Apple, meet tree. Tree, meet apple.

So last week I bought this new mountain bike and she's adorable and cool. I was all excited to ride her. She's mint green and built for a shorty like me and has less than 100 miles on her. Practically new. 

I'm calling her Minty, per my friend English's suggestion

We decided to go mountain biking on Sunday. Greg suggested a ride that he described as mellow and flow-y, and then sent me a link with a description. 

I immediately had a stomach ache. Mountain bike rides are rated similarly to ski runs - this one was rated a blue/black, or "intermediate/difficult." I found a YouTube video of it, and it looked terrifying to me. It still seems daunting, though after getting a ride in, it's definitely something I can aspire to and probably try later in the season. 

But not yet. I asked if we could start with something easier. 

I am a novice mountain biker. I have done it maybe 10 or 15 times in my life. I am a good athlete and always up for a challenge, but mountain biking can be scary and dangerous and it requires technical skill that I do not yet possess. 

This ride would be like a total beginner skiing down a blue/black run after a few days of lessons. No one would recommend it. 

So we decided on a local mountain that is definitely on the easy side. You climb up to the top of a mesa and then it's mostly flat and pretty easy. But it was still a little bit scary. 

We started fine but then headed up a part of the trail that was a bit rocky. I have ridden on rocks before but it had been awhile and I don't have muscle memory built up for this sport the way I do with skiing. I was too much in my head and I couldn't remember what I was supposed to do. Within the first 5 minutes, I fell twice. 

Which made me tense up and feel super anxious. 

Which made me grumpy and disagreeable. 

I caught up to Greg and said, "I think I'm going to sell this bike. I'm not enjoying this."

To be clear, I fully realize how idiotic and unreasonable I was being. 

Predictably, he said, "WHAT??" 

I grumped around and generally acted like a pill. 

I felt stupid and incompetent. I felt like once again, I was in a situation where Greg was an expert and I was a moron who couldn't do anything right. He's better than I am at just about everything.

After a while, we made it to the western edge of the mesa where you can get off the bike and climb up for some great views of the front range. I was still out of sorts and I could tell that Greg was (understandably) annoyed with me. 

But then when I got back on the bike, something clicked. My brain and my body remembered what to do. I started riding comfortably and realized how much fun it was. It was a beautiful day and everything was green and flowery from all the rain we've had. 

When we got back to the car, I said, "that was fun!"

He gave me a look. 

I acknowledged that I had been pissy and childish, and I apologized. 

We decided to head to a local biker roadhouse - like, a legit biker place where everyone wears leather vests with their club's logo on the back and lots of American flag patches - to have some lunch. On the way, I told him the story of when I taught Josie to ride her bike. How crazy and unreasonable she was. 

And then it hit me. 

I had just recreated the entire experience. 

Convincing myself that I couldn't do it? Check.

Getting on the bike and then lacking confidence and making mistakes as a result? ("I couldn't go - the rock was in my way") Check. 

Acting like a crazy asshole? ("Mama, this bike is broken! It doesn't work! This bike is stupid!").

Lamenting that I was a loser? ("I ride like a baby and everybody thinks I'm stupid")  

Figuring it out and exclaiming cheerily how great it was, thereby giving the people around me whiplash? ("Boy, I sure was complaining a lot, but now I'm doing really well") 

Check check check. 

I don't know why it had never occurred to me. My darling daughter, whom I had always thought of as taking after Jason, is just like me. 

Or I am just like her. 

Greg reminded me that it's a dangerous sport and that he respected the fact that I could do it at all. He reminded me that the hard part is what makes it great. It's something to be conquered. 

He's right, of course. 

I mean, I will still probably act like a crazy person sometimes. It would be boring if I didn't. 

On the way home, we stopped and got ice cream. 

As I told Josie all those years ago, ice cream makes everything better.

Summertime, and the livin' is easy

 Yesterday was the last day of school in the school district I work in. My kids' schools get out for summer next week, but as far as I can tell, they stopped doing anything of substance about 2 weeks ago. 

My role in the district involves student matters - special education, discipline, truancy, civil rights matters, the day to day of school administration. 

Which means that the day after the last day of school - today - my workload and my stress levels drop precipitously. Teachers go off-contract and everyone is on vacation. My phone stops ringing. The flow of emails reduces to a trickle. I can work on the stuff that has been sitting on the back burner, but at a leisurely pace. 

It's so nice. It's so chill.

Greg and I are leaving for vacation a week from today. We're going on a cruise from Montreal to Boston.

I truly never saw myself taking cruises on the regular, but this one is going to be awesome. I've never been to either Montreal or Quebec City, and we're going to have time in both cities to sightsee and stroll around and soak up the beauty. We will enjoy the charm of Prince Edward Island and towns in Nova Scotia. Kayaking in Halifax. Hiking in Acadia National Park in Bar Harbor, Maine. Seeing Ali and Josh in Boston. 

The ship itself will be a means of transportation, but with beautiful views and yummy meals and dressing for dinner and being gently rocked to sleep by the movement of the ocean. 

And no cell service. No calls from children asking me for money, no coworkers saying, "I know you're on vacation but I have a question..."

It's romantic and fun and relaxing. 

I need it. It's been a tough year. 

Zeke completely cratered his first semester of high school. It took every bit of effort I had to cajole and nag and cry to get him over the line. 

This semester has been a massive improvement. He is objectively incredibly smart - all he needed to do to get As and Bs was to go to class and pay attention. And he did. It's been an incredible relief.

But he's still a 15-year-old boy. He's mean. He's ornery. He argues about everything. Every day it's a struggle to get him up and out to school on time. He's a slob. 

I love him. He also drives me insane. 

Josie, on the other hand, is easy and delightful. It's like she knows I can only handle one gremlin at a time.

Work is fine, but things are always hectic during the school year. 

So summer is welcome. I'm looking forward to time with Greg, time with the kids paddleboarding at the reservoir, the Boulder shows for Dead & Company's final tour, a visit from college friends, seeing my family at the Outer Banks. I bought a mountain bike to replace the one that got stolen last summer, so I can do some hiking and biking. 

I sent a picture of it to Greg. He said, "let's go to Fruita!" and sent me this:

I do appreciate his confidence in me, even though there's no way in hell I have the skills to do something like that.

More likely, it would be another in a long line of outings with Greg that ends up with me being bruised. There have been a number of falls off the bike - both mountain and road - that resulted in gorgeous bruises on my ass. Taking a tumble while roller-skating and having massive bruises up my hands and arms from putting them down to catch my fall. Getting bumped around on rocks that we climbed while hiking. And of course, the ruptured ACL.

But at this point, it's funny. I'll take it. Life is an adventure.

So yeah. Summer. All good.

Girls on film

I’ve come to the realization lately that when it comes to my age, there is a disconnect between how I feel or how I think I look, and how I actually look, at least as far as younger people are concerned. 

I mean, for the most part, and most of the time, I feel like I look OK and probably a little younger than I am. I’m not down on myself in the looks department. 

Maybe this is helped by the fact that my daughter, who is my lovely and enthusiastic cheerleader, routinely tells me how beautiful she thinks I am and that I look 35, tops. 

“Mom, everyone in my school thinks you’re so pretty.”

“I’m not sure how that could possibly be true given that I know maybe 6 or 7 people in your school, but that’s very nice of you to say.” 

I digress. This is not about whether or not I am pretty. 

What makes me think about this is that when Greg and I are out in public together, we tend to be very affectionate and a little PDA-ish. Not inappropriately so, but it’s there. He often has his arm around my shoulders (probably because with our difference in height, it’s comfortable for him, like leaning on a counter) or we’ll hold hands or give each other the occasional smooch.

I’ll joke that the younger people around us are probably like, “gawd, why are those old people making out? Gross.” 

We went to New Orleans for the week between Christmas and New Year's. We both adore the city, and I was particularly excited because while I have been in recent years, I haven't been there as a tourist since I was 20 years old. It's such a sexy place, and I wanted to go as a grownup with my dude and have a week of fun and romance.

We did all kinds of great touristy stuff. We walked all over the city and rented bikes and rode up to Lake Pontchartrain. We rented a car and went to see a plantation that focuses its historical presentation entirely on slavery (much like the Holocaust museum, it is powerful and astoundingly well done, and it wrecked me emotionally). We went to the World War II museum. We did a riverboat jazz/dinner cruise. We went to a Billy Strings show. We went to the Sugar Bowl.

We also partied non-stop, listening to live music, eating all the things, drinking all the cocktails. 

I am not exaggerating when I say that I ate bread pudding and/or Bananas Foster every day, sometimes more than once. Breakfast was eggs and biscuits and grits and bacon and whatever else I felt like loading onto my plate. Po’boys. Jambalaya. 

Both. Each. 

“Hey, let’s have lunch! Time for a Hurricane!” Or a Sazerac or a Vieaux Carre or a Paloma - you get the idea. 

No lie, by the time we came home, I was so bloated that I looked 5 months pregnant. 

It was totally worth it.

The ultimate party was New Year’s Eve. We bought tickets for the party at The Spotted Cat on Frenchman Street. It’s a great small music venue, and rather than leave the place open to the public as it normally is, they sold tickets to provide music and drinks and fun on New Year’s while also assuring that they would have a reasonable number of people without insane crowds. We put on party clothes, i.e., he wore a shirt with a collar and I put on a dress that showed lots of cleavage, and we danced and took advantage of the open bar and had a blast. 

At least recently - now that I’m old – I haven’t gone to New Year’s Eve parties and the goal is to make it to 10 p.m. so I can call my family when it’s midnight on the East Coast. This year we were out partying until almost 3 in the morning.

  

After we left The Spotted Cat, we walked down Frenchman, smiling and happy and schmoopy. At that point, we were wearing gold top hats.

There were lots of blue and purple lights. We did not eat the magical gum from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory that turned Violet Beauregard blue. 

This group of kids (and I say “kids” but they were probably in their mid- to late twenties) passed us and one of them said to us, “oh my god! You guys are gorgeous, and looking way too elegant for this scene!” 

We laughed and thanked them and wished them a happy new year. We chatted with them about the party scene and then mentioned that it was late and time for us old folks to think about packing it in for the night.

“No way! You don’t look old at all!”

“That’s very kind of you. I have a daughter who tells me that but I think she’s just being nice.”

One of them said, “I have an older sister who has kids - you’re not that old! You look fantastic for your age!” 

It reminded me of that scene in Clueless when Cher and Dionne are trying to set up their teachers - who are in their thirties - and they see them flirting on a bench and say, “old people can be so sweet!”

One of them had one of those cute instant cameras that takes mini photos, and they asked if they could take our picture.

"Sure, why not?" we said.

Now, remember how I said that our PDA isn't inappropriate? That's not entirely accurate. Occasionally, for example, Greg will let his hand slide down my back to the point that I might have to point out the obvious - that we're out in public and not invisible.

It happened a few times in New Orleans.

"Still not invisible!" I'd remind him.

Anyway, so the kids on Frenchman Street want to photograph us, and one of the guys said he was a photographer and would pose us.

"Cool! We can finally get a well-composed picture of ourselves instead of relying on selfies!"

I was imagining him having us stand at a certain angle and facing a certain way so that the light hit just right, and it would be worthy of a frame and a prominent place on the mantle.

But then he said, "now Wendy, you face the light pole and hold onto it like you're bracing yourself, and Greg, you hold onto her hips and push up against her from behind like you're ---"

"Wait, what??"

"No really, trust me, it'll be great!"

So he took the picture and it is beyond hilarious. I am holding the lamp post and laughing so hard and Greg is behind me with this huge shit-eating grin and I truly wish I could post it here and show it to you.

But alas, I work for a large public school district and enough people in the community - and their attorneys - know me that I have to be careful. And while the picture really isn't dirty or unfit for public consumption, I'm not putting it up on the internet. If you know me well and have my email or phone number, reach out and I'll send it you. It's so funny.

In any event, we were still not invisible, but I didn't even care. I guess we're not such old fuddy-duddies after all.

Happy New Year!

Oh what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

My dearest darling beloved Zeke. This is my belated birthday post to you.

Even just writing those words - dearest, darling, beloved - makes me choke up a bit. The love I have for you is so intense and boundless, it overwhelms me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because the past few months with you have required me to draw on every ounce I have of strength, patience, and parental abilities. 

If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't bother. 

I had high hopes for the start of high school. You were so motivated. You signed up for a panoply of challenging classes. You were excited to be in a great school with all of the neighborhood friends you had known from kindergarten and beyond.

But you immediately started hanging out with some non-neighborhood friends who were leading you down a bad path. You were making truly terrible choices, some of which were just irresponsible, others of which were truly dangerous. 

Because I will always respect your privacy, I won't get into specifics. Suffice it to say I was dismayed, worried, and occasionally terrified. 

I have cried and raged and nagged. I get headaches from grinding my teeth at night. I have anxiety dreams and restless sleep. 

I have leaned heavily on my mother to try to figure out what to do. I have asked my brothers to be mentors to you. Even Greg, who also did some stupid shit when he was in ninth grade, offered you some guidance.

Thankfully, the lightbulb seems to have come on. You ditched your trashy friends and are hanging out with kids from your school who appear to be better influences. Because I'm not naïve or stupid, I am under no delusion that you guys don't do stupid shit. But mostly you do normal teenage stuff like go to the mall or hang out at each others' houses or go skateboarding nearby. 

I still nag. I'm crying and raging less often. But we are on a positive trajectory, thank goodness.

It's been frustrating because you're so smart and talented. In terms of sheer brain-power, of an inquisitive approach to the world, of breadth of interests, you could have it all. It would take minimal effort to be a super-star, which is one of the things that has so frustrating to me. 

My approach to you and Josie (and most situations) is to try to assess what's going on from an objective and reasonable place. I examine what outside stressors you're dealing with, why you might make the choices you make, and what you're capable of from a maturity/developmental perspective. 

So I understand that 15 year old boys are morons whose brains aren't done cooking yet. I have to take that into account when you're making dumb decisions. 

But still. You have gone above and beyond in this regard.

On the other hand, it's not all bad, or even mostly bad. When you are on your game - which is most of the time - you are one of the most delightful people I know. You're funny and affectionate and sweet. You're witty and clever and fun to talk to. When you're not sulky, you constantly give me hugs and tell me how much you love me. 

I know this is true. As you have told me in the past, I am your person. The one you lean on the hardest, but also the one who bears the brunt of the bad stuff because you know that you are safe with me and that I can handle it. That I will never turn my back. 

Sometimes the relentlessness of your need for me feels crushing. But it has also made me a better mother and a better person.

This shit isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure. I also know that it will pass. You will mature and it won't be so hard.

You are 15 now. You are charming and a gatherer of people, your peers pulled in by your heliotropic powers. You are truly gorgeous. You're a talented athlete. Kind. Sensitive. Brilliant. 

Complicated. 

Anything you want to do, you could accomplish. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the effort. I will always have high hopes for you.

And you know I will be there for you however I can. 

All the love in my heart,

Mom

Fire on the mountain

 "I have a treat for us on Tuesday 11/8," he texted about four weeks ago. "We'd need to leave work early. Can you do it?"

I could. Even though he wouldn't tell me what the treat was. 

A couple of weeks later I asked what kind of clothes I would need. The answers ranged from "little black dress" to "something warm, and make sure you have your ice axe and crampons." 

He also sent me this:

I laughed. He knows me well enough to know not to schedule a night of sleeping in the snow. 

The day we were leaving, I asked, "what's the sleeping situation? What should I bring to sleep in? What about toiletries?"

His response was "toothbrush. Kindle. Scratchy wool negligee." 

So unhelpful.  

Finally I threw some winter boots, warm socks, underwear, PJs, and a sweater into my backpack, and hoped for the best. 

We drove west towards the mountains and turned off to Evergreen and got on the road heading up to Squaw Pass (the same road that killed me in the Triple Bypass). After about 12 miles, we turned off to a very rocky road, bumped along for a bit, and parked in a little clearing. He gave me a big backpack that looked to have a sleeping bag in it. I put on my boots and sweater, took the backpack, and we started walking up the mountain path. I still had no idea what we were doing.

After about a mile and a half, I saw the top of a fire tower peeking over the rise. 

"Is that where we're going? Cool!"

He tried to fake me out again by suggesting that we would be camping on the ground below the fire tower. I put on a game face before he finally acknowledged we were going into the tower.

"You're a good sport," he said.

"That'll be on my tombstone. 'She was always reasonable, fair, and a good sport.'"

What followed exceeded my expectations (a low bar, considering I had no idea what to expect at all). The fire tower is a historic structure maintained by the U.S. Forest Service and they now rent it out to the public. Reservations get booked up months in advance. Greg had been going on the website with the intention of booking something for next year, but then saw that someone had cancelled and there was an opening for November 8. Election night. With a full moon. I was thrilled.

This is what it looked like inside. It was delightful. And the views were insane.

Looking east as the sun sets

We watched the sun set behind the mountains and the moon rise over Denver. We listened to music and drank bourbon and ate onion crackers with stinky cheese and prosciutto. He taught me to play cribbage, which has random, confusing rules. We looked at the stars and the planets (Jupiter was particularly bright). We talked and laughed.

We celebrated being off the grid and off our phones on election night, meaning that if our democracy as we know it was going to be destroyed, we could at least have a last romantic night of blissful ignorance. 

"Like Schrödinger's election!" I said. 

The only wrinkle was the wind. It was blowing extraordinarily hard, whistling fiercely and rattling the windows and keeping me awake. But in the morning, the colors of the sky were gorgeous, and it was worth it.  

And later, when we made it down the mountain and had cell service again, we discovered that the cat was still alive and our democracy would survive. All in all, another perfect night when I didn't want to be anywhere but where I was. 

The kid is more than all right

Josie turned 13 in late September, and I'm a month late doing her birthday post. 

Birthday posts are hard now because my children are teenagers and their lives are theirs. I have all kinds of funny stories that I might tell my mom or a trusted friend, but I am very mindful of protecting their privacy. Which means that I am not going to tell their stories here, with very limited exceptions. 

In that spirit, here are some non-embarrassing examples of why my daughter is a truly lovely human, in addition to being utterly hilarious and fun. 

She does funny voices and cracks jokes and keeps everyone laughing.  She walks around the house dancing and twerking. She is either super cute in jeans and crop tops, or she goes to school looking like a homeless person, wearing oversize t-shirts and pajama pants. She sends texts that consist of strings of two or three word messages that eventually add up to a full sentence.

This had me rolling

The current thing is to talk like Jennifer Coolidge in Legally Blonde -"I'm taking the dog, dumbass." Her imitation is spot-on, and it's never not funny.

A few weeks ago she decided that she wanted to paint her room a different color. She got some new bedroom furniture for her birthday, courtesy of her extraordinarily loving and generous grandparents, and wanted a new look that was more mature than what she had.

So we walked up the block to the Ace Hardware and studied the paint options. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted, and decided on a pale beige-y grey that has very subtle hints of pink. I tend to gravitate towards bright, bold colors so it felt weird to go with something so muted, but it's her room and she gets to choose, and it looks really great. 

I was telling Greg about this and he was amazed. Not about the color, but about the fact that it took us 20 minutes to pick it out and Josie had no doubts that it was the right one. 

Almost a year ago, he fixed a squeaky stair, which led to a decision to replace the carpet. After months of deciding on a carpet, he had it installed and immediately declared that he hated it. The color (beige) didn't go with the walls (also beige). 

That led to a decision to repaint the walls, and then months of trying to pick out a shade of beige that wouldn't clash with the beige of the carpet (my suggestions to maybe try something other than beige were met with derision). Paint samples were purchased and tested on various walls. "My house looks like a leopard," he said.

Again, making a final decision took months. Thank goodness he likes the way it looks, because at this point if he didn't, my advice would have been to burn the house down.

"So you just went to the store and picked out a color and Josie's happy with it??" he asked.

"Yep."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

Mind blown.

Anyway. 

Josie and I went home and got out the painting stuff and got to work. I showed her how to use the roller and how to paint edges by placing the paint on a certain part of the brush and holding it in a certain way. It was fun to work on a task together. 

"Why don't we put on some music," I suggested.

She put on the Grateful Dead. 

I looked at her, bemused. 

You have to understand that this is a child who thinks that nine-minute jam band songs are an abomination. She's thirteen. She's supposed to be surly, especially about my generation's musical choices. I'll be listening to Dead & Company in the car and she'll exclaim, "how can you possibly listen to a song that's this long??"

So it was a surprising choice.

She shrugged. "I know you like it, Mom, and I appreciate you helping me. I love you."

She is the sweetest girl. 

She is sweet to everyone.

Yesterday afternoon I picked her up from school and we were talking on the way home. She was telling me about a student in her class who has autism. She understands that autism is a social/communication disorder that makes it difficult for people on the spectrum to understand social cues or how their behavior might be interpreted by others. So he's a little bit awkward, but he's a nice kid and she is friends with him.

"Mom, there are kids who bully him and talk about how he's annoying. They say shitty things and the teachers know about it and don't care. It makes me so angry."

"That's awful. I hate hearing stuff like that."

"I try to stand up for him and tell people to knock it off. But they don't."

"How does he react?"

"He tells me not to worry about it. He says he's used to it and that I don't need to advocate for him because he needs to advocate for himself."

"Ugh, that's heartbreaking."

"I know. I tell the others that it's not ok. IT'S NOT OK! He can't help the way he is. And he's a really nice guy. It's so wrong."

"It's definitely not OK. I'm proud of you for sticking up for him."

The kids in Josie's class definitely need Jesus.

She is a good person. She is decent and kind and principled. She is not afraid to speak up when others are being unfair or unjust or mean.

I'm so proud of her. I have so much respect for her. She always, always keeps me laughing.

I'm lucky to be her mom. 

No one expects the Spanish inquisition

At around 10:40 on Saturday morning, I was over Juniper Pass and should have been undertaking the ride from Idaho Springs to Georgetown. 

I mean, the ultimate destination was Vail. But mentally I was breaking the ride down into sections. There were four aid/break stations. All I had to do was make it to the next aid station.

One was on the way up to the summit of Juniper Pass, the second was just before Georgetown. 

I made it to Juniper Pass. Everything went to shit after that. 

What did me in was the weather. Certainly weather is always a factor. It's something you need to prepare for. But I didn't think it would totally flatten me the way it did.

It has been hot and sunny for months. All of my outdoor training has been in 90°+ weather. I like heat. I grew up in heat. I understand heat. Riding over a mountain pass in the heat is challenging, but you have air in your face (at least a little bit), and then you really get to cool off when you're descending at 30 miles per hour. My body can handle heat.

But this past weekend, the heat went away, to be replaced by cold and rain in the mountains.

I thought I was prepared. I bought a waterproof rain jacket. I had a warm fleece to put on. I had gloves. I had waterproof booties to wear over my shoes. 

None of it turned out to be waterproof or warm. It started to rain within the first hour of the ride. I put on my jacket. I rode further and was cold, and I realized I was wet under my jacket. I put on my fleece. It started to rain harder. I put on my waterproof shoe covers. I wore my gloves. 

By the time I got to the summit of Juniper - a 16 mile slog with a 3600' elevation gain - I was wearing everything I had, it was all soaking wet, and the temperature was in the 30s. I was freezing. And I still had a windy 16 mile descent to Idaho Springs.

On the descent, I lost feeling in my hands and my feet. I focused on being able to move my fingers enough to brake and shift gears, but it was a struggle. In my head, I was in disbelief. How could I be this cold? How could I continue? 

At the bottom of the mountain, there's a little parking lot right by where you turn onto the road that leads west. I pulled into the parking lot, still numb, shivering uncontrollably, and started to cry. Like, sobbing crying. Because I knew I couldn't go on. 

I called Christin, who is definitely on my list of my favorite people on the planet. Greg and I had randomly run into her the day before when we were picking up our ride packets, and she told us that her husband was also riding the Triple and that it was her plan to be on call all day. 

"I'll be around, so call me if you need anything."

So when I was standing in that parking lot crying, I got my phone out and called her. 

"Christin, I need your help." She immediately said she would come and get me. She is the best. 

While I was talking to her, there was a guy near me in a truck who worked for the organization that sponsored the ride - he was helping to coordinate all of the assistance efforts for people who had broken spokes or flat tires or injuries. He saw me shaking from the cold and said, "you need to get in the truck right now to warm up." 

I nodded and did as I was told.

The cab of his truck was roasting - the heat was all the way up and blasting. He told me he could drive me to Georgetown, and Christen could pick me up from there. 

Notwithstanding the heat, I couldn't stop shivering. He told me that that was a sign that I was done. 

"You're clearly borderline hypothermic. It's not safe to continue, especially if you don't have anything dry to put on." 

He also told me that I was crazy to attempt the ride after only being able to really train outside for 6 weeks. And that before I attempt a ride like that, I should have at least three century (100 mile) rides under my belt. 

I have none under my belt. 

Looking back, it's clear that I was overly ambitious. I lost months of real training time because of my knee injury. I didn't get the chance to really put in the miles I needed to put in.

But it was the weather that was the nail in the coffin. If I had been warmer, I can't guarantee that I would have finished, but I would have been able to keep going from Idaho Springs. I could have made it over Loveland Pass and accomplished two of the three peaks. But freezing and wet and numb, I was done.

Christin picked me up and brought blankets and dry clothes. She took me to her place, where I took a hot shower. I finally was warming up. It had taken me almost an hour and a half to stop shivering.

I texted Greg what had happened - he had been ahead of me. He was also freezing and decided to bail after Loveland, so Christin and I went to pick him up. While we were waiting for him at our designated pickup spot, Ken, Christin's husband called. He was done as well, and was just down the road from where we were. We saw tons of people who were calling it a day and getting picked up to head home.

Christin took us to Vail. Greg and I checked into our lovely hotel. We warmed up in the hot tub. My wonderful parents sent us champagne and a charcuterie board and a cake, so we ate and drank. Then we feel asleep at 7:30 and slept for 12 hours.

Even with hindsight being 20/20, I am beyond disappointed. I really wanted to finish. I really wanted to do well. In the moment, I knew that my body could not continue, but there's always that feeling later of, well, maybe I gave up too early. Maybe I could have kept going. Maybe I'm just weak.

I know I shouldn't do that to myself. I did the best I could. And even in those conditions, I rode over a difficult mountain pass. Most people in the world can't say that. 

There were points of beauty and joy. The scenery was gorgeous. There were people who had come out to sit by the side of the road and cheer us on, including a guy playing the bagpipes. It was amazing to feel the camaraderie of the group. Everyone was so positive and encouraging.

"You can give it another shot next year!"

Maybe. I don't know. I doubt it. 

Maybe. 

I do know that if I give it another shot, I will have much better gear.

We've got a ticket to ride, and we don't care

 At the point when we missed our flight to Seattle, I had had a busy week at work followed by back-to-back Dead shows on Friday and Saturday nights followed by a 6 a.m. flight to start the Alaska cruise.

But I was packed and ready and dialed in. I generally have no problem getting up before the crack of dawn to catch a flight. You suck it up and do it. I could sleep on the plane and I could definitely sleep on the ship. So I wasn't worried. 

What I didn't taken into account was Greg's idea of the proper time to wake up in such a situation.

He had been totally swamped at work, which overflowed into the weekend. He hadn't packed. He was stressed and overwhelmed. So he decided to skip the second Dead show. 

The plan was that I would go and get a ride back to his house afterwards. Which I did. I got there at around midnight. He was asleep and, presumably, had set the alarm for a reasonable time. 

When the alarm went off, he snoozed it twice. I got up, was dressed in less than 2 minutes, and waited for him.

I didn't have my watch on, so I asked what time he had set the alarm for. 

"Four."

"What??? The flight's at six! I've heard security lines have been really bad lately! We need to go!!" 

"It'll be fine. When I flew earlier this week there were no lines. Plus we have TSA Pre."

He proceeded to take a shower and perform his morning toilette at a leisurely pace while I became more and more anxious. 

We didn't leave the house until around 4:45. There wasn't enough time to park in the satellite parking and take the shuttle, so we parked in the regular lot and had to schlep our bags to the terminal. 

By the time we got to the check-in desk, it was 5:20. 

The very nice gentleman informed us that it was too late to check our bags, but we could take them through security and check them at the gate. 

We went to the north security area, which is only available for people with TSA Pre. But when we got there, we realized that TSA Pre was not indicated on our boarding passes, so we would have to go to the south security area on the opposite side of the extremely large airport. 

At south security, the lines were so long that they were starting to wrap around the building. My heart sank.

"Didn't you put in our Pre information when you bought the tickets?" he demanded.

"I thought I did."

"Well, then they should be on the tickets."

I bit my tongue.

There was no way we were going to make the flight. We decided that he would continue to wait in line and I would go back to the check-in desk and see if there was a later flight that would work.

The very nice gentleman assured me that there was. 

"I can get you on the 8:15 flight that gets into Seattle at 10:45."

"That's perfect," I said. We weren't scheduled to board the ship until 1:30.

"I don't think I'll be able to get you seats together, though."

"That is absolutely not a problem for me."

So we got new boarding passes. I made sure that our Pre information was on them. 

"See, I told you everything would work out!" he said.

"I need you to not talk to me for 10 minutes. After that I'll be fine."

"We were here at the time that I anticipated. If our boarding passes had had our Pre information, we would have made the flight."

I turned to him. "I thought I had put in the information when I bought the tickets. Sometimes it doesn't transfer. But if I did forget, it was an oversight, and I am truly sorry for the error. But whether the Pre information was in there or not shouldn't be the difference between making the flight and missing it."

But it was fine. We sailed through security, had time to get something to eat, went to our gate, and made it to Seattle with plenty of time to board the ship.

We initially planned to have a little bit of time to hang out in Seattle beforehand, but we had paid for the airport transfer to the boat, plus didn't have as much time because of the later flight, so we figured we would just head to the docks and try to get on board a little early.

We made our way through airport the transfer area. There were a couple of different ships leaving out of the Seattle terminal, plus some transfers to cruises leaving out of Vancouver. We found the waiting area, checked in and left our luggage at the proper drop-off spot, and got our tickets. The tickets were the little colored tickets that you get for the raffle at the county fair. Which color ticket you had determined which bus you needed to get on.

Greg said, "I've always thought that I should keep tickets like this on hand so you can use them in any ticket situation. You can buy rolls of them on Amazon."

"That is an excellent idea," I agreed.

Apparently the buses were running a little late, so people were waiting around for their ticket color to be announced. It seemed like a disorganized process.

There was a bus loading up nearby. I think it was for the yellow tickets, but it didn't seem like anyone was really checking.

"Let's just get on that one," Greg said.

"Sounds good." I've found that if you move through the world with confidence and act like you're supposed to be wherever you are, you will rarely be questioned.

So we nonchalantly strolled onto the bus and found seats.

After the bus left, we chatted with the folks we were sitting with. Everyone was excited for a relaxing vacation. 

I looked out the window. Having never travelled from SeaTac airport to the cruise terminal, I was unfamiliar with the route. 

Greg has taken cruises out of Seattle and presumably knew where we were supposed to be going.

After about 10 minutes, he said, "I sure hope this isn't the bus to Vancouver." 

 I could only laugh.

Panic! 'Ere the Ship Goes

When I got to work this morning, I had gotten no sleep and had been in a state of panic for 14 hours. 

Yesterday when I checked the mail, I had a letter from my health insurance company. They informed me that my health insurance for me and my children had been terminated and that I would cease to have coverage after June 30, 2022. 

I immediately burst into tears.

It's been a difficult and stressful week. 

Work has been uncharacteristically hectic. I had court all day on Wednesday, an expulsion hearing yesterday, and three new disputes/cases to deal with.

I've been scrambling to get Zeke packed and ready for his big bike trip before I leave for my cruise. 

I needed to get a COVID test and go to the waxing salon and get my nails done. 

I've been getting organized and packing for myself, and feeling overwhelmed by the task. So many things to take - dresses! jewelry! casual clothes! workout clothes! fancy shoes! hiking shoes! Does my bathing suit look ok on me? 

The agita came to a head when I was trying to figure out the bra situation for a new dress that has a halter neck, meaning my shoulders are bare and I can't wear a regular bra without straps showing. The other night I literally spent 45 minutes engaged in boob-wrangling to try to figure out what to do with this one stupid dress. I have some strapless bras, but strapless bras are invariably difficult if you have big boobs, because if they do the job and actually hold the girls up, they are tight and cumbersome. I have some of those clippy things you can use with regular bras to pull the straps in to make a racer-back, but it didn't work with the neckline. By the time I gave up I was exhausted and stressed out and felt like I had been wrestling a bear. 

Greg's solution was to gleefully suggest that I go commando, which I may end up doing. 

Time is particularly of the essence because I'm going to a Dead show tonight, another one tomorrow, and then our flight to Seattle leaves the following morning at 6 a.m.

In immortal words of Crash Davis, I'm dealing with a lot of shit. 

So when I got the letter from the insurance company, I lost my mind. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out if I had somehow forgotten to make all of my benefits selections during the open enrollment period, but I knew I hadn't because a) I specifically remember doing it, and b) when I logged in to my account, a number of the changes I made were reflected in my account. The idea that I would make a bunch of changes and selections but somehow neglect the health insurance piece, which is without a doubt the most important part? Inconceivable. 

It was too late to call anyone, so I hurriedly wrote an email - which I'm sure was barely comprehensible - to one of our benefits coordinators asking if they knew what was going on. 

Then I fretted all night. What would I do? Was it too late to fix it? The end of June is less than 2 weeks away, and I'll be gone for one of those weeks - how do I find decent health insurance in such a short time? How will I afford it? How will I get my and my kids' prescriptions filled? What if something happens to Zeke on his trip and he doesn't have health coverage? Who will I be able to see for my knee rehab? How can I risk injury riding the Triple Bypass or skiing next season or doing anything else if I can't find insurance coverage? 

My heart pounded in my chest and I didn't sleep. I was too nervous to eat. So I got up and went to work super early because I couldn't think of anything else to do. When I got to the office, I headed to the HR department.

"Hi, guys," I said. "I don't know if you've seen my email but..." 

Before I could finish my sentence one of the women said, "I was just getting ready to email you back. There was a glitch - it happened to a few people and it's already been fixed. Don't worry, you're good to go."

I felt overwhelming relief followed by overwhelming exhaustion and hunger. 

"Oh my god. Thank you so much. I was seriously freaking out. You're the best." 

"All good, Wendy. We've got you covered."

I went up to my office and starting checking stuff off my to-do list. My COVID test results came back negative. I texted Zeke about getting all the stuff he needs into his duffel bag. I bought a parking pass for the show tonight so we don't have to worry about parking. I reminded myself to leave checks for the cat sitter and the cleaning lady. Tomorrow I will finish packing before I take my stuff Greg's and we head out to the second show. We will be exhausted Sunday morning, but once we get on the boat we won't have to do anything. 

Maybe at that point, the feeling of anxiety that is gripping my chest will abate and I can finally relax. 

School's out for summer

I got home from work last week and found Zeke chilling on the couch eating popcorn and watching TV. 

"Heeeeey Wowie," he said, using his pet name for me. 

"Heeeeey Zekey," I responded. "What did you get up to today?"

"I went to the park with some of my friends. We did some skating."

"Nice. Bratwurst dogs and salad OK for dinner?"

"Sure, sounds good."

"Josie? You home?" I yelled up the stairs.

"Hi Mumsie!"

"Good day?"

"Good day!"

Our days are good right now. 

Because my kids attend school (most of the time without an argument) and I work for a school district handling the student matters, summer is a mellow time for all of us. The day after the last day of school, my workload drops off dramatically. June and early July are deader than disco. The teachers and staff are off contract for the summer, the administrators take vacation, and things slow. way down. It's lovely.

For my kids, they are at an age when they can hang out with their friends and fend for themselves, but aren't quite old enough for summer jobs. And after a year that was stressful for a number of reasons, Jason and I decided that with the exception of some overnight camp for Josie and an amazing three week bike ride for Zeke (Portland to the Golden Gate Bridge), they could have an unstructured summer to chill out. 

So for all of us, we're relaxed and happy. We have things to look forward to. Colorado in the summer is amazing. We can have beach days on the lake with the paddleboards. We can go hiking in the mountains. We can go to any of the myriad festivals popping up around the city. I've got two Dead & Company shows next week, and then Greg and I are going on an Alaska cruise in which we have to get dressed up so that we can have dinner with Captain Stubing. Then in late July, we go to the Outer Banks.

In one respect, however, I will not be chilling out. Because I have decided that I'm going to try to ride the Triple Bypass after all. 

When I busted up my knee and particularly when I had my surgery, my assumption was that there was absolutely no way I would be able to do it. The early stages of rehab were painful and difficult. The swelling took a long time to go down. My hamstring ached where they took the graft. 

But then I started getting stronger, and from there, the progress was dramatic. 

The surgery was a little over two months ago. As soon as I was able to, I started a weight lifting program and was doing rides on the Peloton. I started small - 5 and 10 minute rides with almost no resistance. I increased the time and the resistance as I felt stronger and more comfortable. When the PT said I could work out of the saddle, I did that. 

Three weeks ago, I had my 6-week follow up with my surgeon, He said that everything looked great and that I could do as much on the bike and with weights as I could tolerate. 

"Can I ride on my real bike outside?"

"Not yet. Give it another month or so. The ligament is still weak. If you fall or somebody hits you, if you have to stick a leg out to catch yourself, it could be really bad. But inside, go for it. The rule is, if it doesn't hurt, you can do it."

Which got me thinking. 

On the Peloton, I can do power zone rides and climb rides and HIIT training. There are rides that mimic mountain climbs from stages of the Tour du France. There is a 5 hour series of climb rides based on going up Mt. Haleakala in Hawai'i. I can do short rides and long rides, and I can string rides together to get used to being in the saddle for long periods of time. Off the bike, I can lift weights to increase my strength and stability on the bike. 

"The Triple Bypass is on August 20," I thought. "I have 12 weeks. Why not train inside until I can train outside?"

The only thing missing would be getting in some rides at altitude - the Bypass is all above 7,000 feet, with the mountain passes over 11,000 feet. But if I can start riding outside by early July, I'll have enough time to do some long rides in the mountains.  

Why not?

I couldn't think of a reason. So I put together a training schedule and got to work. 

The day after we get back from the cruise, I have another PT appointment. My hope is that I will get the go-ahead to start training outside. And then I will be on my way. 

I'm nervous and excited about it the same time. Which is one of my favorite feelings. Let's fucking go. 

How to soothe a preteen girl

It's threatening to show itself...

My sweet daughter has had a rough year. She's been dealing with some really heavy shit that has been extraordinarily stressful and anxiety-producing. She has also been forced to talk about it with people other than me, which she absolutely hates. This is a girl who is extremely private and it has been excruciating for her. 

It has also affected school for her. It piled on. So school has been a trigger as well. 

Last week she became free from that process. We are also rapidly approaching the end of the school year. 

For some, this might have brought on a sense of relief. A feeling that you can finally relax and exhale.

For Josie, it has not been that. Instead, all of the tension and anxiety and trauma that she has been holding in for a year have come flooding out. Tears and feelings of despondency. It has been heartbreaking to watch.

Last night she seemed to be doing ok and then when I mentioned going to school, she broke down. The thought of going to school today overwhelmed her. We lay down on my bed and wrapped my arms around her while she cried.

"All of my friends are coming up to me and trying to comfort me, which is nice. But they keep trying to get me to talk about it, and I don't want to."

"Then you don't have to. Just say, 'I appreciate that you've been thinking about me, but I really don't want to talk about it.' That's all. There's nothing else to say. Nobody can make you talk."

She nodded but was still crying on my shoulder. I hugged her and let her cry.

"What can I do for you, honey? How can I help you feel better?"

She shrugged. 

Then the cat jumped on the bed and went into a downward dog position (downward cat?), with his paws stretched in front of him and his ass up in the air. It made me chuckle.

"Shall we ask Scooby if he would show us his butthole?" I asked. "Would that make you feel better?"

She started to laugh a little bit.

"Maybe if we ask really nicely."

She giggled some more. 

"I think we should ask him. I bet he'd be willing. You could use it. Buttholes are always funny," I continued. "I think they should be identified as a treatment for depression."

"Take two cat buttholes and call me in the morning," she said.

"Absolutely."

She started laughing really hard. 

"See? It's working already!"

"They should put it in the medical books."

"Here's what we're going to do," I said. "I'm going to take a bunch of pictures of Scooby's butthole. And then at random times during the day tomorrow, I'm going to text one to you. And it will keep you from feeling too down."

We continued that way for a while, laughing and joking around. She calmed down and smiled and went to bed. 

When I woke up this morning, the cat was walking around. I managed to take a few pictures of his butt even though he wouldn't sit still. 

I dropped Josie at school this morning and said, "be ready. They're coming."

She laughed and said, "bye mumsie. I love you."

"I love you too. And so does Scooby's butt."

And all was right with her world, at least for a little while. 

I was in a bit of a pickle, but give me a month.

 Greg and I were noodling about something fun to do this past weekend. He called me and asked, "do you think you would be able to handle the stairs at Red Rocks?"

Later, when I told Zeke about this, he laughed and said, "Damn, I love that guy."

And truly, his confidence in my ability to do just about anything is wonderful, and one of my favorite things about him. But in this case, it was too much. 

Now, for those of you who aren't from these parts (or have never been to Red Rocks), it is nothing but steep stairs. The seating is set into the rocks on a steep incline. You climb endless steep uneven stairs to get to the upper entrance, and then walk down steep stairs to get to your seat. If you go in through the lower entrance, you climb endless steep stairs once you pass through the gates. You walk up the hills from the parking lot, and then climb steep stairs from there.

So many stairs. So much steepness.

Red Rocks is a truly magical place to see a show. But three weeks out from knee surgery, I didn't see it as being anything but a miserable, grueling experience. 

"I think it would be really difficult for me," I said. "I can still only climb stairs one leg at a time. Getting up and down the stairs of my house is a pain in the ass. I love Red Rocks, but I don't think I'm ready yet. Give me a month."

So instead we went and drank whiskey (with pickle juice chasers) and listened to rootsy bluegrass at a funky general store in this mountain town up in the hills west of Boulder. 

I have long felt that as a society, we don't take enough advantage of pickle juice. It's great for replenishing electrolytes. It has a bright, tangy flavor. I grew up eating sour kosher dill pickles made with plenty of garlic and spice, and I would always suck the juice out of the pickle before eating it. It's the best.

What I didn't realize is that pickle juice chasers are having a bit of a moment. I googled it and found numerous recipes and articles singing its praises. Who knew?

Anyway, it's delightful.

As is hanging out in a small town general store, drinking, eating pizza, listening to bluegrass, and chatting with the locals. 

Everyone was super friendly and down-to-earth. It was a blast. It also did not require me to to climb any stairs.

But I wasn't kidding when I said to give me a month. The progress, she is steady. 

Every week when I go to rehab, the PT checks my range of motion and my stability, and gives me exercises for the coming week. I do the exercises as assigned. The next week, I've made improvement, so he gives me more and different exercises. I do them. The next week, I've made more improvement, so he gives me new exercises. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

I can now walk unassisted (no crutches or brace) with a barely perceptible limp. Today I started climbing up stairs with alternating legs, and it felt pretty good. I can't quite go down stairs with alternating legs, but I'll get there soon. I'm able to do short rides on the Peloton. I do wall squats and leg extensions with resistance bands to strengthen my quads.

When my injury happened, and when I was in my initial days post-surgery, I lamented that summer was coming up and I wouldn't be able to do all of the outdoorsy things I love to do in the summer, like hikes and bike rides. it was overwhelming and felt impossible. 

Now I think that I will be able to. I'm fairly certain I'll be able to climb a 14er for my annual Emma climb in September. I'm confident I'll be able to ski next season. 

And apres ski, I'll be sure to order my whisky with a pickleback.