Zanne Runs and Rides

40 laps

2009-07-02T20:26:00.001-04:00

that’s how many laps we had to do today at the master’s national championship criterium at churchill downs. forty laps on the little half mile ‘track’ around the infield.

on advice of the coach, i got the upgrade to a 3 so i could get the experience of racing master’s. cause it was in my back yard. i was really missing that 4 next to my name and felt like a total fraud with a 3 there instead. but the deed is done.

the other thing coach advised was scrapping my plan of only doing the road race and doing the crit instead. if i was only going to do one of the 3 events (road race, time trial or crit), he thought the crit would provide a better overall experience; and since i was really only in this for the experience – crit it was. i tried to ignore the voice in my head that was all wtf? you catted up to race a crit?

so i lined up today at masters nationals. and i’ll just say it again cause it’s so friggin cool. i lined up today at masters nationals. right in front of the twin spires. and i felt great. and was super excited – in a good way, not a jacked up anxiety-ridden way.

the race started and then the next 40 laps were a blur of: braking too much into first two turns, being off the back, chasing to catch back on, catching the group and getting back on and feeling so much better about things, and then falling off again and then chasing back on again. i got lapped by the leaders at one point, and later by entire field. i worked my ass off, lap after lap. i’m not sure i ever stopped spinning my legs. i’d make gains on backside, and lose ground on finish stretch with that damn headwind. i caught a girl and we worked together. i organized us and made sure i organized her onto the front for the headwind stretch. then i got lapped again but i got on that train and stayed there until i fell off that train. over the course of the 40 laps, i was in it and then not in it a whole bunch of times.

i could hear folks all over the place calling my name and cheering. sometimes i wouldn’t even know who was yelling, but i could hear it was for me and it was great. i could hear my husband shouting things like “get on that”. i heard coach yelling at me to roll through the turns. when i was on the train and in a group, i heard friends yelling “stay in it”! i always heard the kids with all that “go mom” and stuff. that’s the best.

it was a fast, exhilarating, shit hard race. and even though i didn’t do nearly as well as i had wanted or planned for – cause i had higher hopes for myself (even given the caliber of racers and racing. i still just thought i’d be ‘in it’ a little more and coach said i could have been had i just layed off those evil brakes). cause this morning on the trainer my legs and head had some good mojo going and all was well with the world that is me - i had a blast.

it was indeed worth catting up to line up at that start and experience that race.

evidently, next up on the schedule is getting out with coach on the tandem to feel what its like to go through turns fast. after i mulled that frightful vision over; i drove home with my girls, had a beer, baked a cake – cause its’ my youngest daughters’ 8th birthday – and took one of those drooling on the pillow naps.

hey. did i mention i raced in the masters’ national criterium today? that would be the famed twin spires right behind me in that shot.

photos: marcia seiler.

deep in the suffer locker

2009-06-26T22:42:00.001-04:00

it was ninety two degrees at the start of saturday’s 50 mile race. and as we turned the first corner after the start, i realized we were in a nice hot headwind. hot + windy = doesn’t bode well for me.

we settled into a single paceline really quickly, which surprised me a bit – a lot of other races i’ve done, we seem to stay in a bit of an organized jumble. this was a long race and the single paceline, and speed at which we were going; made me just feel like it was game on from the get go.

everyone was taking turns at the front. long turns. now, i know me; and i can’t take long turns – especially into that kind of a headwind. so when it was my turn up front i did my best to contribute to the group effort, but in hindsight, my pulls were most likely too long.

it was one of those days where i knew from the first pedal stroke that something was just off. maybe it was the heat, the rollers, the lack of sleep the night before, or anxiety over that “last mother of a hill” at mile forty seven.

the women were the last group of the day to race, and since i was the last girl in the women’s race, the sweeper truck was right behind me -from the point at which i made a rookie mistake coming off of my 4th pull at mile 15, and for the next 35 miles. i was at the same time grateful, annoyed and mortified over this.

the course was nothing but rollers, out in the blazing sun. i’m not sure there was ever any sort of shady section. i had plenty of fluids, bars, gus and chews on me and took more water at the neutral feed zone.

what i had forgotten to bring with me was a psychologist. cause i was cracking, coming unglued, out on the proverbial ledge. i needed some sort of finish-this-damn-race hotline and desperately wanted to call my husband; i needed someone to talk me off the ledge. cause the voice inside my head just kept saying “jump”. put your bike in the truck behind you.

so i’d hang my head. sit up. give up.

but then, i would gather my wits and my collective shit and get back into the rhythm, settle in to the drops and start pedaling with a purpose again.

and then i’d start to unravel.

this back and forth of pedaling with a purpose and completely coming unglued went on for the miles. it’s so hard to get out of that bad place in your head once you’re there. that place of feeling that the heat is sucking every breath of life out of you. being mad you’re last. the desperately wanting to throw your bike and your tired body into the back of that truck right fucking behind you. and the knowing that the worst of the course is yet to come. i was, at times, sobbing. wanting off my bike, wanting the race to be over.

i was totally in the dark as to how long i had been out there, how many miles i had done and what i had ahead of me as my bike computer kept going on the fritz throughout the race. miles would pass by and there would be a big fat zero indicating speed, distance and time. i had no idea how much longer i had or how many miles were behind me.

every time i came upon a hill i wondered if that was the mofo hill that signaled i only had 3 miles left to go. i climbed them all and none seemed as bad as i had been told and i knew once i crested them that they weren’t the mofo hill i was looking for.

i finally did make it to that last hill. it was as bad as everyone had said and then some. once i realized i was at the bottom of it, i knew i had to stop crying – i needed every bit of everything i had. so i got my collective shit together once again and climbed the hill with purpose. slow, grinding, borderline pathetic purpose. i could hear the drone of the sag wagon behind me. i felt a huge sigh of relief once at the top, which was totally premature – cause i looked up and saw there was more. just one more little fuck you of a climb. i did it. and i think it took every last once of anything i had out of me. but as i went down the descent so steep it was covered in spray painted ‘caution’ signs, i was holding back tears of joy at knowing the hell was nearly over.

and then i wondered if the finish line arch would still be up. i wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t there. i had no idea how long i had been out there. but i turned the corner and saw the 1 kilometer sign and saw the arch still up at the ghost town of a finish line; and willed myself not to cry as i crossed the line. i think two people were there. the announcer – who announced my finish, god love her - and the guy who left the arch up; after pretty much every other racer had packed up and gone home. there’s a special place in heaven for people who stick around this long.

i crossed the line and rolled into an empty parking lot sobbing from utter mental and physical exhaustion and just hoped nobody saw me. even after i thought i had gathered my collective shit and could face others – once i did, the tears started again. it was quite simply - the toughest day i have ever had on the bike.

i still had one more day of racing and was determined to make it a better one. once i finished crying.

tour of the red river gorge prologue

2009-06-23T23:31:00.002-04:00

it’s been two days since i’ve been back from racing the three day stage race otherwise known as the tour of the red river gorge. i’ve been trying to gather my thoughts from the entire weekend and put them into some sort of cohesive report. i did this race last year and it was the race that sealed the deal on my love of bike racing. i vaguely recall kicking back in the airstream on the way home from last years’ race and texting my friend and running coach that i was pretty sure it was going to be a long time before i ever ran another marathon or even thought about boston.

i went back to race the gorge this year. the stages were a bit different – the prologue was shorter and the course way cooler, and they did away with the ridiculous crit. so it was a 6.6 mile prologue on friday, followed by 52 miles on saturday (a “kinder gentler” route) and then a shit harder, hillier 52 miles on sunday.

i was crazy nervous at the prologue. it was only my second time trial ever. the first one was at the same race last year. i hate that ramp start, and the feeling all crooked on my bike and having to hold my feet level when i really want my right leg locked and in the semi- upright position. anyway. its’ nice when you know the guy holding you and your bike up. at the top of that ramp at the top of a hill. cause i could just say i’m super nervous, and you’re holding me crooked. and he could say, suzanne, you’re fine, you’re not crooked, i’ll get you out of here straight. and then the other guy you know is counting down and says 5,4,3,2,1. and you go. and for a nano-second you think about how nice it is to know so many nice people. and then you just forget about all the nice people you know and haul ass and pedal.

i was the last girl to go. the last girl of the entire night. my start time was 7:18. it had been 90+ degrees that day, but by 7:18, i swear there was a whisper of a cool breeze. and i even got to race my flashy fast flashpoints for the first time ever since i won them a year ago. i had to wrestle them off my husbands’ bike, but i got them.

my thirty second girl (the girl who left the start house 30 seconds before me for those of you who have no idea what i’m talking about) was a national champion. i’m all for optimism, but there was no chance in hell i was gonna catch her. but i kept pedaling super hard. just in case.

it was hurting. a lot. i was nervous that maybe i had blown my wad too soon. so i dialed it back just a smidge. and then i saw my minute girl. that’s the girl who left the start house a full minute before me. (i’m here to help) and after the turn around point, i started to reel her in. i was close, and almost had her. but the finish line arch came up before i could get her.

and it was all good. i don’t know jack about time trials, but i know its’ good to start to catch folks in front. it was super fun and after dinner out with a bunch of nice people i know, i was ready for the next day.

so, like the race that was in stages – the bloggy race reports will be in stages as well. stage two is a doozy.

sometimes i’m stupid

2009-06-17T09:37:00.002-04:00

sometimes i think the whole bike racing thing renders me completely stupid. i suppose it could be argued that i was stupid before the whole bike racing thing, but that’s not relevant right now.

the particular stupid to which i am referring is during a race. take last weekends’ race for example: i am feeling all iamwomanhearmeroar and actually get the break. i see it go. and i go too. and as i’m going, girls just seem to be falling backwards on the hill and i’m passing them and i am feeling great. not only about passing people and moving up, but very literally, feeling really good. and i am thrilled beyond belief to be what seems to me at the time, about the 4th girl in line with the break.

and then

the very next thing i know is i am no longer anywhere near a break, or even the pack, the girls i just passed are somehow ahead of me and i’m chasing a girl who has fallen off the pack.

wtf? what happened between A and B? one minute i am feeling like the king of the world and the next, i am clinging to a life raft. how did that happen? the whole fatal flaw of hitting the iceberg was spliced out and left on the cutting room floor and i’m just dumbfounded as to how i ended up on the life raft.

it’s not the first time i’ve experienced complete mental block during a race and whole segments of the race ended up on the cutting room floor. my husband will often ask me questions like, what did you do next? or who’s wheel were you on? or why were you out in the wind? gapping off? was it a bad shift? did i touch those damn brakes? the list of my mistakes is endless, but my response is usually a vapid stare and an i don’t know.

all that debilitating fear that always used to hold me back is gone. now if i can just lose the stupid, i should have this racing thing all figured out.

i might start wearing a helmet cam. that way, we can just replay the footage over and over again and see the precise moment i hit that iceberg. ah yes. see – right there – she went up and to the left. up and to the left.

short track first timer

2009-05-31T19:15:00.002-04:00

so i drove down to the local haunt of a cross course on thursday evening to check out the new short track series in town. a five week, thursday night gig. i wore my kit under my clothes. just in case i felt like doing my first ever mountain bike race.

cause this race series in particular was being touted as a great way for a beginner to try out a mountain bike race for those of us who had never done one or were too intimidated to try. and i fell into that category. and since i’ve been on a mountain bike all of about 4 times and one of those times i was doing more hiking with my bike than actually riding it, i just saw it all as something to do for fun and figured it would be good ‘cross practice. mostly, i didn’t care and thought it all would just be a cake walk in the park.

so i wore my kit in case i wanted to do a cake walk in the park.

i stood around for a long time watching everyone do some warm up laps. i thought warmup shwarm up. i dont need no stinkin’ warm up. its just for silly fun. full disclosure though - i did ride one quick lap. it required dismounts and a hippity hop of a leap over a muddy creek.

i didn’t decide to race until about 2 minutes before the women went off. all two of us. i sized up the situation and the competition on the line and thought smugly; i got this.

but when race girl blows her mega-phone of a horn and my competition takes off, and i mean off. i think, uh-oh. and then its’ not long, maybe two more turns before i can’t even see her anymore. shit. are you kidding me? now i’m in trouble. add on the two ten year old girls breathing down my neck to pass me and it wasn’t long before i was potentially in a world of shame. now this race that was just supposed to be for fun and something i didn’t care about was something i cared about enough to start blocking the ten year olds from passing me. enough to make such a ruckus going over the logs that cute little ten year olds would be too scared to pass the crazy girl. does this make me a bad person?

it’s a lot of pressure to be in a race with just two people. you just don’t want to come in second. nor do you want the 10 year olds to pass you.

well. i never did let those 10 year olds pass me and i got away from them, pride intact. but this was no cake walk of a race. it was surprisingly hard and technical. according to some more seasoned mountain bike racers, it was not technically a short track race – in which case we would have been able to roll over everything. evidently, it was too technical.

but since i don’t know jack about what a short track race is supposed to be, i was blissfully ignorant and happily dismounted for all kinds of shit even when i was being heckled by the race girl with the mega phone for dismounting.

the ten year olds remained behind me where they belong, but there was still the matter of the woman in front of me and i could hear my teammates screaming you gotta go harder! so towards the end of the first lap, coming out of the crazy thicket of thickety stuff, the course opened up enough that i figured that’s where i could go harder & with a polite little on your right, i passed her. and, assuming i was in the clear and would not be coming in second in this two woman race, i breathed a (premature) sigh of relief.

cause then she just sat there right behind me for the entire second lap. the woman could not be shaken, and all i could think was shit. she is not going to hand me a win on a silver platter. this wasn’t gonna be like winning a raffle. i am going to have to work for it.

so. at the end of the second lap, in that big open spot after the thickety thicket; i put the proverbial hammer down once i actually had figured out the right way to gear the bike to do such a thing, and i got away and then stayed away. but still, there was that panic that at any moment she could just come back from the dead and appear at my back wheel.

she never did. and so the icing on the not-quite-the-cake-walk-of-a-race-i-thought-it-would-be was that i won.

the whole thing was a bunch of ‘cross-like fun on a summer day and makes me wonder if i should just go into every race with nary a care in the world.

zanne 1 – irrational fears 0

2009-05-20T11:56:00.002-04:00

i had a whole ridiculously long post in which i yammered on and on about my debilitating fear of crits; how the mere mention of one would send my heartrate sky high, how i’d worry about the cornering, and the going fast on my bike stuff (which really, is an inherent problem if you want to be a bike racer), how if i didn’t ever have to do another crit that would be cool with me. about how crits used to scare the bejeezus out of me.

but all that stuff was before last weekend. the weekend of back to back crits – the finale to our spring training series. it was the weekend i finally figured a bunch of shit out that took me a year to figure out.

it started with saturday’s crit in frankfort. the same crit in which i fell off the pack early in the race. even after all my zen-like cornering practice, after coachs’ boot camp race clinics, after going in circles in any empty parking lot i could find, faster and faster each time till i got more comfortable. even after all that. i braked going into the first fast turn, fell off the group and got lapped.

but the second time the group came around, instead of relegating myself to getting lapped again, i got on that train. cause i needed a rest on a wheel after all that desperately trying to chase them in that headwind thing. i thought i’d ‘rest’ and hang on for dear life, but found out it wasn’t a hang on for dear life sort of situation. it was fast alright, but i was doing it. fast. corners. in a crit. with the group. i never touched my brakes and saw that i could corner at 20+ miles per hour. i had no reason to be falling off in the first place.

this was all i needed to know.

so the next day, armed with the knowledge that i was actually capable of riding my bike fast, through turns, with people and not touching the brakes - i lined up to race. and i raced. and stayed with the group. i wasn’t off the back and i wasn’t time trialing all alone to catch anyone; and when i saw that we had seven laps to go and i was still in it, i smiled and felt a huge wave of relief. that must have been the irrational fear leaving the building.

don’t let the door hit you on the way out.

round and round

2009-05-06T12:27:00.002-04:00

sometimes all the racing and the packing for the racing is a lot. we pack up the airstream. we race for a few hours. we go home. we unpack it. we wash everything and start again the next weekend.

we took a little road trip this past weekend. we thought we’d combine the racing thing with some family time. we thought this might somehow be easier. and super fun. combining two things that each on their own require much planning and packing of stuff.

a little family campy combined with some racy at the fat & skinny tire fest in northern indiana. about 5 hours away. a little bit longer since we were towing a 1973 VW beetle behind an old airstream motorhome that doesn’t go so fast in the first place.

i always have a vision for these sorts of trips. usually they involve some sort of soundtrack playing in my head, stone skipping, ‘smore making, doing well at the races and having everything you need.

packing for five people to go camping in itself is always an endeavor. throw two races in and uncertain weather and it takes the whole affair and the ‘let’s-pack-this-just-in-case’ items up a notch. add camping at the fairgrounds at the same time as the civil war re-enactors with their cannons going off every hour really ratchets the whole thing up. and the half mile bike ride to the village where all the cool critical mass rides were starting and the bmx demonstrations were going on? not as kid friendly as reported.

add in a race on a perfect course on a perfect day in which you feel perfectly superstar perfect that doesn’t turn out quite as well as you imagined – well. it has all the makings of a melt-down. mine.

and forgetting the emergency stash of bourbon and the fixins’ for smores? can’t even really talk about it still.

so we’re at the campground watching the north and the south pitch their tents and build better fires than ours. and i try to shake it off that things aren’t turning out the way i planned.

but i am happy at least that our airstream is parked north of the mason dixon line.

we hang out with teammates. we talk about the races. and we watch the girls fly kites that they found on the bus. and we watch the dog run around with the baby quilt of a cape that lulu tied to her. we watch henry ride his bike and cross into enemy territory and try to spy on the confederate soldiers. and we cook dinner over the fire. and drink beer. and listen to good music. and it’s all good.

annabel is fascinated by the little civil war girls in their blue dresses and black boots, playing hoop games with sticks. and she asks me if we can do that. dress up and pitch tents and fire cannons. i tell her that’s not our tribe. our tribe wears brightly colored spandex.

i wonder what the north & south thought of us. in our spandex. with our bikes and green beer cans and charcoal on the fire. and big silver airstream with electricity.

we packed up early the next morning and drove right through the sleeping and peaceful north and south camps – the cannon fire wouldn’t start till 9 am - and head to the village for the next race.

which is another perfect day. on another perfect course and once again, i’m feeling perfectly perfect and ready to race only to get erroneously pulled from the race after just ten minutes. all parties involved in removing me & my group from the race apologized. but that’s too late. even if i came in dead last, they didn’t let me try. i loved the course, loved the race and wanted to finish. (around here, the women – all categories – race together. it’s fairly standard practice here at least, to not pull 4’s when they get lapped by the 1/2/3’s. i still had a shot at catching back onto the 4’s)

its’ hard. sometimes. to balance it all. all the stuff. all the tangible stuff that you need to bring and organize and clean.

and then the other stuff. the racy disappointments - real or imagined. the worrying about our 13 year old who is still sorta sleeping and thinking think he might have a fever and wishing he’d eat something but really needing to get on the trainer, and just telling him to have a pop-tart.

and then i get on the trainer and have to get off to get a splinter out of annabel’s leg. i ask how it got in her leg but then remember i really should get back on the trainer. and leaving the airstream i tell henry if he has to throw up, he should do it in the sink cause the generator is not on and the toilet can’t be flushed.

and then there’s no time to get back on the trainer so i just go line up.

and then i get pulled. and watch my teammates race from the sidelines only to see them and most of the women’s 4 field end in a heap of a crash on the bell lap.

and then i miss most of my husbands’ race while waiting in line to buy macaroni and cheese for annabel and by the time i made my way through the very awesome and three-deep crowd to go watch the last two laps, the girls say the macaroni is yucky.

and all of it made me want to cry.

but there’s no time for that.

because really - all the confederate-cannon firing, kite flying, campfire chatting and cooking, bike racing, getting pulled, beer drinking, sun shining, bourbon forgetting, was just perfect.

and because i need to wait in line with lulu so she can ride the orbit thingy.

frolicking goat

2009-04-24T13:58:00.002-04:00

so i am at a team meeting last night at a teammates’ house. and since team meetings always involve beer – i was offered one as soon as i sat down on a chair - one that, moments later, had me wondering if it was possibly the dog chair. but that’s really neither here nor there.

anyhow, no sooner than i am wondering if am indeed sitting in the dog chair, i am handed the cutest beer i have ever seen. and much like an ass-grab from a dane will instantly make me forget how much i suck at sandpits; while not entirely as fun or funny - a darling beer will take my mind off the fact that i may be sitting in the dog chair.

and i mean darling. beer.
in a cute green can with little retro yellow flowers and a frolicking goat.

i’m really not a beer girl. i’m more of a wine girl. specifically, any wine that has a cool label and costs under ten dollars. and ten dollars is really my high end wine. so what i am trying to say is i don’t really have any good credentials for properly reviewing a beer with frolicking goats, or any beer for that matter; cause i usually go for the cheap stuff anyway -but i do know what looks good and cute.

so. beer in a green can with flowers and a frolicking goat? that only costs $7.99 for all twelve cans? that’s a beer i can embrace. and stockpile. especially since it says ‘limited edition’ on it.

my grandmother lived through the depression and had nine kids. she had a veritable general store of her stockpiled non-perishables in her basement.

i only have three kids. and i don’t know if this is a depression or not, but times are tight and i’d like to think i learned a thing or two from my elders. i’ve got shelves in my basement too: full of beer with frolicking goats.

april 15

2009-04-16T21:15:00.002-04:00

tax day. it marks two things for our family:

the first being the anniversary of the day - eleven years ago now, that i got on a little puddle jumper at the white plains airport in new york bound for the bluegrass of kentucky.

the other thing it marks is the wondrous thing called a tax refund.

in the eleven years that we’ve lived in louisville, we can count a ginormous refund. every year. like birthdays and christmas. its reliable. like clockwork. we count on it. we plan for it.

the other thing we’ve had since moving to louisville (other than 2 more kids), is our own company. well, i have nothing to do with it, its my husbands’ company. but we both paid our dues with all of that never seeing each other, working all hours while i stayed home and changed diapers and going without pay now and then thing. the ginormous tax refund? a nice reward for all that shit.

we always do our taxes ourselves and its’ wildly comforting to see that big fat number up in the corner of the screen indicating the refund we’re getting. and then, the sweet anticipation of logging into our bank account daily since filing to see when the ginormous amount has gone into our account – totally fun.

and so the other night, my husband plugs in some fancy I’m A Partner In The Company number into the tax thingy & just like that, the big fat number disappears and changes into a number that indicates not what we’re getting. but what we owe. on money we never actually got. because for the first time since starting the company, it actually made money. not the real green kind, that goes into the bank account, but the imaginary, “on paper kind”. evidently, uncle sam does not distinguish between the two.

fuck.

and the wine cabinet is empty & the bourbon is gone which brings me to my next issue, which is the fact that in the past few weeks i haven’t even really wanted any wine. haven’t. even. wanted. wine. what?

which brings me to my next issue which is ever since i stopped marathoning and took my body back from the pre-pubescent 12 year old boy body that was holding it hostage i had become, shall we say; regular. like clockwork, for the first time in two years.

all was well with the world when i could finally count on the fact every month that i was indeed a woman. until several weeks ago when i wondered where that monthly reminder was and i took out the calendar and counted 10 weeks and realized oh shit, that’s supremely late. and then i thought oh fuck.

so now we owe a boatload of taxes on money we never had, we’re out of wine and bourbon, and i think i might be knocked up.

this can’t be.

we take precautions to avoid such an unplanned event from occurring. so i do the google. (there’s no google for why we have to pay taxes on money we never really made in the first place- i looked). but i googled the other thing, to find out how often it happens to those of us who take these precautions. 7 out of 1,000. so i start to hope that my same freakish luck with winning raffles wouldn’t apply to something like this.

and i wonder if i can enter a raffle for a tax refund.

there was a day 4 years ago when it wasn’t just a scare; it was true, for real and not just on paper. the little stick said yes. and we had taken precautions and not planned on such an occasion. although i’m pretty sure that year we still got our refund.

my husband came home that night to a big ‘ol glass of bourbon on the kitchen table. and he said what’s that for? and i said i’m pregnant. and he knocked that drink back like he was in the movies or a soap opera or something. and i poured him another one.

then i vaguely recall the story of a friend of a friend, or was it his sister? who emerged from the womb with said pre-caution clutched in her hand. did someone tell me that? or is that one of those urban myths?

shit.

so. back to the taxes. and the going to have a glass of wine that is not even in the house and the fact that i don’t even really want it. and then remembering that when pregnant our bodies will send signals to not eat or drink certain things that aren’t good for us. good god. if i dont want wine, what other explanation can there possibly be? (the fact that maybe my palate had tired of $3.99 bottles of CVS wine had not occurred to me).

so i go to bed on tax night freaking out over the money we owe on money we never made. and i wonder if i can still race the rest of the spring series. and i count in my head over imaginary due dates and try to figure out if i could still do ‘cross in the fall. and i wonder if they’d make a chicks-who-are-40-years-old-and-knocked-up category and i think i could totally sweep the podium if they had that category.

and i lie there thinking i am too old for this. i am two weeks away from being the mom of a teenager. i like this new, bike racing, cycling, independent children chapter. i don’t want to flip the book back to the diaper changing, sleepless nights chapter. we had some tiny children for the weekend a few months ago. one tiny enough to remind us what those sleepless nights were once like and i told my husband the next morning he could go get that v-snip any day now. we are officially finished.

and then i wonder where the hell we’ll put the crib and how we’ll manage after paying all that money on money we never had.

i wake up the next day and drag my 40 year old presumably knocked up self to the pharmacy to buy the cheapest test they had, cause we still had to pay all that money for money we never had.

but i can’t just put a pregnancy test in the basket. what if someone sees me? there’s rules. i have to put other things in there. shampoo. a magazine with that crazy octo-mom and the ‘real interview’. a pepsi. and some stick on nails. and i think i should probably go get some bourbon for the soap opera moment we may have to have in the kitchen.

and i go home and pee on the stick and stare at it the whole time and its negative. and i mostly breathe a sigh of relief, even though there’s a weensy, ever so slight nano-second of a twinge of sadness. but i go out to lunch with a friend and we go shopping for fabric so i can make the dress i was planning on making and i’m so glad i don’t have to buy extra fabric for a huge belly.

and then i go home and put my stick on nails on. which i have never done; but find them surprisingly cute & chic - except for the fact that they don’t hold up so well through 5+ loads of hand washed dishes. and i think, if we got that refund, we could have gotten a new dishwasher.

happy easter

2009-04-09T09:41:00.001-04:00

spring cleaning

2009-03-31T10:12:00.002-04:00

i bought a new mop yesterday.

it had been a long time since i bought a new one – mostly because i thought i didn’t need a new one in that, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. but it was clearly long overdue. mostly because i was beginning to wonder; after mopping, why everything still looked like shit. and why my house suddenly started to take on the odor of a wet sponge or a small dead animal in the walls.

i blamed it on the old house and old floors that my husband partially blames me for ruining – something to do with the fact that dragging furniture all over the hardwood floors every time i want to rearrange the house which is freakishly often, is not good for them.

sheesh.

but i had resigned myself to thinking that - through no fault of my own of course; our floors were beyond saving and that was just the way our floors look: like crap.

i finally figured out the smelly culprits and put the offending mop and bucket outside where they are currently stinking up the outside of my house. and i went out and bought a new mop and a new bucket.

evidently, this makes a big difference. clean things. to clean things.

and after i had mopped the entire first floor and gazed at the awesomeness that was really, really clean floors for the first time in like, forever – and lulu announced that our house didn’t smell like stinky cheese anymore, i remembered another mop(s) -

we had just moved to louisville and it was just my husband and i and our two year old, henry. we lived in a little apartment with wall to wall carpeting and a tiny kitchen with linoleum flooring.

having a two year just meant cereal, rice, noodles and all kinds of stuff was being hurled all over the floor of that little kitchen, all the time.

i needed to mop that tiny floor. a lot.

so i did.

and one day the mop broke. i can’t remember exactly what happened, but it was mid-mop and i have a weensy temper and so i got mad. and i may have let out a few choice expletives.

so i took my 2 year old to the market to buy a new mop.

and the following week, while using the new mop for maybe the 3rd time since its’ purchase, it broke. can’t recall the specifics again, maybe the scrubby thing on the end fell off, or the sponge would disintegrate cause i’d leave it in the bucket, or the squeegy thing lost its squeegy handle which rendered it useless.

i took my 2 year old to the market and bought another mop. a different brand this time.

and the following week, while using that new mop for maybe the 3rd time since it’s purchase, it broke. and so began a pattern of broken mops and a crazed expletive yelling stay home mom with a two year old that went on for, believe it or not, about 5 or 6 mops. each time i’d be in the kitchen screaming and yelling – fucking mop this, and fucking mop that. my husband would come home from work and i’d rant on and on about the fucking mops.

he’d say maybe i am getting what i am paying for. maybe i need to buy a better mop. spend a tiny bit more money.

so, after the next mop inevitably broke, as all my mops were wont to do; i packed my two year old up and brought him to the market, yet again, to buy another mop.

muttering the whole way about the fucking mops.

i stood in the aisle, surveying all the mops, trying desperately to see if there was a brand i had not yet purchased and i picked a mop out of the rack – the biggest, baddest mother of the most expensive mop in the bunch. it looked indestructible. it was a thing of moply beauty.

and i said to the two year old sitting in my cart:

henry, what do you think of this mop?

he replied simply-

that’s a big fucking mop, mom.

planets aligning

2009-03-22T17:05:00.002-04:00

the planets aligned yesterday, my mojo was rockin’, my head was screwed on right and it all made for what will henceforth be known as:

my.best.race.ever.

and this distinction will stand until the day i have an even better race – which i now know is actually possible and will indeed come; cause i have finally figured out that it is not my lot in life to be that girl.

that girl meaning the one who is always off the back and time trialing to catch the group.

yeah, that girl. nu-huh. i don’t have to be her anymore. i know i’ll still have those days where i am that girl. when the planets don’t align. cause that’s bike racing. but yesterday? well -

the planets did align and road racy lightbulbs went off all over the place and i was the girl who stayed in the pack the entire race. i even led the pack now and then. i even worked with teammates and lent a wheel when they were tired. i rode smart and stayed protected. i even, get this – felt so good i wondered what would happen if i just took a flyer and did an attack. shut.up. i did that. i got in a break, and i closed gaps when i let them open up – and it wasn’t often - in a turn. i sometimes wondered who i was and what i was doing. and it felt good.

sure i felt a tiny bit of bile rise up in my throat on the start line. but it disappeared as soon as it arrived. and sure, i threw up a little bit in my mouth at one point. and yeah, i fell off a weensy bit in a turn, but i caught on real fast. that break i was in? we got caught. that flyer i took? some cat 2 girl chased me down. but mostly, the usual mojo-messing fear was totally m.i.a. even when i couldn’t clip in right off the line, and it took me forever. i didn’t get all jacked up and worried. i just kept pedaling. i wasn’t intimidated, by anyone or anything. and when i watched all the squirrely wheels and figured a crash was imminent?

no problem.

cause the mojo was rockin’. cells were firing. i was focused and relaxed. i never even knew what lap we were on, and i am usually acutely aware of what lap we are on - until yesterday. i was too focused. i couldn’t hear a single word that anyone on my team was yelling as we passed by.

and now i need to figure out exactly how to get the planets to align again. so i can recreate that whole i am so rockin’ it right now and i feel insanely good and strong feeling.

i’m wondering if it was the two margaritas two nights before the race, the ones that went down so easy they were like my old friend candy. was it the way i packed for the race? flasks full of bourbon first, then kit, helmet, shoes, bike? was it the enormously shitty and not easy ‘openers’ spin the night before? was it left shoe first? was it fatboy slim and ‘ya mama’ on the trainer as last song before hitting the line?

or. is it possible that it’s a new training schedule, a new coach and a new attitude about all of it? is it a year of road racing and training under my belt and learning a thing or two about a thing or two? or is it just going into a race with a clear head? is it realizing what i am capable of when i stop being scared?

i don’t know, but making the margarita’s a regular gig and packing the flasks first can’t hurt. i might just go with it.

and not being that girl for once?

but instead being the one who can actually race and rock it? and not be intimidated? well.

it’s a nice feeling.

photo by: Shari Parker

yo mama

2009-03-15T23:14:00.002-04:00

my twelve year old came home from school the other day and told me that some girl came up to him in the hallway and said

my mom can kick your mom’s butt in a bike race.

and i laughed, thinking hell yeah – there’s a whole bunch of people who can kick my butt in a bike race. and then i was all woah. who’s got her kid laying down the gauntlet?

and i actually race with a woman who teaches at my son’s school, so out of curiosity i say, was the girls’ last name such and such?

he says no.

and then i see mom such & such at the race this weekend and tell her the story & we both get a big laugh out of it. she hopes it wasn’t her daughter talking smack & laying down the gauntlet and i assure her, that unless her daughter had a different last name, it wasn’t.

but after we laugh about it, we wonder who it is. it’s a small town and there aren’t a whole lot of us 40 year old mom bike racers. i mean, everyone knows everyone on the pre-reg lists and every knows everyone on the start line unless some mysterious collegiate chicks drive from super far away to kick everyone's collective butts.

so i just double check and ask my son again what her name was and he tells me and it is not the daughter of the other mom and teacher at my son’s school that i race with and he adds:

mom, i have seen her mom and she does NOT look like a bike racer. she has that really high hair, you know – the higher the hair, the closer to god? i’m telling you - her mom is very close to god.

let it fly

2009-03-11T23:11:00.002-04:00

i’ve heard this phrase a few times in my life. the first time was when i was student piloting a little cessna 150: 704EL

seven zero four echo lima

those were the call letters to the plane i used to fly. you read that right, i used to fly planes. sometimes i forget that i was once fearless. but there are always little moments in which i remember, and can almost feel like i am flying again.

i took flying lessons at a little airport about 45 minutes north of my college, which was in boston. it all started with a friendship, and then over coffee with my grandfather.

i worked at a comedy club in harvard square all through college. met all sorts of comedians, some totally famous, some boston or new england locals who would one day become fairly famous. funny enough (no pun intended), cocktail waitressing at that club was one of my most favorite jobs and provided some of my best college memories. anyhow, i became good friends with one of the comedians and we stayed in touch when his comedy stint was up. we both discovered that we had each always wanted to learn to fly, he went back home and when he called me to tell me about his first flight lesson, i was all, “shit. he beat me to it.”

not long after he beat me to the skies, i went to florida to visit my grandparents and while lingering over a coffee at their favorite diner one morning, i told my grandfather, a WWII fighter pilot, that i was planning on taking flying lessons when i graduated and moved to los angeles (i already had a teaching position there – thanks to that snazzy diploma from fine upstanding, expensive school).

he said, “why wait? there’s a flight school 20 minutes from here. your first lesson is on me”. and off we went.

one flight was all i needed to get hooked and turn into a total junkie. i went back the next day and paid for my own lesson.

vacation over, i returned to college, hell bent on finding a flight school. before i even unpacked from the trip, i got a legal pad, a pen, the yellow pages and the phone with the really long cord that stretched to every roommates’ room in the first floor apartment that we rented, and i sat on the toilet (i like to multitask) and started calling flight schools.

i called every one within an hour of my college, asked all the right questions about planes, instructors and yadda yadda. but the only answer i really cared about was the one to: how much is flight time? i didn’t care if the planes were held together with duct tape (and in fact, i wound up flying one that did indeed have some duct tape holding bits together) – i just wanted to be able to afford it with my cocktail waitressing tips.

so i’m on the toilet, on the phone talking to a guy on the other end who’s answering all my questions when the answer to how much is flight time? decides more than i had anticipated. it was the cheapest school i had called. sweet. sign me up. when can i get my first lesson? he scheduled me with an instructor for later that week and i hung up the phone. oblivious to the fact that i had just spoken with the guy i would wind up marrying.

i pulled into the parking lot for my lesson a few days later, and as the story goes, that guy i was on the phone with saw me get out of the car and head towards the building – he knew i was the one he had spoken to on the phone and he knew he was going to marry me.

as far as i knew and was concerned, he was the guy who worked behind the counter at the flight school, scheduled lessons and fueled my plane. literally. and all of this is another story entirely.

back to flight lessons: one of the first things my instructor said to me was that the plane inherently just wants to fly. so just let it. it doesn’t really want to fall from the sky. just let it fly.

this knowledge alleviated some fears, but still not enough to practice stalls when i was soloing. sorta like i never liked to practice sand pits when i was by myself on the ‘cross course. i trusted the knowledge that should an emergency arise, i could find a landing spot and put it down.

i still to this day, look for emergency landing spots.

i spent all spring and summer that year waiting tables at the comedy club & taking a flying lesson every chance i could get. i’d pay for my lessons one by one in singles – a big wad of them. all the flight instructors thought i was a stripper. i’d cancel lessons if i didn’t make enough tips the previous night. my instructor would always tell me it was so much cheaper to buy a big block of time for about $500, but i never had that much money at once. and so it went until the day after 16 hours of instruction, i finally soloed the plane. this day also deserves its’ own post, but after that i was free to take to the skies whenever i wanted. plus, soloing saved me the $24 per hour instructor fee.

touch and go’s were my favorite. take off, stay in the pattern and land. over and over and over again. i loved the take offs. and the landings. and actually, everything in between.

my instructor would always admonish me – he’d tell me i didn’t need to come in screaming out of the sky. i had developed a bad habit of coming in high & hot. also known as steep and fast. i was 21. and fearless.

my now husband, then fueler guy would sit outside the flight school and make bets with a friend. he’d watch me doing touch & go’s and say if she puts it on the numbers, i’m going to marry her. i put it on the numbers every time. it was a huge source of pride. to come screaming out of the sky and put that plane right on the numbers at the end of the runway every damn time. grease the landing. flaps up, power up, take off and do it all over again.

i’d leave my lessons, or solo flight time and drive back up to our summer house. getting on the highway with the airport tower just off to my right, i’d watch the odometer hit 55 and pull back a bit on the steering wheel just to see if i would take off.

that’s all it took. 55 mph. a little power on the throttle, pull back on the yoke and the plane just wants to fly.

we now live near a tiny little airport much like the one where we met and i used to take lessons. i still think, on certain days “it’s a good day to go flying”, but haven’t flown (an airplane at least) in 13 years.

i remember the training rides earlier this year and even late last year. most of my teammates knew that i’d be one of the last ones down a steep descent, white knuckle braking all the way down. a few of them were always kind enough to stay with me and coach me through the turns, what do do with my oustside leg, inside arm, where to put my weight, etc. it was just another version of flaps down, pitch down, decrease power, then level off. land. put it on the numbers.

one teammate would tell me during these white knuckle descents – let it fly suzanne, just let it fly.

but i was too afraid.

last week, i was on the rollers in my safe little cocoon of a vestibule. i wanted to try something different. i wanted to try starting with both hands on the handlebars as opposed to the death grip on the doorframe method.

both hands on the handlebars, with my right arm out a bit leaning onto the doorframe, i start to pedal. faster. faster. faster. all of a sudden, the bike uprights itself and i’m rolling. no death grip. just me and the bike rolling. a tiny little lightbulb moment that proved just letting it fly is okay.

pedal. push the throttle. pull back on the yoke. and let it fly. come in high & hot and put it on the numbers. fleeting moments of realizing i just went down a screaming hot descent and my hands didn’t go numb. or i take a turn and realize i hardly touched my brakes.

season number 2 officially starts on saturday with the first race. here’s to hoping this is the year i learn to let the bike fly.

me and the dane

2009-03-06T14:23:00.002-05:00

i woke up this morning to find that my facebook friendship had been requested by a certain cyclocross racer of danish descent.

i sat with my coffee and mulled it over.
confirm? or ignore?
well. lets see. he is pretty.
and there is the matter of those distracting red shorts.
but. there was all that yelling in the sand pit.
all that “shut up!” and
all that “pedal faster” shit.
then again, he did have his hands all over my ass.
which makes up for a a sandpit screaming match.
i’m just saying.

confirm.
me and the dane?
we’re tight.
facebook friends tight.

knickers

2009-03-05T19:04:00.002-05:00

so, i got a little inspired at the bike show last week. and then this week, after i spent an entire day on the couch in a feverish haze of some non-descript malaise and cycling knicker dreams; i got a little manic with the sewing machine. but not before going to the local vintage shop for some snazzy men’s trousers circa 1970 - which i proceeded to fashion into my very own custom cycling knickers.

twenty eight dollars and several hours later, i have myself two pairs of knickers. one a lovely polyester hounds tooth, the other a snappy wool plaid. both complete with tab on the backside from which to hang a blinky light, velcro-fastened back pockets, an added side pocket for cell phone or flask; and, here is where i surprise even myself: articulated knees!

i’m taking the single speed and my custom knickers out for a spin.

north american handmade bike show

2009-02-27T23:23:00.001-05:00

we took a day off today. a day off from roller practice, (actually, any form of riding whatsoever), website updating and upgrading, emails, copywriting, laundry, email list-serve posts, sinks full of dishes, piles of paper on dining room table, the stimulus package and the dogs’ muddy paw prints all over the furniture - we took a break from all that to attend the north american handmade bike show.

there were all kinds of snazzy things at the show. but mostly, i just cared about was whether or not it was pretty, it spoke to me, or if i could add it to the sticker collection on my beer fridge.

so, after listening to crazy storms all night and hitting snooze for an hour starting at 5am, packing lunches, getting kids off to school and watching my husband charge up the car battery after we left the light on all night, and a whole plethora of other events; to follow are a few of the things that spoke to me once we arrived in indianapolis:

i loved the matching mother daughter independent fabrication pink bikes.

and the self-leveling coffee holder? totally kewl.

this fall, i had a crafty idea in mind and a pile of inner tubes to try to bring it to fruition: a messenger bag made out of inner tubes. i gave it a go, but it never quite came out the way it was in my head. some boys from tokyo had the right idea though, and beat me to it.

and then of course, there was a little, do you hear the angels singing moment when i saw the flask holders on the cool fixies, singlepseeds and tandems.

and the beer bottle holders too. i need one. of each. the flask holder and the beer bottle holder. and a cute cruiser to attach them to.

there was much to covet. the snazzy orange bike with the rockin’ orange tires from the snazzy italians,

and the sweet ‘cross bike from the cool new englanders’ in lynn, massachusetts

there were bike baskets, saddle bags, cool shiny things to attach to your headtube that said courage. i could use a little courage during cross season. i should have bought one. but i had already bought a sweet sweatshirt from october bikes, and we’re in a recession and all. there were handlebars wrapped in leather and handsewn with cool little finishing detail touches, there were some of the cutest saddle bags i’ve ever seen, but she doesn’t have a website and there was a polka dot bike that would look so cool with my kit.

by george, i think i’ve got it now

2009-02-22T10:06:00.002-05:00

i’ve become a litle bit obsessed with those rollers that the roller fairy dropped off the other day.

because if i had to get on that trainer one more time, cause it was raining, or too windy, or snowing or i didn’t have a big consecutive chunk of time to ride because i was always dropping someone off, or picking someone up and running to the market in between to get that one thing i forgot on the previous trip; someone was gonna have to shoot me.

i’m just sayin.

i tried them out on wednesday. the first attempt is here. the little crash into the doorjamb shook me up a bit and so i took a breather to eat dinner. then i got back on, only this time i couldn’t even let go of the wall. which made me mad. so i took another breather. and then i got back on again and did it. and i stayed on for 20 minutes. that whole, 3rd times a charm video is here.

i tried again yesterday. i was feeling ridiculously optimistic and set them up in the middle of the living room so i could watch the tour of california. i clipped in. put my hand on a chair to steady myself and then promptly chickened out to go back to my safe little cocoon of a vestibule where if i fell, it was into a door on either side of me, about 4 inches away.

once in my happy little vestibule on the rollers, i settled into the work of breathing and relaxing. here’s the thing about me and the bike: i have a tendency to be tense. my elbows lock. my neck seizes up in a little spasm that i always attributed to long rides and poor bike fit. in a lightbulb roller moment that first day, i learned that the neck stuff has nothing to do with long ride, cause it was killing me 5 minutes into a roller session. and i just had a snazzy bike fit. i need to relax!

and those locked elbows are what will make the bike go all wiggy and do crazy ivans. if you do that on the rollers, you’ll fall into the door.

i’ve always wanted to learn how to meditate, but was never very good at it. couldn’t keep my mind focused, or open, or breathe through my third eye or whatever it is they tell you to do. and once my mind wandered cause i was thinking about what i needed to get at the market, or all the laundry i needed to fold, it was all over.

on the rollers, if i lose focus, the possibility of falling into the door has been exponentially increased. i’m hoping that in time, i won’t have to work so hard to relax. cause its’ exhausting.

so i get on. clip in. look up. relax. and breathe. and then i just ride and ride and ride. sometimes i’ll focus on the spot in the front hallway that desperately needs to be mopped, or i’ll look at the bunch of flowers on the welcome home mat in front of the front door. sometimes i’ll glance to the side to catch a glimpse of the tour. every now and then, i’ll glance at the cyclo computer to see how much time i’ve been rolling or what my speed is. i got really brave yesterday and shifted, and then pedaled faster and harder. relax, breathe, bend your elbows a bit.

and look at that spot that needs to be mopped.

dear lulu

2009-02-19T20:26:00.002-05:00

dear lulu,

i know you really really really want the teacher game for your nintendo. i know you love me. with shugar on top. just in case i didn’t know how badly you wanted the game or how much of a “dream come true” it would be for you to own it - it was the “persuade book” that you brought home the other day; complete with the clever section and what i can only guess to be some sort of ‘frequently asked questions’ about how you might go about getting the money to buy the game yourself that really drove the point home.

and that illustration of me with the speech bubble coming out of my mouth about how i have decided to give you the game because you’ve been writing so many letters was wonderfully detailed. i loved the bows on our shoes and the money in your hand and the game with price sticker in my hand. i appreciate the height-of-marathon-training stick figure rendition you gave me and would give my right arm for eyelashes that long, not to mention that stick figure. thank you.

this isn’t going to be some letter about how i walked to school in the snow, barefoot, uphill both ways sort of story – although you know that snazzy dollhouse in your room? yeah. your auntie cynthia and i used to make dollhouses out of cardboard boxes. anyhow. this isn’t one of those letters. but i am gonna tell you about how you don’t need a nintendo game to teach you how to be a teacher.

it’s true, i did go to college to learn how to be a teacher. a fine college indeed. and i have a fancy degree to prove it. right now that very degree is all rolled up in its’ red tube serving as support inside a killer pair of calvin klein suede boots i bought at tj maxx last year that i haven’t even worn yet; but when i do break them out and wear them and your dad says “nice boots, i guess there’s no recession in the webster house”, and i say i bought them a year ago and he won’t believe me – let the records show – i have had those boots for a while. long before the recession hit. anyhow. that’s where that fancy degree is. in those boots.

so until i enter a raffle to win you three kids a college education, there are some things you can do in the meantime to learn how to be a teacher. no nintendo game needed. gasp.

first off – you know all those webkinz that are ‘dead’, that you insist you can no longer play with, cause you’ve lost their passwords? here’s the thing. they are not really dead. they are all right there, waiting to be played with – all stuffed, fluffy and tangible. you do not need to adopt any more webkinz and build any more online virtual worlds for them, nor do you have to remember any passwords. just line them all up on your bed and play school. you’d be amazed at how obedient they are. in fact, your mommy used to do this very thing: line up all your stuffed animals on the bed, put them into reading groups and ask them to read a paragraph from ‘little house on the prairie’. then, make up a worksheet with questions about the chapter and fill in all the answers yourself. you could even take them all on a field trip to the park in the backyard and send them all down the slide. mommy didn’t even have a park in her backyard. just a creepy empty lot halfway down the block.

anyhow. after a while, all the blank stares of the stuffed animals will start to grate on your nerves and you’ll want to take it up a notch. you’ll want to have ‘students’ that actually talk. and fill out their own damn worksheets. this is a tough one seeing as you’re the youngest in the family. see, your mom was the oldest in her family and could subject her little sister to all kinds of “let’s play school” torture.

if you were the older child, (and didn’t live halfway across the country from any semblance of family) you and your cousin could have a dedicated ‘classroom’ on the third floor of their house, or in the basement of your own house, and every single weekend could be dedicated to torturing your younger siblings with “school”. you could dress up in nightgowns and put a belt on, cause you know – it makes you look like a teacher. and you could put pepsi in a mug and totally pretend it’s coffee. you could make up 200 word spelling tests and have a self defense class and punch your cousin square in the nose during a “demonstration”. you could blatantly hand out demerits for such indiscretions as being “overly dramatic” when your younger cousin starts an uproar about the 200 word spelling test and the fact that you’ve kept her holed up in the attic (um, “classroom”) for 4 hours.

all of this will be excellent preparation for your future role as the ‘fantastic’ as you say, ms. webster. no nintendo training needed.

i won’t even begin to tell you about scavenging your second grade classroom garbage cans for those awesome pens that were blue on one side and red on the other, cause i’m sure with all the budget cuts, teachers don’t throw away their pens so willy nilly.

anyhow. claudia, lulu … my little schmoofie – what i am trying to say is this: keep writing your letters. all of them. i wish i wrote as prolifically as you do when i was seven. you can be whatever you want to be. but whatever it is in life that you choose, i have no doubts you will be a happy girl. i bet if you can find some sort of job that requires using copious amounts of scotch tape, you’d be over the moon happy.

love, mom.

ps: your imagination is so much better than any nintendo game.

rollers!

2009-02-18T23:58:00.002-05:00

i’ve been watching fellow blogger friends’ attempts and successes at the roller thing and have been completely inspired to try it out for myself.

only problem was – i didn’t have rollers.

so i was content to just live vicariously through them for a bit and stick with my boring old trainer and prayers for nice weather.

and then i came home last night night after dinner out and a bottle of wine with a friend to find that the roller fairy stopped by & dropped off a set in our living room. literally. rollers in my living room. out of the blue.

i was so excited that i tried them out; half a bottle of wine, jeans and all. we didn’t video tape that part.

we did, however, videotape my attempt today. this is part one.

oops, she did it again

2009-02-17T22:47:00.002-05:00

i swore to myself the other day i would stop doing this. this posting of my daughters’ letters. i’ll understand if y’all go running for the hills at this point, but i just can’t resist. i’ll keep it short and paraphrase and while i’d like to say this is the last time - never say never.

dear Mom,

I realy want that game I want to be a dog sitter or a teacher when I grow up. but I don’t want dog slubbur all over my face. So I thought about school. I like it very much. And then I started to think about Ms. Thompson. I love her. And then I thought “I want to be a teacher when I grow up!” So now I want the game Imajine Teacher!

You get ready for the leson of the day and decorate your own classroom and arange feald trips! I really want this game. All those other persuasive letters are actchulay about the teacher game.

….and so on and so forth with the please, and I’ll pay my own money and I want to be a Ms. Webster, yadda yadda yadda. my personal favorite was the dog slubbur bit. and then of course the whole, “all those other letters was just leading up to this one thing that i really want” bit.

slubbur.

i told her she doesn’t need a game to teach her how to be a teacher. i told her i was a teacher and we didn’t even have nintendo when i was little. she asked how i learned how to be a teacher and i told her i went to college. she said college is expensive, the game “is only, like, $20”.

letters from lulu

2009-02-14T22:15:00.001-05:00

last week, my nine year old asked me if i would buy her a new game for her nintendo ds. i’m sure i raised my eyebrows at her in that we are in a recession, and until it starts raining money, i’m not heading out to just willy nilly buy games for you people way. but before i could say all that stuff, she explained that it was a math tutoring game. and girlfriend does indeed need some help in the basic, rote, math skills area. i go online to verify that it is indeed a tutor-y, fun, learn-y sort of game and since i am not sitting down with her and the flashcards, i was happy to buy the game for her.

this blatant, buying of a new ds game for one daughter did not sit well with the other daughter. even though i tried to smooth it over by saying it was just to help her with her math skills.

you know where this is going, right?

right as rain, that girl wrote me a letter. i had recently told a friend that in the absence of being able to write about what i’d really love to write about, i just wait for my daughter to come home from school with something funny and inspirational. she never disappoints. days after buying the game for annabel, this comes home in the backpack:

Dear Mom,

I don’t think it is fair that Annabel got a video game and I did not. I’ve been wanting Dogz pack for two years. I want it because, I want to be a pet sitter when I grow up and I don’t have the skill for it. I know I have Nintendogs but that’s not enogh. I’d really like it if you got me it. Like you could youse half of your money and i’ll youse half of mine. We can totaly work this out. I will love takeing care of dogs when I grow up. Because you will help me get the skill by buying the game. I will love it, then I will take care of dogs the way they need.

From, Claudia

i swear, i have got a book floating around in my head somewhere, but at this point, i may just have claudia qhost write the whole thing. she’s got way more material. maybe i should just call the book letters from lulu.

far more entertaining than the family saga i had up my sleeve, or the rv road trip adventures of the webster clan.

sometimes, i want to be 7 again.

2009-02-10T19:31:00.002-05:00

i watch my seven year old leave the house everyday in her favorite shoes. the shoes she can’t live without - black patent leather mary janes. and i can remember, like it was yesterday, when i was her age and i had a pair of shoes i couldn’t live without; patent leather mary-janes. only mine were red.

right now, it seems that my seven year old is providing me with more blog material that i can currently come up with on my own.

but my own material would consist of the frustrations of not being able to please everybody, of treading rough waters and of feeling that i am in over my head.

it might consist of the fact that my head has been in a fog and only just now is the fog lifting and i feel creative.

or i’d write about the day to day of winter training and of how i just want the season to start already, or of how much i love the all too rare official “day off” on my training schedule in which it is suggested that i do things like: nap, listen to music, get a massage, stay off my feet as much as possible or float in water. cause the thought of floating in water makes me laugh.

or it would be about how nice it was to finally get off the damn trainer and get outside with good friends and teammates and get some good, long rides done in 60 degree weather.

or i’d write about how i wish i didn’t care what people thought about me or said about me, but i do.

my seven year old has got it all figured out. this just came home from school to go with the definition of a personal view of oneself:

I’m butiful.
I’m smart.
I’m cute.
I’m awsome.
I love my family.
I think Spongebob is the best.
Sparkly shoes make me look cool.

cause that’s just so much easier.

my daughter is a stalker

2009-02-03T12:55:00.002-05:00

my youngest daughter is stalking a video game designer.

the kids have been home for almost a full week due to the recent ice storm that hit kentucky. we were lucky in that unlike last september when ike hit and we were out of power for eight days, we never lost power this time around. everytime someone asked do you have power? and i responded yes; i knocked on wood.

the thing about my kids that is so great – well, there are lots of things that are great, but one of my favorite things is their amazing imaginations. the little games they make up in their heads enable them to write cool stories, play fun games - all without the need of a cruise director (aka mom) and completely entertain themselves; which then of course means that a certain sanity is maintained during a random mid-winter week off from school when its’ too icy and cold and there is too great a danger of being crushed by a falling ice-laden tree to go play outside.

they’ve had races around the house on scooters, roller skates and skateboards. and when he wasn’t busy writing code (you know, for fun)our 12 year old served as referee and coach. my husband and i would watch in awe as our youngest would literally fly and drift through corners, completely fearless – narrowly missing the liquor cabinet and/or the xbox on numerous occasions. things would have definitely gone way downhill had either been hit.

she’s a total shoe-in for roller derby or cyclocross.

among the weeks’ activities too numerous to list, my favorite was lulu’s stalking of the video game designer.

it started, i suppose as stalking usually does – innocently enough. lulu has a favorite little online game called fancy pants. she felt fancy pants needed a friend – fancy skirt. so she did what she does best and wrote mr. video game designer a three page letter. actually, she ransacked my notecards and wrote a three notecard letter, which she then shoved into an envelope and asked how we get it to him. i told her she needed to find out his mailing address. in her search for his mailing address, she, in her 7 year old infinite wisdom does one better and finds his blog and his email. she scraps the “old school” snail mail letter idea and starts to write him an email instead.

what cracked me up is the fact that she did the whole search on her own. when i peeked at the browsing history, the search string for his name is far and wide - it was totally evident she knew exactly what she was doing. she’s 7. and this impressed me and disturbed me at the same time.

so she writes her email about her great idea for fancy skirt and her dog, fancy shorts and how they all become friends with fancy pants and work to defeat the evil giraffe, and we wrote a little note at the bottom of the email to thank mr. video game designer for taking the time to read the email from a very big little fan.

he wrote back the next day.

he said it was a great idea and that fancy skirt would indeed be making an appearance soon. and then, he asked if she did any drawing and said she should put her story down in pictures.

if only he knew the can of worms that would open up.

she spent the better half of a day drawing a video game. page after page after page of fancy skirt, fancy pants, their dog fancy shorts and their adventures. the pictures came complete with the written story line. –which she then proceeded to beg me to scan immediately so we could get them off to mr. video game designer. cause “he’s waiting”.

she could barely contain herself and decided (unbeknownst to me) to email him again to let him know her book was on the way:

Hi this is me Claudia! I’m hoping your reading this because your never writeing back to me. I know your busy and all but don’t you have time to check your e-mail some people are sending notes to you. anyways I’ve been waiting for fancy skirt to come out an all but I know I haven’t gave you the book but you should still check your e-mail because I’m sending the book to you right now!

he wrote her right back to say he was out of town but that he did indeed read her email on his phone. he told her not to worry, the character and story line were all planned out. i gotta say, he has a very polite knack for: “i’m way ahead of you kid, hold your horses and fancy skirt will debut soon”.

now that the ice has melted and school is back in session, i am willing to bet this stalking affair is over; or better yet, through the magic of her 7 year old online research, she’ll just create, design and code her own game. in the meantime, i bet she’ll return to writing persuasive letters to us. she’s been really pushing hard for a snuggie.

i’m just waiting for her to start googling and then writing to the snuggie manufacturers - she’s noticed that there don’t seem to be any snuggies small enough for a seven year old. i told her to wear her bathrobe backwards, but she was not amused.

this morning

2009-01-28T13:46:00.001-05:00