Ah, we hade a good ride today.  To beat the heat, we started early and drove up to Loch Levin to ride the old road up to Angeles Oaks.  The Mountain Home Creek road has been abandoned probably since the flood of '69 which washed out all the bridges and so has over the years been reclaimed by mother nature.  There are patches of pavement, even remnants of a white center line marking in one spot, but mostly it's a nicely maintained trail.

John Elliott, a local resident, has worked tirelessly over the years to build water bars, to channel the most destructive water flows off the road bed, and to clear paths through the many landslides that continually devour whole sections of the road.  The latest slide that occurred during the May deluge is a good twenty feet high but fortunately made up of mostly good soil (as opposed to unnavigable rock).  John has created a great path over the top that provides a real thrill when ridden at speed from the uphill side.  It skirts the outside edge of the debris flow so you have a birdseye view of the canyon below as momentum carries you up the mound and then gravity has its way with you in a most pleasing fashion and hurls you down the other side.  Thankfully, the approach to this ramp is obstructed by several large boulders that you have to wend your way around because otherwise, the temptation to come into it with huge speed would invite disaster.

A new rider joined us today, which always makes the ride more interesting.  Kileen is a very fit, attractive, middle-aged woman with some road riding experience but almost no mountain biking under her belt.  When you invite a novice on a serious ride you never know what they will show up with but Kileen had a decent low-end bike in good repair (actually it looked brand new) and everything necessary for a safe and comfortable ride.  In keeping with her good preparation, she paced herself and when she felt she'd had enough climbing wisely turned back, encouraging us to continue without her. 

Sally, Guy and I continued climbing until we came to where someone is logging the trees that have been killed by the spruce beetle.  The trail lies deep in wood chips which makes climbing that section similar to pedaling through sand.  Using Kileen, patiently waiting for us below, as an excuse, we turned back for the e-ticket ride back to the valley.  A doe and her offspring calmly observed us from above while we put on our downhill gear.  Guy invited me to lead the way since I had ridden this trail more recently than he had and Sally rode sweep.  I love being in the lead with nobody to slow me down but there is always the added responsibility of  keeping an eye out for other cyclists, hikers, snakes and bears.  It really slows you down on the blind curves.

I don't think any of us were particularly hungry but we weren't ready to part company at the end of such a short ride, so we went to La Costa for lunch.  Mentone is barely more than a wide spot in the road but we do have three good Mexican restaurants, none of which are chains.  The beauty of mom & pop stores is that they treat you like family.  We ordered a vegetable burrito that's not on the menu but locals know they can request.  It's not always the same; I think the cook just puts in whatever he has handy.  It always includes beans and rice and usually has grilled onions, bell peppers, and sometimes mushrooms.  It's smothered in a spicy tomatillo sauce that makes sweat pop out around your eyes.  Great on hot days!

Today there were no mushrooms and their absence probably started the conversation about 'shrooms we had eaten in the past.  From there the conversation took a turn for the very interesting as Negro Modelo relaxed our natural inhibitions about talking to strangers.  Even though Kileen was the only literal stranger to the group, we are all strangers to each other in some sense of the word.  I think we all parted company feeling a genuine sense of camaraderie having shared a good ride and shared some ideas.

The other day a friend of mine forwarded a rather mean spirited, sexist joke to me and it got me wondering, "Am I losing my sense of humor, or what?  The joke was one of those misanthropic ones that doesn't really have a punch line but derives its humor from insulting women.

Those of you who know me well know that I take very little too seriously.  I also don’t take offense easily.  It is interesting to me though, how pervasive sexism is in our society, amazingly, practiced equally by men and women. 

The incident that opened my eyes to “harmless” sexist humor was something I said with no malicious intent.  I have never been concerned with homosexuality but have always thought the homophobia of others was a target for humor.  On this occasion we had met two young men on the trail and invited them to join our group for a bike ride the next day.  They had introduced themselves as brothers.  When a couple of guys in our group, one of whom is quite macho, were late to the ride, I made a remark (intending to be funny) about why they were late, alluding to a homosexual dalliance.  The joke was only funny (barely funny) because the guys who were the brunt of the joke were slightly homophobic.  Everyone laughed good naturedly at the time, but my spouse pointed out to me later that the “brothers” we had just met, were probably not brothers in the familial sense.  I was devastated to think that I had unthinkingly said something that might have made these boys feel uncomfortable in our group.  Since then, I’ve tried to be more sensitive to that sort of humor.  Yes, believe it or not, I do try to censor myself (admittedly, with limited success). 

So now, when I have the time to analyze humor, as in the case of forwarded email, I first laugh and enjoy the joke as it’s intended to be.  Then I look at it more critically.  Would it still be funny if the roles were reversed?  Is it mean spirited or does the humor come from a surprise ending?  Would it be offensive if your own race/gender were inserted?  Granted, this scrutiny takes the fun out of many jokes, but the result is (I hope) that I don’t pass along jokes that perpetuate unfounded stereotypes.  Sadly, one of my favorite genres, blonde jokes, doesn’t pass muster.  Too many of them fall flat if you put a male in the blonde role.  Homosexual humor gets double scrutiny because I have no idea what would offend people who are already the brunt of so much hateful rhetoric.

I hope this sermon doesn't deter any of you from sending me any and all jokes, no matter how tasteless.  I will giggle in the privacy of my own home and forward them to the selected few who might enjoy them without judging me by the content. 

Oh, and P.S.  Would you mind stripping the string of forwarded addresses and adverts when you forward those jokes?  I'm getting old and crabby and I don't want to be bothered with scrolling through a bunch of crap to get to the joke.  Thank you very much.

Babs, Arin a I started a yoga class this week at the local community college.  The instructor, Lisa, is so enthusiastic that she really has us believing we will be doing a mind meld with the universe before long if we only show up for class on a regular basis.

The first class consisted of a description of what to expect, what to bring and how to behave.  It made sense that the finer points of yoga etiquette would warrant attention but I was surprised that she had to remind students that texting, cell phone conversation and chatting during class were also offensive.  I guess I figured that those were things we had learned in kindergarten.

The next subject she covered was grades.  As she explained it, one could be assured of getting an A in the class if one showed up.  And to facilitate attendance, students are allowed to show up for any P.E. class, being held at the college, at any time to make up missed classes.  So, if beginning yoga is too strenuous for you, you can attend the "walking" class.  Again, almost everybody I know learned to walk before attending kindergarten but here it's offered as a college P.E. class.  I had heard that schools were dumbing down to meet the achievement abilities of today's students but give me a break!

So today was the first day of actual yogaing.  For those of you who are unfamiliar with the art of yoga, I will describe some of the things we learned today.  I personally learned that the body that I have worked so hard to keep trim and fit, has been totally bullshitting me.  Oh, sure, the quadriceps may be able to push pedals and the shoulders and arms may be able to hang on while dropping off a hundred small ledges, but the parts in between are mush. 

The simple act of sitting on the floor while holding one's torso erect and breathing "in the belly" (Pranayama) was alarmingly difficult.  Next we did some simple stretches which the instructor, Lisa, made look effortless but definitely weren't.  Then we learned the doggie position and some variations on that theme.  Thankfully, the group is almost all women!  The exertion elicited audible flatulence from some asshole behind me but, remembering yoga etiquette, nobody giggled.  At last we lay prone and emptied our minds.  After several minutes of relaxation, a gentle chime invited us back into our bodies and a second one brought us back to the gym floor. 

The class was brought to a close with the Sanskrit greeting, namaste' and we were instructed to respond in kind.  The translation:  May the divine light in me see and salute the divine light in you.   

I walked out feeling like a changed woman.  I felt suddenly old yet hopeful.  It's disheartening to learn that your body has become so weak and stiff but Lisa's encouragement allows me to hope for improvement.

Namaste', my friends.

Okay, it's official, I am the material girl.  I am reveling in the after glow of acquisition.  After two years of searching, I found my dream trailer at last.  Admittedly, I felt almost queasy writing out the check for such a frivolous purchase but once the decision was made, I felt euphoric.

For the past umpteen years I have been going on mountain bike camping trips to Utah, braving the unpredictable weather in, first a tent, and later a tiny, tattered tent trailer.  For the most part it was fun, but occasionally the desert wind would drive us off the mesa into a perfumed B & B or a sterile roadside motel.  Storms on Gooseberry Mesa are fleeting but unnervingly violent, so I went in search of a camping trailer that would be sturdy enough to keep me snug in the wind and rain, but still be portable enough to drag along the trails that pass for roads in the lands managed by the U.S. Bureau of Land Management.   

Research led me to a light weight, fiber glass, pop-up trailer, made by two different companies, Chalet and Aliner.  The Aliner, being slightly lighter became my target trailer.  Though these trailers are small and short on amenities, they come with a hefty price tag.  New, they start at around $12,000 and tricked out they can cost over $20,000.  Clearly this Dutch girl was never going to see her way to spend that kind of dough on a rig that would get used a couple of times a year so the search was on for a slightly used model.  Thanks to the internet I was able to find several but they were all geographically undesirable.  In other words, they were everywhere but in California.  Then my sister turned me on to Craigslist.  I posted a "wanted" ad and within days I had two responses, more or less local. 

A couple in Santa Monica offered to haul their little Sportliner out to my neck of the woods for my inspection and I suggested I meet them half way.  Sister Babs and I prevailed upon Uncle Ted, the trailer expert, to join us, so the three of us went to look at it.  It was love at first sight!  The owner confessed that he had discovered an electrical problem when he hitched it up to his car but readily agreed to reimburse me for the cost of the repair if I chose to take it "as is".  Uncle Ted indicated that he was confident that he could fix it and a deal was struck.

Now I have the happy task of deciding where to go for the maiden voyage.  I'm open to suggestion and or invitation.

I know you're just dying to see it so I'll go take some pictures of it tomorrow.

There was some sort of recipe contest on one of the morning TV shows this morning that I had on for background noise as I emptied the dishwasher.  I'm always in the market for new recipes, especially when my highly selective spouse is out of town, so it caught my attention.  The dish that won was a potato salad that started out with 8 potatoes, six eggs and from there it skyrocketed to the top of the calorie chart with a pound of bacon, sour cream and mayonnaise.  The winning flavor was attained by mixing the potatoes and other ingredients into the UNDRAINED bacon grease.  As you might have guessed, the winning cook was a rotund little heifer who clearly has never heard of the calorie to food value ratio.

So, that brings me to the point of this blog.  Does anyone else see the irony of the government legislating healthy menus in fast food establishments?  There's a reason that fast food joints proliferate with their endless high-fat, no-food-value menus.  Have you ever stood in line at Subway, the only fast food chain that boasts healthy choices, and noticed what people order?  You don't see many people ordering the 6 inch, roasted turkey with low-fat dressing that's touted in Subway's commercials.  They order the foot-long, meatball with chips and a soft drink for a calorie total that would sustain a construction worker for the afternoon but will still be sitting on the hips of the office worker the day after tomorrow.  One of the popular food chains has an ad campaign running now that emphasizes their huge servings.  Do you think their market research indicates that people actually want small amounts of low calorie food?  Not bloody likely.  Another chain advertises deep fried apples that look like french fries, ostensibly to get your kid to eat healthy fruit.  They know what sells and no amount of government preaching is going to persuade people to eat what they don't like.

The city of Los Angeles is considering mandating that the calorie content of each item be posted next to the price on the menu.  Will that have any impact other than burdening the businesses with an additional expense?  I doubt that there are many people who are unaware that they are consuming more calories than they are burning when they order enormous portions of fatty foods, but just in case, it might help to also point out how few calories a sedentary human burns in a day.  The treadmill at the gym indicates that I burn approximately 100 calories per mile when I run seven miles per hour.  In twenty minutes I can almost burn off my morning cup of coffee with cream and sugar.   

I don't know if there is anything that the government can do to fix America's eating habits.  I've read that farm subsidies of certain foods keep these high calorie items affordable, thereby contributing to the obesity of our low income population.  I don't know if that has a significant impact and I need to do more research before I go off on that tangent.  I do believe that more government regulation is not the answer.  We do not have the will to enforce the laws we have and making more unenforceable laws makes scofflaws of all of us. 

Back from a week in Holland, Michigan for a family reunion, I'm bursting with ideas to blog about. 

First off, let me say this:  Your really can go home again but you just can't stay.  Holland seems just the way it was when I left 45 years ago.  No doubt it has grown, and yes, there is now a smattering of "people of color", but basically the town still retains its Dutch look and feel.  I saw evidence that people still trust in the common decency of other people.  Garage doors stand open when nobody is around, bicycles park on the sidewalk, unfettered by locks, and yards are neatly tended in rich neighborhoods as well as poor.  Everybody says hello to you when you walk in the evening and walking is a pleasure because the neighborhoods are quiet and unthreatening. 

But, as I said, you can't stay.  The same mentality that makes for tidy homes and considerate neighbors also pressures the irrepressible to conform.  I suspect the socially liberal, agnostic, iconoclast would find his options limited by the conservative majority if he didn't keep his head low and his mouth shut  (definitely not my style).  Maybe not.  Maybe that's what I have to believe to make coming back to the seemingly mindless hyperactivity that passes for Southern California culture.  The bottom line is that I like my little island of sanity that I call home.  My network of friends, collected over the years, tie me to the area more than the ten months a year of splendid weather and endless possibilities for outdoor adventure.    

The needlepoint on the wall says "Home is where the cat is".  Pretty much sums it up for me.

I was thinking about a comment Zarnicki made on my post about riding the SART.  He speculated that it would take some time to be able to keep up with me on a trail and it got me to musing about the guys I've ridden with over the years.

I have to admit that a macho novice who assumes he/she can take position on a single track ahead of me simply because he is male or she is younger, will be shown no mercy.  (For those who aren't familiar with "single track", it's a hiking path just wide enough for one person or bike with no space for passing.)  I'll crowd him or her until he makes a mistake that sends him off the side.  I know it sounds mean, and as a woman, I'm supposed to be sweet and nurturing.  But dammit, it's taken me years of practice to get good enough to ride with the boys and I'm not about to be dissed by some youngster with testosterone.

Oops!  Got off the track there didn't I?  Okay, what I'd like to posit is this:

Guys, would you rather learn a new sport with other guys who really hurt you physically but left your idea of male supremacy intact?  Or, would you prefer to learn under the gentle tutelage of matronly woman who tenderly eviscerated your masculinity, who stripped you of the consolation that no matter how badly you sucked at it, you could still beat women and children?

Think about your answer carefully.  The boys are going to be brutal, no waiting for you to catch your breath, no patronizing words of encouragement, in fact, they may very well ride off and leave you for the coyotes.  The girls are going to be concerned about your well being.  They will say something like "Are you feeling okay?" as they pedal past you on the ridiculously steep hill you are pushing your bike up.  (You laugh, but I know a woman who actually said that!  Gloria, you know who I'm talking about.)  You get a flat, the boys won't even know because they will be so far out of sight.  The girls will stop, whip out their spare tube and CO² cartridges, and chat contentedly while you repair your tire.  (Even we Rutrider women aren't so emasculating as to offer to repair the flat for you.)  Learning with the boys, your spectacular crashes will go unwitnessed, with the girls, your injuries will be nursed and the glory of it all will be told over dinner.

Now mull it over.  Don't worry about how your answer will reflect on your manly image; be honest (we're all friends here).   Tell us how you really feel about it.  Oh, I forgot, men don't talk about their feelings.  Okay, tell us how it is for you and all mankind.

Here's an old video that shows two of my favorite male riders, one of whom I will never be able to keep up with and one who continually entertains.  They are both real men in every sense of the word.

Despite dire predictions of increasing humidity and temperature, today dawned cool and almost overcast.  Guy arrived at the predetermined ride time of 7:30 still a bit sleepy eyed but with his usual good cheer and enthusiasm.  I squeezed into the jump seat of Mike's little Nissan pick up truck and the guys piled into the front seats, for the forty minute ride to Glass Road and the Santa Ana River. 

While the boys reassembled the bikes I filmed their efforts.  I then pedaled a short distance up the river road to film them riding across the first bridge.  Once in the saddle, the guys aren't inclined to stop for photo opportunities so, aside from a few still photos taken along the river and a couple at the beginning of the single track, I didn't get much footage.

The section of the Santa Ana River Trail we rode today is one of my favorites.  Even though we joke that it seems like it's all uphill, the overall direction of the trail as we ride it, is downhill and so, it's really FUN!  There are many treacherous sections where the trail clings precariously to the side of the steep slope.  Erosion has taken all but a path barely wide enough for a fat-tired bike.  Other sections plummet into small gulleys and turn abruptly to climb out, requiring careful speed control and timing.  Too much speed can send you ricocheting off the uphill bank and off the opposite side of the trail and not enough speed can make you stall in the turn.  And then there are fairly straight sections where, except for the exposed tree roots and rocks, you can relax and fly through the trees.  It's probably not more than three or four miles but it's technical enough to challenge a strong intermediate rider.

About a mile from the end of the trail we overtook a man and a young boy with bikes.  They were walking their bikes and the boy was visibly tired when he asked us in a desperate tone how much further he had to go.  We questioned them about where they were headed and they didn't have a clear idea of where they were going but said their ride leader was up ahead.  Neither of them appeared to have either the fitness level or the skill level to enjoy this trail. 

Where the trail crosses a paved road (Glass Road) we found their leader waiting for them.  He expected them to not only ride the next section of single track, which is nearly as challenging and at least as difficult to climb as the section we were on, but then he was going to have them ride up Middle Control Road which is an unpaved, four mile climb.  Never one to hold my tongue, I told him there weren't enough hours of daylight left for those two to finish that ride.  He seemed totally unconcerned.  Guy coined a perfect word for his kind:  malignorant.  He was the kind of guy who takes the first time skier on the intermediate chair lift.

I've been guilty of overestimating the skill level of people I've taken on trails but I have never ridden off and left them to their own fate.  Nor have I ever been cavalier about their suffering.  There's no doubt that it feels good to show off to your friends but his friends were going to hate him for it by the end of the day and they will never ride with him again.

About twenty years ago I met Handsome Harold.  He was skinny, sick and dirty.  Every bone in his tiny body stuck through his scraggily coat as he approached me in the dark parking lot of our local seafood restaurant where he had been dumpster diving, looking for something to sustain him for another day.  His eyes looked into mine, huge in his hollow face, and he sneezed on my shoes.  The last thing I wanted was another cat, much less a sick one who was unimaginably homely, but I was pretty certain that I was his last hope for survival.  I tucked him into my pocket and took him home with me.

I treated him with some antibiotics which, as luck would have it, didn't kill him, cleaned him up, fed him, and named the pathetic beast Handsome Harold.  As he grew into cathood he filled out and grew a lackluster, utilitarian gray coat.  He became the consummate cat's cat.  Even though his manhood was taken from him, he ruled his domain with a benevolent authority.  His voracious gopher hunting soon depleted the supply on his turf and he had to go further afield to satisfy his bloodlust. 

One night I heard him wailing at the door.  Always a great communicator, he let me know that there was a matter of some urgency.  He had been hit by a car and his leg was badly broken.  I laid on the floor with him through the night, neither of us getting much sleep, until the morning when the vet's office opened.  He came home with a steel pin in his leg, a bit worse for the wear. 

Harry was never a civilized cat and so, was not allowed in the house.  He peed on the furniture at every single opportunity just to piss off my indoor cat, Studley Dude.  But, with a broken leg, I figured he wouldn't be able to pee on stuff so he was allowed to convalesce indoors.  Within a week he was getting around well enough to revert to his vile ways and had to be evicted.

And now Harry is an old man.  His spine shows through his thin coat and he totters unsteadily on his pinned hind leg.  He can't hear anymore and the only gophers he catches are the dead ones his protege brings home.  He's still peein', poopin' and purrin' but just barely.  I know intellectually that it's time to do him the final kindness.  His old body has taken him as far as it can go.  His big yellow eyes look into mine from his hollow face asking for something, he doesn't know what.  I know.  I just can't bear to tell him.     

It suddenly occurred to me how utterly fabulous it is to be 55 years old.  It's an age of nearly infinite freedoms.  One of the most liberating things about being of an age is that you are less concerned about appearing normal.  Maybe it's because, at last, you realize the futility of it.  For instance, I like to do my gardening in a short sundress sans under garments.  As gardening entails assuming a variety of inverted positions and provocative squats, occasionally one's parts are shockingly visible (should anyone be crass enough to be looking).  I figure it's like the tree falling in the forest...it's not indecent if nobody sees it.  And, if you don't make eye contact, you are invisible. 

The indecent exposure is not out of any desire to titillate, either myself or anyone else, but like many other eccentricities of age, it's a pursuit of comfort.  I remember when I was young and concerned about appearances, I wondered why old women dressed the way the did.  Now it's obvious.  Comfort takes priority.

Another thing is you can talk to anybody.  You can look a handsome young man straight in the eye and say "Where did you get those gorgeous baby blue eyes?" and know that he's not going to think you're hitting on him.  If a fart escapes (and they do with increasing frequency) you can simply say "Scuse me", and move on (unless it's a stinky one, in which case nobody is going to excuse you anyway so you're better off pretending nothing's wrong). 

One of the hardest things to get used to is that young people take you seriously.  Young people don't see us as we really are, one of them trapped in a body that we hardly recognize because it looks like our grandmother.  They see us as conservative, condemning, humorless, sexless (OMG don't even think about it!) feeble and tired.  And, on one hand they're correct.  Our years on earth have taught us to think ahead, chose our friends carefully, not to enjoy a cheap shot at someone else's expense, to keep our sex lives private, and to rest when we're tired.   But under that maturity (ugh!) beats an irreverent heart, a heart that still sings when we learn a new skill, a body that still gives pleasure in it's strength and coordination, and a mind that still appreciates a good dirty joke.