tollipop

death by bike shorts

 
Dear reader, I went for a bike ride in this yesterday.  And now I can't tell if I'm alive or merely the surprise ending of an M. Night Shyamalan movie.

It was that cold.

I honestly cannot tell you how cold it was.  I mean, the thermostat read 30 degrees, but that doesn't begin to describe the freezing wind that reached down my throat and jangled my kidneys with its cold, dead fingers, the tiny shards of ice that removed an epidermal layer from my face, and the sense of hopelessness that encompassed me about five minutes into the journey.

But that, no doubt, was because the Dementors were breeding. 

 
I took this picture before the excursion, when all ten fingers were still present and accounted for.

I don't really know what got into me.  Did I wake up feeling how tedious it is to be alive?  Did I develop a yen for necrotic tissue?  I don't know.  But this ride changed everything.

I typically follow a certain route that takes me out into the desert, so it's not as if you can change your mind once you've gone down the road a little ways.  You either keep going or you'll to end up like one of those maniacs who wander around Mount Everest, brains starving for oxygen, bereft of the common sense to return to base camp.

Except I'm not sure I can blame my behavior on the altitude.

But honestly, dear reader, except for the exquisite pain in my hands, I didn't really care.  I'm telling you, it took me right  back back to my childhood of running with the wolves.  In fact, I'm pretty sure my entire life flashed before my eyes.

When I reached the summit, I noticed a car with Alberta license plates. 

"Alright," I thought, "Let's do this thing." 

So I pedalled over to the passengers and started asking them if they knew anybody I grew up with.  They regarded me with a look that was two parts shock and concern, one part fear. 

"Dear, aren't you cold?," one of the ladies asked.

"Well yes, I am, now that you mention it," I said, "But hey, we're all Canadian, right?"

There was an uncomfortable silence and the expressions on their faces clearly said, "We're Canadian.  You have done lost your mind."

They offered to give me a ride and I was all, "I don't accept rides from strangers.  And unless we can find someone we know in common, then we're strangers."

So I made them sit there until I told them all the Canadians I knew, but as luck would have it, it appears we ran in different circles.  Which is actually pretty hard to do up north. 

Then they drove off and I rode away, happy to have gotten about 45 "ehs" out of my system.  

When I got back to my car, I was so frozen I couldn't even open the door.  Using my hands like Muppet paws, I manouvered the key into the lock and managed to get the door open the old-fashioned way (which I had almost forgotten was possible).  I sat there in a catatonic state with the heat blasting until I was thawed enough to put my bike on the rack and drive home.  Where I made a cup of hot chocolate the temperature of the earth's core.

Ah, dear reader, good times.  My Christmas wish of a little winter came early this year and now I am home, surrounded by loved ones who are massaging the life back into my extremeties.

I hope you have a lovely weekend, too.

come away with me

The desert is a complex creature, shaded by mood and nuance.  Part zen, part hitman--you'd better go out there knowing you're at the whim of its caprice.

 
 Today it was zen.

Lately I've been out here on my bike.  No, that is not me rounding the bend.  That is a guy and furthermore, I ride side-saddle.

There's something about riding a bike.  It's like the ultimate time machine.  I'm sure I look exactly what I am--a genteel lady of a certain age--but in my mind I feel like a ten year old girl, all knees and elbows, pedalling ferociously, braids in flight.  And my mind is completely free.

Plus, there's all sorts of interesting characters along the way.  I rescued this fine fellow the other day.  He was not especially pleased by my help, but those on the verge of becoming snake pancake are hardly in a position to discriminate.  I spoke to him in my best Parseltongue, but he sniffed and said I had a Canadian accent.

I also saw three tarantulas, but they did not appear in need of assistance and I must say I'd be hard pressed to offer it even if they did.  I think we are all familiar with a spider's propensity to leap ten feet in the air and suck off your face.  I mean, there are urban legends and then there are cold, hard facts.

People often talk about the energy of a place.  There is good energy in the desert.  Especially when it's not in the mood to annihilate you.

I always leave here feeling tired, bemused, grounded, processed, distant, connected, dreamy, lighter, happy...and grateful to be alive.  What do they call that again?  A natural high?

Desert, je t'aime.  Especially at this time of year.
 

great day for a bike ride

On Saturday morning Roger and I had grand plans to get up before the sun and go for a bike ride.  Why would anyone want to get up before the sun?  I don't know, but it sure was fun talking about those plans.

Now I am going to tell you something lovely about the desert.  For the next eight months, I will be able to come out here and go for a bike ride anytime I want.  The sun will be shining.  The air will be pleasant.  And I will be riding like the wind so the desert can't catch up with me. 

If I have any issues, if something is on my mind, the desert will sweat it out of me.  For real.  The desert is kind of like a panoramic therapist's couch that uses the threat of extinction to get you talking.

Just between you and me, I'm a little worried the desert suspects I would rather be living somewhere else with four distinct seasons.  How it got that impression, I don't know, but the other day the desert came up and kissed me on both cheeks and I did not take that as a good sign. 

Listen, of all the places you don't want to tick off, the desert should be at the top of your list.  You better have a healthy respect for this place, unless you don't mind being turned into a pillar of salt.  That's why when I'm out in the middle of it, I spend all my time telling the desert there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

warning: staring directly at legs may lead to blindness, whiteout, or a severe aversion to the underbellies of fish.

 

Dear reader, I have a funny feeling no one follows Tollipop as a running blog per se, but every once in awhile I glance at the cobweb-covered running category in the upper right hand corner of this page and wonder if I'm letting any Olympic hopefuls down. 

I do still run, you know.  In fact, against my better judgement I went for a run this evening in triple degree heat.  I stepped outside into what felt like a sauna minus the humidity, which would be...what?  A furnace?  And it felt as if I was surrounded by thousands of high priests from an ancient civilization chanting in a cryptic tongue, so I whipped out my Indiana Jones decoder ring and made out the following: Burnt offering coming right up!

Then I realized it was just the cicadas.

In all honesty, I love cicadas.  Why?  Because they help me to pretend I'm in the south of France.  Trust me, if you're a cicada in Provence, they treat you like a rock star.

But none of this really tells you anything about my penchant for running.  It all started one day back when I was about fifteen years old.  I was walking along the seemingly endless two-lane country highway near my house and thought: I could run this thing.  So I did.  And I never looked back. 

I used to have a little tradition on my birthday of running as many kilometres as my new age, which was a fun challenge up until I turned twenty or so.  Seeing as how this year would demand twice as much distance, plus everything in the United States is in miles, I am leaning more toward the dinner and a movie option. 

The runs I did in Canada were amazing.  They always filled my heart with awe for the splendor of this earth.  I still see those horizons in my mind's eye and am grateful I never wasted a minute of loving my beautiful childhood home. 

The runs I do in Las Vegas are also wonderful, just in a different way.  If I am on a trail in the desert, the scenery is spectacular.  The desert has this way of reducing you to a pillar of salt which I find oddly therapeutic.  As in, if you are lucky enough to stagger out of there alive, you can't get over how good water tastes!  How soft your pillow feels!  How amazing it is you can push a button and a doorbell rings!  It's all amazing!  You hug your loved ones a bit tighter and leave some of your emotional baggage behind.

If I am running through the suburbs...well, that calls for a little more imagination.  I free my mind and don't pay a whole lot of attention to my surroundings.  Sometimes a truck full of guys will drive by and yell something out the window.  Something like: Hey, mama! 

That's it.  Just mama. 

It is never preceded by words like hot or sexy.  Nor is there any kind of whistle or revving of engines.  I know because I waited for it.  All of which makes it tricky to parse a compliment from the gesture, but I'm sure their intentions were honorable nevertheless.

So that's it.  Me and running.  It feels like one of my oldest friends, something which is familiar, soothing, and links me back to that awkward girl loping down the highway who sometimes seems very much unknown to the people who are a part of my world today. 

Except for the awkwardness.  I don't think I'll ever fool anyone out of noticing that.

trail run

 

Sometimes in the morning, once I've taken the girls to school, I come out here and go for a run.

 

The desert makes me feel solitary, remote, yet aware of my small place in the universe...

 

and filled with a sense of God's grandeur and presence.

   

Wait--aren't those the crones who squabbled over their all-seeing eye?  It would appear Perseus has yet to give it back.

 

This little fellow is having a zen moment.  Breathe in, guy.  Hold it.  Exhale.

   

I know.  Feels good out here. 

wishing you a lovely weekend...

Last night I went for a nice long run.  It felt pretty gorgeous, disappearing into the darkness and forgetting about things. I know this isn't an original thought, but the night does kind of feel like velvet.  People ask me if I'm afraid to go running in the dark but I just give them a look that conveys my utter derision of fear.  They don't know about my deadly twelve touch move, something that took years to perfect, wherein I render my attacker's pancreas to function at half capacity.  The only hitch is getting all twelve touches in before the other guy socks me a good one, but I'm shaving seconds off my time every day. 

You know what really scares me about running in the dark?  Pine cones.  When they're on the ground.  Because twice now I've been barrelling down the street in the middle of the night, so one with the universe and BAM!  I'm suddenly face down on the pavement in a world of pain.  The second time it happened I was about five hundred paces from a gated neighborhood where friends of ours lived.  I literally dragged myself over to the code box and started scrolling through the numbers to find their name when the husband pulled up in his car, leaned out the window and said, "Hey, they put these security systems in place to keep people like you out!" 

And you know how when something hurts really badly and someone makes you laugh, and for a split second everything's hysterical and you think you're still laughing but instead you're really crying?  Yeah, that. 

And I'm telling you--but for my mortal agony, the look on his face was pure comic gold.  One minute he's all flush with the glory of cracking a successful joke, the next he's plunged into some weird detour where he isn't sure what's going on, and finally the utter horror of making a girl cry distills itself fully upon his senses.  Sometimes, when I'm having a bad day, I think about the evolution of that look, how someone's face could go from so right to so wrong in less than ten seconds, and it always makes me smile.  You might even say it was almost worth it. 

I'm sorry I don't have a picture to go with this story, but here's a little exercise.  Imagine the color eggplant.  Imagine a dinosaur sized ankle.  Now you have a visual.  If you'd prefer something a bit more scenic, here is a picture of some purchases I made over the weekend, because who passes up the chance to show a little 4th of July patriotism at the fabric stores?

here's to you, old boy

Yesterday evening I went for a trail run out in the desert--the first since last summer.  It was long, lonely and lovely...a much needed reminder of the beauty that is a mere ten minute drive from my house.  It made me miss my old pal, Boris, though.  He was great company on those runs, blending into the desert like a ghost, running circles around me with his boundless energy, putting a smile on my face just to see how happy a dog can be out in the middle of nowhere. 

One thing he wasn't very good at--chasing rabbits.  I mean, I just assumed he would sense them with some super canine instinct, but there were jackrabbits hopping across our path all the time and Boris would be too busy sniffing a rock to notice.  However, when he decided to go after something, he did a thorough job.  I once saw him take off across the desert chasing a lone burro until they both disappeared into a little ravine behind the hill I was on.  Ten minutes later, an entire herd of wild burros came thundering over the crest of the hill toward me, braying fit to kill.  That's when I started running warp factor 10.  

We adopted Boris over a year ago from some people who were about to give him up.  The girls loved him dearly, and herein laid the problem.  I suppose Caroline loved him a bit too much, and that in combination with the fact Boris could not accept being lower than her in the pecking order resulted in the problematic occurrence of him biting her from time to time.  No matter how much I tried to work with Caroline in terms of showing proper affection, or how I tried to manage Boris in terms of not gnawing off her face, it seemed the problem was, if anything, getting worse. 

Finally, right around the Christmas holidays, Boris made the mistake of biting Caroline in my husband's presence.  Within a few weeks, he was off to a new home on a farm, with a couple whose kids are grown and who were looking for a companion dog for their own Weimaraner.  So I suppose it was the best possible solution to the situation, though we all felt terribly about it.  In addition, it was only a few weeks afterward that my mom passed away.  I don't think parenting books even bother to advise against the potential situation of compounding the loss of a family member by giving up a pet, as they surely assume no parent would be so dense, so unfit to pull that move.  It was not our moment in the sun to say the least, but in truth, through all the grieving and the tears my girls shed over my mom, sometimes I was oddly relieved when they would switch and start crying over how much they missed the dog. 

At any rate, I promise to write about something a bit lighter next time.  Like the proposal I recently made to myself to even remotely consider cutting back on sugar.  Which, in the unlikely event it ever happens, should be a barrel of laughs.

you know how your metabolism starts to slow down after the age of 35? well, this stuff really drop kicks it in the face.

 

Please allow me to introduce you to my latest facial:  Trader Joe's Imported English Authentic Lemon Curd.  The word authentic is apparently crucial because there are all kinds of imposter curds out there masquerading as the real thing.  It has put the queen in a right tizzy and she's got her corgis nosing around the docks as we speak, nipping at the heels of anyone who smells like this. 

 

At any rate, it's no joke, this metabolism thing.  I was at Caroline's cello lesson the other day and made the mistake of picking up her teacher's Good Housekeeping magazine which fell open to an article entitled:  How your metabolism grinds to a halt in your mid-thirties, so sorry if that happens to be you, because now you have nothing left to live for.

   

The article also said if you only do one form of exercise, like running for example, then you're more doomed than ever because your body will get bored with the activity and be all, "Sorry, pal, but I'm not burning any more calories until you get a life."  As it happens, the only form of exercise I do is running.  So basically, this article gave me every reason to hope for the future.  Hey, Good Housekeeping, I'd like to take a bat-sized Toblerone and whap you over the head. 

 

Speaking of running, a few years ago my friend began training for a marathon.  I was so intrigued!  So inspired!  So close to joining her on this quest.  Then I found out about the training regimen.  Do you like precision handiwork?  A military lifestyle?  Folding Martha Stewart's t-shirts?   If so, then training for a marathon is for you.  On a predetermined day you hook yourself up to a machine with tons of wires and suction cups sticking to your body, and you begin running while scientists in lab coats scream at you in a foreign language.  From the results of this test you average your speed and determine how fast you need to run in order to reach your marathon goal. After that, every time you lose focus and start slowing down, Lance Armstrong comes out of nowhere and pings you with yellow wristbands.  

 

Five minutes into her explanation of the training, I was sitting in a corner and humming loudly to myself.  Keeping track of how far I run and how long it takes me to do it?  Not my cup of tea.  Concealing bottles of water in the desert at night and hoping I can recognize which cactus is my hiding spot when I stagger by at an unearthly hour the following morning?  Doesn't tickle my fancy.  Oh, and another thing I don't want to do?  Run 26 miles.  

 

I'm the kind of runner who runs in order not to think.  My best runs are when my brain disengages from my body and I forget about the physical world altogether.  My worst runs are when I cannot ignore the fact, every step of the way, that I'm running.

every time I consider going sugar-free, a box of these comes waltzing into my life.

Just kidding, dear reader, I would never give up sweets.  It wouldn't be fair to the rest of the world.  For one thing, it's hard to justify the incremental benefit to my health when my resulting state of mind would punch a hole in the ozone layer. 

Anyway, darn you, Trader Joe!  You mysterious, exotic merchant of the seas, collecting your tidbits and morsels from around the world, staring at me across the room with your smoldering eyes and mouthing the words crunchy, flavorful toffeed pistachio nuts individually coated with rich dark chocolate until my tea cup trembles and I suddenly feel faint.  Is toffeed even a word or is it something you conjured up, knowing how it would make me swoon?

Oh, my.  I am tired tonight (as is my custom, this post is being written late on the eve before it goes to press).  I just finished getting the girls to bed.  It is the loveliest, coziest time of the day, this twenty minutes or so that I spend reading to them.  Sophie actually leans her head on my shoulder.  The other two girls, since we are reading in their bedroom, carefully arrange chairs for us to sit in.  No matter how long I read, they always beg for more, and some of the most interesting conversations ensue from their questions afterward.  We have nearly completed Fantastic Mr. Fox and Caroline has already lined up a new book entitled The Adventures of Reddy Fox.  I don't think I need to clarify the pattern here.  The girls have an inordinate interest in my stories about wolves, coyotes, and foxes.  I once told them the tale of the ill-fated wedding party in My Antonia and they demanded I repeat it five times on the spot, just to make sure they had all the facts straight. 

Here is one story I will not be telling them, since it involves behavior on my part that calls into question my credentials as an intelligent being.  A couple of summers ago, I became smitten with the concept of trail running.  There is an amazing red rock canyon just ten minutes or so down the highway from our home, and I would drive out there in the evenings and run along a trail through the desert.  Nice, right?  On one occasion, however, I failed to negotiate how quickly the sun was planning to drop behind the mountains and suddenly, out in the middle of nowhere, I realized it was too dark to see more than a few feet ahead of me.

I was forced to slow down and concentrate more carefully on the ground, since the terrain was rocky and it was difficult to see where I was going.  At that moment, seemingly three feet behind me, a long, mournful howl came out of the darkness.  I tell you I jumped twice my height into the air.  The need to tread carefully didn't seem like such a priority anymore and I began a long-legged dash through the desert.  The voice howled again, closing in behind me, and as if that wasn't bad enough, it was answered by another voice located somewhere in the direction I was heading.  A conversation ensued, and I may not speak wolf, but this is exactly what it sounded like to me:

Wolf 1:  Hey, Mack--are you hungry?  Because I'm hot on the trail of a pair of Adidas.  I'm pretty sure it's gonna take two of us to bring this girl down, but just think how we'll be grubbing tonight!

Wolf 2:  Yes! Yes! Yes! Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, yes!

Wolf 1: Well, get ready 'cause she's coming your way.  On my signal, you jump out from behind that cactus looking all rabid and mangy, and I'll go for the ankles.

Wolf 2: Yes! Yes! Yes!  Here she comes and she smells like chicken!

So by now I'm in an all out sprint, running so fast my feet are barely touching the ground.  I'm entering into all kinds of negotiations with whoever will listen: promises to be a better wife, a better mom, to make my bed, to stop screening my calls.  And suddenly--THUD!  I crash into what feels like the Great Wall of China, only it's a wild burro, dear reader.  A wild burro. 

There aren't enough exclamation marks in the universe to do this moment justice, so I won't even bother.  This burro just stands there staring at me like, "Where's the fire?," and I'm all, "The sky is falling!  The sky is falling!"  And then I'm off again, running in circles, unable to breathe, making a whole new batch of promises to stop watching reality TV and let my husband buy a table saw.

Well, so...you know how this story ends, right?  Just like that movie where the narrator begins by telling you some terrible thing that happened to her last summer.  No matter how bad it gets, you know she's going to make it.  She has to. 

Otherwise, how would she still be talking to you?

you can share mine

Do you have a favorite ice cream memory?  I’m thinking of the fudgesicles that were sold at school track meets back in 7^th grade which seemed so impossibly delicious at the time.    I don’t know why I joined the track team.  Perhaps because I measured 5”11 at birth and the coach gave me a package of peanuts to sign up?  Was it the fudgesicles?  Whatever the reason, I had no business dabbling in individual competition.  There was this girl, her name was April, and I think she was responsible for my first five ulcers.  Somehow we ended up in every running event together.  She’d trash talk me until my bladder control would throw up its hands up and say, That’s it—I quit. 

 

The following is not a composite sketch from my memory, but a reenactment of actual events: 

 

Scene: me, April, and some other girls at the starting line of the 800 meters, waiting for the gun to go off. 

 

April: (looking me dead in the eyes) I’m gonna beat you.

Me: (nodding like a personal assistant) Oh, okay.

April:  You’re gonna eat my dust.

Me: (throat instantly parched) If you say so.

April:  Know what’s gonna happen if I don’t beat you?

Me:  That shouldn’t be a problem—we have a gentlemen’s agreement.  My word is my bond.

April:  What did you just say?

Me:  I mean, you’re going to win the race.

April: (leering at me) That’s right I’m gonna win this race.  Because you’re gonna get beat up if that doesn’t happen. 

 

Then, and I kid you not, she reached out and grabbed my chin.  My chin! 

 

April: Understand?

Me: (dumbstruck, nodding)

April:  That’s what I thought.

 

Hey, April—The Sopranos called and they want their scene back.  I mean, what the…?!  I am telling you—take any notoriously tough, gang-ridden, inner city neighborhood in the United States and pit it against the little Canadian logging town of my childhood and hands down, we will grind it up like sawdust.  With our teeth. 

 

All of this begs the question—can someone invent a new word to describe the depths of timidity implicit in allowing a twelve-year-old girl to grab one’s chin at the starting line of an 800m foot race? 

 

At any rate…I must say I am surprised at the memories that are surfacing thanks to this little blog.  You probably think I am writing this in a darkened room while reclining on a couch.  And the computer keeps saying: Very interesting, Kirsten--can we explore that a little further? (even though it is secretly eyeing the clock).  I really wanted something lovely to go with this sweet little drawing and instead I keep dredging up all kinds of brackish fare.  I know—tomorrow I will take my girls out for ice cream, for no particular reason, and let them choose whatever they want.