I admit that I like to geek out on bikes and gear as much as the next gal. But there is beauty in simplicity and going back to your roots. In riding like you did when you were a kid. I’ll bet that you rode your first bikes on anything and everything, with a friend balanced on your handlebars. I invite you to take a chance and push your limits by riding the ‘wrong’ bike.
Every conversation that I have, every single day with almost every person I meet ends in frustration. The additive effect by the end of the day means I’m worn out. Today I conducted an experiment. I brought a small spiral notebook and pencil with me on my errands. At the top of the page I wrote “I am deaf.”
Special note to my guy: Thanks babe for keeping it real and fun. Thanks for all the fires that keep us warm and for your patience when I’ve run out. Thanks for pushing your bike beside mine through all of those miles of soft snow on whatever harebrained scheme I’ve hatched.
Grief January 31, 2001 - February 19, 2001 It’s not a day on the calendar that reminds me of my grief. The day is imprinted upon my DNA by the angle...
My 15 year-old son said this post is “so cringy.” For almost a month I have been quarantined from everyone including my kids and my partner. It’s been hard. I miss hugs.
This post is not actually about riding bikes or wild horses. It’s about being scared. Very, very scared. It was Friday morning and I had been waiting all week for test results from a breast biopsy.
Have you ever been on a cell phone where there’s a poor connection and you’re only getting fragments of what the other person is saying? Then it’s like a puzzle with you trying to string together and make sense of the few words that you could understand while at the same time trying to listen to the bits and pieces that are forthcoming? This is what my world is like on a daily basis because I am hard of hearing.
Is fatbiking one word or two? No matter… what you are about to read is about a bunch of horse shit.