I remember my Dad saying he quit playing golf because he wanted to play for fun and relaxation, but got so frustrated that he ended up leaving the course angry and wound up tighter than John McEnroe after a questionable call. I am finding myself feeling the same way about bicycle mechanics. The more I read about cycling and repair the more I want to learn how to do all of those things myself. Recently, I read an article about a sixty-one year old woman, who rode her bike to work every day in Boston! She got on that thing and rode through the snow and the rain and all the mushy, messy weather that is New England. The bike she rode on her daily excursions she made herself!!! That woman picked out every aspect of her bike down to the type of fenders hovering above her tires. With her own two hands she pieced that puppy together. Am I the only one who thinks that is incredibly and amazingly cool. I doubt it. After reading that article, I slapped the magazine across my legs with a firm determination and thought, “Well, darn it, if that woman can do it at sixty-one, then I should be able to do it too.” HA! So far, it turns out age has very little to do with mechanical ability. At thirty three, I was hoping for somewhat of an edge over this woman. Unfortunately, I am not proving to be much of a mechanic.
To my credit, here is a list of bicycle maintenance items I currently perform fairly well:
• Remove my front and back tire
• replace a flat tire
• Pump my tires
• Put on brand new tires
• Adjust my breaks (I just learned this in my class this weekend)
• raise and adjust my saddle and seat stem
• clean my chain
• lube my cables
• adjust the tension on my pedals
• install my own cleats
As I write all of that down, I’ll admit, I do feel a little bit better. It reminds me of all my years of teaching and how we were always told to approach our students with a “strengths based” attitude. In essence, start with what they know and can do well first, then more onto their “challenges”.
My challenge is that the more I learn, the more I realize I know nothing. For example, before this weekend I thought my bike had Shimano components. Don’t ask me why I thought this. I just never thought to look at my components on my bike to double check. It says about 5 times on my bike, Campagnolo Veloce. Not Shimano, but Campy components. As it happens, these are pretty decent components.
Also, as long as I am coming clean, before this weekend I had NO IDEA that the cables on a bike not only work the breaks, but TA-DA, they also are what shift your gears up and down! And it works strictly by adding or releasing tension, which was really cool for me to learn actually. How did I miss all of this? Do you people know this? Not only have I missed this in the past, but I asked our poor instructor about 46 thousand follow up questions to really understand how it all works. Let me tell you, that was one patient man!
Maybe the secret in life is that I should feel like a dumb ass for at least part of the time, just to remind me that yes, there is a lot out there that has been right under my nose that I never took the time to learn about. Really, if I take the “I should know this…” factor out of it, it’s really like being eight years old again, playing in the garage and seeing just what will happen if you loosen that bolt and pry off that washer?
The thirteen year old boy in our bicycle class this weekend was by far the most confident and the most at ease with the new material. He patiently played with his bike as his Dad, my Dad and I all frowned at our mounted frames, silently mumbling to ourselves as we tried to perform the tasks we’d just been taught. I’m hoping that learning more about bikes and what makes them work doesn’t leave me like my Dad and golf, throwing tantrums and cursing into the wind.
Instead, I’ll try to remain “strengths based”, and look at my “I can do these things “list frequently. So even though I can’t seem to figure out how to raise my threaded stemmed handlebars, at least I can say that I know the difference between a threaded and a threadless stem, for the most part at least. From what I can tell so far, the one I don’t have would be easier to adjust!
Monday, March 16, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
Write about your reaction to a crisis you experienced: This was a writing prompt from “The One Minute Writer” blog.
Not many people can claim that two of their college roommates dropped out of school, but I can. Not that I really want that particular claim to fame, but it remains true all the same. My roommate sophomore year just couldn’t get to class. During my senior year, a different roommate experienced a mini-meltdown and moved home.
As a result of my disappearing roommates, I lived alone in an apartment on campus for part of my senior year. During this time, I would set my alarm for 5am and go out for a run before my classes each morning. One October morning, I put on my shoes, bending over to tie the laces as I have since mastering the task in kindergarten, two bunny eared loops, cross them in an X, then wrap one ear down and through. Pull both ears and you’ve got tied laces! Grabbing my walkman I quick footed it down the stairs out onto the quiet street.
I never quite caught on to the college habit of embracing the wee hours of the night. My habit to rise early in the morning as a college student wasn’t one I broadcasted to my peers. It seemed like doing so would be the equivalent as getting the following tattooed on my forehead. “I would rather greet the day cheerily than party with rigor through the night.” and in italics underneath it would say, “I swear I’m not a boring loser-really.” Being a morning person in college takes a lot of explaining. I often found myself backpedaling furiously when the topic arose, hoping to convey that I was not in fact antisocial or weird. Sometimes I just didn’t have the energy or desire to defend my preferences.
Heading out into the run for the day, my lungs gratefully sucked up the inky autumn morning. As I turned right onto the main drag in campus, congratulating myself on another morning out of bed and into the world before all others, I realized that I hadn’t yet turned my walkman on. The silence of the dark morning had felt so good, peaceful and whole. I relished those sensations as my legs warmed up.
The well-lit street main drag of campus was lined with old houses on the right and the expansive Dunn Meadow on the left. I chose the open side. My skin pleasantly began to perspire under my IU rowing t-shirt. Without looking in the mirror, I knew my cheeks would have the bright red glow that earned me the nickname, “Tomato Face” in my high school gym class. It didn’t take much effort for my complexion to flush. PE teachers sometimes would furrow their brow during class and ask me if I felt ok.
My thoughts broke off as the scene before me shifted suddenly. A man in a grey sweatshirt popped up out of the bushes lining the small front lawns of the houses on the right side of the street. He must have been crouching behind them. “Hey there,” he whispered. My heart slammed against my chest. You have got to be kidding me I thought. Quickly, I scanned the street. No one in sight. No lights on inside any of the houses. There I was, on the main street of Indiana University’s campus, normally packed with people throwing Frisbees, sitting in the sun reading, smoking cigarettes and laughing with friends, and the road was barren and silent. It struck me as amazing that this man and I seemed to be the only ones awake, the only ones pulling the air through our noses into our bodies, the only ones in this sudden show-down.
Without moving my head, I looked out of the corner of my eye, he’d begun hop skipping sideways in an aerobic like manner, watching me, sensing my fear, smiling. I believed he thought my walkman was on, that I wasn’t quite aware of him. I knew I would have to cross the street and try to bang on one of the houses doors. But which one? Many were simply offices for various campus groups. No one would be there at this hour. At the end of the street Sigma Chi’s front light shone brightly. Although no lights glowed from the windows, I felt confident that if I pounded hard enough and screamed, they would come to the door. Just as I made this decision and picked up the pace of my running, the man made his own decision and darted towards me from across the street.
I remember thinking, “Oh my God, this is like a bad afterschool special. This cannot really be happening.” In that moment, a figure appeared to my left and as the man’s hand reached out for my arm, calmly said, “Scream, now.” And I did. I opened my mouth and the scream enveloped the spaces left open, spaces that would be filled in just a few hours with backpacks and bleary eyed students. I felt as an opera singer must feel on stage. The scream completely took over my body. Shocked and wide eyed, the man turned to flee in the opposite direction. Still screaming, I somehow found myself at Sigma Chi’s door, where I pounded on their door with my closed fist. After what felt like a decade, hand flew up the stairs from behind me and wrapped his arms around me, “Hey, it’s ok, you’re okay.” he said. I collapsed in his arms. The door opened and several Sigma Chi guys dressed only in their boxers stood looking down at the two of us with concerned expressions on their pillow creased faces.
The police were called. The president of the house led me to a ridiculously formal red velvet chair in the fraternity’s front room. The boys milled around, unsure of what to do. The man who found me was from the local ROTC. He told me that they were two streets over, doing their morning run, when they heard my screams. Half of them took off towards me and the other half spotted a man running away and pursued him.
The police officer arrived and I gave a description of the man and recounted what had happened. He shared that a man with a similar description was wanted for various sexual assault charges occurring over the last few months. The officer recommended not running the same route each day on my runs, that I should switch it up. He felt that the man had probably noticed I ran the same loop about 4 days a week and then just waited for me to show up. He questioned me and a few of the ROTC men, then drove me home to my apartment.
After walking into my apartment and securely locking the door, I picked up the phone to call my parents. Before I could finish the story, I started crying. I didn’t want to burden m y parents with worry, but I knew I needed to tell them. My mom said she could come out for a few days, but I flatly refused. Even though I was living by myself at the time, I felt that if I didn’t push myself to get through it, I wouldn’t ever feel safe by myself again.
Ironically, the next day at school, my mom’s assistant, Beth told my mom that her daughter, also a Kate, had called her concerned about an incident on campus. Kate also attended IU. Her boyfriend, a ROTC guy, called her the night before pretty upset. He explained they were out for their morning run, and a girl started screaming. “I’ve never heard screaming like that before,” he told her. He got to the girl in time, but that could have been Kate. Some of the other ROTC guys went after him, but guy got away. He wanted her to be careful. It shook them all up. Kate called her mom, feeling a bit freaked out. Of course the girl was me.
What pissed me off the most was not the actual experience of fear, because I had been really lucky. I felt incredibly grateful for the ability to scream and the ROTC’s presence just a few blocks away. What pissed me off was the fear that lingered for years afterwards. Anytime I found myself outside after dark, my heart pounded. Later, when I lived in an apartment with street parking, I found the need to work up my courage to walk down the dark staircase and unlock my car. I will never forget the joy I felt when Josh and I moved into our first townhouse. We had a garage! I no longer had to scope out an area before heading to my car early in the morning or at night. I can still identify a blind spot a mile away. I am constantly aware of my surroundings as I walk or bike anywhere. Because, ultimately, I think that awareness also helped me. Had my walkman been on, he may have been able to surprise me, but that day for whatever reason, it wasn’t.
I did get a new and wonderful roommate, Heidi. Was the figure that showed up next to me a figment of my imagination? A guardian angel? I don’t know. But I found myself asking for its protection and help the next week when I forced myself to get up at 5 am and take a run. I did not bring a walkman. I took a different route. I ran for about 15 minutes. The whole time I chanted the following phrase over and over in my head, “I am not scared of you. You did not win. I am not scared of you. You did not win.” And when I walked back into my apartment around 5:17, I knew I wouldn’t be lacing up my shoes early in the morning again anytime soon, but it felt good to make the point. You did not win.
As a result of my disappearing roommates, I lived alone in an apartment on campus for part of my senior year. During this time, I would set my alarm for 5am and go out for a run before my classes each morning. One October morning, I put on my shoes, bending over to tie the laces as I have since mastering the task in kindergarten, two bunny eared loops, cross them in an X, then wrap one ear down and through. Pull both ears and you’ve got tied laces! Grabbing my walkman I quick footed it down the stairs out onto the quiet street.
I never quite caught on to the college habit of embracing the wee hours of the night. My habit to rise early in the morning as a college student wasn’t one I broadcasted to my peers. It seemed like doing so would be the equivalent as getting the following tattooed on my forehead. “I would rather greet the day cheerily than party with rigor through the night.” and in italics underneath it would say, “I swear I’m not a boring loser-really.” Being a morning person in college takes a lot of explaining. I often found myself backpedaling furiously when the topic arose, hoping to convey that I was not in fact antisocial or weird. Sometimes I just didn’t have the energy or desire to defend my preferences.
Heading out into the run for the day, my lungs gratefully sucked up the inky autumn morning. As I turned right onto the main drag in campus, congratulating myself on another morning out of bed and into the world before all others, I realized that I hadn’t yet turned my walkman on. The silence of the dark morning had felt so good, peaceful and whole. I relished those sensations as my legs warmed up.
The well-lit street main drag of campus was lined with old houses on the right and the expansive Dunn Meadow on the left. I chose the open side. My skin pleasantly began to perspire under my IU rowing t-shirt. Without looking in the mirror, I knew my cheeks would have the bright red glow that earned me the nickname, “Tomato Face” in my high school gym class. It didn’t take much effort for my complexion to flush. PE teachers sometimes would furrow their brow during class and ask me if I felt ok.
My thoughts broke off as the scene before me shifted suddenly. A man in a grey sweatshirt popped up out of the bushes lining the small front lawns of the houses on the right side of the street. He must have been crouching behind them. “Hey there,” he whispered. My heart slammed against my chest. You have got to be kidding me I thought. Quickly, I scanned the street. No one in sight. No lights on inside any of the houses. There I was, on the main street of Indiana University’s campus, normally packed with people throwing Frisbees, sitting in the sun reading, smoking cigarettes and laughing with friends, and the road was barren and silent. It struck me as amazing that this man and I seemed to be the only ones awake, the only ones pulling the air through our noses into our bodies, the only ones in this sudden show-down.
Without moving my head, I looked out of the corner of my eye, he’d begun hop skipping sideways in an aerobic like manner, watching me, sensing my fear, smiling. I believed he thought my walkman was on, that I wasn’t quite aware of him. I knew I would have to cross the street and try to bang on one of the houses doors. But which one? Many were simply offices for various campus groups. No one would be there at this hour. At the end of the street Sigma Chi’s front light shone brightly. Although no lights glowed from the windows, I felt confident that if I pounded hard enough and screamed, they would come to the door. Just as I made this decision and picked up the pace of my running, the man made his own decision and darted towards me from across the street.
I remember thinking, “Oh my God, this is like a bad afterschool special. This cannot really be happening.” In that moment, a figure appeared to my left and as the man’s hand reached out for my arm, calmly said, “Scream, now.” And I did. I opened my mouth and the scream enveloped the spaces left open, spaces that would be filled in just a few hours with backpacks and bleary eyed students. I felt as an opera singer must feel on stage. The scream completely took over my body. Shocked and wide eyed, the man turned to flee in the opposite direction. Still screaming, I somehow found myself at Sigma Chi’s door, where I pounded on their door with my closed fist. After what felt like a decade, hand flew up the stairs from behind me and wrapped his arms around me, “Hey, it’s ok, you’re okay.” he said. I collapsed in his arms. The door opened and several Sigma Chi guys dressed only in their boxers stood looking down at the two of us with concerned expressions on their pillow creased faces.
The police were called. The president of the house led me to a ridiculously formal red velvet chair in the fraternity’s front room. The boys milled around, unsure of what to do. The man who found me was from the local ROTC. He told me that they were two streets over, doing their morning run, when they heard my screams. Half of them took off towards me and the other half spotted a man running away and pursued him.
The police officer arrived and I gave a description of the man and recounted what had happened. He shared that a man with a similar description was wanted for various sexual assault charges occurring over the last few months. The officer recommended not running the same route each day on my runs, that I should switch it up. He felt that the man had probably noticed I ran the same loop about 4 days a week and then just waited for me to show up. He questioned me and a few of the ROTC men, then drove me home to my apartment.
After walking into my apartment and securely locking the door, I picked up the phone to call my parents. Before I could finish the story, I started crying. I didn’t want to burden m y parents with worry, but I knew I needed to tell them. My mom said she could come out for a few days, but I flatly refused. Even though I was living by myself at the time, I felt that if I didn’t push myself to get through it, I wouldn’t ever feel safe by myself again.
Ironically, the next day at school, my mom’s assistant, Beth told my mom that her daughter, also a Kate, had called her concerned about an incident on campus. Kate also attended IU. Her boyfriend, a ROTC guy, called her the night before pretty upset. He explained they were out for their morning run, and a girl started screaming. “I’ve never heard screaming like that before,” he told her. He got to the girl in time, but that could have been Kate. Some of the other ROTC guys went after him, but guy got away. He wanted her to be careful. It shook them all up. Kate called her mom, feeling a bit freaked out. Of course the girl was me.
What pissed me off the most was not the actual experience of fear, because I had been really lucky. I felt incredibly grateful for the ability to scream and the ROTC’s presence just a few blocks away. What pissed me off was the fear that lingered for years afterwards. Anytime I found myself outside after dark, my heart pounded. Later, when I lived in an apartment with street parking, I found the need to work up my courage to walk down the dark staircase and unlock my car. I will never forget the joy I felt when Josh and I moved into our first townhouse. We had a garage! I no longer had to scope out an area before heading to my car early in the morning or at night. I can still identify a blind spot a mile away. I am constantly aware of my surroundings as I walk or bike anywhere. Because, ultimately, I think that awareness also helped me. Had my walkman been on, he may have been able to surprise me, but that day for whatever reason, it wasn’t.
I did get a new and wonderful roommate, Heidi. Was the figure that showed up next to me a figment of my imagination? A guardian angel? I don’t know. But I found myself asking for its protection and help the next week when I forced myself to get up at 5 am and take a run. I did not bring a walkman. I took a different route. I ran for about 15 minutes. The whole time I chanted the following phrase over and over in my head, “I am not scared of you. You did not win. I am not scared of you. You did not win.” And when I walked back into my apartment around 5:17, I knew I wouldn’t be lacing up my shoes early in the morning again anytime soon, but it felt good to make the point. You did not win.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
A new bike or an engagment ring?
Lately, with all of the triathlon training I’ve been doing, I’ve gotten reacquainted with my road bike. No longer is “Goldie” just coming out for the annual Hilly Hundred ride with my Dad and sister. I’m getting both of us ready for some serious riding in these upcoming months. Brushing up on my cycling skills has allowed some old feelings to resurface. Once again, I am 23 years old and longing for a carbon fiber frame atop of two wheels, instead of 2 carats on a platinum band, all the while trying to assert myself as a competent adult.
When Josh and I had been dating for awhile, and it was clear that he wanted to get married, we talked about two things. #1-I loved him, but was more than a little leery about all things marriage related. #2-If we were to get married, I had no interest in a ring. But I did mention a new road bike would be a nice way to start things off.
To be fair, what I ideally imagined included purchasing something that we would share in our life together. I read about people buying a dog as an engagement gift. Josh already owned a dog and two dogs seemed like a ridiculous idea for a couple planning to live in an apartment. At the time, I believed that engagement rings laden with a massive diamond implied a pending ownership of the woman. I wanted nothing to do with that idea. Why did just women receive engagement rings? Why not men? What showed the world that a man was preparing to get married? Why did his hand remain naked while mine was required to wear a rock? It just bothered me. In all fairness, I understand that most people do not view engagement rings in such a manner. I myself no longer hold such a view of them, but it meant a lot to me at the time.
Plus, I wanted a new road bike so badly; why not use a new bike as a symbol of the upcoming nuptials? For years, I used my mom’s old ten speed for the rides my Dad and I did together. I felt ready to move past the standard ten speed and elevate my riding to a more sophisticated level. Josh loved the idea and figured shopping for a bike would be a lot easier and more fun than shopping for a ring.
Unfortunately for Josh and his shopping plans, my parents bought me a new road bike for my college graduation gift. I was thrilled to have my new bike. New road bike or engagement ring aside, I knew Josh was the one for me. I also knew I needed to live on my own and keep our status at the “serious, but not engaged” level, at least for awhile.
Before meeting Josh I vowed not to even think about marriage or a serious relationship until my mid-thirties. I had things to accomplish. At least that’s what I told myself before Josh. Now, out on my own, I still wanted to pay my own bills, buy the food, and decorate the apartment however I pleased. I felt the need to be a responsible adult before I became a spouse. In typical Josh style, he remained confident in my love and commitment to him. If I didn’t want a ring or a big wedding or an engagement right away, he was cool with that and could hang out as long as I needed. That is exactly what he did.
So I found an apartment and for six months I wrote the checks, went to work, ran the errands and cooked the food. Josh pretty much lived with me, but my name was on the lease. By December, I’d had enough. Whatever I needed to prove to myself I had proven.
On December 24th, 1999, Josh proposed and I happily accepted. (How he proposed is a story for another day, but let’s just say, the night ended with a massive migraine on my part!) My engagement ring could not be more perfect in my eyes. It is the ring his Papa bought for his Nana when they got engaged, a family piece his Nana gave to Josh, to someday give to me, when we were both ready.
Next year, Josh and I will mark our 10 year anniversary. While we didn’t purchase his and her bikes for our engagement, it might be a good way to mark a decade of marriage. Josh could have other ideas though, like a nice vacation or a romantic getaway. I guess it would be my turn to let him have his way and return the favor he granted me many years ago.
When Josh and I had been dating for awhile, and it was clear that he wanted to get married, we talked about two things. #1-I loved him, but was more than a little leery about all things marriage related. #2-If we were to get married, I had no interest in a ring. But I did mention a new road bike would be a nice way to start things off.
To be fair, what I ideally imagined included purchasing something that we would share in our life together. I read about people buying a dog as an engagement gift. Josh already owned a dog and two dogs seemed like a ridiculous idea for a couple planning to live in an apartment. At the time, I believed that engagement rings laden with a massive diamond implied a pending ownership of the woman. I wanted nothing to do with that idea. Why did just women receive engagement rings? Why not men? What showed the world that a man was preparing to get married? Why did his hand remain naked while mine was required to wear a rock? It just bothered me. In all fairness, I understand that most people do not view engagement rings in such a manner. I myself no longer hold such a view of them, but it meant a lot to me at the time.
Plus, I wanted a new road bike so badly; why not use a new bike as a symbol of the upcoming nuptials? For years, I used my mom’s old ten speed for the rides my Dad and I did together. I felt ready to move past the standard ten speed and elevate my riding to a more sophisticated level. Josh loved the idea and figured shopping for a bike would be a lot easier and more fun than shopping for a ring.
Unfortunately for Josh and his shopping plans, my parents bought me a new road bike for my college graduation gift. I was thrilled to have my new bike. New road bike or engagement ring aside, I knew Josh was the one for me. I also knew I needed to live on my own and keep our status at the “serious, but not engaged” level, at least for awhile.
Before meeting Josh I vowed not to even think about marriage or a serious relationship until my mid-thirties. I had things to accomplish. At least that’s what I told myself before Josh. Now, out on my own, I still wanted to pay my own bills, buy the food, and decorate the apartment however I pleased. I felt the need to be a responsible adult before I became a spouse. In typical Josh style, he remained confident in my love and commitment to him. If I didn’t want a ring or a big wedding or an engagement right away, he was cool with that and could hang out as long as I needed. That is exactly what he did.
So I found an apartment and for six months I wrote the checks, went to work, ran the errands and cooked the food. Josh pretty much lived with me, but my name was on the lease. By December, I’d had enough. Whatever I needed to prove to myself I had proven.
On December 24th, 1999, Josh proposed and I happily accepted. (How he proposed is a story for another day, but let’s just say, the night ended with a massive migraine on my part!) My engagement ring could not be more perfect in my eyes. It is the ring his Papa bought for his Nana when they got engaged, a family piece his Nana gave to Josh, to someday give to me, when we were both ready.
Next year, Josh and I will mark our 10 year anniversary. While we didn’t purchase his and her bikes for our engagement, it might be a good way to mark a decade of marriage. Josh could have other ideas though, like a nice vacation or a romantic getaway. I guess it would be my turn to let him have his way and return the favor he granted me many years ago.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Bike Fitting 101
After months of fiddling with my bike, and staring at various bike fitting videos on YouTube, with little success, I finally caved and made an appointment with the local bike fitting guru to get my bike "professionally fitted”.
Let me just tell you, if you asked me which was easier, getting a bike fitted correctly or finding the perfect pair of jeans that make my butt look compact and my thighs slim, finding the jeans would certainly take the cake. Who knew that fitting a bike could be so technical! Apparently, many people are well aware of this fact.
My orthopedist recommended that I visit T3, a triathlon store here in Indy. (http://www.fittechbylamere.com) Vern LaMere is the go-to guy there. I think Dr. Kollias’s exact words were, “Vern works with a lot of the elite amateur tri guys. I am not sure how many women he fits, but he should do a good job for you.” One thing I’ve learned this far in my “athletic career” is that I have no time or patience for sexism. As a result, when someone recommends a specialist or doctor to me, the first thing I ask is, “Will he or she treat me with the same candor and respect as they would a male 33 year old guy.” If the answer is yes, then I’ll take the time, if there is a pause or a wrinkle in their forehead, then I know it’s a no. I’ll admit, I often walk into a new establishment or doctor’s office with a fairly decent chip on my shoulder. “Don’t you talk down to me just because I am a woman. I will be treated just as you would treat a male patient/customer or I will take my business elsewhere.”
Happily, Vern turned out to be a fantastic guy. He spent 2 and a half hours with me, doing a insane amount of measuring, videotaping and adjusting on my bike. I am saddened to say, that all of the adjustments I personally made to my bike were dead wrong. I moved my seat forward, it needed to be moved back, and not just a little bit, but 4 INCHES! I raised my seat; it needed to be lowered. Vern was pretty nice about it. He said, “You know it is just tricky to try and fit yourself to your own bike because you are looking down on everything.” I appreciated the comment, but I also realize I’ve got so much to learn. So what? We've all got to start somewhere. I'm learning. Everyone starts somewhere right?
I enjoyed chatting with Vern as he viewed the video and made different adjustments. He grew up in Wisconsin. We talked about how much we both like that state, Summer Fest in Milwaukee, how nice people are in Wisconsin, etc. He asked me several questions to find out what kind of rider I was. When I told him I planned on doing a few triathlons this summer, he suggested a particular pair of tri shoes to shorten my transition times. I laughed, needing to explain myself, “I am never going to be someone who is out there competing to place within my age group. I am just out there to have a good time.” He actually looked surprised. Do I look like I could possibly place? I don’t know, but I loved him for thinking I could or that I wanted to.
The thing is, as a woman out there, I want to be taken seriously, but at the same time, I am not out there to kick anyone's butt but my own. I am out there for the experience, for the sense of empowerment I feel, not for time or a medal. I appreciated all of his questions and the fact that my answers were accepted at face value. I didn’t feel pressured at all. He explained to me that he fits the bike to the person’s preferences. My preferences quickly became apparent. I am looking to stay within a certain price point and I want to be comfortable. Meaning, I do not want to be in any pain and make it cheap!
Cheap it was not. I walked out of there with new pedals, new shoes for the new pedals, a new seat post and, oh yeah, a bike that fits correctly. I am not a big spender, and I specifically choke on big ticket items. So, I tried to not to collapse into a total panic attack when I paid the bill. But as my sister later reminded me, “Kate, you are supporting the economy. Someone has to spend money and you just spent money at this guy’s shop, and he’s a good guy.” And it’s true. I want to ride, my bike feels good, my shoes feel good, and Vern is a cool dude. So, I guess that would qualify as money well spent.
There are my new Speedplay pedals. Vern suggested these after I told him how I get worried about getting stuck in my pedals. During one of the Hilly rides I was climbing the biggest hill, Mount Tabor, and passing people because I don't have smaller gears and therefore need to muscle it up hills. As I was pushing past several groups of riders on their left, a pick-up truck flew up and over the crest of the hill. I had no where to go to get over. I tried to clip out but my legs were dead and the hill was so steep that there was no cruising, stopped meant falling over, falling meant taking down several riders or getting hit by the truck, all of this in about 2 seconds. I did manage to pull my foot out of the clips and stopped fairly safely, but it freaked me out. So, these pedals are easy in and easy clip out. Plus, they've got lots of float in them so it feels great on the knees.
The shoes. I have to say, I love the purple trim on these! I wore my brother-in-law's old Shimano road shoes for years. They were of course too big and thus caused some problems. It was certainly time for a pair of shoes that actually fit!
So this is the cleat that clips you in. Cool huh? What can I say, I am my father's daughter. He LOVES gear. I do too.
Let me just tell you, if you asked me which was easier, getting a bike fitted correctly or finding the perfect pair of jeans that make my butt look compact and my thighs slim, finding the jeans would certainly take the cake. Who knew that fitting a bike could be so technical! Apparently, many people are well aware of this fact.
My orthopedist recommended that I visit T3, a triathlon store here in Indy. (http://www.fittechbylamere.com) Vern LaMere is the go-to guy there. I think Dr. Kollias’s exact words were, “Vern works with a lot of the elite amateur tri guys. I am not sure how many women he fits, but he should do a good job for you.” One thing I’ve learned this far in my “athletic career” is that I have no time or patience for sexism. As a result, when someone recommends a specialist or doctor to me, the first thing I ask is, “Will he or she treat me with the same candor and respect as they would a male 33 year old guy.” If the answer is yes, then I’ll take the time, if there is a pause or a wrinkle in their forehead, then I know it’s a no. I’ll admit, I often walk into a new establishment or doctor’s office with a fairly decent chip on my shoulder. “Don’t you talk down to me just because I am a woman. I will be treated just as you would treat a male patient/customer or I will take my business elsewhere.”
Happily, Vern turned out to be a fantastic guy. He spent 2 and a half hours with me, doing a insane amount of measuring, videotaping and adjusting on my bike. I am saddened to say, that all of the adjustments I personally made to my bike were dead wrong. I moved my seat forward, it needed to be moved back, and not just a little bit, but 4 INCHES! I raised my seat; it needed to be lowered. Vern was pretty nice about it. He said, “You know it is just tricky to try and fit yourself to your own bike because you are looking down on everything.” I appreciated the comment, but I also realize I’ve got so much to learn. So what? We've all got to start somewhere. I'm learning. Everyone starts somewhere right?
I enjoyed chatting with Vern as he viewed the video and made different adjustments. He grew up in Wisconsin. We talked about how much we both like that state, Summer Fest in Milwaukee, how nice people are in Wisconsin, etc. He asked me several questions to find out what kind of rider I was. When I told him I planned on doing a few triathlons this summer, he suggested a particular pair of tri shoes to shorten my transition times. I laughed, needing to explain myself, “I am never going to be someone who is out there competing to place within my age group. I am just out there to have a good time.” He actually looked surprised. Do I look like I could possibly place? I don’t know, but I loved him for thinking I could or that I wanted to.
The thing is, as a woman out there, I want to be taken seriously, but at the same time, I am not out there to kick anyone's butt but my own. I am out there for the experience, for the sense of empowerment I feel, not for time or a medal. I appreciated all of his questions and the fact that my answers were accepted at face value. I didn’t feel pressured at all. He explained to me that he fits the bike to the person’s preferences. My preferences quickly became apparent. I am looking to stay within a certain price point and I want to be comfortable. Meaning, I do not want to be in any pain and make it cheap!
Cheap it was not. I walked out of there with new pedals, new shoes for the new pedals, a new seat post and, oh yeah, a bike that fits correctly. I am not a big spender, and I specifically choke on big ticket items. So, I tried to not to collapse into a total panic attack when I paid the bill. But as my sister later reminded me, “Kate, you are supporting the economy. Someone has to spend money and you just spent money at this guy’s shop, and he’s a good guy.” And it’s true. I want to ride, my bike feels good, my shoes feel good, and Vern is a cool dude. So, I guess that would qualify as money well spent.
There are my new Speedplay pedals. Vern suggested these after I told him how I get worried about getting stuck in my pedals. During one of the Hilly rides I was climbing the biggest hill, Mount Tabor, and passing people because I don't have smaller gears and therefore need to muscle it up hills. As I was pushing past several groups of riders on their left, a pick-up truck flew up and over the crest of the hill. I had no where to go to get over. I tried to clip out but my legs were dead and the hill was so steep that there was no cruising, stopped meant falling over, falling meant taking down several riders or getting hit by the truck, all of this in about 2 seconds. I did manage to pull my foot out of the clips and stopped fairly safely, but it freaked me out. So, these pedals are easy in and easy clip out. Plus, they've got lots of float in them so it feels great on the knees.
The shoes. I have to say, I love the purple trim on these! I wore my brother-in-law's old Shimano road shoes for years. They were of course too big and thus caused some problems. It was certainly time for a pair of shoes that actually fit!
So this is the cleat that clips you in. Cool huh? What can I say, I am my father's daughter. He LOVES gear. I do too.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Toilet Technology
I am all for the progression of technology, but there are times when all the advances in our daily lives bites me in the butt, or perhaps it would be better explained as spitting in my face. Let me explain.
Are there any other parents out there who have had this similar experience?
Kai needed to use the bathroom. So, being the good mom that I consider myself to be, I immediately escorted him to the bathroom. In this particular case, we were at the library, so we enjoyed the benefit of using a nice clean bathroom. We both squeezed into the stall meant for one person, my purse and bag of books taking up precious space. Kai gratefully leaned forward and peed into the pristine toilet bowl. I waited patiently, leaning my back against the stall door. When he finished, he turned around , needing some assistance with his pants. As I bent over him to yank the stubborn pants up over his tosh, the tiny red light above the toilet rapidly blinked three times, “Huh,” I thought. And before I could remind myself what that flashing meant, the white bowl erupted in a violent tsunami-like wave of automatic flushing.
The flush swirled with such vigor and force that sprays of my son’s dirty toilet water vaulted up and out of the toilet like a group of vagabond surfers riding a massive wave. Much of the water landed on the toilet seat, but a few drops did land, disgustingly, on my face. All of the air left my lungs as I let out the longest sigh in history. To say, “Yuck” just doesn’t do the experience justice.
Needless to say, I decided that afternoon that Kai must now always pull his own pants up. I don’t care if we are pressed for time; if he only gets them half way up his butt, or whines the entire time he works them back up to his waist.
I will not again find myself baptized in toilet water.
Are there any other parents out there who have had this similar experience?
Kai needed to use the bathroom. So, being the good mom that I consider myself to be, I immediately escorted him to the bathroom. In this particular case, we were at the library, so we enjoyed the benefit of using a nice clean bathroom. We both squeezed into the stall meant for one person, my purse and bag of books taking up precious space. Kai gratefully leaned forward and peed into the pristine toilet bowl. I waited patiently, leaning my back against the stall door. When he finished, he turned around , needing some assistance with his pants. As I bent over him to yank the stubborn pants up over his tosh, the tiny red light above the toilet rapidly blinked three times, “Huh,” I thought. And before I could remind myself what that flashing meant, the white bowl erupted in a violent tsunami-like wave of automatic flushing.
The flush swirled with such vigor and force that sprays of my son’s dirty toilet water vaulted up and out of the toilet like a group of vagabond surfers riding a massive wave. Much of the water landed on the toilet seat, but a few drops did land, disgustingly, on my face. All of the air left my lungs as I let out the longest sigh in history. To say, “Yuck” just doesn’t do the experience justice.
Needless to say, I decided that afternoon that Kai must now always pull his own pants up. I don’t care if we are pressed for time; if he only gets them half way up his butt, or whines the entire time he works them back up to his waist.
I will not again find myself baptized in toilet water.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Valentine's Day Mania
Who knew Valentine's Day was such a big deal? I guess I should considering I work for a greeting card company! But I really didn't have any idea, that is, until these past two weeks!
Normally I work about 12-24 hours a week. Last week I worked 35 just in the first 3 days. So, I have fallen behind on getting anything ready to post.
But I will share just one moment from last weekend. I went out for a run/walk early on Sunday morning before work. I noticed a man in his sixties kicking the rolled newspaper down his driveway. He'd take a few steps, give it a gentle kick, take another few steps towards it and then kicked it again. "What is this guy doing?" I wondered. He didn't notice me staring because his gaze remained on the paper.
Finally, the paper reached his mailbox, where he placed his hand on the box and leaned on it so he could bend over to pick up the paper.
Ah, so that was it. He wasn't able to bend over without support. How much easier would it be for this guy is the delivery person just put it in the newspaper holder under the mailbox?
But before I understood why he was kicking the paper, his actions completely puzzled me. I felt that was an appropriate lesson for the day. Even when I think people may be acting irrationally, there is often more to the story that explains what is really going on. If I can slow down and take the time to watch and listen, often the story reveals itself fairly quickly.
Now, if someone could just explain the rest of the story for the guy who stopped me in my Target store the other day and asked, "Do you have cards for Mistresses?"
After he left the women shopping next to me said, "Did that man really just ask you what I think he asked you?"
"Yup, he sure did."
Normally I work about 12-24 hours a week. Last week I worked 35 just in the first 3 days. So, I have fallen behind on getting anything ready to post.
But I will share just one moment from last weekend. I went out for a run/walk early on Sunday morning before work. I noticed a man in his sixties kicking the rolled newspaper down his driveway. He'd take a few steps, give it a gentle kick, take another few steps towards it and then kicked it again. "What is this guy doing?" I wondered. He didn't notice me staring because his gaze remained on the paper.
Finally, the paper reached his mailbox, where he placed his hand on the box and leaned on it so he could bend over to pick up the paper.
Ah, so that was it. He wasn't able to bend over without support. How much easier would it be for this guy is the delivery person just put it in the newspaper holder under the mailbox?
But before I understood why he was kicking the paper, his actions completely puzzled me. I felt that was an appropriate lesson for the day. Even when I think people may be acting irrationally, there is often more to the story that explains what is really going on. If I can slow down and take the time to watch and listen, often the story reveals itself fairly quickly.
Now, if someone could just explain the rest of the story for the guy who stopped me in my Target store the other day and asked, "Do you have cards for Mistresses?"
After he left the women shopping next to me said, "Did that man really just ask you what I think he asked you?"
"Yup, he sure did."
Monday, February 9, 2009
Two men on the lunch list
I am not a huge fan of celebrity men, but there are two fairly famous men I would love to meet someday, Bob Harper from The Biggest Loser and Ira Glass, the host of the NPR radio show and podcast, “This American Life.”I’ll talk about Ira in a later post. Let’s focus on Bob today. What is it about this man that is so attractive? Yes, he is physically attractive, but lots of men are. With Bob, I know he would connect to and love the chunky adolescent girl in me. I think we all carry around a well worn mental picture of ourselves from some point in our childhood. I do. In my photo, I am ten years old, refusing to wear a much needed bra, and willing to do anything to escape my developing body.
Bob would totally get this girl. He’d gently get to know her, pinpoint what makes her laugh, understand what she worries about, and help her focus in on the strengths that she can’t see yet. He would tell her that she is beautiful and miraculously, she’d believe it, because a guy like Bob wouldn’t lie to you. Then, only after he had taken the time to do all of the above, he would find out just when the weight issue began.
My history with weight goes way back to second grade when the school nurse wheeled the scale into the front of the room and announced our weight aloud as each student stepped on and off the scale with a thud. At eight years old I weighed 75 pounds. I didn’t feel heavy at the time, but my cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment, when I realized that my number branded me as the heaviest girl in the class. Only one or two boys surpassed my numbers on the scale. Similar annual weigh- ins continued through junior high, where at twelve years old, I weighed more than I do today.
As a tribute to my parents, up until that day in second grade, I didn’t regard myself as overweight or even view myself in terms bodily terms. I loved to take care of my dolls, played on a softball team, bravely jumped my bike off ramps, and arrested my neighbors during cops and robbers games. I was an athlete, mom in training, dare-devil and enforcer of the law. According to different studies, around the ages of eight to ten, girls start to understand and notice the cultural messages about women and their bodies. If you are thin, have light skin and long blond hair, then you are beautiful. Somehow as a femaIe, you are expected to make beauty an important priority.
What I love about Bob is that he wants his clients to lose weight for bigger reasons than reducing the size of their pants. He strives to help people heal those wounds from the past. For me, my weight turned into a difficult wound for me to heal. I struggled for years, feeling horrible about myself. My parents, in different ways, loved me through it. My Dad encouraged me in my sporting endeavors and celebrated even the most minor accomplishment with unbridled enthusiasm. He taught me how fun being involved in sports could be, that I could be noticed for a good play in the outfield and appreciated for my athletic skills.
As the teasing continued, my mom often put her arms around me and rocked me. On the day the boys followed me around the playground mooing at me and calling me a cow, it took a long time to cry it out. Never, ever did she mention the word diet, or suggest that losing weight would make things better. That was one of the greatest gifts my mother gave to me. As tears rolled down my face incident after incident, my mom patiently listened to the stories, acknowledged my pain and then proceeded to tell me how smart and creative I was, what a caring young girl I was, and that my weight was not “me”. Eventually, I believed her, and it is no surprise that the weight then slipped away.
Many trainers focus so much on calories and six pack abs. When really, I think most people just want to feel good in their own bodies and heal whatever is bothering them in the process. Bob seems to do that. It’s like he takes that worn photo and frames it. And when he gives it back to you he says, “You know, this kid is gorgeous. Put that picture where everyone can see it.” And you believe him. You hang it up in your entryway and your perspective changes.
That Bob, he’s part trainer, part counselor and part eye candy, not a bad combination! Yep, I’m a fan for sure. Now Ira, well that’s a different story…
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