Locals call the first climb “Puke Hill.” Officially known as 38 Road, it runs south out of Palisade and up onto a mesa top thick with gorgeous fruit orchards and vineyards.
A couple of years ago I discovered the most recent generation of neck gaiters, and I LOVE them. I have several, and even my kids wear them.
It was like there were secret, unwritten rules about riding here that I couldn't quite crack. Except the rule about not waving. That one I got.
No amount physical therapy has managed to purge my fear of crashing. None of the bleeding washed it completely away.
"That's lovely," I breathed, thinking of sex.
Not sex with him, just sex generally.
I actually enjoy the solitude and time inside my own head, but occasionally I have to remind myself not to be afraid. Of the hungry and addicted men who smell like urine and hide up on the concrete shelves under highway bridges.
I just couldn’t bring myself to emerge into the cold outside my bag even for a few seconds. I found my fleece hat and went back to sleep until daybreak.
Each new hue of desert rock, sky, and autumn leaf makes me wonder if I’ll ever see that exact color again in my lifetime. I tried to savor each transient, blissful moment before chasing the next one.
The light from Á tse A ts'oosí takes two million years to reach Earth. This fact leaves me breathless every time I see The Hunter.
I'd never worn bibs, but I typically get excellent cycling advice from the guys who really like them.
As ever when I speak live, I mentally debrief afterwards and think of about a million ways I could have done it better. Or smarter. Or I suddenly remember those other Important Points I forgot to raise in the moment.
Although I hope to maintain a mutually gratifying physical relationship with my husband for the remainder of our lives, I can understand and even agree to some degree with Bering’s appeal to evolutionary antecedents to explain why many of us are attracted to reproductive-aged partners.
Sometimes I talk about cycling as a metaphor for masturbation.
I rail against the ridiculousness of Beauty Standards for other women and then I go on to privately self-shame. It’s completely fucked up, and most women I know do this.
At home, I took my clothes off and reminded my Trophy Husband of Rule #12, which states that the correct number of bikes to own is however many you already have (n) + 1 more.
Fifteen minutes and 190 electric shocks later, Dude staggers out, looks around at the researchers and shouts,
“One hundred and ninety, bitches! Did I win?”
A friend, and even a friendly stranger, would only care that we’re out on bikes having an awesome ride. A really nice guy might even fist bump me for being so fast that he had trouble catching up.
Mildly nervous, I reminded myself that the deer that wander out in front of my bike at dawn were still bedded down. As was the guy in that torn sleeping bag tucked up under the bridge.
Summer is here, and labia are once again coming (see what I did there?) to the fore.
Someone we know, perhaps a relative, is nattering on about something abjectly false: something so wrong it’s akin to the claim that the Earth is flat.