Saturday, March 28, 2009


“I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.” Margaret Thatcher

So it goes. What I wanted was a rack. At my house. For my frame. So I stalked one.

“I’m not desperate, just determined; there’s a difference. And I want what I want; until I don’t.” me

But I didn’t want just any old rack. I have standards. It had to feel right. Shape? Size? Color? On it. I want what I want.

Until I don’t.
It all came down to oil. Every cyclist knows lube can make even a bad ride feel good. But it can’t make the ride any shorter.

One year ago today, I settled. The shipping surcharge won in the end. Curses! Gas prices assault even candy colored lycra.

I went lighter and closer, and ended up with a hitch, which is not at all what I wanted. My heart was set on a ballard from Portland.

Well, whatdya know….would you settle for Pittsburgh?

Life is a cycle and I’m diggin’ the ride. hehe

An 'o' is just an 'a' without a tale.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009


Today I stood on the corner of Hell and was refused passage back. I asked politely once or thrice. I even tried bribery. I was under the misguided notion that you could make a deal with the devil.

May I offer an edit to that Wiki entry: Once there, all bets are off.

I tried bargaining, bartering, bantering. In my mind I was devising a barricade.

Sure, I’ll leave my car…parked in front of the entrance with a sign that reads: GAS UP NEXT DOOR, THIS PLACE SUCKS. I mean, as long as you’re calling the cops let’s give them a reason for the visit.

It started with a simple request at the pump: See Cashier. So I did. He placed my card on the counter, turned on the pump, and said, go pump gas. So I did.

Imagine this, when I tried to pay the card was DECLINED. Go figure. In an instant I became a ‘gas-n-go’ thief. Except there was no going. I did what I was told, then treated like a criminal. Nice. Someone steals my credit line and I am the evildoer.

I tried leaving something of value while I ran for cash. NO. I tried to get him to call my credit card company. NO. I found my check book! NO CHECKS ALLOWED.

It would take magic to get me out of this one. In this hand I had NOTHING and in this one a CHECK. He chose NOTHING.

I had the option of A) living in this independently owned Hell Station B) leaving my car in lieu of the $18 gas charge C) having the police explain it to me.

While weighing my options, a customer interjected his shoe sense. “This is YOUR fault, this is YOUR fault”.

Not to be confused with Bush in any sense of the name, I did NOT duck from his shoe throwing. I threw a combat boot back.

“How is this MY fault?”

“It IS your fault!”

To which, I went ex-wife on him. I’m sad to say, I haven’t lost my touch. He immediately cowered behind the other customers collecting in the tiny ‘store’ to watch the Incredibly Big Shoe.

As I continued my lecture from the manager on the phone, the cantankerous customer was muttering something about just wanting to buy cigarettes. It took all my might not to wish a slow cancerous death upon him. Although I suspect it's already happening.

In the end a nice boy offered to pay. My Charon upon the River Styx. I should have guessed that Hell is a gas station, it says so right on the sign. I just didn't know it was on the corner of 193 and 29.

SHELL did offer an apology, but ultimately has no jurisdiction over the Station selling their petroleum. Talk about selling your soul to the devil.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009


There is much debate over the fate of the Georgetown Branch Trail. It is prime real estate connecting Silver Spring with Bethesda.

We do need a better Purple Line—A Purple Line period. Until then our path remains an unpaved, ill maintained mess.

Case in point, while traversing between the purple ribboned enDANGERed zone, I was attacked by a Cheetah. Yes, a Cheetah!

Were you there? Did you see it? Besides, it was dark. I think it was a Cheetah, or was it a Cheeto? Can you have just one Cheeto? Grammatically I think it’s Cheetos, so perhaps not.

Regardless, the rest is a blur. One hand in my pants (pocket, perv) and one reaching for my bag…Yes, I know, I’ve reworked the equation upon failure. That leaves exactly zero hands on the bar, Genius Giant.

A trench, a board, a wild Cheeto, an out of control front wheel. Isn’t there a saying? Don’t put the cart before the wheel.

She bounced, I bumped. She rolled, I dumped. I fell with the grace of gadzella—the unmistakable technique of a gazelle fused with Godzilla.

EFF bicycle triage this go round; Am I okay? All this headline trauma makes you think twice.

Was it really a Cheetah? Or a Cheeto? One can never be sure, but my embellisher’s license if good for two more months. It may have been the 1 x 6 that smacked my shin as I was spit to Earth.

In the end I was fine. I think. Does anyone smell burnt toast?

I really need to get that ejection button fixed.

Seriously, toast is burning. Am I having a stroke??

Happy Birthday Ash, Cheetos included.

Hip: No Ties

Some of the best artists went platinum post mortem.
Who am I to deny a dying wish:

Up jump the Kitty
With the throw down ditty
Meet ya at the end of the stair

My chin got the dribble
At the sound of da kibble
Keep your damn brush outta my hair!

'cuz I’m a Nap Star
& I run this house
I’ll take ur lap when ur surfin’ with a mouse

Oh I’m a Nap Star
& I got this thing
Chillin’ in my homie posin’ in my bike bling

With my tummy half fed
Gettin’ down in the bed
Dissin’ on your ‘four on the floor’

My day’s half over
Like the Russell to the Stover
As her cleats tap their way out the door

Yeah I’m a Nap Star
Coolest cat of dis joint
The ‘sian in my coat and the tortie in my point
A Nap Star

Check it-
I’m ur biggest fan
Like my food from a can
Pet me and I won’t let u stop

Dig in ‘make-the-bed’
Lick ur hand or ur bread
Respect! Peace OUT,

Thursday, March 19, 2009


It happens more times than you think. Sir, may I help you?

Have you seen the size of my bag? The shoes on my rack? I know the rack is small, but right now we’re talking shoes. (why do you boys always lose focus?)

Granted, they are soled with cleats and the bag laden with tools. But really? Perhaps it’s the hat? I hope.

Now I’m not saying that’s what happened today; I’m just saying it happens. I’ve never been denied bathroom access or anything.

Once I almost pretended to steal someone’s car just to prove a point. I had just returned from lesbian band camp and floored when some woman called ME sir. She laid down her keys and I eyed them like I’d swipe them. What is she going to say, “yes, officer, I got a good look at him.”

Today I went to CVS; I didn't need anything, just snooping the sales. It was truck day. The red totes a token of my past. Who knows, was I reminiscing, spacing, actually shopping? I paused in the feminine hygiene aisle for four and a half beats.

The tall bassy African sales associate, stopped and asked if I needed help. Help? From you? In the feminine hygiene aisle? Interesting.

Perhaps he thought I was a boy and had no business there? Or did he think I was about to stash an economy sized case of maxi pads beneath my fleece and make a run for it? Maybe he really just wanted to help.

It’s been my experience that XYs shy away from ‘woman stuff’. This one was all up in it. Had I not been so surprised I could have responded differently. As it was, I politely, but almost quizzically said, “I’m good, thanks”. Inside I was laughing out loud.

“May I help you?”

Yes, what do you recommend? Do you prefer wings or length? What about thickness, is it important?


“May I help you?”

Uh yeah, I’d like to try these on; is there a changing room?

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Are We There Yet?


Thursday, March 12, 2009


My Dearest State Rep:
Would you please watch your step
Gang loose on the hill,

Be not mistaken,
They praise Kevin Bacon.
They unclog our roads
With alternative modes.
They ride without oil
As auto bloods boil.

Stay alert and aware-
Just look for their flair
They come in disguise:
Wool suits and ties.

There’s grease on his pocket!
Her necklace, a sprocket!
Helmet hair’s a sight.
In the hall, “On your right!”
They won’t have a bell,
But a bike pinned lapel.

They lobby for chains,
And paint for more lanes,
For tires and feets.

Beware the unruly
Yours Truly

Sunday, March 8, 2009


Be still cantankerous Christians, I cede to the fight. You must be right. We couldn’t have possibly evolved from apes; we are not yet as smart as they.

Today I paid witness to a greater recognition in the Great Ape Yard than the bustling streets of DC. The Distracted Citizens were out in force. Tis the Season.

It is the atmospheric phenomena residing in the chemical compound H3At, more commonly known as …’it’s getting hot out there, so drive like no one knows.’ Perhaps it’s the malignant exhaust fumes that disorient the cognitive function?

Whatever the case may be, I’d rather be dropped in the monkey pit (I know, I know JB, but I love that cute little look of disgust :) than left to fend for myself in a bike lane cocoon. Sincerely, with Gorillas I’d have a better chance.

Dodging the unsignaled turns, pothole pitfalls, door attacks, and randomly ‘parked’ cars is reminiscent of a childhood game, or is it Russian roulette? You say either, I say either; 6 of one, it’s all games and fun until….CARS ATTACK!!

The way you haphazardly abandon your tired tin can, flashing in my bike cocoon, indicates a greater understanding, however. Maybe, just maybe, we humans are as trainable as apes.

And just like the gorillas trapped in their environs, The DCists show no signs of recognition, until they do. If only I knew the universal autoistic signal for “Tommy, can you see me?”

Well until then, I do know the universal signal for ‘Get the @#%* outta my lane!’

Monday, March 2, 2009


Addendum to what I will ride through: In addition to hating cold rain, I also hate whatever the sky was spitting in my face last night.

It's the same frozen precipitation that caused the super sick slurpee headache as it whipped across my face. Like liquid nitrogen etching its mark across my forehead.

However, it does not warrant a place on the ‘ride cutoff’ list. Racing my shadow across a virgin snowfall trumps misfiring neurons.

A playground of empty frozen tundra on which to spin my wheels is quite simply divine. The enormous quiet within the city, unmatched outside a remotely wooded landscape, is truly a unique gift.

Frolicking flocks o‘deer, oblivious to the impending morning ritual of checking the daily closings, stop to glance my way. They don’t look at me like I’m crazy like my quilted human counterparts.

The jaunt through the park brings back reality as I pass the tanks lying in wait. Motors growling, alert lights beaming, toxic chemical compound drizzling from the tailgate, poised to wreak havoc on my snowy silent night.

No, I haven't been drinking. I am living.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

This Just In