I had stayed up way too late reading all of my Xanga subscriptions  and really wanted to sleep in a little later than normal.  Bob, my big Maine Coon cat, had other ideas. 

Before dawn he comes into the bedroom and announces in his sweet kitty voice that it's time to rise and shine and make kitty breakfast.  I ignore him, hoping that Mike will get up and feed him.  When he gets no response, he jumps up on the bed and tromps around until one of us stirs.  He then purrs loudly and begins to knead the down comforter.  Soon it becomes apparent that nobody is getting up so he jumps up onto the headboard where he knocks over a few books.  Still no breakfast.  Desperate times call for desperate measures so he begins to rub against the solid brass, stained glass lamp.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the lamp tipping off the edge of the headboard above my head but not in time to dodge the blow.  One of the pointed edges of the shade gouged a hole in my scalp and sent me reeling.  I got up to staunch the bleeding and Bob happily trotted off to the kitchen to sit in front of his dish.

Cats...ya gotta love 'em.

We're all in this alone.

My uncle Ted, lies on his deathbed after living with prostate cancer for years.  His health decline was gradual until the last year and his mental faculties remained sharp until just the last few weeks when the Methadone and other pain medications muddled his brain. 

My sister, Babs430, has tended him since his first hospitalization, driving him to doctor's appointments, chemotherapy, blood transfusions, etc. with great generosity.  As his energy waned, she gradually assumed responsibility for keeping up with his household chores.  She kept the lawn mowed, the trees trimmed, the cat fed.  She bought his medical supplies, paid his bills, fixed his meals until finally, when he could no longer keep track of what pain medications to take when, she moved him into her modest home.  I hereby nominate her for sainthood.

How did it work out that a man with ten siblings, three offspring, three wives and hundreds of friends end up in my sister's care? 

Life passes by in such a blur.  We are so busy with our daily routines that we can't possibly keep the bonds strong with everyone who once was important to us.  Babs just happened to be at a place in her life when nobody was depending upon her so the she assumed the role of caregiver. 

Two of his children, one of his siblings, three of his 46 nieces and nephews, one great niece and a handful of friends have visited his bedside.  I relay this not as any kind of indictment but simply an observation. 

In a way, Babs is the lucky one.  She got to enjoy the last of Uncle Ted's wit and wisdom.  She shared the last intimate times when he reminisced about the past.  She was the one who taught him the last lesson in life, how to accept kindness and say thank you (not an easy lesson for a stiff necked Dutchman).  And in turn, she learned from him, how to face death without giving up the joy of life until there was none left.

Lest I bore you with yet another tale of incredible feats of derring-do, I shall instead expound upon the quality of friendship formed through mountain biking.

There is something about the experience of traveling together but separately over a course that tests your strength, skill and courage, that fosters a kinship unlike the shallow encounters of other social interaction.  A protracted climb through empty spaces, empty of sights and sounds of human occupation, but filled with the calming charms of the wilderness, affords the opportunity for intimate conversation.  The distraction of the trail allows the filter that normally guards your tongue, to be forgotten and you offer up ideas for scrutiny without the concern of judgement.  Something about that unguarded, candid conversation paves the way to more meaningful dialog and a deeper understanding of your companion.  Unless the companion is your spouse, then you've already explored all the issues and you talk about stuff like science articles you've read, the advantages of tubeless tires & virtual pivot suspension and what's for dinner.

An epic ride, one that tests the limits of your endurance, or a ride that puts your skill  and courage to the ultimate test, is the most intense way to cement a friendship, something of the nature of comrades in arms but not as obviously life threatening.  Still, that feeling of having faced a challenge together, risked injury, depended upon each other and come out worn and battered but undaunted, fills your heart with warm feelings for the lunatic who hung in there and suffered with you. 

So this post is a tribute to all of the gluttons for punishment I've shared the trail with over the past twenty years.  Thank you for your company, your conversation, your help and your friendship.  Thank you, Mike my love, Rita & Geoff, Sally, Guy, Gloria & Rory, Don B., Marko, Babs, Mark B., Pam, Paul, Maureen & Chris, Don & Becky (builder of Becky's and Y2K trail), Bob M., Bob B., Stan, Trevor, Brian, Rory W., Roisin, Jon & Teresa, Gary, Pete, Craig & Chris., Donny, Kevin, Richard C., Mike T., John & Rhonda, Mark C., Kath, Bev, Jim S., Terri, Becky C., Rachel, Pat, Stacy, Rob (builder of Rob's trail), Peter V., Rick, Mickey, Mark S., Mark C., Mike C., Wendy, Mike M., Bernie, Gilbert, Toby, Bill B., Chuck, Andrea, Steve, Victor, Chris, John E., Ron R., Jim P. and the dozens of others whose names haven't come to mind.

I just wanted to say that I posted the Scariest Dream because I'm a credits whore.  I personally think there is nothing more boring than somebody else's dream, unless it's my own. 

So, please, don't feel the slightest obligation to read it.  It's only half true anyway since the contest rules outlawed sexual content and the worst part of the dream had to be censored.  Eeew ick!

Consciousness began with a visceral sense of dread as I became aware of the sharp, cold granite biting into my naked flesh.  I felt, more than saw, the wraithlike wisps of mist curling around me, lifting the tiny hairs on my arms and probing my nostrils, my ears, my open but unseeing eyes.  With the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, I raised myself to a seated position and realized I was on a narrow ledge of rock, an unplumbed abyss below and a jagged wall at my back.

In the distance a weak light appeared, diffused, but sufficient to make out a path descending into the inpenetrable depths of the quarry.  Too shaken to stand, I began crawling along the wall towards the unknown.  With the approaching dawn the mist retreated and I was able to see a derelict lorry, listing on rotted tires on the canyon floor. 

I approached the cab of the truck and pulled myself onto the running board to peer inside.  Leering back at me was a grizzled, foul smelling driver.  He invited me into the warmth of the cab, his jaundiced eyes raking my scraped, pale flesh.  Shivering uncontrollably, I climbed in. 

The soothing warmth of the truck's heater reminded me that I needed to pee.  I anxiously looked around for a restroom.  The driver saw my discomfort and jerked his head toward's the back of the cab, indicating I would find relief in the dark recesses of his sleeping quarters.  Suddenly conscious of my nakedness, I tried to cover myself with a filthy red and black flannel shirt that was lying across the back of the seat.  His malevolent eyes looked at me without pity. 

At last I located a bowl with a sharp rim, half filled with fetid water.  Assuming this was his toilet I hovered over the receptacle.  I could hear his rasping breath only inches away. 

Some primal instinct or long forgotten training sounded an alarm in my muddled brain.  STOP!   This isn't a bathroom!  You're going to wet the bed, you idiot!  It's a dream! 

   

I just blogged about my scariest nightmare to enter The Uninvited Scariest Nightmare Contest for 1,000 credits. You can earn free credits too! Brought to you by The Uninvited - In Theaters January 30th.

  OH MY GOSH, today's ride was one of the best ever!  I know what you're thinking, "Yeah, yeah, you say that about all of them," but this one really was.

It started out as a routine spin up Crafton Hills under azure skies.  Mike, having left the house a short time after we did, caught up with Sally and me by the time we got to the college and a guy named John joined us just a short time later.  The four of us rode together up to Back Breaker where Mike and John left us behind when we stopped to stretch.  At the summit we stopped for a snack, then John turned back to ride the motorcycle trails down to the college and Mike, Sally and I rode down to the top of Judy's.  There we parted company with Mike who wanted to ride down Roller Coaster while Sally and I took Yikes! down to The Windmill Trail.

Sally and I were in an exploratory mood and decided to climb up the new trail to where it intersected with Roller Coaster.  Half way up we ran out of fuel and stopped to have a snack.  A group of three vaqueros (or maybe caballeros would be more accurate since they had no cows) passed us on lathered horses, pushing them up the steep trail at a brisk pace. 

Sally was apprehensive as we turned onto Roller Coaster and, I have to admit, I was a little anxious too since it has been several weeks since we've had any rain.  If you've read previous blogs about Roller Coaster you may remember that good traction is essential on this white knuckle, lock 'em up and slide downhill.

I stopped at the crest of the first descent to give Sally some last minute words of encouragement.  The traction didn't look ideal but there was a nice loose rut running down the middle of the trail just below the insanely steep part where, with luck, one could regain some control if one were sliding faster than intended.  As is my habit, I inched over the edge and began sliding down the first steep drop and chickened out, jumping off the bike and letting it go into the bushes.  What a dork! 

Disgusted with myself, I retrieved my mount and pushed it back up to the top where Sally waited, looking like she wanted to empty her bowels in the bushes.  I assured her it was totally rideable as I shoved off again.  Just as planned, I picked up speed for about thirty feet, then dropped into the rut and just rode the rut, keeping my weight well behind the saddle just in case there was an unplanned detour.  With adrenaline surging, I allowed momentum to carry me up the next rise and when I stopped at the top I was delighted to see my protege following my line down the hill.  I expressed surprise that she tried it when she had said she was going to walk down, but she said when she watched me do it, it looked easy. 

The next descent is shorter but looks more dangerous because it has a rocky rut that intrudes into the rideable line.  Fortunately, you can't see it until you've dropped over the edge and by that time it's too late to abort the flight.  Waiting at the bottom, I heard her utter an exclamation of surprised terror when she saw her fate laid out below and then she rode down it with perfect coordination. 

This is the view as you roll up to the edge.  The groove is where you want your front tire to roll over the edge.

And this is how it looks once you can see where you're going.

And this is what it looks like from the bottom.

By the time we reached the last steep pitch to the highway we were feeling pretty studley.  I coached Sally briefly, telling her not to fear getting out of control because this trail has small berms or water bars, cut across it at intervals where one can bleed off some speed.   The motorcycles had been using this trail so the ruts weren't as intimidating as they were before they wore them down, and the traction was good in spite of how dry it was. 

I wish I could describe some hair raising, garage sale wreck but this isn't going to be one of those exciting blogs.  We both made it to the bottom without mishap and the euphoria was palpable.  With confidence levels at full tilt we sashayed through the wash singletracks like we owned them, carving turns, hopping rocks and generally feeling BAD ASSED.

My sister and I went up on foot the next day to take the photos.

A follow up to my post last week about the little orange lion, found dead on the side of the road:

A young man came over in response to the note I had left on all of my neighbors' doors.  The note described the cat we had found and our address.  To soften the news, I had added that it appeared that his death had been instantaneous so he hadn't suffered.  

The cat's friend came with photo in hand.  He asked Mike (I wasn't home) if he could confirm that the cat he had buried was the one in the picture.  Sadly, it was.  His name was Mr. Orange and, as I suspected, he will be missed.   

It was eighty plus degrees in the shade yesterday.  It's been in the high seventies and low eighties for over a week now.  Mike suggested that we load the bikes into the BFT (that's the big truck) and go up the mountain to ride the Santa Ana River Trail.  It sounded like a good idea.

I debated whether or not to take a wind breaker (light weight jacket to my foreign friends) and decided to er on the side of caution and put it in my hydration pack.  Mike, who hasn't an ounce of insulation (that's a subcutaneous layer of fat, of which I have several ounces) threw caution to the wind.  Thinking of the potential for error on the highly technical downhill section of this ride, we both packed arm and leg protection.

As we drove up the valley we marveled at the beautiful clear stream that flowed abundantly down Mill Creek.  The brilliant sunshine warmed the cab of the truck and as the road began to ascend the mountain in earnest, I noticed that the outside temperature had dropped to 68 degrees.  Perfect cycling weather!  We wound our way up the mountain to Angeles Oaks (about 5 - 6000' of elevation) where the thermometer was saying 48 degrees.  As the road curved around to the north side of the ridge we found banks of snow along the highway.

By now we were pot committed, so to speak, so we proceeded to the trail head at the Santa Ana River road.  The river valley was warm and sunny and even though there was a small patch of ice at the parking area, we decided to ride up the dirt road to the singletrack trailhead.  A trash truck came down the road and stopped where the pavement began to remove chains from his tires.  Those were two clear clues to any sensible person that the road ahead might be troublesome.

As we climbed, the icy patches grew longer and the dirt patches grew muddier.  Two wheels on ice is pretty exciting.  In fact, it's a split second between exciting and excruciating if things go off kilter.  Just when the trail ahead looked unnavigable, we met a snow plow.  The driver kindly pulled off the road and invited us to go on around him.  How could we say no to such a generous offer?

By the time we got to the top of the climb it was obvious there would be no riding the singletrack that clings precariously to the side of the hill under these slippery conditions even if we could locate it under the snow.  So we headed back down the way we had come up, slipping and sliding and giggling like kids.  The mud we had slogged through on the way up now was flung up our back sides as we spun through it as fast as we could to maintain momentum.  The slushy snow covering the icy road bed grabbed at our tires while we struggled to keep a straight course.  My bike spun out of control flinging me to the side of the road before I could regain my balance.  I abandoned ship and let it slide to a stop without me.  No damage done, I hopped back on and caught up with Mike in time to see him performing some amusing acrobatics to stay on track. 

Back at the truck we had a serious dilemma.  We had failed to bring clean dry clothes and our shorts (and everything else) were far to muddy to ride in the new truck.

In fact, the bikes were so muddy, Mike didn't even want to put them in the back of the BFT!  Mike thought he might turn his clothes inside out and suggested that I ride home naked.  It does have heated seats after all. 

I decided that it would be unwise to tempt fate in such a brazen fashion so I compromised by stripping off all my clothes at the side of the truck.  I shook off the worst of the mud and hung them on the sunny side of the truck to dry for a few minutes.  By the time I had absorbed the FDA approved quantity of vitamin D, my clothes were reasonably dry and I put them back on.  Thank goodness for single digit humidity! 

For years I've been recruiting every cyclist I meet, to ride with our ever dwindling group we call the Rut Riders.  Each time a new rider would join us, I'd ask him, "Are you married?  Do you have a girl friend?"  Seeing his deer-in-the-headlights expression, I'd hasten to explain that I wasn't hitting on him, merely trying to determine if he had a female partner who might a.) be a cyclist who would like to ride with us or b.) be a willing camp cook and bartender on bike trips.

I finally realized the futility of my recruiting efforts when, one day I met a young man who was willing to join my group, and I couldn't put together a group.  Now THAT was awkward.  You girls out there remember that slightly odd guy in high school who invited you to his house for a party and when you got there, you learned it was a party of two? 

So, I gave up the Rut Riders and went in search of another group to join.  To give you insight into what a desperate act that was, you must realize that my vanity license plate (on my car) sez Rut Rider.  Anyway, I found a group of guys who ride out of Yucaipa, the town just over the hill from where I live. 

A couple of weeks ago they came over and rode with us (see post of Dec. 22) so today it was our turn to ride their turf.  Victor described the proposed route as "A mellow climb with a killer downhill, about 14 miles long".  It sounded great. 

I emailed the few remaining RutRiders the ride coordinates and six of us actually showed up.  Their group of thirteen riders had an average age of about 25 so our geriatric contingent raised that average considerably.  At one point in the ride I commented on the skill displayed by one of their young riders and his friend said, "Well, he's been riding since he was twelve."  I replied dryly, "I've been riding since before he was born, and I still can't do that."

The ride route started off with a short pavement climb up Oak Glen Road (we purists were grumbling about riding pavement when there was a perfectly good singletrack that parallelled the road) and then turned back down that sweet singletrack through the trees losing the altitude we had gained on the road (well, shut my mouth!).  The big boys were in high gear and were soon out of sight so when I reached an intersection I thought I would have to stop to wait for the sweep rider (that's the guy who knows the trail and rides at the back to "sweep" up the stragglers) to tell me which way they had gone.  Fortunately, a property owner adjacent to the trail who was making some roof repairs, kindly yelled down to me, "They went that way."

The trail climbed steadily up the flank of a wide drainage and then swooped down and across to the other side where it resumed its relentless, "mellow" ascent.  The main group stopped briefly to regroup but grew impatient waiting for the half-fast contingent, and set off again before they arrived.  I was caught in no-man's land, off the back of the fast group and ahead of the half-fast people.  I lost sight of the ride leaders after the first steep climb and had to rely on my tracking ability to find the trail they had taken each time I encountered a junction in the trail.  When I finally arrived at the end of the climb, the boys were already lounging in the shade of a perennial oak, munching their dried fruit and beef jerky.

The payoff for the uphill effort was a spectacular view of the valley and an exhilarating descent.  Nineteen riders sped off raising dust so thick the riders towards the back of the pack could barely see the trail.  It didn't slow us down a bit.  Before we reached the end of the trail, several riders had flat tires, probably due to their aerobatic maneuvers.  Following these guys was like riding in a herd of gazelles.  They used every bump in the trail as an excuse to spring into the air. 

In the end it was a pretty good ride.  Nobody got hurt and everybody had a good time.  The geriatric Rut Riders did okay for themselves with riders placed throughout the pack, some near the front, some in the middle but none of us came across the finish line last.  Hooray for the Rut Riders! 

"You bring out the best in me."

   

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