Road Rules

What the hell is the deal with drivers in intersections looking right and merely glancing left?!

You know what, I'm going to (ironically) be the bigger person here and forget for a moment that a whopping four of you almost killed me during my ride about town this afternoon in order to provide you with two pieces of wisdom.

NUMBER 1

In this culture, we are taught from a VERY young age (think infancy) to read things from left to right.  Keep in mind here, I'm saying read things, not books.  As soon as we are born, we begin looking around.  We may not immediately track anything specific but we see the way our caregivers do and we pick up on that. Guess what we begin to notice? They're tracking left to right. Since babies begin to mimic what they see it's no surprise that you developed this behavioral trait.  In fact, by three months, when you were visually tracking faces, situations, stimuli, and other things, you did it from... (dat dat dada) left to right. Then, when you were introduced to picture books, signs, and eventually  words, this left to right looking  thing was repeatedly reinforced.  So, what you're doing at intersections is counterintuitive.  It makes no sense, and you're likely putting in more effort to combat your habitualized pattern of scanning surroundings to engage in a potentially dangerous behavior. Which leads me to my second point.

NUMBER 2

Unless you're  a brand new driver, this should be common sense, but just for the sake of your own edification I'm going to remind you of something rather crucial. Brace yourselves. Are you ready for it?

K.  Here it is:

The oncoming traffic closest to you is coming from your left side!

While you're peering past the empty passenger seat of your likely over-sized death wagon, you are completely missing that "jackass" who is about to come "out of nowhere" to t-bone you.  This is the thing that baffles me the most.  You'd think you're own inherent sense of self-preservation would protect you from missing this, but it appears it doesn't. 

Alright.  I'll quit ranting now, but before I go, do us all a favor, and start to think about what you're doing behind the wheel.  You might just save a life.

Working On It

Image found here

Right after I accepted the job that got me started down this path, and shortly before I actually began doing it, I had a rather significant freak out. I remember it distinctly.

I was sitting in my cleverly designated "office" (also known as my parents' dinning room) anxiously fiddling through HR paperwork. Like the good-little neurotic employee I planned to be, I had logged into the company email remotely to set up my account preferences so they would be ready in two weeks when I actually started. Excited, I realized that I had already been added to the team e-mail list. The curiosity tagged the over-achiever in me, and I clicked the first of several messages open. What I discovered was an overwhelming amount of information about deadlines, time frames, and expectations all cloaked in some kind of agency jargon that made no sense to me.

Shit, I thought. I don't know how to do any of this!

Then I did what any responsible and mature 23 year old woman does. 

I ran crying to my mommy.

Through broken breaths and heaving sobs, I frantically described for her what a massive mistake I had made. I told her I wasn't ready. Like a crazy person I speculated about my imposter status. I rationalized that I had wanted this job so badly I had actually tricked several experienced mental health professionals into thinking I knew what I was talking about.

Likely bewildered, my mother patted my back. She looked me in the eye and frankly told me to put on my big girl pants and get over it.

"Of course you don't know what you're supposed to be doing!" she shook her head with exasperation. "You haven't done it yet. That's what training time is for." She explained that I hadn't tricked anybody into anything, and that all new jobs have a learning curve. Then, she abruptly instructed me to calm down already.

Honestly, I walked away from that interaction feeling like my mom had no idea what she was talking about. I mean, she hadn't seen those e-mails. She didn't fully understand the magnitude of my predicament. Now, several years later, I'm not so sure.

I find myself in a rather similar state of panic over ineptitude in my current position. I wake up nearly every day thinking to myself, what have I gotten myself into? Most of the time I'm convinced I have no idea what I'm doing. More often, I think about how I seem to have fooled each of my supervisors into thinking that I do. On more than one occasion I've actually practiced a "coming clean" type of speech that will explain my actual ignorance to this group of highly educated individuals.

It's definitely not a good feeling, but when I think back to other times I've had these sensations I'm reminded of my retail job in college when I fretted excessively over just what particular style to fold the t-shirts in. I also think of my first actual job at a movie theater, and the shame I felt when the manager accused me of misrepresenting my (very real bike race) concessions experience because, to him, that meant knowing how to work a pop tower. The common thread here does seem to be new jobs.

Perhaps what's even more important is that I eventually learned to work that pop tower and I am now an expert shirt folder. Also, those deadlines and time frames where concerning treatment issues that would eventually become so important to me I went to grad school so I could make a serious career out of them.

Maybe the freak out is all just part of the process. Maybe that irrational panic and absolute conviction that I'm an imposter is just proof that I'm ready to learn. And maybe, just maybe, my mom was right after all.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

If you yourself have ever found yourself afflicted with a similar case of the unnecessary worries, read this woman's blog.  It helped me a LOT.

 

Epic Tails

You should know that I believe in the power of fables.  I think that metaphors are a great tool for understanding the world.

Image found here

Human history is rich with examples of us exploring our purpose as a species through story telling. People have always been able to extrapolate powerful meaning from mythologies. This is a pattern that continues to this day. If you are paying attention, you'll be surprised to find many of life's little lessons in the most unexpected places. Epic poems, novels, comic books, and even movies are filled with profound insight. I am a firm believer that "all of life's riddles are answered in the movies," and in the best children's stories as well.

So today, when I went to see a movie based on a novel, I wasn't surprised to discover the entire story had been leading to moment of allegorical clarity. However, I was surprised to find out that the lesson to be learned from this particular tale was one I had already learned. Even more startling was the awareness that this very specific lesson was one I had  taught myself. I had even passed this bit of knowledge on recently.


It was this past summer, and I had (as I often do) accompanied my parents to a bike race. I was standing in the official's box in the infield of our friendly neighborhood velodrome. I was talking to my father, as the child of a family friend sat next to us eating a type of sweet treat that I have since forgotten. The brawny little boy sat atop a tall stool wearing a content expression as he munched on his snack. He innocently kicked his dangling legs back and forth in the sunlight. Watching him sit there as his father attended to something elsewhere,  I felt a kinship with this boy who was sharing my childhood experience. I smiled at him as I recalled my own childhood sitting in that very spot.

Then, I noticed what looked like a scrape on his knee. Though the scab was small, I figured it had come from one of his rough and tumble adventures, and I wanted to know the story. So, I asked him. "How'd you scrape your knee?"

He squinted his eyes into a perplexed expression as he looked up from underneath a pile of the most golden blond hair. "It's paint," he said reaching down to scratch part of it off.

It seemed so obvious after hearing that. The kid had, after all, spent the afternoon with both of our fathers repainting lines on the track. However, I felt somewhat unsatisfied with his answer. So, as someone who has been repeatedly complimented for her sensitivity in dealing with children, I told him how I felt.

"Oh," I shrugged. "Well, that's kind of boring."
"Yeah," my dad chimed in. "Next time someone asks you that, you should come up with a better story."

The child looked at us, confused.

"I think you should tell people you wrestled a tiger," I said "It's more exciting."
"Yup, tigers are much cooler," my dad concluded.
 "But, it's just paint," He told us. The boy still looked puzzled, but one corner of his mouth had flipped up into a smirk.
"I know! I can say the tiger had a paint brush in his mouth," he added, clearly missing the point.
"I guess that will work," I responded suddenly feeling disappointed in myself for having told a small child to lie for no good reason. But, it was too late.

The boy had started to get the idea. With our assistance, he had concocted an epic tale of an invisible paintbrush wielding tiger that had scratched him once, because it turns out he did have a cut on his leg (a small freckle-sized scab on one ankle underneath his sock). And, for the rest of that evening, when we told people to ask him about the paint on his knee, the macho boy responded with pride, "I wrestled a tiger."


I guess the point I was making, that was echoed months later in this movie, was that sometimes how you got to where you are is not important. Life can be intense and complicated. We move through it compiling data for complex tales, some of them gloriously exciting, incredibly tragic, or unbelievably mundane. We all have epic journeys to report. In doing so, it's easy to become fixated on how it all happened. When we do that we can forget the most important details. That is, we often neglect to acknowledge that, no matter how we reached our current states, we survived.

So, next time you feel the need to dwell on your past, take a tip from me. Tell the story with a tiger. It'll sound more impressive.

"Van Gogh would’ve sold more than one painting if he’d put tigers in them." - Calvin 

(Image found here)

 

Falling

Image from Batman Begins. Found here

I'm supposed to write a blog today. It's Monday. That means I have to muse, but it's just not happening. While I have numerous musings knocking around in my noggin, none of them are coherent enough to share. I have tried to force some eloquent bit of wonder out for all of you to read, but I'm struck at the fried blankness that is my overstressed mind.

It's been the kind of perspective-commanding rough day that puts my recent "bad days" to shame. Today I was reminded that I have no real experience with suffering. It's a balanced world, and my lack of suffering implies that others have no experience with safety, security, or success. Additionally, I learned that sometimes, there's nothing that can be done for these people. Sometimes limits must be set and lines must be drawn. The high volume of compassion that pours out of my bleeding heart made that last lesson exceptionally hard to swallow, and I suspect it will continue throughout my career.

Frankly, I was rather dumbstruck by both of these lessons when I sat down to produce my Monday Musings this evening. I wasn't sure what to make of these recent experiences, and I couldn't focus on writing a profound or entertaining essay. That is, until my wild little kitten had one of her eccentric adventures.

While she is relatively new to my life, I have already grown accustomed to her sudden bursts of energy and cacophonous surprises. So, when a clutter of clanking noises came from the blinds to my right, I barely even reacted. Slowly, I paused my blank stare and unproductive editing to investigate. This is when I found the curious cat bridging the gap between my propped-up bike and the window sill it leaned against. Closed blinds were no barrier for this daredevil. She awkwardly pushed her way through the metal slates, and then set forth on a rock-climbing-like expedition up the window screen. Nearly two feet up from the base, she dangled helplessly and cried out with a desperate tone.

"Should I go help her?" I thought to myself. I carefully surveyed the situation. Though she was likely to fall, she probably wouldn't drop far and her odds of injury were minimal (if they existed at all). So, I watched patiently to see how she was going to handle this predicament.

Sure enough, she couldn't hang on long. My little feline friend dropped down to the window sill, and subsequently slipped off the ledge. Luckily, she was able to exercise her cat reflexes, and caught the pane at the last minute. As she managed to pull herself back up to her precarious perch, I reminded myself of something I frequently remind others.

That's how they learn.

With that, I remembered that you can't help everybody all the time. Sometimes this is because you lack sufficient time, resources, or energy to give the support you want. Other times, people aren't ready to get your help. They may think they are ready and willing to change. However,  numerous signs that you just aren't reaching them will make you think otherwise. This is when it is important to remember that a little failure can be a good thing. It's not pleasant, but sometimes people have to fall before they can get themselves back up.

So, thank you Schrödinger the kitten for giving me some much needed perspective.

Inquisitive little kitten dismounted by balancing on my top-tube.

The Mantrum

As someone who has always been fascinated by psychology and has spent a large portion of her life watching athletic competitors, I feel it is my sociological duty to share my observations with the world. I will begin by highlighting your awareness of one startling human behavior that occasionally wreaks havoc on the cycling community because I strongly suspect that it occurs in many other realms as well.

While not explicitly identified as an area of clinical concern, many communities are acutely aware of this behavior. It has been referred to as a hissy fit, an outburst, being an asshole, having a temper tantrum, whining, and (my personal favorite) getting your panties in a bunch. These are all fairly descriptive titles, but I believe it is best identified as a mantrum.

As it is a developmentally stunted expression of personal emotions, the mantrum can take many different forms. The overarching personality traits of the person experiencing it (henceforth known as the thrower) ultimately dictate final exhibition of a mantrum. Despite wide variability, all mantrums do have a number of commonalities. The typical mantrum can be characterized by a combination of:

Two or more of the following

• Extreme emotionality
• Irrational arguing
• Hypersensitivity resulting in anger

and
Three or more of the following

• Stomping
• Red face
• Throwing objects (i.e. bike, chair, helmet, etc)
• Screaming/Yelling
• Name Calling
• Excessive use of profanity
• Aggressive or physically violent outbursts

Though anecdotally this behavior appears to occur most frequently in adult, adrenaline gorged, males, it is not particular to men. It is important to note the greater variability in mantrum throwing across genders. Those observing similar behaviors in feminine throwers should first rule out a missy fit before applying a mantrum classification.

Lost, But Not Forgotten.

Somewhere, in one of the numerous places I store my belongings, is a picture of my dad. I have several pictures of him; most of happy times. I can feel my face mimic his as I look into his own smiling eyes frozen in time; enjoying that moment forever. This other picture is different. It was not a happy time, and though he may be trying, he does not appear to be smiling.

My father is the only person in this lost photograph. He's propped up on a hospital bed with tubes connected to his body. He's awake and alert, but it's clear he's in pain. This picture was taken after one of only a few times I've known my dad to fall off his bike. He slipped down the banking of the velodrome, and hurt himself so badly that an ambulance was called. That's a big deal for my dad. He doesn't do ambulances. He's a "walk it off" "you'll be fine" type of guy.

Though I was around, I have no memory of this tragic collapse. I couldn't have been older than five at the time. At such a young age, most of the experiences I had have begun to fade to fleeting sentiments. However, I have a very significant recollection of seeing him in his hospital room. I don't know if I had been prepped for the sight of him or how much I even understood of his injuries. Regardless, I couldn't handle it. I burst into tears as soon as I walked into the room.

There was no space in my tiny little head for an injured conceptualization of my daddy. As far as I was concerned, this man was as strong as they come. He could do anything, and typically did...with flare. He didn't fall, and he definitely didn't get hurt.

With no frame of reference for how this circumstance had come to be, I had absolutely no clue what it meant about the future. I know that my parents were perplexed by my reaction. They consoled me appropriately, but, at that point in time, I had no faith in their assurances. Though they never promised this, I trusted that they would both be okay forever, and I had been wrong. I just couldn't get over that.

A year or two later I stumbled upon the polaroid of my punctured father. Not knowing why, I stole it from the drawer of family photos and tucked it into a jewelry box in my room. I kept that picture in my nightstand, and never told anybody it was there. As I grew up and struggled with understanding my continuously challenged conceptions, I looked at this picture regularly. It never gave me any answers and it always recreated that same distraught sentiment I had as child, but somehow the memory seemed important to me. I clung to that photo because of the lesson I knew I would get from it one day.

Even now, though I have left it behind somewhere I am uncertain of, I think of it frequently. Sometimes when I'm upset and unsure why, I imagine myself, alone in my adolescent bedroom, opening that stowed away box and trying to sort out the message from the memory.

Riding it Out

For those of you keeping track at home, here is an inventory of how I exercised my awesome decision-making skills today:

After sleeping-in an extra hour, I decided that all I needed to eat for breakfast was a small banana and half a cup of coffee. I washed it down with a small glass of water, and decided that I should really go for a bike ride since it is not raining.

On my way out the door, I thought to myself, "did I take my allergy medicine yet today? You know what?! I'll check when I get back from my ride." Halfway through the first section of my ride, it became readily apparent that I had not taken my allergy medicine when it suddenly felt like I was breathing only through a small straw in my nose.

Then the tail-light on my bike rack fell off. I stopped to pick it up, and figured I should back-track down the road to see if there were any other missing pieces...on a one-way street.

Narrowly avoiding an oncoming car, I righted my direction and carried on. My labored breathing on a leisurely part of my usual route reminded me this was going to be a short ride. Yet, for some reason I just rode right on pass the turn to my house.

Grunting and wheezing down a highly public road (wearing my lustrous turquoise pants), I rode right past the next turn that I could take back to my house. When I approached the third turn that I take when I want to go for a "longer" ride (mind you, none of my rides are very long) I decided that I had already committed. So, I might as well ride out the end of the road I was on. Yup, I went an unnecessary extra two miles, and THEN I decided to tackle a rather steep little incline on my single-speed (with very little breakfast, hydration, and no allergy medicine in my body).

Needless to say, I'm a bit tired now. I expect that once I get over that, I'll feel like a stud though.

Right?!

Have any of you ever had a similar experience? Were you ultimately impressed with yourself, or did you continue to regret your impulsive actions?

Me Too, You

My mom doesn't get nearly enough credit. I have all these amusing stories about growing up with an analytical father. I go over memories of him using logic to talk me down from an emotional height, or pushing me when I wasn't quite ready for it, because I'm just now beginning to understand what he was doing. I don't offer many of my mother, because those memories are different.

In my mind, my mother's parenting doesn't take the shape of amusing stories, or particular episodes characterized by meaningful lessons. They come to me in combined experiences accompanied by general sentiments.

When I think of her, I'm a little girl, with wet hair, sitting in the kitchen while she combs out my tangles before school. I'm doing my homework with a hand on my shoulder. I'm in the passenger seat singing oldies at the top of my lungs. I'm stomping out of the car after waking up early, and she's following me with a soft voice explaining that it won't seem so bad after I've eaten.

When I think of her, she's brushing bangs out of my eyes. She's waiting for me to let go of that long hug. She's letting me ramble on about meaningless adolescent drama, and pretending it's as important as it feels to me. She's asking, "have I told you yet today?" And when I'm answering before she can, she's responding with a serene "me too, you."

I think about all the times I wrapped my arms around her, and buried my face in her stomach, and then eventually her shoulder. I remember fingers in my hair as I dozed off, my head safely in her lap. I recall appreciative smiles as I debuted every possible combination of my back-to-school wardrobe. But mostly, I just remember her being there.

I don't have to recount stories of specific experiences I had with her, because I understood her motives. The truth is, I always knew what my mother was doing. She was taking care of me and loving me in a way that only the best moms can.

Breaking Away

Today is the day, she thought to herself. One way or another I'm going to learn how to ride that thing.

It didn't really seem possible. They had spent hours together repeating the same moves. Her saddled across this weird unstable structure, him running alongside with one hand on the seat post. They must have worn tracks in that two block stretch by the house going back and forth.

Back and forth. Over and over again.

She tried as hard as she could to learn this new skill, but it just didn't make any sense. How was it supposed to stay upright without those two extra wheels? Sure, every now and then he'd let go, and she would glide along for a foot or two, but then she fell over. Every time.

Oh, and she hated falling. Falling was the most painful reminder that you failed. That you can't do this. That you suck. Then, if that's not enough, sometimes you actually get hurt!

Well, that's it. She had made up her mind. She wasn't going to fall anymore. Not if I have anything to say about it.

So, this particular day they set out to do it. With a change of scenery in mind, she grabbed her bike, and he shouldered a pair of roller skates. They climbed the hill to the local elementary school. Quietly they cut a diagonal across the soccer fields. Then, there they were. This particular school had a small banked inline skating track. It seemed perfect for learning to ride your bike. Or so he told her.

They immediately got to work, going about the same motions they had repeated for the last few weeks. Only this time it was different. He was on skates, right beside her, and she...She wasn't falling as much.

Slowly, she began to glide further and further. Eventually she gained the confidence to pedal a few strokes. Before she even knew it, she could ride one whole stretch without veering to the grassy infield to tip over. Am I actually doing this? She thought.

Then came the rain. And this wasn't the type that creeps up on you; slowly trickling a few drops before the downpour. It was like a giant bully in the sky suddenly sped in on his black-cloudmobile and began pelting them, rapid-fire, with giant icy water balloons. They had to go, and fast.

He told her it would be faster if he left his skates on, and that she would have to ride the bike home. Downhill the whole way? She hadn't even mastered the banked corners of the track yet, but it had only been 60 seconds and they were already soaked to their cores. Her bones were getting cold.

She mounted the bike for the last time that day, and went back across the now marshy soccer fields.   

It's just like the straight part of the track. Only the ground is softer now, she told herself.

They passed through the opening in the fence, and that's where it began. The road was shiny with rainwater, and the hill seemed so much steeper atop her precarious little contraption. She looked to her right. He offered some encouragement; then snaked down the road like a professional.

Here it comes, she thought, the big one. She anticipated this fall would hurt worse than all the others, but her arms were cold, the bully in his dark cloud was hitting her so hard it made her skin sting, and her dad...Her dad was just ahead, gaining speed, and zig-zagging recklessly down the road. She had no choice but to keep up, and brace herself for the fail she knew was coming.

It was halfway down the second (and biggest) decline just after the plateau with the blind intersection that she began to realize it. She wasn't falling, and she wasn't going to. She was in control, and she could do this.

Officially Unnoticed

Here I am, crossing the finish line, going entirely unnoticed.

As I have mentioned, I had a unique upbringing rife with dudes in lycra costumes atop various versions of an odd two-wheeled contraption.

My parents are ACTIVELY involved in the cycling community. They're famous even. As a result, we were always at bike races. They were so common place to me, that I thought all sports had a bell lap, and I didn't realize most men don't shave their legs until I was in middle school. I can barely remember a spring or summer that didn't include me going to a bike race.

I had a brief period in high school when I was "too cool" to hangout with my parents. When that stage hit, I opted to stay at home during several of the weekly races (at this time I think there was a race four days a week), but I still came out every now and then. When I went off to college I missed every race in the spring, and there was a couple of summers I had a job and couldn't go. However, I've been back, and regularly officiating or helping out for three years straight now.

At my greatest estimate, I've missed a cumulative 3 out of the last 26 years of bike races in Oregon. That being said, I seem to have gone unnoticed. I'm at these events all the time, and barely anyone knows who I am. This wouldn't be that surprising to me, if my siblings also seemed to be invisible to this particular community...but alas that's not how it is.

My older brother was absent from bike racing for a much longer time frame than I. He spent multiple summers at camps, and schools in other states. Now that he's local again, he's at easily half of the races that I am, but everyone knows who he is. When he and I walk the course together, people wave and call out to him while I walk alongside quietly making sarcastic comments. No one seems to notice. But, my brother is bigger and louder than I am. He has more of a presence than I do. So, I guess that makes sense.

Explain my sister then. Nine years older than me, my sister has been absent from this community for a long time. I have markedly less childhood memories that include her at the races. Then she went to college several states away, and worked in the Southwest over the summers. Afterwards, she lived in another state for years. She must have been gone from Oregon bike races for at least ten years. Now, she occasionally helps out, but she's by no means a regular. Despite all this, people still mistakenly call me by her name. I stand next to my parents, as people ask about her, and what she's up to. Don't mind me, I'll just take your registration fees while you chat.

How does nobody know who I am? My father's theory is that people do know who I am. He thinks that they don't acknowledge me because they find me intimidating.

That's really hard to type without laughing. I mean, I'm not exactly the pinnacle of intimidation. I'm rather small. Hell! Just last week, I bought clothes from the children's department, and they fit me perfectly. That's not very threatening. Well, my father thinks the reaction comes from an association with my parents. Okay, I'd agree...except for my siblings don't seem to command the same "intimidation," and they're not only equally associated with my parents, but they're normal sized humans!

None of it makes any sense. I'm around all the time. I'm often scoring your points races, or calling ties off the camera. I am usually the one with photographic proof that you've broken the rules. I'm a person you probably want to know (I like cookies), but sure! Go on thinking I don't exist. Keep wondering who that little girl at the finish line is. Step in front of me in the port-a-potty line, and bump me out of the way at registration like I don't know what's going on. Even more, continue to yell at me for trying to fix your number. You probably know more about it than I do anyway. It's not like I've seen 6 million numbers or anything.

It's actually kind of funny. I get to see and hear things that I wouldn't if people knew I was of the famed Murray family.



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Rebel on Wheels

OKAY! Fine! Let's talk about it.

I have a bike now.

If you actually know me, you can be classified into one of two thoughts on the subject. One of the groups is probably thinking something along the lines of: "so what?", "haven't you always had a bike?", or "why is this a big deal?"

The other group thinks this is really exciting. They think it's great that I've finally come around, and some of this group may even think I'm assimilating into bike culture. This group, however, may continue to be baffled by how someone of my pedigree has made it into adulthood without a bike (to which I respond -as if it's a defense- "I have a bulky old mountain bike that I keep at my parent's house and never use").

The back story here is that I've been around bikes and "bike people" my entire life. My childhood consisted of cramming into the backseat of a blue mini van named Pewee, or a red jeep with a porcupine rack loaded up with bikes of all types. We'd travel throughout the state listening to books on tape, and playing I-spy Alphabet, until we came to whatever location in which the lycra-clad were convening that particular weekend. At races, you might have seen me running around collecting rocks or pine cones to sell to my neighbors (no joke). Or I'd hop into the passenger seat of the follow vehicle with a My First Radio blaring the soundtrack to Beauty and the Beast, in order to help my mom by writing down the numbers of riders who fell off the back. Heck, to this day the basement of my parent's house is like an episode of Hoarders: Cycling edition.

One SMALL corner of my parent's basement.

For some reason, my unwillingness to get on a bike and ride confuses people who know my past.  I think it's obvious.  It's like the summer that I discovered bologna sandwiches. I thought they were delicious!  I ate them every day for a ridiculous length of time.  Then, one day I woke up, and just the sight of that Oscar Meyer package started the bile production going. It may not be that extreme with bikes, but the point still stands.

Also, we can't discount the rebel theory here.  I'm a good girl, and I get along with my parents really well, but everyone's got to rebel somehow.  It's a natural part of life. But, how does a good girl rebel?

When you're a Murray it's simple.  Don't get on a bike.

So, about two months ago, I was sitting in my apartment, which seems to be located right in the center of Portland bike-culture.  I was reveling in the irony of my existence at this particular location.  - In my neighborhood I'm surrounded by hipsters on color coordinated fixies doing track stops at every intersection and acting as though they don't want attention for it. Well guys, I'm not impressed.  I've seen it all before. -  I started to come around.  I thought, "maybe commuting on my bike isn't such a bad idea."

About two weeks later, after consulting with my father, I wind up with, of all things, a modified track bike, that has been christened "Mindy's Man Chaser." -- The story behind that title is a bit long, but I may share it at a later date. Now, I'm tooling around my neighborhood, and running errands on my bike.

What has happened here? I'm experiencing some kind of identity crisis. For one, I'm a Murray.  That means I should know what I'm doing right? Wrong.  It means I know what I'm SUPPOSED to be doing. I'm like the ultimate poser, and coming to grips with that has been quite an experience.

I am playing both the part of the official, and the dork with the big helmet and the older sister starter.  Check out my brother the speedster on the left though!

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Mom's Turn

There are very few good pictures of me and my mom. This surprises me. I spend a great deal of time with her. She's an amazing person.

When I think of my her, I think of my youth. I remember being carried at bike races. I recall resting my head against her chest, and listening to her voice as she bellowed about incorrect number placement or announced the on-deck rider without a megaphone. The sound was loud, but for me it was reassuring. No matter what was going on, my mom would pick me up if I needed it.

My mom is always trying to make things easier on me. She's there to assist me, whether I need it or not. I know I can call her for anything, whether it's what aisle the Texas Toast is in, or how to do my taxes. She listens when I complain about things that don't matter, and she indulges my dork-moments.

There are times when I wish I could shrink back into my 5-year old body, and crawl into her arms, because I know she'd make the bad world go away for a little bit. I'd listen to her voice echo in her chest, and know that everything will be alright. I think letting go of my mom's hand is the part of growing up that's been hardest for me.

She's the first person I think of whenever I need help, and I'm most excited to share my stories with her. She's my greatest advocate, and I'd be lost without her.

Anticipating Summer

Location: Apartment
Mood: Restless

Usually I don't care that much about summer. Don't get me wrong. I like it, but I'm not completely enamored with it like most of my peers are.  I have a number of theories to explain it.

 I think it has a lot to do with how pale, and therefore sensitive to sunburns, I am. I spend a lot of my summertime indoors because any extended time (and by this I mean about 15 minutes) in the sun equals guaranteed discomfort the next day.

I also think a lot of it has to do with my childhood.  Historically, summer has been the most active time of year for my family. It's bike racing season. Until very recently bike racing has been synonymous with my surname in the state of Oregon. When I was a child, my parents were at ALL OF THEM.  This means, I was at all of them. I actually have some very fond memories of suffering in the back seat as I shared space with my two older siblings and the entire OBRA collection of race gear.  Eventually, we grew, and OBRA (i.e. my parents) accumulated so much gear that it was borderline abusive to shove us into such a confined space. So, OBRA/my parents bought a trailer, and we got some leg room.

Wow, did I get sidetracked reminiscing.  My point was, that as a child when my school friends and neighbors were out exploring the nearby creek, or visiting the beach with each others' families I was reading Archie Comics and Animorphs under a sun tent at Alpenrose Velodrome, or playing on massive dirt piles in a criterium parking lot. As I matured, I began to express my distaste for attending bike races, and my parents allowed me to stay home. However, I wasn't sure what to do with my time.

Another of my theories for my lack of summer enthusiasm was my physique.  I've never been in great shape, and I've always been rather insecure about my body in a bathing suit. This is because of a combination of lack of toned muscles and my day-glow white skin which is blinding when exposed to direct sunlight. Really I stay indoors for you people.

Despite all of these factors, and probably several more that I can't think of,  I awoke this morning to a stream of warmth and light from my window.  It immediately conjured images of bathing suits, rivers, beach houses, warm days of reading in the park, and cool hikes in the Gorge.  Needles to say, I wanted summer.

Also, I've decided that I'd like to have a summer crush this year. Where can I get one of those?  Do you just post an advertisement at your local coffee shop?

Gloria the Congested Giantess.

Yesterday I worked a bike race at Mt. Tabor. It was rainy, and cold. However, the rain stopped and it warmed up just in time for my drive home. Given the change in surrounding, I thought it might be fun to play around with my GPS. I set the GPS to take me home with the "fastest" route. It had me scheduled to arrive home at 4:26pm, 20 minutes from my departure time. I followed it a little, but then I noticed that it had planned for me to drive on just surface streets. Normally, this is the route that I too would have chosen for myself. However, as I drove past the freeway on ramp I thought, "I wonder what time I would get home by if I took the freeway."

On an impulse, I turned at the very last minute to get onto what looked like a mostly clear freeway. About 60 seconds later... I was at a standstill. Nobody was going anywhere. I imagined (as someone with my facial anatomy would) the freeways were actually the sinus system in some giant's face, and they were clogged. No movement in or out. For what felt like an eternity I sat there and watched the estimated arrival time move further and further away. 4:28pm. 4:29pm. 4:30pm.

Then we began to inch towards freedom. I could see the I-5 & I-84 junction. I knew I was almost there. After a few more minutes, I merged onto I-84, and everything opened up. The estimated arrival time began to drop. 4:29, 4:28, 4:27pm. I thought "I'm gonna do it! Despite all that drama, I might actually beat Gloria the GPS home!"

I thought wrong. Just as the thought occurred to me, I noticed brake lights ahead. I merged right hoping to get off the freeway before the congestion. But, alas, it would not be. We were stuck on the freeway. More stuck than before. Somewhere, in my fantasy world a giant was applying heat packs to his forehead, and attempting to flush out his nasal cavities. Poor guy.

The estimated arrival time crept back up. 4:30pm. 4:32pm. 4:34pm. Bye bye dream.

Gloria Peurterschmidt laughs in my face, "FREEWAY OFF RAMP ON THE RIGHT IN 2.0 MILES!!"

That bitch. It would be 10 minutes before I could even see the off ramp. Minutes went by faster than distances. Five minutes. 1.7 miles to go. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. Instead I laughed. Of course this would happen to me.

Eventually we crawled past a pretty bad car accident. I saw the EMTs loading someone's body into the back of an ambulance, and I felt bad for my little game. I looked ahead, the freeway opened back up, and it was time for me to make another choice. Stay on the freeway, get off and use surface streets.

Well as that day's weather systems had indicated, the beauty of sunny skies was not going to last. Open freeways, but a drizzle had started. An ominous feeling washed over me. I'd just passed two different clogged up giant nasal passages, caused by the mythical loogies of car accidents. It's probably best if I get off the free way before the hail came back.

So I did just that.

Is that the end?

Of course not. Have we met?

I exited the freeway, and began actually paying attention to my GPS, which I think is what she wanted all along. I turned off 181st onto Burnside only to discover....

CONSTRUCTION.

Clearly the giant had decided to bite the bullet and get reconstructive surgery. A mystical month's worth of back up was in store. I sat there thinking "just my luck." I turned the radio on, and accepted my fate. The estimated arrival time climbed higher than ever before.

I get it Gloria. By the time I got home it was 5:15pm. Never again will I tempt fate, and race against your vast knowledge of highways, bi-ways and surface streets.

Okay, let's be realistic, I'm probably going to attempt a similar feat sometime in the near future. As you can probably tell, I get bored.

I Don't Know, I'm Not Proud of It, Please Stop Asking Me

Location: Alpenrose Velodrome.
Mood: tired


I went to an event that my parents put on each year. It isn’t really an event. Basically before the beginning of each track (velodrome) season, they have everyone come out and help them clean up and repaint the track. The weather was supposed to be nice, so I figured I’d go. Who knows, maybe I’d manage to wrangle myself a boyfriend.

As usual, everyone that knows me wants to know what I’m doing with my life these days. I’m still looking for a career, but I think even if I’d found one I would be sick and tired of being asked about it. It’s like when you hurt yourself. As soon as people see a cast it’s all they want to talk to you about, and you get irritated with telling and re-telling what happened to you. But, I haven’t found a career. I’ve got a job, and I’m still looking. I live at home with my Mommy and Daddy. Thank you very much.

I know that people mean well. I know that they are just trying to strike up conversation. I’m not too upset with them, but put yourself in my shoes. I feel like I should be wearing a sandwich board that reads:

“Hi, How are you? I’m alright Oh, I’m still looking (for a job). I’ve put in over 600 applications since June. I have a part time job making $9.50/hour. Putting that Bachelor’s to good use.  Yes the economy sucks right now. No I don’t really want to hear your personal take on the economy, but you’re going to tell me anyway so I’ll listen.  I live with my parents. I’m ready to move out. To save us some awkwardness, I’m going to look for a reasonable excuse to exit this conversation now. It was nice talking to you. Peace.”

Okay, it would have to be a rather large sandwich board, and I’m a small person. But I think it would save us all a lot of trouble.

1 comment

Nicole Pexton wrote
at 9:37pm April 19th, 2009

Yes! I have been known to run and hide from people who might have this conversation with me in public places.

What happened to talking about the weather?