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

Letter #4: Dreaming of Whales

Dear Gramma,

Last week we visited the beach.  Not our beach, but still the tang of the salt air made me miss you desperately.  I walked the beach in the mornings, forcing myself out of bed to the yawning mouth of the ocean.  I walked alone with my thoughts.  My heart pounded with the surf.

On the third morning, after an hour with the ocean, I returned to the house and peeled off my shoes and socks.  My foot was covered in blood.  My sock was soaked through.  Even my shoe was filled with blood, so filled that blood had seeped out of the top of my shoe.  The sight of all this blood scared and confused me because I wasn't hurt.  Unbeknownst to me, I'd punctured my toe and it leaked and leaked while I left footsteps in the sand.  In the shower I watched the hot water swirl all that blood down the drain.  I sat under the streams of water and cried, but not for my toe.  I cried for all the bags of blood that could not save you.  I cried for all the times I walk the beach without you.

The night after we returned from the beach I had the most beautiful dream.  In my dream I was crossing the Sundial Bridge, but it arched over an ocean inlet, not a river.  As I crossed over, hundreds of whales swam in the water that rose just inches underneath the bridge.  There were too many species of whales for me to count and they ranged from babies I could have held in my arms to long mothers snaking in the water beneath me.  I remember humpbacks arching in the water, revealing their twin blowholes.  They twisted and danced in the water, lobtailing it's surface.  They slapped their flukes up onto the bridge, leaving their foamy fingerprints for me to walk on.  The water shimmered and bubbled in the presence of all those whales and in my dream I was delighted to witness such a gathering.  I hurried to tell my friend, who was not yet to the bridge, but when my foot hit the pavement, I awoke in the cradle of my bed.  I shut my eyes and tried to return to my dream, tried to return to the whales, but only sleep availed itself to me.



The next day, I couldn't stop thinking about the dream and the thing I couldn't let go of was that the only sound in my dream was the water lapping at the bank.  The whales were silent, not making a sound when they fanned their huge tails on the bridge right in from of me, not singing a single note as they frolicked around me. Male humpbacks are the singers of the species and so I choose to think that the whales in my dream were females.  Mothers and daughters, aunts and nieces, grandmothers and granddaughters, happy in the good company of each other.

The average heart of a humpback weighs 430 pounds and has 4 distinct chambers.  I can't imagine a heart that large in size, but what I can tell you is that in my dream, my heart was coursing with blood and when I woke up each chamber of my heart was filled with joy.

I hope I dream of the whales again.  And I hope that when I do, you'll be walking beside me.

Love,

Alicia

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

Letter #3: Happy Birthday, Gramma!

Dear Gramma,

Tomorrow would have been your birthday.  I had a dream of your birthday or maybe it was a memory of your last birthday.  I saw you blowing out the candles and laughing.  If only it were that easy to wish you back.  I'm afraid I'm going to forget your laugh, your scent, the particular bend of your fingers.

In the hospital, you were so sure you'd be home for your birthday.  I remember my eyes welling, threatening to spill over onto your bed.  I didn't know how to tell you I didn't think you'd be going home again.  Instead I swallowed the lump in my throat and kissed your hand, telling you I hoped you'd be home for your birthday, too.

And you are home.  Home among hosts of angels and saints.  Home with Grandpa.  Home with your mother who gets to be with you on your birthday for the first time in stacks of decades.

Yesterday I was deleting numbers from my phone.  Numbers no longer in service.  Numbers of friends who have faded into people I once knew.  I came to your number, my finger hovering above the red delete button.  I couldn't press the button.  Silly, I know, but I couldn't.

I'd like to call and wish you happy birthday tomorrow.  I'd tell you about riding my bike with Pete and how proud I was when he crossed the finish line.  I'd tell you how well Terry is doing.  You'd no doubt tell me that he just gets better and better looking.  I'd agree, smiling at your love for him.  I'd tell you crazy stories from this wild year of teaching and we'd laugh.

But tomorrow my finger will just hover over your phone number.  Tomorrow I will cry and plumb my memories for happy times, like when I sat on your lap on our trip together, my arms and legs sticking out all over.  You said I was never too big to sit on your lap.  Not to point out the obvious, Gramma, but I was too big, way too big for your small lap.  But I didn't care.  And neither did you.  You always had room for me and for that I'm grateful.

Happy birthday, Gramma.  I wish we were celebrating together.  I miss you terribly and I love you.  I love you so much.

Love,

Alicia