My brother came to visit me. Although he is almost a foot taller than me, he’s still my little brother, so excuse me if a brag a moment. He’s been on a mountain bike trail once before, maybe 10 years ago? So I took him to the Kettles on a loaner bike with flat peddles. My brother is a courier in Seattle, where the hills appall the messengers from San Francisco - and he proceeded to mash my face off. He also cleared everything we rode that day, including all the stuff on the connector to Emma. And I think he went easy on me. I want to get him a power meter now just so I can be completely terrified.
I used to ride my bike at night in Seattle. If you are commonly mistaken for a little girl and also between permanent residences in that town, my advice to you is to sleep during the day, when nocturnal prowling is at a relative lull. This leaves your evenings and early mornings free to wander. Later in that same life, the only part of business travel I really enjoyed was the rental bikes. Why waste those jet-lagged hours when you can spend your nights with a bicycle, spectacularly lost in a foreign city? I’ve been lost with a bike in San Francisco, Baltimore, Amsterdam, Groningen, Gottenberg, Copenhagen, and Paris and there is something special about exploration salted with uncertainty. The greatest of my small adventures was in Paris, when I decided to cut through the train station at 4 AM to return to my hotel, and rode a long narrow ramp that I assumed was for the parking garage up into the second level of the station. The small tunnel was brightly illuminated for a few feet, and then the light went out completely and I was blind, wide-eyed, and moving forward towards a dim opening that was suddenly a catwalk above the tracks, inside the rafters of the station. A rolling miracle. And so, last night, when circumstances left me ill-equipped to ride but for my sense of adventure, I said “stuff the road bike, floor pump and batteries - I’m going to Lake Koshkonong anyway.” And I have to admit, a pitch black night lost in Stoughton did not equal the romance of Paris. But then, it started to rain and I was reminded. My legs were warm, the road belonged to me and the racoons alone, and I was as free as that little bird from Seattle.
I had a great time riding at the last WORS race. I may also have confessed my undying love to the proprietor of Benno’s, who was wielding a spray hose of nice cool water at the top of our climb.
My brother was in town from Seattle after the race. We went to the Kettles and though he’s been on a MTB only once before, he ripped my legs off on the Blue Loop and Connector and cleared everything. I’m telling everyone I taught him everything he knows.
I harvested some produce from the “garden” on my porch to take to Minnesota.
And we buried my Dad. Dug his grave ourselves at the town cemetery. It was a good service.
The next day, my brother and I fitted out Grandma’s walker with some flames, streamers, and a bell. She was pretty happy about it.
Back in Madison now and planning to be on a bike soon. Things are looking up.
Pull My Strings: The New PuppetryBike Snob NYC
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