Posted on by Jennifer Reed

The Assholes of Summer

Not to sound like Jack Nicholson, but I’m warning you, “They’re baaaack!”

Like retired snow birds who winter south & critique their neighbors’ lawns. Like seasonal cabin renters who harass locals with their fireworks & whine over spotty cell coverage. These assholes are worse.

Red-winged black birds.

These shitty migratory shits are about as fair weather as they come. It seems they leave for warmer climes well before the heartier, friendlier robins even think of heading south. Come spring, they arrive just as tardy.

When they show up I can’t help, but feel a Newman-loathing Jerry Seinfeld bubble up inside. “Hello, asshole.”

I used to laugh at their audacity. They’d screech & perform fly-bys while I’d be out running. I’d shout, “Look asshole. I been here all winter. This MY road!”

But last week while biking in Wisconsin, out of nowhere I felt & heard a disgusting brush of wings & scratch of talons on the top of my helmet! I screamed something to the effect of “Piss off, asshole!” & continued my ride. Unfortunately for me, that ride required a repeat of that section & wouldn’t you know it, that asshole was waiting for me. This time I saw the shadow of outstretched wings & reaching talons before she could strike! I waved my arms & screamed at the top of my lungs, “FUCK OFF, BIRD!” & rode away.

I thought that was the end of it, but Friday morning, as I was feeling schleppy & kind of lonely from all the solo training, I headed out for a pre-work ride. About five miles out, near the area of Argo, I was jolted by the sudden screech, scratch, brush of wings & talons upon my helmeted head. I tried waving my arm above my head & that’s when it happened. I was down.

bird getting the birdFortunately I wasn’t going too fast AND there was no traffic. My bike was fine, my shorts were just scuffed & except for some minor road rash, I was unharmed. But I still felt like crying.

I laid my bike in the ditch & sat on the shoulder of the road throwing rocks at that bird. She’d fly back & forth between her perch on a sign post & the ground near me. I talked to her, “I know you’re protecting your nest, but you can fuck all the way off.”

Finally I dusted myself off & saddled back up, feeling a touch paranoid. Apparently this type of harassment happens to loads of riders, runners, walkers & other outdoor enthusiasts. Why it’s taken so long to happen to me I’ll never know, but let this be a service announcement: they’re back. The assholes of summer are back.

***As a side note, in the last 9 days Bruce, Sean, Dan, myself & now Sam have all crashed, some of us harder & nastier than others, all of us fortunately ok. Let’s hope this is it for 2017 crashes for the Healthy Habits crew!!!

 

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

My boy’s biker butt a year later

What a difference a year makes. And how fast that time flies. Do I still have an attic full of zombie flies? Yes. Does my son still refuse to ride with me? NO!!! How on earth did the later happen? It’s all because of where and with whom I work!

At Healthy Habits Bicycle and Nutrition I was hired in February 2016 as a fledgling mechanic and all-around shop wench. The mechanics continues to be a slow journey, but the shop wenching? I got that shit down! (Except for the times I don’t and screw up and so, uh, yeah.)

ANYWAY….KidBoy’s willingness to join his dear old mother on a bike ride happened after I purchased a used Raleigh Coupe tandem from my boss. Immediately he was game for trying out the new ride and as a result was game for somewhat regular riding! We took to the bike path along Bettendorf & Davenport’s riverfront, to those awesome up and down two-lane roads of Moose Lake Country in Wisconsin, to the HILLY gravels surrounding Casa Reed Murrell, but his real enjoyment came from the shop rides!

group ride
Healthy Habits Monday group gravel ride…
tired gravel
Staring down death on the gravels near home…
moose lake ride
The group ride enhanced by Wisconsin’s Northwoods!

KidBoy’s riding style definitely follows more my desire forbobby shared misery vs. his father’s love for the solo slog so it’s no surprise those Monday night gravel rides lead by Healthy Habits staff were his favorite. He claims it was the post-ride fro-yo at PeachWave next door, but secretly he loved watching the parking lot antics of the mostly male “peloton,” specifically the wheelie magic of assistant shop manager Bobby Parker.

It’s still early in the season for many riders and I don’t foresee KidBoy’s schedule allowing him to join many shop rides until July due to track and baseball, but at least he’ll be ready to roll!

Posted on by Jennifer Reed · 7 Comments

Zombie flies beat biker butt

I’m failing as a parent.

I know, I know…every parent thinks that, but this time it’s for real!

So how, exactly, am I failing. Drugs? Porn? Grades in the tank? Nope.

My son won’t bike with me. *gasp*little mac bike path

His resistance started two years ago when he and his sister were 11 and 13. It was spring break and I’d loaded up the bikes and headed to the Duck Creek Bike Path in Bettendorf. We had a history, us three, of rolling along on the Clinton and Fulton-Thompson bike paths. I wanted to increase our two-wheeled sojourns and introduce them to new views.

It was the first ride of the year so I knew it’d be short, but around 2 miles, KidBoy started to derail. His butt hurt. Despite several breaks, we eventually had tears…and a very brief ride. It pretty much set the tone for the year.Mo on trainer

So last year, saddled with new bikes and high hopes, the butt pain and tears continued. Not with his sister, though. Except for a literal run-in with a fence, KidGirl’s a natural, even on the trainer.

The kids wear all the proper gear, we’ve adjusted saddle height, tilt, even added one of those BS cushioned seat covers. But it’s clear, KidBoy doesn’t want to ride and is holding on to any excuse. While Marty and I both believe it’s a “time in the saddle” issue, our son is unwilling to put in the time to get his duff toughened up.

Today was their last day of spring break and since KidGirl was hitting the links with Marty, I offered KidBoy the following: an hour of relaxed cruising or sweeping the attic and ShopVac’ing a winter’s worth of nasty-ass dead and undead flies.

He chose the flies. FLIES!!! An afternoon in a gross, web-filled attic with a bazillion zombie flies vs. a glorious spring day in the fresh country air…20160329_131814

Last winter he made the comment, “Just because you like fitness doesn’t mean I like fitness.” Was he pushing my buttons? Of course. But was there a nugget of truth? A glimpse into his personal teenage angst? Probably. So what do I do???

Posted on by Jennifer Reed · 6 Comments

A day at a time, a derailleur at a time

For 15 years I’ve swore & cried & sweated to overcome the ever-present urge to numb myself. As one of my Bitches told me, “Reed, you feel BIG.”

My emotions have been (& probably always will be) of the Herculean variety. My joy is usually brighter than rainbow-farting leprechauns while my darkness can be the most blinding, frightening black. It’s scary for me to feel . . . but scarier not to.

March 3rd 2001 was a warm, sunny day I spent riding Frankenbike by myself. I was hung over, ashamed of who I’d become & scared shitless. The unpredictability that ruled my life had shifted from carefree & footloose to dangerous & foreboding. When my unpredictability changed from fun-loving to WTF, I knew I was out of time & choices: I had to change.

Over the course of 5,479 days that necessary change would involve so much more than not drinking. It would require only that I change how I saw everything. That’s it, just everything. And if everything would just stay how I see it at exactly that moment, it’d be easy peasy, but it changes, constantly, & it’s very easy for me to fall back on the old familiar: scary, big feelings that leaving me cowering in corners, hiding, or zipping up the gorilla suit & kicking ass. Neither option is all that great.

For example, today’s March 3rd? It was the end of my second week working as a NEWBIE bike mechanic & I had to build a Salsa El Mariachi. Um, ok? As I unpacked it, the only thing I had going for me was knowing I had to attach the rear derailleur to the hanger. It was a struggle. A head-down, sweaty, brain-scrambling schooling in hydraulic disc brakes, front shock airing & the further nuances of limit screws. It was a scary fucking day. Turns out clutches aren’t just for old tractors & farm trucks. I felt dumb, inept, out of place, inadequate, old & just plain awful. This is the stuff the thirsty little fucker who lies deep down inside me starts excitedly rubbing its hands over.

After the thousandth time of pulling Bobby, Bruce & Adam away from their own projects & even Dan away from his birthday day off, I caught myself thinking, “The jig is up, Homes, you don’t belong here.” That’s when I thought it might happen, when I felt a little tingle behind the eyes. (Big feelings, folks, I still don’t handle them well.) Of course my brain went ape shit: “You’re crying?! You’re the only chick in this bike shop and you’re gonnawpid-0617_ov_baseball_tom_hanks_no_crying_in_baseball cry?!!!” I didn’t. I wanted to. But I didn’t.

Thank gawd I’m not newly sober. Thank gawd I have coaches and cheerleaders who continually remind me how to take my life “a day at a time.” Thank gawd I didn’t start crying until after I’d left the bike shop, when I could talk with another sober person who understood exactly this kind of crazy & how to cut through the thick emotion & remind me, “Dude! It’s all good! You’re learning! You’re new! They didn’t fire you!” Um, yay?

I still want to run, take the easy way out & just hide. But I’ve done that. And it sucks. And every time I do it, it sucks worse! And I’m 45 & I simply lack the constitution for that level of suckage! So I’ll keep at it, just as I’ve been taught, a day at a time, a mile at a time, a derailleur at a time.