Most summers Mike goes up to Washington to help a friend with his construction projects.  This year he's building a garage and doing various other odd jobs.  It's a nice relationship; it gets him out of the hellish So. CA heat and he can bunk in their guest room.  They have two nicely behaved Belgian Shepherds who do their best to fill the place in his heart that's normally filled with cats.

He calls me every evening to share the events of the day.  We chat about the project, his running regimen, the acquaintances he's made, and his daily calorie intake.  Created without a fat cell to his name, feeding the furnace is a burdensome and expensive task.  At home, I cook two (occasionally three) meals a day, usually from fresh ingredients.  But when he's on his own he survives on Michael Angelos frozen meals or quality, but often pricey, restaurant fare.

When away from home, he is far more sociable than when he has his own space and tools.  He gets out and meets people who share his interests, like a luthier who has a shop and a music store, and a group of women runners who invited him to join their group.  He's even been talking, by phone, to his ex-wife.  I'm not troubled by these associations as he has always made me feel completely secure.  So, when he mentioned that he was dog sitting for a neighbor woman, for whom he had done a small job, I thought little of it. 

Color me naive, but I just didn't see this coming.  Last night he made a confession.  I don't know why, perhaps he thought I would find out eventually anyway; perhaps it was just weighing too heavily on his conscience and he had to have some relief. 

The neighbor, to express her gratitude for his caring for her dog, had invited him over for dinner.  His lust for a home cooked meal could not be denied.  He ate her cooking.  Oh, he promised me it was just a one time thing and he really loved only my cooking, but I know better.  The excitement of an unfamiliar piece of local, fresh fish will be too much to resist.  She may persuade him that it's okay, they will only have dessert and coffee (home made pie with freshly ground French roast), it's not really wrong if it's only dessert.  I know how these things go.  He will go back as often as that siren lures him with the delectable aroma of home made delicacies. 

Now I'm seriously thinking about flying up for a few days.  I wonder if she would consider a threesome?

The campground at Seven Oaks was packed.  Folks were "camped" cheek by jowl along the stream and the valley was choked with wood smoke.  It reminded me of pictures of refugee camps except for all the BFTs (big fat trucks) parked between the tents.  When we got to where we wanted to park, the crowds had thinned and there were only a few vehicles belonging to fishermen. 

The moment we stepped out of the truck we were besieged by gnats.  These chubby little buggers swarm around your face, trying to get into your eyes and mouth.  Today they were so thick we could have made a light breakfast of them.  They are known as the cyclist's training buddy because they can only fly about 7 miles per hour.  So, if you're strong enough to climb faster than that, or if there's a head wind, you can out pace them.  You're really screwed if there's a tail wind. 

We headed up Middle Control road, leaving our friends behind.  At the gate to Hill Ranch we pedaled past two guys unloading their bikes so we expected we would be overtaken by them somewhere farther up the trail.  When they didn't catch up with us we started to speculate what kind of guys wouldn't chase down two old ladies. 

One of the guys was on a hard tail so I postulated that he was either a roadie at heart, or had bought the bike ten years ago (before full suspension became popular) and rarely rode.  Sally speculated that they were gay and were more interested in finding a nice private picnic spot than riding.  When we got to the end of our climb we stopped for a snack and they finally caught up with us.  They stopped to chat and I mentioned our speculations about hard tail riders.  (not the gay part)  The guy on the bike in question looked at me in amazement and said, "Are you psychic!?"  He had, indeed, bought the bike in 1999, ridden it a few times, and then switched to road riding.

They continued climbing, where we turned back, but evidently, turned around not much farther up the trail; because they caught up with us at the second stream crossing where we had stopped to wet our shirts.  They continued down the trail and I urged Sally to hurry up because I wanted to chase them down.  It's not often that I encounter young guys that I can keep up with anymore and I didn't want to get too far behind. 

The first section was downhill and I was in full show off mode.  I reeled them in just before the trail started to climb.  From there on it was an all out effort.  Every time the trail descended, I'd close in on them but as soon as it headed up hill again they would drop me.  I finally blew up and let them go.  Imagine my surprise, when I reached the top of the next ridge, to find them there resting.  Reinvigorated by the thought that I had hurt them even as they had punished me, I sprinted the final yards to the top as if I was feeling no pain.

They started down the trail but soon stopped as the hard tail guy had dropped his chain.  They insisted that I go ahead, and since there was a long downhill section I went in front.  Expecting they would be dogging me with everything they had, I pushed myself to ride at race pace.  The downhill section ends at a stream crossing that has two options.  One option is to walk across on some logs that have been laid across the stream and the other is to drop off a steep rocky embankment and attempt to roll through the stream and pedal up the opposing bank. 

Still in showoff mode, I plunged over the edge, going far to fast to plot my course much in advance.  I had failed to notice on the way up, when we had walked across the logs, that the stream was flowing considerably higher and faster than it does during normal drought years.  And so, as pride goeth before a fall, I launched into the stream and came to an abrupt stop in the middle where it was knee deep.  I tipped over and as I scrambled to get up my bike tried to float downstream. 

This is Sally posing at the stream last year when the water was shallow.  This year only the top of the logs are above water.

I managed to drag my dripping bike up the bank before the guys caught up so I was spared any public humiliation but I was inwardly humbled as the young guy deftly picked the line through the stream and pedaled up the bank wetting only his shoes.  

A moment later the hard tail guy and Sally came down the trail.  The guy stopped at the top of the bank and looked over the edge.  He called over to his friend and asked if it was rideable.  His friend and I looked at each other and I said, "I'm not going to weigh in on this one".  He finally opted to walk the logs and Sally did too but only because he had stopped in front of her.  She's ridden it in the past and I so would have loved to see her show him how it was done. 

My wet brakes howled the rest of the way down the hill so I used them as little as possible.  They only slow you down anyway, so the less you use them, the more fun you have.

My mom always told me, when I was growing up, what a brat I was and what a good child my sister had been.  Evidenced, she said, by the fact that, "Your sister got far more spankings than you ever did."  Even as a child I spotted the faulty logic in that statement.  Uh, let's see, we will paddle the daylights out of this good child and, just for an experiment, let's spare the rod on this evil one.

I don't deny that I was a willful child, determined to do as I pleased regardless of the consequences (nothing's changed on that front), but I wasn't actually bad.  I was independent.  In a society where, not only should children be seen but not heard, but they should be seen as little as possible, this was not considered a desirable trait.

At the last family reunion my uncle, Pete, told me a story about a holiday family gathering, held in our basement, when I was only two or three.  According to him he announced for all to hear, "What a little brat!" (referring to me)  And he chuckled, "The name stuck." 

So, I suppose over the years I may have lived up to the moniker but I never got the impression that my mom resented it, in fact there were times when I could tell she was secretly amused by my antics and maybe even a little proud of her little imp.  But recently I'm seeing what may be some passive aggressive retaliation.

At first it just looked like forgetfulness.  Like forgetting to put something essential on her grocery list so I have to go to the back to the store for one thing.  And, you know my rule:  I may not take the car out of the garage for just one errand.  So, even though it's 110° in the shade  (and there's not a speck of shade) I hop on the bike and pedal to the store.  I come back with the soy milk and there, on the table, is a new list.  She now needs soap and something else that she's just going to have to get along without until it cools off.

Then she decides that because my horse peed on her high school year book and ruined it thirty-five years ago, I'm now obligated to replace it.  Her thinking is that it should be easy to find one because surely everyone else in her graduating class has died by now and has no use for their copy anymore.  Can't I just go on line and find an heir of one of her deceased classmates and ask them to give me their mother's yearbook? 

Obligingly, I conduct an online search but I don't locate one of the fifty yearbooks issued to graduating seniors of Holland Christian High, in 1941.  Here's my surprised look   So, after exhaustive research, I trot back to her house with the news that the closest I've come is 1952 and they want $35 for it.  She replies, "Well, I only went there one semester and I didn't really know anyone so, I'm not about to spend $35!" 

And so, dear children, be good little boys and girls because your parents never, never, NEVER forget.

I've got a beautiful feeling everything's going my way.

I jumped on my bike just after dawn with the earbuds violating my still throbbing ears.  The combination of the sun's angled rays in my face and the distracting book being piped into my brain, created some difficulty staying on the trail.  The trail was sandy and rocks kept getting in my way.  Before long I lost my enthusiasm and decided to take a small detour to the stream for a bit of breakfast.

Someone had built a good sized rock dam across the stream which created an inviting, tranquil pond.  I stripped off my helmet, gloves and hydration pack and prepared to settle down to eat my stale granola bar.  But before I could find a comfortable rock on which to lay out my repast, the call of nature hollered to me.

Looking around for a suitable place to dig a cat hole, all I saw for miles were piles of rocks.

What I needed to do called for privacy but out of concern for the ecology, I thought it best to get as far above the high water mark as possible. 

Business accomplished, I returned to my picnic site.  No sooner had I finished washing up and wetting my shirt in the stream, than a couple appeared at the top of the levy.  I waved cheerily, hoping they had not witnessed my morning ablutions.  Not that I'm particularly modest but I do have my dignity.

The return trip, downhill, was going to require more attention to the trail so I switched to music.  Joe Satriani's Surfing With the Alien seemed about the right intensity.  The music made the ride feel like a video production.  Suddenly, I was aware of more than just the 2" line in the trail:  The view of the valley, simmering in the morning heat; the deep shade beneath the trees that rimmed the settling pond; the lizards that zipped down the trail in front of my wheel, dodging to the side at the last moment; the rabbit that hopped across the trail, imagining I was a predator; and the crunch of my tires as they slid through the turns.  Even the cool breeze in my face felt almost like it was happening in a film.

When I reached the paved road I sat up and rode with no hands feeling like the luckiest woman alive.

You know, for every pleasure indulged to excess, there is a price to be paid.  I long ago learned, by way of a hangover (or six), that too many cocktails, especially those mixed with caffeine, produce a seriously deleterious effect. 

Back in my twenties, I was married to a man who knew no limits.  He was possessed of an irrepressible sense of humor which was only exacerbated by drugs and alcohol.  Being a congenial mate, I tagged along on his adventures and suffered the occasional repercussions, spending a night (or two) lying close to the comfort of the cool porcelain bowl.  Fortunately, we had a ceramic counter that was long enough for me to lie on with a basin just at the right place to hang my drooling mug.  I survived those wild and crazy days and left that lifestyle behind when I left that mate.

These days my addictions are more suited to a woman of my age:  Mountain biking; gardening; reading.  Now, you may wonder, how something like reading could have negative side effects.  I will elaborate.

Like any addiction, after a while simple paper and ink books no longer provided enough of a kick.  I needed more.  And so, I began mainlining.  Yes, I started downloading ebooks onto my ipod so that I could do books while seeming to carry on a productive life.  At first it seemed harmless, even beneficial.  While listening, I mowed the lawn, washed the car, weeded the garden, washed the windows inside and out, cleaned the house, did the laundry and ironed clothes I hadn't worn in a year (because they hadn't been ironed).  I was exhausted but the book was only half finished.  I couldn't sit down because the mellifluous drone of the narrator's voice would have lulled me to sleep in minutes.  And so, I made a batch of pasta sauce from my home grown tomatoes and created a dinner fit for royalty.  I gazed upon the mountain of dirty pans and the spattered stove and smiled to myself.  There was another hour of mindless work during which I could listen to my book.

The next morning I noticed that it felt like I still had my earbuds planted in my ears.  I rubbed them gingerly.  When I tried to reinsert them to continue the novel, my tender orifices cried out in pain.  The right ear wasn't as sore as the left so I forced the one bud in.  By the time the twenty hour saga was over both of my ears felt permanently distorted.

It's been twenty-four hours since my last fix and the left ear feels as if it could hold the bud again.  I know I should quit but Three Men in a Boat (to say nothing of the dog) just begs to be heard.  I can't get this monkey off my back but so far the library provides the stuff for free. 

With the scorching summer temperatures a thing of the past (for today anyway) Sally and I decided to save time and fossil fuel by riding the local trails.  We hadn't ridden our favorite E ticket ride, Yikes!, in a few months and so, decided to give it a try.

This time of year the trails in the valley are either sandy or hard packed with a skittery layer of ball bearing gravel.  The last time we rode Yikes! it was so devoid of any semblance of traction that neither of us had been able to keep from sliding, out of control, into the deep rock-filled rut that runs down the center of the trail.  We were hoping that either horses or motorcycles had churned up enough of the trail to make it navigable.

We always stop at the top to have a bite to eat and put on our protective downhill gear before setting off.  That short hesitation always gives one time to visualize the challenges of the trail ahead.  I confided to Sally that even though this trail is by far my favorite, it still gives me a little butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling if I think about it too long.  There are a couple of rocky drop offs that can only be managed with some speed which are followed by steep, tight turns that require careful braking.  A slight miscalculation could result in an ungraceful landing in the brush.

We flew down the old double track that, followed to it's climax becomes Judy's Jump Off, to where Yikes! branches off to the right.  Normally the entrance is so overgrown that, unless you know where to look for it, you can sail right past it.  Today it was cleared of all brush and was about four feet wide.  As I approached the first drop off where Yikes! crosses the conservancy trail, I was astounded to see that someone had smoothed out the drop off and cleared away the rock obstacles where the trail continues on the other side of the conservancy trail.  The next section, which is normally the most difficult, had also been widened and the rut filled in.  The next trail intersection too, had been groomed to the point where there was absolutely no challenge.  The brushy alley across the saddle, where we used to have to hang on for dear life to keep the bushes from grabbing our handle bars and flinging us off the trail, was now wide open.  And so it went, all the way to the bottom.

I suppose some well-meaning group of dogooders thought they were improving our trail but instead they ruined it.  As it often happens, cyclists who don't have the experience and technical skill to ride our trails, groom them to make them easier.  In the short term, it does make the trail more accessible to a broader range of cyclists, but in the long term it actually makes it worse.  Where a rock garden is dug out, a sand pit develops the following dry season.  Where bushes are removed, the top soil is washed away the next rainy season, leaving an unrideable, debris filled rut.  Where a drop off is carved into a gentle ramp, no thrill can exist.

At the bottom of the trail I fumed to Sally, expressing my outrage at the vandalism of our trail.  She consoled me by reminding me that all would be healed by the next rainy season.  In fact, she reminded me, it might be even more fun than before if we get some good gully washers.  She's right, of course, the beauty of our trails is their ephemeral nature, always changing, never boring.

It sucks to be sick.  I don't want to do nothin', I don't want to see nobody, I'm tired of changing my nose tampon every five minutes. 

I talked to my friend, Steve, last night.  He just got back from Vietnam (doing his Doctors Without Boarders thing)  He didn't get sick.  He asked me if I'd gotten a flu shot.  I should have lied and said yes just to wipe that "I told you so" tone out of his voice.  "I haven't had the flu in years and I always get a flu shot", he said in that self satisfied way that makes you just want to reach out and smack him.  Well, some of us prefer to live dangerously (sniff, snerk, spit).  We thrive on risk (cough, cough, hack, moan).  Life on the edge is what it's all about and I'm tellin' you, I'm on the edge right now (on the edge of the porcelain rim).

My mom was one of eleven kids, born on a small farm in Western Michigan.  Most of her siblings followed in the fertile footsteps of their parents resulting in a family of prodigious proportions.  Every year, the offspring of Tom and Edith (now deceased) gather for a pot luck supper and renew acquaintance with cousins long separated. 

Only one of the eleven is dead, Uncle Ted who died out of turn, but a couple are too advanced in age to make the journey back home.  Each year we look into the eyes of our kin and wonder, "Will this be the last time we meet?"  The next generation is ambivalent about taking the reins of the annual event.  We know most of our 47 cousins but many of them don't attend and their children barely remember their extended family.  When Tom and Edith's kids go to rest the reunions will likely cease.

This reunion was not as well attended as some, but nonetheless fun.  We used to laugh about how many hamburger helper casseroles and jello salads graced the buffet table but things have changed.  In years past, if you were at the tail end of the food line you might get to sample only the most unappetizing of the dishes and dessert was out for sure.  But times have changed.  Young families aren't struggling to make ends meet anymore and that is evidenced by the array of luscious dishes and copious leftovers.  The younger generations have stepped out of the culinary comfort zone of their parents and their exotic offerings reflected a more eclectic palate. 

Babs had rented a cottage at the beach for the week and we filled it with relatives and food.  Karen and I went provisioning and arrived with fresh melons, purchased from a farmer in the clutches of Alzheimers.  He could no longer do the simple math to figure out how much we owed him for our purchases and had to take our word for it. 

We picked blueberries the first chance we got and pooped shiny black turds all week long. 

We went to Saugatuck to do the tourist thing and buy tee shirts at my favorite shop.

This for my beloved but pessimistic spouse.

And this for my lunatic friend, Vickie.

No trip to the beach is complete without a hike up the new stairs, built to protect the dunes from the hoards of kids who climb them just to run back down as fast as their churning legs can propel them.  I was one of those kids about twenty years ago.

And, of course, we had to pose with Big Red in the background.

There was plenty of time for hanging out and playing games.

Ron served as bartender.

And Tamera was our kitchen wench.

Babs got sick and remains so to this date.

We went out to lunch anyway.

See the beautiful blue blouse I'm wearing?  My cousin, Karen, gave it to me.  She has one just like it so we wore them to the reunion.  We explained that we were cousins, separated at ten. 

We went paddling too.  It was uphill both ways.  Why is it that the instant you turn around to go back downstream, the wind picks up and tries to blow you upstream? 

One of the most interesting people I visited was my childhood friend, Kim.  We had been best buddies until I moved to California when we were ten.  It was a happy/sad reunion in that I was happy to find that what I had loved about her when we were kids hadn't changed.  It was sad because, despite being separated for 47 years, we were still kindred spirits and could have been the closest of friends for a lifetime. 

And then it was time to say goodbye.

I waited to catch Barb's cold/flu until we got home so I could pass it along to my friends here in California.  I'm just such a generous soul.

The cats greeted me with such unbridled enthusiasm that I was compelled to share the tender moment with you.

I received a very touching email from a friend today and I thought I would share it with all of my women friends on Xanga. 

'Whatever you give a woman, she will make greater. If you give her sperm, she'll give you a baby. If you give her a house, she'll give you a home. If you give her groceries, she'll give you a meal. If you give her a smile, she'll give you her heart.
She multiplies and enlarges what is given to her. So, if you give her any crap, be ready to receive a ton of shit.'

I really didn't feel like riding this morning.  Everything hurt: my neck; my hips; my back.  I'd spent a restless night, up every couple of hours, probably because of the pain.  But, I'd committed to riding with Sally at 7:30 so I dragged my aching body to the coffee pot and popped an ibuprophen. 

I struggled through the morning ritual of feeding eight cats, prepped my bike, loaded the hydration pack with some triple ginger snap cookies and the camera, and was ready to go by 7:45.  Sally rolled in at eight.

We piled our gear into Sally's new/used, super cool, Honda Pilot and headed for the hills.  By the time we reached the trail head I felt like crawling back into bed.  Sally encouraged me, saying how tired she was from a week of over exercising, and promising she would be gentle on me.  By the time we reached the first river crossing, I was positive this was going to be a ride from hell.

Sunday is the day the camps ship their kids out and our timing couldn't have been worse.  The dusty river road was crawling with traffic, fishermen were heading up the canyon, buses, spewing diesel fumes, headed down.  My lungs and legs complained to my unsympathetic brain, stating in most uncomfortable terms what they thought of the climb.  Even though it wasn't hot, it was humid and still, and we soon were uncomfortably warm. 

At the last camp we turned off the road and went down to the stream to wet our shirts in the bracingly cold water. 

That was the turning point.  The cool shirt against our hot skin felt wonderful and the traffic disappeared behind us.  When we resumed the climb our legs felt great, the air smelled of sun-warmed pine, and the only sounds of civilization were too distant to be annoying.

We stopped at the trailhead of 2E03 (Santa Ana River Trail) to put on our downhill gear and gobble down some peanut M&Ms and ginger snaps. 

Sally showed me her bruise from her crash two weeks ago that had slowed her down so much when we rode this same trail last week. 

This week her confidence was coming back as the injury wasn't a constant, painful reminder of what can go wrong.

I felt the calm assurance that comes from familiarity with a trail and settled into a pace that had us using every recess of our lungs.  The legs felt good as they burned on the short steep ascents.  The downhill sections invited more speed and I confidently leaned into the turns and swung up the banked inside berms, barely touching the brakes.

  This section of trail is so eroded that we routinely get off and walk for fear of sliding down the slope.  It can be ridden by staying high on the inside edge, but the tree roots on the uphill side tend to scrape your shoulder.

On one of the narrower sections my rear tire skittered on a loose rock sending the tail end sliding towards the edge, but I was already past that space on the trail in my mind and pedaled out of the slide easily. 

By the time we came to the fallen log that we normally walk over I had already decided that I would ride it today.  I won't lie, I got off and inspected the landing on the other side,

  (this is the approach) (this is the landing)

and made a false start once, but in the end I rode it. 

90% of mountain biking is believing that you can do it.  The trouble with the female brain is that it considers the things that could go wrong, unlike the male brain that only sees success and glory at the end.  I knew it wasn't a difficult obstacle but my girl brain said, "But what if you screw up?"  As luck would have it, I didn't screw up, and after overcoming that fear, my confidence knew no bounds.  I rode the rest of the trail like I owned it.

By the time we reached the car I felt like a forty year old. (I know that sounds old to you youngsters but to this great aunt, forty is prime)   I'd forgotten all the aches and pains entirely.