shaving that fell on the floor of a Carpenter's shop

And every house must have it's builder

And I awoke in the house of God

Where the windows are mornings and evenings

Stretched from the sun

Across the sky north to south"

For all the times I accidentally bump into other boats, for all the times I paddle so much water into my kayak that I'm soaking wet, this is why I love kayaking on the moonlit lake.  I feel like I am looking through the windows inside the house of God.

I Am From

I was introduced to the work of George Ella Lyon at the NCWP Summer Institute.  That night I tucked myself into my dorm room, plugged my earbuds into my laptop and was mesmerized by the richness of  George Ella Lyon's voice.  I listened to her poem Where I'm From over and over again that night.  And then, like all writers do, I tried to emulate her.  I plumbed my memories and tapped away at the keys, deleting and typing, deleting and typing until the lines left on the screen felt right in my mouth. These are those lines.

I Am From

I am from hopscotch chalked on sidewalks, from Schwinn and Barbies.

I am from the top of Sleepy Hollow Loop, picking Poet's Shooting Star for my mother.

I am from dandelion seeds caught in my curls, a faded image captured in the pages of my red photo album.

I am from jumping barefoot over salty waves, gripping my grandfather's steady hand.

I am from the Wheeler nose and Betty Jean's dimpled cheeks.

I am from the never-ending goodbye and Christmas stockings, stitched with care.

I am from the empty tomb and undeserved, infinite grace.

I am from Redding, scorched into my skin on sweltering summer days.

I am from Saturday morning sweetmilks and strings of golden taffy.

I am from pink bikes and purple lips stained with blackberries by the river

I am from poetry and my mother's lullabies.

I am from beeping EKG's keeping time with my heart, keeping time with my beautiful life.

Letter #5: Signs

Dear Gramma,

Another cycling season has come to a close and I thought of you often as I rode up hills and coasted through the plains.  I rode through places so beautiful, I thought my heart was going to burst from all that splendor.  You were always interested in the world around you and I wanted to share some of my favorite memories of the places I've seen from my two wheels.  I wish I could show you in person.  Sometimes Heaven feels so far away, such a long way off.

On Easter Sunday I rode with Uncle Jon.  We rode behind the hills you loved so much and came upon this cactus farm.




Pete completed his first century in May and here we are with the three Shastas: Shasta Lake, Shasta Dam and Mt. Shasta.  We had so much fun together and I wanted to call you so badly that night.

This one is from the finish line in Portland.  Do you remember my childhood best friend, Julie?  She cheered me on at the finish line.



And let's face it, I will never, ever race in the Tour de France.  However, the LiveStrong Chalkbot is rolling out messages of inspiration all along the course.  This one is from my friend, Lynn.  Yes, I know how lucky I am to have such thoughtful friends.



The world is a wonderful place and I wish we were traveling it together.  But for now it is enough that I carried your sign in my jersey pocket and carried your spirit in my heart.  I love you, Gramma.

Love,

Alicia

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