Sally and I got the rare opportunity to share our favorite trails today with someone unfamiliar with them.  I can't think of anything more fun than seeing the expression of undiluted joy on the face of a another when he's just ridden your favorite trail. 

We found a young man at the top of Crafton Hills fire road, smoking a cigarette.  He had a decent bike but we were skeptical about his biking skills because he didn't fit the mold of a typical cycling enthusiast.  But, he was really cute and candid (said he was trying to quit when I mentioned the cigarette) so we chatted him up a bit.  We found that he was unfamiliar with our "illegal" really fun trails and was interested in riding them.  Even though we were finished with our climb and headed down the motorcycle trails we couldn't resist offering to show him Yikes!

He was enthusiastic when we offered to show him the way so, off we went, downhill in the opposite direction of home.  I took the lead, with Sally behind, and our new friend following gallantly.  I looked back a couple of times to be sure we hadn't dropped him and he was always right on Sally's rear wheel.  Realizing that I needn't baby him, I kicked it up a notch and let her roll.  The traction on the south facing side of the hill was almost nonexistent, and the weeds have all but grown closed over the trail, but Sally and I know every turn, every drop off, and every rut on that trail so we rode it like we had no sense at all. 

I heard a couple of exclamations of surprise from behind me but when we reached the bottom, there he was, all smiles.  He was bubbling with excitement just as we were.  He admitted that there were a few places where he had doubts that it was rideable but figured if two old ladies could do it, he could too.  He was too polite to say it quite like that but I knew what he meant.  Frankly, I was impressed that he could stay with us because, as you know, Sally and I are quite the "one trail wonders" on Yikes! and there aren't too many riders, women or men, who can.

We climbed back up to the summit and prepared to say good-bye but he asked if we would mind showing him the motorcycle trails too.  Would we!!! It was obvious that he was plenty skilled and stronger than we were, so after the first descent, I offered to let him take the lead.  He dropped us like a bad habit. 

The Mountain Lilacs in bloom give the hills their bluish tint.

Since we had age and treachery on our side, we took a short cut and wound up ahead of him.  Nyut uh uh!  The next section had a little bit of a nebulous path so I took the lead again.  He was only seconds behind me when I reached the next climb.  Dang!  This kid was good.  We let him lead again but when he missed a turn, Sally and I went ahead while he turned around to follow us down a treacherously steep and tricky descent.  When we reached the bottom we turned around to see where he was and found he had fallen far behind.  When he finally skidded to a stop beside us he confessed that he'd slid out on a turn and had gone down as evidenced by his dusty shorts.  Score one for the old ladies  

We parted company with him a little farther down the road and suddenly realized how exhausted we were.  We had been so supercharged by the show off mode that we had been unaware of how hard we were riding.  We took the easiest way home at a most sedate pace.

I don't often ride my bicycle on the paved streets, but when I do, I behave as if I were a legitimate part of the commuter traffic.  Meaning, I obey the rules of the road, taking my turn at stop signs, signaling my intentions, etc.  I believe in the rule of law (this probably isn't quite the correct use of the term, but for this rant I will use it as I choose) and thus believe it should be applied equally and fairly to motorist and cyclist alike.  Pedestrians are, of course, a class unto themselves and therefore have their own rules of the road.

So, imagine my chagrin when a motorist treats me, an adult cyclist, like a child or a pedestrian!  Frequently I will be waiting to cross the highway, and a motorist will stop for me as if I were a pedestrian in a crosswalk.  Never mind the fact that I'm in the traffic lane.  The random act of kindness on the part of the motorist is a random act of thoughtlessness for my safety. 

Picture this:  A motorist in a 4,000 pound car, with tinted windows, stops;  Cyclist thinks he sees the motorist wave him through; motorist was actually stopping to retrieve something he dropped and resumes his speed just as the cyclist pulls out in front of him.  Or, motorist stops and signals the cyclist to go ahead and the motorist behind the stopped vehicle pulls around the stopped vehicle.  There are so many scenarios where the person on the bicycle winds up splattered across a windshield because the cyclist failed to adhere rigidly to the rules of the road. 

The other day a woman stopped for me and waved me through as I stood waiting for traffic to clear.  There was opposing traffic that didn't slow down.  I motioned for her to continue and she grew adamant that I was to go in front of her.  Finally, the opposing traffic stopped, seeing the argument that was transpiring between the motorist and me.  Now that I had two lanes of traffic standing still on a state highway, I felt obligated to cross even though I was NOT in a legal crosswalk and I was not a pedestrian.  At the very moment I had decided to relent and break the rules, a guy on a crotch rocket came zipping around the woman (on her right) at about 40 mph. 

Rattlesnakes hold no terror compared to do-gooder motorists.  My dear readers, please, give cyclists their due.  They are due their piece of the road and you owe it to them to give them a safe distance even if that means inconveniencing yourself by slowing down until there is room to pass.  It's not nice to speed around them so closely that your draft pushes them off the road.  Similarly, it's not kind to blast your horn making a display of you assholedness.  But, do not think you are making up for all the jerks on the road by encouraging them to proceed out of turn.  The life you are risking by your act of kindness is mine.  It pains me to decline your generous gesture because I know you don't understand why I'm being so ungrateful.  Know that I'm grateful that you don't text whilst driving and accidentally knock me into the ditch.  I'm eternally thankful when you hug the center line as you pass to give me that extra bit of gravel free pavement.  And I love it when you make direct eye contact with me when it is my turn so that I know you see me. 

After encountering so many snakes on my hike yesterday, I hit the trail on my mountain bike with some trepidation today.  Sally was occupied with other obligations this weekend so I had to ride with the guys.  I set out a (quite a) few minutes ahead of the "boys", Mike and Guy, hoping to get to the summit about the same time they did.  I can usually hold my own on the downhill but there's no competing with testosterone on a climb.

Cheating is an integral part of staying ahead of stronger riders, and remembering the ittty bitty snakes of yesterday, I rode a good stretch on the highway instead of the more difficult single track that runs (more or less) parallel to the road.  They still had not caught up with me as I ground my way up Escalator, a trail that makes no excuses in its assault of the upper end of Crafton Hills.  I focused on watching for snakes, partly to keep my mind off my suffering, and partly out of common sense. 

The trail begins in a sheltered canyon and works its way around the north side of the ridge to a lovely overlook of Highway 38 and the network of single track trails below that we call the Wash Trails.  The sun was warm on this side of of the hill and I relaxed my vigilance as I looked down to see if the guys were reeling me in yet. 

Suddenly, I heard the unmistakeable sound of a perturbed rattlesnake which yanked my attention back to the trail.  There, about 12 feet in front of me was a beautiful, mature snake, sunning himself.  I stopped and backed away thinking he would move off the trail but he was not so inclined.  A young man came jogging up the trail and when I explained the predicament, he volunteered to scare the angry reptile by chucking rocks at him.  He proceeded to toss friable chunks towards the snake, never striking him directly, but landing his missiles close enough that a couple bounced onto him.  This served to anger him even further.

When it became obvious the now thoroughly pissed off snake wasn't moving off, I decided to get a picture of him at a little closer range.  Needless to say, I employed the zoom on my little Nikon.  I called back to my would-be rescuer that he wasn't as big as he appeared from a distance.  He was fat but not long, typical of rattlesnakes in our area.  My knight in shining armor replied that it looked like an anaconda from where he was standing.

At last our grumpy friend uncoiled his ample girth and slithered over the side of the trail into the brush, rattling his displeasure all the way down the hill. 

Mike and Guy came pedaling up the trail just as he disappeared in the undergrowth.  We continued our climb to the summit without further incident.  However, my enthusiasm for the descent, through brush-choked single track was understandably diminished.

I was going to add a video clip here but I couldn't figure out how to add it.  Xanga seems to have changed my tool bar again

Of course, as soon as we dropped off the first steep hill of the Motorcycle Trail, we lost any sense of vulnerability, believing speed alone would protect us.  And it did.

One of the things I love about Southern California winters is that my Michigan cousins are lured out of their snow caves to come visit me. 

We had the pleasure of Roger & Alice's company for two days and Karen is staying through next Wednesday.  The weather was stormy and cold so we carted them out to Palm Springs, where the weather was better, to ride the tram to the top of Mt. San Jacinto for a hike in the snow.  Yeah, it sounds rather stupid to me too now that I see it in print. 

On the way home we stopped at the Cabazon outlet stores for some retail therapy.  Roger gamely hung out with us "girls" while Babs, Alice, Karen, and I monopolized the handicapped dressing room at White House/Black Market, trying on nearly everything in the store.  He wasn't too bored as he had a seat just outside.  Between each modeled outfit he had a view of the half dressed women changing in the dressing room.

My sister Babs, Cousin Karen, and I hiked the east end of Upper and Lower Workout today.  We started at the gate at the top end of Lower and headed cross country, up a canyon that looked like it would take us to the Upper Workout Trail.  The grass was tall, and the wild flowers extravagant.  We scrambled up until we reached a steep canyon that presented a barrier to our ultimate goal of the Morton Peak Single track. Pausing momentarily to discard the ticks that were trying to hitch a ride, we headed back downhill and eventually found our way to the overgrown intersection of Upper Workout and Chapman’s Cutoff.  We walked west on Upper, formerly a two track road, which is now nearly grown closed.  Karen, who was the third in our single file procession, stopped to examine what she thought was a toad or frog and found it to be a small snake.  I went back to identify it and pronounced it to be a rattler. 

It’s funny how a gopher snake can momentarily look like a rattlesnake but a rattlesnake doesn’t look like a gopher snake for even a split second.

After that encounter, we increased our vigilance, staying carefully to the open path and avoiding the grassy areas on each side.  We walked single file, each of us watching the grass that encroached on the trail carefully for snakes.  Suddenly, my sister, who had now wisely dropped to the back of the group exclaimed, “Oh, there’s another one!”  Sure enough, Karen and I had both stepped over him and had never seen him. 

By now we were growing a little concerned.  Young snakes are particularly dangerous because they haven’t yet learned to control their venom and their bite can be worse than an adult because they are profligate in their use of it.  Not that an adult snake bite would be any less of a concern but at least we could SEE them.  Tippy toeing now, we carefully planted each foot where the earth was bare of grass.  Only a few yards farther along, Karen spotted another, who exactly like the first two, was coiled up half under a clump of grass, on the trail.  I was really wishing I was on my bike at this point.  Karen and I were both wearing short pants and low-top, mesh shoes.  We spotted one more before we came to a stretch of trail that was completely overgrown.

Since I was the “outdoor expert” in the group, I assured them that snakes gave birth to only four young and that we were now beyond harm, having passed all of them.  They agreed to suspend disbelief long enough to plow through the undergrowth that lay between us and the car.

As you probably surmised by now, I survived yet another outdoor adventure.  Sadly, my sister and Karen, having drawn the short straws to determine who would go first, are still lying where they fell on the trail.  JUST KIDDING! 

We all made it home with nothing worse than brush-scratched ankles and a prodigious appetite. 

I was notified by Xanga that I can't access one of my favorite, and most intelligent subscriptions, unless I provide identification in the form of driver's license, passport, or birth certificate, to prove I'm mature enough to read his blog.

When I posted a pulse about it, Xanga said that "someone" was marking sites as EX (as in extra sexy in this case, I presume) for "giggles".  It's NOT funny!

If you have ever read @We_Deny_Everything 's blog, you know that, while it may be sexy in a very subtle and discrete way, it is mostly intelligently thought provoking.  He writes on a variety of topics, always well researched, and frequently over my head (the scientific parts; not the sexy parts ).

If I understood the response I got to my pulse, anyone can restrict access to your site by marking it EX.  So, if I disagree with your views, I can block everyone who doesn't want to provide Xanga with enough personal identification for identity theft from seeing it. 

I'm shopping for a new blog site. 

An update:  I've been informed that the recipient of the the black eye can remove the onerous EX rating himself.  Also, it was @complicatedlight who told me about the trolls who rated WDE's site for "giggles". 

"The Austrian government insists there's nothing wrong with a man grabbing a woman's butt, says Hans Rauscher.  The Women's Ministry last week proposed for the umpteenth time criminalizing the groping of behinds...only to be slapped down once again by the Justice Ministry."  (from Der Standard)

According to the Justice Ministry, the gluteal region is not a primary or secondary sex organ and therefore doesn't qualify for protection against unwanted contact.  Now doesn't this just invite a bottomless array of interesting ideas?  For instance:

• Where does a "gluteal" area end and a primary or secondary sex organ begin?  I invite your suggestions;
• Is it okay for a man to fondle another man's arse without his consent?
• Is it permissible for the gropee to use physical force to repel a groper?  If so, may a 115 pound woman employ a baseball bat to deter a 200 pound man?
• When does "grabbing" another person's butt become assault?  When there is bruising?  When the "grabbed" person feels intimidated or humiliated?

Wait, let me answer that last one.  It becomes assault when the groper imposes himself on the wrong person, when that person has the presence of mind to retaliate.  If the law doesn't protect the weaker members of society, they are left no choice but to defend themselves. 

In case you haven't surmised by this time, I was groped once.  I was young and imminently gropable.  Walking down a sparsely populated corridor of a shopping mall, a man ambushed me and salaciously ran his hand from the bottom to the top of my nubile fanny.  I was at once nonplussed, disgusted, and furious.  Don't misunderstand, I was far from prudish and had had my share of solicited male attention, but the sneaky, perverted, self-absorbed attack was repulsive, even though the actual act felt more like a caress than a crude gesture of appreciation.  Fortunately, the perp beat a hasty retreat before I could act, because I was so shaken I do believe I would have slapped him at the very least.

So, guys, I say, "Go ahead, grab my ass".  But be forewarned, I'm older, wiser, and less easily intimidated than that twenty-something girl who was flummoxed by the sheer unexpected audacity of the unwanted contact.  And if I hear you laughing at the ludicrous idea that anyone would want to grope this granny's ass, you'd better look out too.

The thing about horses is that they are calm, gentle creatures until they're not.  Then you've got 1,200 pounds of hysterical animal on the end of a leather rein.

I took Gemela out in the hills this afternoon thinking I'd have a nice quiet ride.  Sally and I had ridden bikes in the morning so I was not feeling very energetic.  Gemela had other ideas.  She headed out at a brisk walk but broke into a trot at every opportunity and when I gave her the okay to lope, she thought we should run.  I worked her on some hills thinking it would wear her out but she seemed to get more energized with every climb and when we headed home it was a constant battle to keep her in a walk.

She has a quirk that I have yet to figure out and that is when we get about half way home, she stops.  It takes some persuasion to get her moving again and then she will stop again a few feet down the trail.  She will stand perfectly still, something she won't do when I want her to, as long as I have the patience to wait.  Today, I had to take the crop out and swat her repeatedly to get her to move on.  Finally she decided she was ready and then she walked as eagerly as before.

We came to a gate that I have to get off to open. 

Here's the gate as we found it:

It's about 12' wide and very heavy.  It's difficult to open it because as it swings open, it drops down until, when it's wide enough to walk a horse through it, it's almost touching the ground.  It's tricky to hold the big, heavy gate with one hand, while coaxing a horse to walk around it by pulling the reins in a wide arc.  The horse meanwhile, is more interested in nibbling the grass in front of the gate or making friends with the white shepherd who is behind the fence barking at us.  Once I get the horse to move through the gate, I have to drag it back up to it's closed position.

Despite being as careful as I could, Gemela got her left hind foot behind the gate when it was near the ground.  When she tried to lift her foot over it, the bar got caught on her foot, pulling it forward.  As it came forward it rose up on its arc which made it even harder for her to step over it.  As it got caught between her front legs and her back legs she kept lunging forward, trying to get her rear leg over it but her forward momentum just made it go higher until it was up against her belly.  At this point she started to panic, trying to get over the bar.  Things happened so fast that I don't really know how she did it but she dragged that gate all the way through the opening which brought it against my back and the force of it hitting me knocked me flat on the ground.  When the gate began it's downward arc on the inside she manged to get clear of it but now it was swinging towards her. 

I was suddenly aware of hooves and belly above me and I scrambled on hands and knees to get out from under the panicked horse.  Somewhere along the way, I let go of the reins.  As I got to my feet, I saw her crash between the gate post and the chain link fence in a desperate attempt to escape the attacking gate.  Thankfully, the soil was soft from the recent rains and the post gave way.  She crashed to the ground on the other side.

Before she could get to her feet, I was in front of her, speaking calmly and holding my arms out wide to keep her from bolting away.  She scrambled to her feet and looked at me wildly for a second.  Then in typical Andalusian fashion, she regained her composure and let me walk up to her and take the reins. 

She stood quietly as I collected myself and assessed her injuries.  When I'd ascertained that she was uninjured, except for a small cut on the inside of her hind leg, I began an inventory of my own damage.  There was a tear in my right forearm that was bleeding copiously and both elbows and both knees were scraped.  A baseball sized lump was forming on my left quadriceps muscle.  But, considering how wrong the whole thing could have gone, I felt extremely lucky.

Back at the barn, I discovered I'd dropped my crop and, thinking I really should repair the damage I'd done to the gate, I drove up there to photograph the damage.  I figured Mike could reset the post in concrete and it would be good as new.  And that, my friends, is how you get to see the site of the near disaster.

I had to walk a short way as the road is blocked by another gate lower down.  I could see the wounded gate slumped ahead in the dusk.

I was on hands and knees between the gate and the fence when Gemela decided the only escape was between the post and the fence.  I must have crawled under the gate to get out of her way but I have no recollection of that.

Can you believe a 1,200 pound horse fit through this gap?!

If you look closely, you can see white hairs on this post. 

After I closed the gate, the post didn't look so sad.  That's my crop sitting on top of the post.

I don't think I'll go that way anymore.

Have you ever noticed that when an unshod horse slides on the pavement it smells like burnt hair?   It's weird because I think of hooves as being like fingernails but they're actually another version of hair.  Perhaps fingernails are too.

I was cleaning stalls today and I let Gemela out into the breezeway of the barn while I cleaned her stall.  Normally I would turn her out in the arena but the rain has made it rather muddy.  She was all wound up and came charging out of her stall, sliding on the rubber mats as she turned the corner.  She proceeded to sniff at Flo through the bars of his stall, squealing and acting all sexy for him.  I knew that it would escalate into striking and kicking, which is hard on the barn and dangerous to her legs so I herded her into a corner and quieted her down to get a halter on her.  She's a lot of show but really gentle at heart, so it's not alarming when she prances with excitement on the lead as I walk her down to the arena.  I hated to turn her loose in that red dirt but there was only one way for her to work out that pent up energy.

She immediately found a nice damp spot and dropped down on her side with a grunt of pleasure.  Then rolling onto her back, she ground the red clay deep into her white mane.  Abruptly, she leaped to her feet and charged around the arena, snorting and farting with gusto.  Nostrils flared, she stood at the gate for a moment, then decided to have another go at turning herself red.  She flopped down on the other side (she's too old and fat to roll all the way over anymore) and finished the treatment.  Then she had to have another spin around the arena, flinging clods of dirt up behind her and executing a beautiful flying lead change as she shifted direction approaching the fence.  She slid to a stop, head up, legs squared perfectly, her darkly-rimmed, doe eyes sparkling with excitement, the picture of equine nobility.  And she was ready to go back to her newly cleaned stall with its deep, fragrant pine shavings, where she immediately peed.

Flo is so different from his sister.  He walks calmly beside me to the arena but the moment I remove the halter (and sometimes before) he bolts away, bucking and kicking, and of course, farting.  Horses are like men that way.  He's more expressive when he goes down for a roll.  He groans loudly as he rubs his neck in the dirt and kicks clods of dirt onto his belly.  Same result...white horse turned red. ~sigh~

Despite increased vigilance, Bob has again reinforced his vainglorious self image. 

As he grows weaker we monitor his outdoor activities more and more closely, realizing that he probably couldn't outrun or out-climb any pursuer, should he ever be so inclined.  He quickly learned that if he kept his peregrinations limited to the back yard, which is completely fenced, we wouldn't make him come into the house.  Anytime he made his way towards the front yard and the neighbors' yards, he would be quickly rounded up and placed in protective custody.

Yesterday, Mom came tottering from the back (she lives in a cozy little granny flat in the back yard) to report that there was a big black dog in the yard.  I didn't get too hysterical because our neighbors to the South have a big black pup who is a bit over friendly but mostly harmless.  He likes to come visit whenever he gets the opportunity, which is fairly often. 

Mike and I went out back to round him up and discovered that the "big black dog" was instead, the full grown Rottweiler who lives kitty-corner behind us.  She was accompanied by her new sidekick, a young lerpy hound type dog.  They were on safari in our yard, happily chasing the young, outdoor cats, who scattered with the graceful agility of small cheetahs.  Our fattest cat can scale the seven+ foot fence on the north side with ease.

Bob, who had been dozing near the back door,

came to attention when Mike charged towards the back yard.  He strode into the chaos ahead of Mike, determined to restore order.  The younger dog spotted Bob first and bounded towards him.  The poor thing had a face full of cat before he could rethink his strategy.  The Rotty, excited by the pitiful yelps of her companion, threw caution to the wind and grabbed Bob by the back of the neck.  But before she could get a grip, Mike roared at her to cease & desist.  She released the cat, Mike scooped him up, and I futilely flapped about trying to gain control over the two dogs who now were loping out the gate and down the driveway. 

I managed to grab the collar of the young hound while Mike stashed Bob in the house.  We couldn't get a hold on Princess (the Rotty) but when she saw her friend had been apprehended, she followed.  I had to carry the stupid hound, who weighed about thirty pounds, because he slipped his collar when I tried to lead him.  We finally got both dogs back in their yard,

and the hole they'd dug filled with dog poop and rocks.

Bob lobbied relentlessly, the rest of the afternoon, to be allowed to go back out to teach those impudent canines a lesson.

I would like to believe that Bob is so smart that he didn't go into the back yard until reinforcements came out of the house.  And there may be some merit to that idea as the dogs had been frolicking about the yard for perhaps a minute or so before Mom could alert us, and he didn't go back there until he saw us.  But, I suspect it was just luck that saved him.

I'm going out on limb here.  I'm going to ask a few questions that may be provocative but inquiring minds want to know.

1.  There are many ideas that we embrace because we have #faith or trust in another.  For instance, if you believe in global warming (or the more politically correct, "climate change") you probably do so more because you find the experts credible, than because of your own experience.  And if you hold particular religious beliefs, your faith is based on credible people in your life who have told you that these tenents are true.  So, my first question is, what do you believe in, beyond a reasonable doubt, that you do not have tangible proof of.  (please excuse the preposition at the end of the sentence)

2.  What commonly held belief (by others) do you find the most implausible?

3.  What belief do you hold that others might find unfathomable?

4.  Do you ever wish that you could believe or appreciate something that others do wholeheartedly?

5.  Do your beliefs make you feel like a part of a larger community or do you feel isolated by them.

As I ponder my own answers to the above, I find that each answer generates another question.  Because not everyone uses the gentlest hands to sift the wheat from the chaff, I would not recommend baring one's soul in this forum; but, it's an exercise in introspection to think about these things privately.  And it could be fun to hear the remarks of others on ideas that aren't too close to the heart for comfort.

I credit one of my oldest subscriptions, @fauquet, and my newest, @justjase, for making me think of something other than mountain biking.  Fauquet writes of his stalwart faith, and JustJase writes of his unbridled music appreciation, two things that I sometimes long to understand.