for love of a bike

Bicycles have a special place in our family. At one point, I’m pretty sure my dad’s and brother’s bikes outnumbered our family members. You’ve got to have one for everything. Mountain bikes, road bikes, time trial bikes, fixed-gear bikes for track, everyday bikes, special racing bikes, even wheels that get their moment of glory for an event or two. I loved growing up and attending races to cheer for my dad and brother, their teammates, anyone wearing the color pink…

Bike races are a whirl of color and so much fun. Even to the local who knows nothing about the “chess match on wheels”—as my dad puts it—enjoys watching and cheering on the efforts. I’ve been in feeding zones, matched with an oversized golf umbrella with big, colorful flowers so my dad could “aim” for us to pick up his grub; I’ve cheered in the rain and sun and it never got old. We watched some of the Paris-Roubais this weekend (a race in France that is often preparation for the upcoming Tour de France—also the toughest one day race purportedly) and it winds its way through narrow streets, tiny roads, and over cobbles to the finish in the French countryside. People line the streets and roads to cheer for the athletes: they watch the race’s progress on the telly then run outside to catch the brief glimpse they have of the race itself on their street, then head back inside to watch the finish in the amber light of their local pub. It’s a sport enjoyed the world around. (like soccer—or football—my fave!)

Check out any local races you might have, and you’ll be sure to enjoy the excitement and swirl of color and speed.

While I was raised in a family of racers, riders, and those-who-do-it-just-for-the-exercise, I was never a bike rider. I occasionally got myself onto a two-wheeled contraption, but for the life of me, I still can’t understand how they deal with how uncomfortable it is!

I remember dad taking off my training wheels and just letting go. That was all I needed: a secure grip and a gentle slope and I was golden.

I’m happy to announce my bike riding days are going to be revived. I’m confident that “it’s like learning to ride a bike” and I’ll be good to go; a few trips on some wide-wheeled-wonders on beach vacations made me certain of that.

Speaking of wide-wheeled-wonders, check out this beauty I’ve got my heart (and my triumphant return) set on.



Many happy trails! Are you going to check out a bike race in your area? It’ll be fun!

Cupcake

I think it’s cupcake story day.

I don’t have a great spring cleaning tale or anything exciting happening, since we’ve just moved out, and have had one heck of a week doing so.
Sprinkle in some late nights with friends, scrubbing a year’s worth of gunk from my stove/fridge/dishwasher/microwave and kitchen cupboards, working 8 to 5, a cat that hasn’t stopped crying because I won’t let him outside at the new apartment and you’ve got the week I’ve had.
It was one to remember, er, maybe actually to forget. All I can say is that I’m glad we’re at a stopping point, and yet I can’t wait to do it again to move into our new place.

Anyway, back to the cupcake. We’ve been thinking about the spaz children both of us were/are, and how it’s going to translate to our own kids, in the not-too-distant future.

One of Phil’s favorite stories of me as a little girl is one about a picnic and a cupcake.
As you know (or can assume), I love food. Always have, always will. It’s a “well-earned comfort” (now I just need a pipe and some hobbits to teach me how to blow smoke circles). please excuse, for Kylee.

We were at Chip and Ginny Derr’s awesome log cabin in the woods in the spring when I was probably eight years old. They had this smorgasbord of food out on their front porch, tables streaming full of food, and most importantly, chocolate cupcakes for dessert. It was a pretty big group, and when my turn to go through the line came, I made sure to get one of those cupcakes right away. My dad said:
“Now, Abby, you’ve had one cupcake, and you may only have one. That’s enough.”
.
.
.
Um, so I plunked my eight-year-old bottom on their stairs and ate my plate of deliciousness, and ate that cupcake last. IT was SO glorious.

My perch in reference to the food table was just a few feet—out the front door to the porch—and all the adults were in conversation somewhere else; I couldn’t even SEE my dad. How would he know if I had just one tiny one more?

So, I had another one. I thought I was super spy and sneaked out the door and coolly helped myself to another cupcake. I ate it quickly though, just in case. I didn’t see anyone and I thought I was golden.

Nope.

Spanking the next day, because SOMEHOW my dad knew. To this day, I don’t know how he knew I couldn’t resist the cupcake’s siren call.
It’s so not me. *

*actually, it is me. I would do a lot for a special treat. Phil knows. That’s why this story is his favorite. Goose flag story to come. xoxo.