Oh, what do ya do when the clouds get blue and the weather is bad in July? You come up with catchy jingles, apparently.You also sit, contemplate parts of your own body (my toenails have begun to fascinate me- I made them pearly pink on the day before easter sunday, and have not even pruned them since... I watched the last of the pink dissappear the other day, and marveled that I have now grown an entirely new set of toenails since then, and used them enough that they just wore off all by themselves! Ok, that was a rather disturbing peek at a disgusting bit of me, I know.) You scratch at mosquito bites you have been too distracted to notice until now, you remember what it felt like this winter to be cold, you marvel at how much faster the hairs on one's legs grow in the presence of goosebumps. You read, and comprehend nothing, because you do not want to be reading. You watch daytime tv, and decide that meaningless symbols on a recycled-paper page are more exciting. You work in slo-mo, intentionally becoming less efficient, to make it necessary to walk through the office twice as many times. You check your email a dozen times, even though nobody but the Word of the Day you have subscribed to loves you enough to send you anything. I would never use the word "heterodox" anyway- I'd probably say something like "oddball religiosity"... You paint your toenails with fresh polish, and make mental bets with yourself how fast you can grow a new set this time... you look online to try to find which vitamin makes your nails grow faster, even though you know if you just engaged your mind, you would probably remember that one on your own...and eventually, you find yourself staring at the picture of Hawaii you have on your computer wallpaper, sigh, and log onto Blogger to see if you can manage to squeeze any creativity from the vacuum that is your brain on a cold day in July.



I committed to a group bike ride with the Mountain Sports Outlet Divas this evening. Will I go? Dunno... not if it is this cold and miserable. It starts in an hour and a half. I am debating...



I shopped yesterday, while it was warm and sunny, almost downright hot. I should have been riding then. Instead I did what every good wannabe does- instead of playing in the dirt, I outfitted myself to appear as though i was a dirty sort, the kind who buys things to use in an ill-planned, unintentional attempt on one's health, if not life. Among other things, bike shoes with cleats. The bikes we got came with clip-in pedals, with a cheater clipless pedal clipped onto one side, for those who prefer to go clipless. A few incidences of having my feet slip off the pedals at innoportune moments made me want to ditch the wussy pedals and ride like the big girls ride, all clipped in and stuff. And everywhere, because of the holiday crowds in the county, was the allure of half-off, plus ten percent off of that, causing a regular frenzy. I came home with my sporty new purple and tan hard shoes, mounted the metal device to the bottom of them, and as a cold front was blowing in, drove to Keystone to murder a few trails.



In hindsight, I probably should have practiced clipping and unclipping in the parking lot before I hit the singletrack. As it was, I neglected to get the right size of allen wrench along to loosen the clips enough to get in them, decided to just ride unclipped, since I had come all this way, and accidentally clipped in while powering my way uphill through a menacing portion of trail I can hardly stay on my pedals for under normal conditions. Um.... yeah. Forgot I was joined at the soles with a metal contraption that is already at odds with the laws of gravity, tried to bale while in such a state... no bale-age happened, and the rocks gathered shavings of me. Happened several times, actually. I finally figured out how to force the cleats into the pedals, but since they were not beginner-loose (thanks to nobody but me) I could not get out of them, crash after crash after painful crash. You ask why I would do this to my self? because it really does ride better. Sure, it crashes harder, but after I get the hang of this, I think I will be very glad I am not still trying to ride clipless. In the meantime, the heels of my hands are dusky with not-yet-surfaced bruises, as are my hipbones, outer thighs, calves, shins, and ankles.

It brings to mind other things that have drawn blood and caused permanent bodily damage before they were mastered. Horses, skis, snowboards, street hockey, ice skates... Maybe I am completely screwed in the head, but the things that are the most rewarding for me are the ones that involve a huge learning curve, and pain. Does it make me sound sadistic that all I want to be doing at the moment is pedalling over singletrack, muttering at those stupid clip-ins that are trying to get the best of me? I do not love watersports nearly as much as "drop in" sports. Although the motion is much the same, the potential for pain simply is not. I wonder sometimes if there is actually something wrong with that picture.



Drop in... what does one find in common with people without the instant "in" one finds when they discover a mutual love of "dropping in"? (I know, too many "ins" in one sentence.) For those not fluent in Mountain, most sports that involve gravity and extremes have a "drop in"- the moment one throws concious thought to the wind, gives full rein to one's guardian angels, to allow or not allow whatever it is that could happen, and, well, drops in. Mountain biking, skiing, snowboarding, kayaking... it's the name they give to the moment one forgets their agreement with God and gravity, and shouts that irresponsible invitation- BRING IT!!! The moment one's board leaves the safety of the super-pipe approach and goes vertical. The moment one's head dips lower than one's butt on a mountain bike, on a dust and shale downhill singletrack. That last thought, crackling through the static, that this could be the last thought that ever crackles through the static.



And what does one do with friends who do not drop in? What do we talk about? Jobs? borrring! We are gathered together in the hopes of distracting ourselves from the thought that we have jobs in the first place. Kids? Plans for kids? That can be covered in about twenty seconds, and only needs to be covered once in the course of a friendship. Gossip about mutual friends? Not safe, if one has not lived here long enough to have everyone neatly placed. That leaves, Where-ya-from-before-ya-were-here, Do-ya-like-it-here, and the Weather. And the Rent-or-mortgage conversation, always useful in correct placement of one in one's mental file of social standers. But inevitably, it always swings towards, how was Quandary the other day, is Webster open yet, can ya get across the stream in Horseshoe gulch without getting wet yet, how bad did ya biff it. The Basin chutes, E-chair steeps, powder, corn, ice, corderoy. Bleed your brakes. Stretch your cables. Firecracker fifty. You're HOW old? Arch supports. Marathons. Dogs. Closed for elk calving. Forest service. Pine beetles. Check out the scar. ACL's, and lack thereof. When does the Tiki Bar open. Want another beer, how'bout a brat. Fruita. Moab. Poison Spider Mesa. Broke my sprocket. Dropped in, hit a rock. Gnarly scab, check it. The hum continues comfortably, words like couloir, strap, helmet, sideslip, mud, wax, carabiner, big slide... drift past each other in midair and in the middle of it, one glances at the couple with the newborn, new to the county, bikepath-only. They look wistful, outnumbered, bored to tears. One tries to draw them into a conversation, any conversation, but having already covered the topics one normally covers with the non-drop in crowd, it grows painfully stagnant. People who are "into things like that" can be such bores. They don't try to be. They have been having this same conversation with these same types for so long they don't know how to relate to the masses who's lives do not give them the opportunity, or who's inhibitions keep them from living in constant give and take with gravity. Someday, they'll grow out of it, but so far, no deadline has been set.

I have just recieved confirmation that the Divas will not be riding this evening, since the ride was scheduled for Breck and it has been drizzling all day over there. Good. (mooohaha) Now I won't have to wuss out, or shame myself into going, just so I can be miserable. I was only going to ride, anyway, since I havent put in a lot of hours at work lately and wasnt feeling flush enough to shell out the bones required for the apres-ride lasagne, salad, and beverages at Fatty's, which turns the Divas rides into a girls night out. Now I really should commence meal planning for the residents of our humble abode... Last night, the marinated, grilled talapia with a homemade "secret recipe" sauce (secret only because it was delicious, but I can't for the life of me remember how to duplicate it) was a hit, even with those iffy about fish. But I fear the last of the culinary inspiration was used up on it. Tonight may be one of the more forgettable dining experiences we have had.

So I shall scamper... one by one, the roomies have been trickling in. There is almost enough of a crowd by now I could entertain and be entertained. We are knocking on wood, because in spite of being one hundred percent booked, the phones have been remarkable quiet. I may jinx it by posting this...

Oh, well. Here's hoping everyone had a wonderful fourth. We did not even watch the fireworks, in an effort to avoid the consequent traffic jam. Sure enough, as we climbed into bed last night, we could see a glittering string of taillights across the dam, everyone trying to get home after the show. We were smug, although we almost wished we had gone anyway.

On a somber note, July five will always be an infamous day for my mom's family. Take a moment, if ya will, and say a quick prayer for Nancy and the kids, and everyone else who's lives were irreversibly changed on that intersection between the cornfields at sunset, July fifth, twelve years ago.