Bike Tune Up

I was inspired—motivated by Keiko Amano’s blog, “New Bike.” I have been telling myself for the past few weeks that I need to take my bike to fix the flats and see about a tune up. I have not been on my bike in close to two years. For many years it was my main transportation to work; not a far ride, but a good 60 minute ride roundtrip. My body felt good. Sometimes I felt lazy, but afterward I was pleased.

Tuesday morning before work I placed the bike in the back of the truck and off we went—the bike and I. When I unlocked the cord, I had a close look at how much more rust and pollen and rain water had built up. I felt bad at how much I had neglected my bike.  

I also felt a little shift in myself knowing that I would soon be joined with my bike again. I felt as though I was also getting a tune up since this in one area in my life that I let fall off the map—exercise. My body thrives on physical activity and I like the feeling of my legs propelling me forward as my arms and hands hold me up, along with my core. The slight tingling through my legs as I go faster; and then the rhythm that I eventually find; and when no one else is on the trail, I can hear the hum of the wheels on the pavement. 

Reading Keiko’s blog made me realize how much I missed riding my bike and reading about her experience with her new bike and her old childhood memories was the motivation I needed to turn my thoughts into action—thank you, Keiko!

Back at the bike store, I walked my bike into the back end where the repair shop is and waited for assistance. The gentleman asked me, “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to fix the flats and get a tune up,” I said.

He put the bike up on the rack, poked at a few things and said it would need a new cassette and a new chain, as well as the tune up and tire repair. He then told me the cost and also said a new bike would be about twice as much. I said, “Let’s go ahead and do it.” He said it would probably be done by Friday and they would call when it was ready.

My bike has been with me for 18 years. It’s a Trek Antelope, black frame, with the name of the make and model written in purple. The water bottle holder is also purple. Purple is a color I gravitate toward. My bike and I, we’ve been through a lot together. I remember all those years and the many rides on the trails and off. I remember one time in particular when I was a little more daring and rode down rough terrain in the hills that was both dry dirt and a somewhat steep slope back down. I was going fast, worried that I may lose control and fall if I hit one wrong bump or put the brake on too hard. I could feel the vibration of the rough dirt road all the way through my fingers and arms. What a feeling! I’m glad that I did that a few times because now, I may not have that same sense of meeting danger head on. I didn’t even wear a helmet back them. Now, I wear a helmet—no matter what.

And there was the time I rode up on dirt trails, that were part of a trail system. These roads had a lot of cuts in them where the water flowed through creating a large gaps in the road at certain points. Coming back down, I hit a one of the dips and I went flying forward off my bike. No helmet. Big rock near my head. Luckily, I didn’t hit my head. I was fine, except for the large scrapes on my legs and arms that were bleeding. It hurt and my legs felt sensitive for a week or two. It’s a strange feeling getting thrown from your bike. It happened so fast that it left no time to react. Up one minute, down the next.

Together again. I wanted to test out my bike after the tune up and repair. I picked it up on Friday and planned on riding it on Saturday. I took it on the trails Saturday morning. I started out on the streets until I connected with the trail. At first it was a slow start because there were a lot of walkers and other leisurely bikers. After I reached a certain point on the trail, I had it to myself for a while. It was at this time, that the uncontrollable smile began forming on my lips; when I could feel the wind and hear that hum. I felt like it was just me and my bike, as one—gliding along, with the trees and flowers in our sight as we passed them on the trail. At one point, I gazed to the left—took my eyes off the road for a moment, and then something made me look back. Whoa, almost went right into a big hole. I looked up just in time or I would have ended up in the weeds.

Bike Tune Up. When I see those words: Tune Up—it makes me realize that this is only the beginning, and to some degree, I have more “Tune Up” work to do. Maintaining my well being is an ongoing process and I know this in mind, body, and soul, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy work. I have to continue with the process and remember to get those “Tune Ups” in whatever way that manifests at any given time.

Remembering Mother

I remember my mother sitting in bed reading her Woman’s Day magazines. She would read the stories and begin weeping. She would call me in and say how she felt. She would point her finger to the story and then say something through sobs about how her own family didn’t treat her this way—didn’t show her this love. To some degree I know what she means now. My young mind possibly understood at some level way back then, but to reflect back and see her moved so deeply by a story, by words, by human life—when she herself was incapable of giving and receiving in that fuzzy way—it’s an image that I hold up with two fingers, to examine in the light, to feel love for her and to know that none of us—neither myself, nor my brothers were able to penetrate that deep coat of iron that she stood behind. She was dying, she knew it. We all knew it, but we didn’t want to believe.

This morning when I was on Yahoo! News, a story caught my eye: “Girl Risked Life to Save Drowning Boy.” A image of two rescuers holding the boy’s limp body with the great ocean in the background. I clicked to continue reading. As I continued, my stomach began getting that push and I began weeping. I was so touched by the young girl, whom, did not listen to her father’s pleas and instead did what she felt she needed to do.

This made me think of my mother—I felt like she probably did when she read her stories of real life—of risking something for someone you don’t even know. Humans are magnificent creatures and we are connected in ways that are both right there at the surface and even deeper—we are embedded and folded within all the waves of the ocean, undulating together in this sea—wonderful, mysterious sea.

A Few Books – Bits: Reaction & Reflection

I haven't been going to the second hand store book section as much lately but thought I was due a visit. One book did catch my eye: First I saw Flannery O'Connor's name in bold letters stare back at me from the book spine. I examined the book: She adorned the cover, a photo of her on her Georgia home porch. A book of commemorative essays to honor her on her seventy-five year day of birth*: Flannery O'Connor: In Celebration of Genius edited by Sarah Gordon. I've often heard O’Connor’s name but never knew anything about her and didn't read any of her stories. I checked out one of her short story collections from the library some time ago, but didn't feel ready, so I returned it unread.

I was intrigued by this book of commemorative essays, so I bought it. I am still reading it and am thoroughly enjoying it. When I finish, I look forward to reading O'Connor's stories. I don't think it will be easy because it sounds as though she takes her readers to disturbing places, but my feeling is it's well worth the trip.

*The book was written in 2000. O’Connor’s birthday: March 25, 2000.

One book that I abandoned after 70 or 80 pages was one I had high hopes for: An Invisible Sign of My Own by Aimee Bender. I appreciated the quirkiness of the characters at first and actually became fond of one in particular. At times, the way that Bender describes things is beautiful and poetic. But overall, the writing style did not work for me after a while. It didn’t seem to have a natural constant flow for me; and I did not relate with, nor really care for the main character. I became bogged down with the ax, that seemed a character all it’s own. It was just too much, almost a forced magic realism. I wanted so much to like it.

Another quirky book that I did like very much, even though one could say there wasn’t much plot to it is: The Solitude of Prime Numbers by Paolo Giordano. I first saw this book in Barnes and Noble and decided to try a sample on Kindle. I was hooked. Was it the imperfect and quirky characters that I was drawn to? The feeling of not fitting in and being at the mercy of bullies? I can't say that the book was a page turner. I can't even say that there was a full story here, but something about it kept me there; perhaps it was the dull feeling of guilt that the protagonist had for having abandoned his sister and the awkwardness of the second protagonist for her bum leg. Both were scarred physically and mentally and for this I suppose it kept me there. I felt something for these characters and wanted the ending to be one way, but it turned out another more unclosed way, which makes sense, really, because that is how real life can be--where you go along in parallel and then the ways drift off into directions you have control of, yet that feeling of not having control is there too. It was a satisfying read and somewhat disturbing, with moments of normalcy, but not much.

The Brothers Karamazov is back on my radar. I have a feeling this is going to be part of my fall and winter reading.

I also enjoy children’s books and one that I had the pleasure of reading recently was No Roses for Harry! by Gene Zion. I remember Harry from childhood. My mother brought home the other book, Harry the Dirty Dog by the same author. I came across Harry again when I was trying to find any available e-book or audio on the library website, so that I could test it out on my Kindle. When I saw the audio, I had to check it out and listen. It then prompted me to check out the hard copy—to connect with that aspect of my childhood. No Roses for Harry! is a charming story with complimentary illustrations by Margaret Bloy Graham.

A book I enjoyed very much was Eat Cake by Jeanne Ray. I wasn't sure if it was going to pull me in when it was recommended to me. This turned out to be a delightful story about a woman who loves baking and resorts to cake, both in mind and baking as her way of dealing with stress. Other family conflicts are added to the mix and the story continues unfolding with deft movement and memorable characters. Complete with a handful of cake recipes, one that stood out was a sweet potato bundt cake with rum plumped raisins and a spiked sugar glaze. Treat yourself to a warm slice of cake. I think that anyone that reads this book will be able to take something from it. It’s a fun read and so much more.

Searching around on the Amazon Kindle store, I came across The Journal Keeper: A Memoir by Phyllis Theroux. As a Journal keeper myself, I am enjoying this one very much. It's relatable, the writing is vivid and reflective, and I also enjoy when she shares quotes and the books they are from and how she weaves them into her journal. One book that I recently ordered that she quoted from is an autobiography of Jacques Lusseyran: And There was Light: Blind Hero of the French Resistance. I may not have come across this book, if not for her mentioning it. I enjoyed Helen Keller’s The World I live In, and this book made me think of her. I am interested in reading Lusseyran’s autobiography to be allowed a window into his vision of the world after losing his sight and of learning a little bit about his experience of being a significant part of the French Resistance. It’s a part of history I know nothing about and this will be a digestible way for me to learn from his perspective. I am also looking forward to his writing because the sample that Theroux chose was beautiful and the few pages I have read so far make me feel happy that the book found me.

Feelings

Feelings of suffocation

of her own doing. The filmstrip

plays over. Worry.

Worry that has no reason. One moment

happy, then calm. A few hours later, a trigger.

Triggers catch her by surprise. She begins

drowning in her own thoughts, reaching

for the surface, but sinking back down.

Unable to step back completely to get

perspective. Is the line curved this way or

That? She wants the level to feel balanced;

she doesn’t want to keep playing the reel in

her head, but at certain moments, it plays itself

and then the cycle starts back up. She knows it

will pass, but will it be too late? Will it dissolve

into fragments that cannot be brought back to one

fine piece?

Morning Ruckus

Even though there is still plenty of Summer left, the feeling of Fall is near. A calmness— a brittleness in the distance, of tiny branches crackling—Blue Jays collecting. I heard the Crows the other morning. They are an annoyance to my significant other, but to me their ca-cawing is music—if not a smooth melody, a little out of tune, I drink it in just the same. I wondered why they were making such a ruckus, though, on that morning—it was out of the norm. I peeked outside and saw a crew of them and then I had forgotten that, oh yes, someone had placed a bird feeder up in the tree a few windows down. The crows were mostly sharing the seed, but there was one that was kept at bay—they would not let him join in for some reason—and that was why there was so much noise on that morning.

**

I downloaded a poetry App from the iTunes store that simulates the magnetic poetry concept, only you move tiles around with your fingers instead of picking them up.

Here’s a link for more information. It’s initially free and then if you’d like to purchase different “packages” there is a small fee.

http://itunes.apple.com/lk/app/poetry-creator-verses-poets/id371925480?mt=8

Here’s a poem that I made with the App. The photo is a screenshot of it.

**

Consider that

Pause       showing

then growl

flop to the fountains

question the fault

give change

well considered

**

Happy weekend and Happy writing!

I Remember…

It may seem like I’m always cleaning and tossing and finding. Well, yes, I do continue to weed out the clutter. I think it’s a life long process. I’ve got to stay on top of it. And so, yes I did get rid of a few more papers and I saw a slim folder with only three sheets of writing in it. Two I tossed; one I kept. I wanted to capture it, to share it here before getting rid of the piece of paper from where it came from. It looks like I wrote it on Valentines day, February 14, 2010. At the top I wrote, “Goldberg – I Remember.” Ahh, I say to myself, it must have come from one of my favorite writing books: Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones.

I Remember…

Skinny dipping at different stages of life.

Watching grandma make tortillas and walking to the bus stop when her and grandpa didn’t see eye to eye—on her way to her brother’s house. Most of the time we would catch her before she got on the bus. We lived on the same block and the bus stop was right outside our house.

The peaceful look on mom's face when I told her how my brother got upset when I shaved my legs.  It was the first time I felt her tenderness toward me. I was twelve. She saw before her a young lady about to embark on her life and even though she knew she wouldn't be a part of it she seemed to have made peace with that.

The difficulties of school, from the subject matter, my shyness, to the clothes that I would sometimes wear. I remember being alone for large chunks of my life and always having a sense deep down that this is how I was meant to be, almost like it was part of my calling. It makes some sense but not entirely.

Malt-meal in my hair. Getting caught smoking, frilly dresses, certain teachers—good and bad; taps on my window during the night; sitting under the stars on a moonlit night.

**

I appreciate how simple the exercise is and what memories will be jogged at the time of writing it. I’ve been reading a few different books lately and I will probably post about them soon. But this whole process brought me back to my closet for another writing book because it’s been a while. I have enjoyed, but have savored—taking it very slowly—Julia Cameron’s The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life.  She is the author of The Artist’s Way, another wonderful book that really got me writing every day—“Morning Pages”—and making “Artist Dates” with myself. It’s been at least a year since I picked up The Right to Write. I left off on page 64, A chapter titled “The Well.” I felt filled up after reading it. A chapter about filling up our wells, not letting them run dry.  She refers to “Artist Dates” as discussed in her other book—reminds us to go do something different by ourselves, whether it’s a visit to a museum, a garden, a fabric store—whatever our heart’s desire, as long as it’s a date with our self—alone.

When I come back to a book after some time, I find myself rereading the introduction. I love introductions. What Julia Cameron writes at the end of her introduction to The Right to Write, resonates with me deeply and also makes me light up with a smile inside, as I am one of those people she has convinced.

Thus, I conclude this blog with her quote from the introduction of The Right to Write: An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life:

This book will be a cheerleader for those trying the writing life, a companion for those living it, and a thank-you to my own writing for the life it has given to me.  It is my hope that this book will help to heal writers who are broken, initiate writers who are afraid, and entice writers who are standing at river’s edge, wanting to put a toe in.

I have a fantasy.  It’s the pearly gates. St. Peter has out his questionnaire, he asks me the Big Question, “What did you do that we should let you in?”

“I convinced people they should write,” I tell him. The great gates swing open.

The River

It’s been almost a month since we went on a short camping trip to the Russian River area. It was a great time, my significant other and I joined his cousins—a nice family gathering with laughing, drinking, eating. I hadn’t been camping in quite some time. We spent a lot of time on the River, the water a balanced chill to cool off the blazing sun. I didn’t put on sunscreen, which I normally wouldn’t skip—and I paid dearly, for I was burnt and peeling and a little sore for a few days after. Being in the cool water is deceptive to the rays of hot sun.

Today I share this and the photo because what sticks in my mind—the feeling I capture from the trip is somehow summarized for me in this photo I took of a little boy that I saw canoeing across the river. He represents something—an innocence, a carefree nature—one that I still feel connected to within myself.