And at the beginning of December, I joined the Distance Challenge: 1,250km. 776 miles, or around 180 miles/week. Did NOT think I’d do that. Wasn’t on pace to do it either, but then towards the end of the month another challenge popped up: The Rapha Festive 500. 500km between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve. 300 miles in 8 short, dark, cold days, and 5 of them were full time work days. The spirit of the challenge is to go and do adventurous things, festive holiday-themed things. I did one festive thing, a Christmas loop up through Ojai and then up even more and around to Santa Paula. The rest of it was commutes and boring loops and even more boring laps up and down my street — but I did it in 7 days.~me, a couple days ago
There was a bit more to it than that, actually. Fortunately, even though my own memory had edited itself into that flippant, dismissive paragraph, the real memory was preserved because at the time I had this fantasy that I’d enter my epic journey into the contest of stories, where my budding little-old-lady charm and whimsical way with prose would … uh … how can I put this delicately … win. Yeah, yeah I know. I used my Medium account, thinking I needed to have it somewhere other than here, anywhere but here.
Well but here we are now. And here’s this, which was dated 12/24/2015 and kept together all in one (unlisted) post, mostly because I did at one point publish it and no one looked, so I figured I’d act natural and pretend I meant it to be like that.
For years, I commuted by bike. This year, I became a cyclist. “But,” you might argue, and rightfully so, “those are the same things.” And they are, except for the being a different person part. It is the night before Christmas, and this seems both instinctive and foolish, but then again so does almost everything else, so it’s fine.
[You just went and read it, right? OK]
And that’s where it ended, in the middle of the beginning of what I’d hoped would be a lyrical, wry, devastating but ultimately charming rendition of my inner dialog. I vowed to return to it, and didn’t. I had thirty days to submit it, meant to do it right up to the last minute, and didn’t. I didn’t even submit my Strava records to get the fucking roundel. And I wanted that roundel.
In my mind I was going to finish recreating that charming rendition finally this evening when I returned from the grocery store with the various hydration beverages and snacks I’ll need tomorrow on my inadvisable Simi Valley turnaround, ninety-something miles in ninety-something degree weather. [Side note: I don’t have to do it. Not in the slightest. Certainly not with a ten pound backpack, that’s completely and utterly unnecessary in every possible sense of the concept.]
I should instead go and prepare the frozen bottles and the other frozen bottles and maybe a sack of frozen water I can dump over my self, right when it’s turned liquid but before it’s gone warm, which hopefully happens right around the time I give out/in/up, thus saving me from my own surrender. I loathe to admit it — loathe is not even really a strong enough word for it — but I am a delicate flower and there is really no such thing as overpreparation when or wherever this much fragility is in evidence. I don’t even change my own fucking flats because the Schwalbe Marathon Plus is too much tire for my weak little girly hands. I have road service though. I call a number and the automated menu finds me with my GPS then a nice person sends a big truck for my little bike and I.
unresolved repercussions from your life
fortified with the vitriol of strife
and you can be gridlocked by predictions,
but you’re wise grab the prize
then revise, realize
there will be a way~greg graffin
I will admit this I love writing again. Minecraft too. Fuck I’m busy. I love that too.