Inverted Extrovert

!SEY DIAS EHS EPOH I

My Daddy's Hands

Boys will be boys. Sometimes we girls have to just let them be. No doubt you’ll hear this again: pick your battles wisely.

Boys like to fix things: a squeaky door, a leaky faucet, a broken heart. WD40, a wrench, a screwdriver, these are the tools of their trade.

They don’t like manuals, but they do like rules and parameters. They obsess over them. There is no room for opinion, preference, or democracy.

Therefore I know when I take my bike into the shop it will be returned exactly how I don’t want it. My mechanic does it every time. The last guy I dated did the same thing. That didn’t last.

I know my brakes are high, that’s how I like them. I've been on the bike before. I've used the brakes. I get that it’s ‘wrong’. They don’t understand it’s what I like. Some of them will never listen to what we like.

I watched a boy move your brakes too. I thought, no wait, I can’t tell you what I thought, you are 4. But I thought, she’s not gonna like that!

Your daddy made me change it back. I told you I am the same way. It happens every time.

Everything I didn’t learn in school, I learned from a kindergartner. You told me you couldn’t reach. You know what, you were right.

I have my daddy’s hands and they probably do reach, but many girls would need to cheat those brakes up. I never thought about it before. I just know to leave things as I found them.

That’s probably going to be one you’re gonna wanna fight. It’s not about leaving the seat down, it’s more important to leave it as you found it.

Admit One

Seating Capacity 300

I miss the last minute release of the schedule. The rush to get tickets. The process in which to get tickets.

I miss the tiny, cramped theaters in obscure corners of the city. The stress of catching Metro after the late showing at The Georgetown. The inability to see the entire lower third of the screen.

I miss the Post Stamp, un-affectionately, yet appropriately named due to its tiny box appearance. Where half the audience craned their necks upward to see the screen and the other half craned them sideways around the poles. Where all of them could only see half of the subtitles.

I miss the mediocre production quality, the poor audio, and the translation that didn’t quite translate. Okay, I only kinda miss those things, but I mostly miss the lack of the omnipresent Production House steering the plot of the film.

I miss the Outer Circle. The Tenley Circle. The Georgetown. I even miss Visions Bar Noir, but it wasn’t the same. Here, here to the richies that brought back The Avalon.

I miss the challenge of catching a film. Getting in, getting a seat, getting to see. The reward of actually picking a decent flick. The satisfaction of catching a gem you know you’ll never be able to see again.

Let’s be honest, I miss everything I complained about. I also miss penny candy, double features, drive ins, and popcorn I don't need a loan to buy. I will admit it’s nicer, but define better.

No Longer Cross

I’ve been yelled at. Chased. Scared. Honked at. Stalked. Almost hit. Twice. By a Metro bus. Turning right on red. I had the green.

I hate this intersection. See above. I will not run the light. That is I used to not run the light. Now I cross my fingers and hope. The alternative is to ball up roadside and call it a night.

On October 20, 2008 the way the light functions changed. Why do cyclists run red lights? Sometimes they have no choice.

I was suddenly unable to trigger the light green. Even if I happened upon a car at precisely the right point, the light was unforgiving. I could barely get booth feet on the pedals before it immediately turned red again.

Then, the crosswalk was broken several weeks later. It has remained my nightmare ever since. I even took my chances riding the trail home sometimes. It became a safer alternative.

Thank you MoCoDOT. I am pleased to report all is well in the land of bicyclette.

Green Mechanics

At the Green Apple Festival on the Mall, the Washington Area Bicyclist Association (WABA) offered a free Bike Valet. What riders got was a whole lot more.

Imagine leaving your coat at the coat check and getting it back cleaned and altered. For free. That is exactly what was offered at the Green Apple Bike Valet.

Okay, not exactly. Substitute bike, greased, and checked. For free. "FREE!?" exclaimed two participants as they turned to face each other. "You guys ROCK!" they told WABA all day long.

It was actually Phoenix Bikes, a student mechanic program out of Arlington, providing the free safety checks. With help from a group of mechanics from the Mt. Rainier Bike Co-op, these guys single handedly got Washington area cyclists ready for the season.

Check under the hood? When riders dropped off their bikes they were asked if they wanted a free safety check. What they got was more of a simple tune up, something that could run upwards of $50 in a shop. "This is awesome!" was the overall consensus.

Volunteer mechanics tightened bolts, greased rusty chains, and topped off tires. One child's handlebars were so loose the mechanic could twist them sideways with his hands.

Heading into prime riding season, this bike check was perfect timing. "We hope everyone takes advantage of safety checks," said WABA Executive Director Eric Gilliland. Promoting safety is their highest priority.

One mechanic pointed out, it's always good to have a bike checked over even when it's new. Whether a parent puts it together or someone in a store, it's always better to have a bike shop look it over. Be safe and green.

7 & 7

No martinis in the park? No wonder SE began to attract a seedy crowd.

The following are short snippets of a ride-by between 7th and 7th NW to SE:

"Is this your car?"as calm as can be. "No, but my car is missing though. You think somebody stole it?" said the newly inducted pedestrian to the pesky parking police.
On further thought, perhaps it was her car and she was using distractics to avoid the parking ticket?

"Ooh, go ahead Sweetie ooh, phew," quaked the audibly shaken notorious Jay Walker.
Dy.no.mite

And from the church BIZARRE:
"You can shop too! I'll watch your ride!"
Bike Valet?

"I'm sorry I am half in the bike lane, that was very rude of me," yelled the polite if not sarcastic proponent of the skewed initiative: SHARE the LANE.
Gashole!

CAR WASH
"We'll wash your bike too!"
What about the biker? Cuz I mighta got a better offer.

"You don't even know me and you're giving me a hard time?" challenged the girl with a gun. Yes. Girl. With. A. Gun.
How original, I've never heard THAT from a federal agent before. No really, I never have! Tell me more. But please don't kill me.

" ," between sassy cyclist and DC officer as they reenacted near tragedy from the previous weekend.
At least he didn't JUST pass me.

"I called because I'm lost, not because I want to be found," said the biker to her cute standby rescuer.

Do you have change for a dollar? That girl needs some sense!

It's About The Bike

I AM wearing pants; well a skirt really.

You wouldn't want to be naked in this neighborhood.

You wouldn't want to nurse a flat here either.

D.irty C.onnie

04.17.07

R.I.P.

Rust In Pieces

no doubt

Leave The Light On For Me

My prayers were answered.

Thank You MHBC

Not For Every Bunny

HAPPY EASTER

Hindsight

Hi, remember me? You just passed me. You probably moved left. I was right. You may have slowed down. You JUST passed me.

Now, you just about HIT me?! It's raining. Your window is foggy. I get that. The blind spot. I feel you; I mean I REALLY feel you. But, you JUST PASSED ME!

Sadly, that would get you off. You could kill me with your vehicle and do less time, NO TIME to be exact, than Michael Vick with these four small words: I didn't see her.

There are two kinds of wrong with that. And somehow, that makes it right.

I put my head down, not to pray, there's no praying in preservation. And forget the kneeling, that, would be bad. But I bent my bicycle in half. To avoid your right front bumper. I KNOW! In half! I may have pulled a muscle.

I didn't know it possible. It possible! Self preservation is an amazing feet, feat? I was either in position to watch it all unfold, or kiss my ass goodbye.

Ass still whole, thanks for asking.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I thank the Lord my sole I keep

If I should die before you wake

Hunt down the car that didn't brake!

Noteworthy

I need to carry water more often.

Torqued

I am not a terrorist, threat, or thief. I am not in a gang. I roll alone. I share the road. I am anti-pollution.

Yet, I was denied entry at the Air and Space. Twice. I was a threat to the planes. “Did you say planes?” Plane? As in plane? THAT plane? Up THERE? Waaaay up there!

My weapon of mass destruction? Combination wrench. 7 inches of cool, hard steel. Forged. 15mm of felonious fun.

Fierce. Cunning. Conniving. You caught me. I am not happy to see you; I actually have a wrench in my pocket. When asked, “what’s it for”, thank god I said wheel and not hub.

Indeed. I thought it was fool proof. Me, in bright orange fluorescent clothing, with a small messenger bag, and getaway pedal bike. Propeller by propeller, stealing guarded aviation with no one the wiser.

Abort, ABORT! Thwarted in my true plan to dismantle the Hubble, store it in my satchel, and ferry it home by bicycle. All with a 15mm wrench. They don’t call me McGyver for nothin’

9:30 Dub

Like Groundhog Day

Batteries Not Included

I went to bed before the sun went down. 730 to be exact. And I slept, hard. I woke before the alarm, well rested.

It was 930. Seriously? I forced myself back to sleep. Again, I woke before the alarm.

1130. Grr. Arrg. Zzzz. Like RAAM I slept.

Again, this time something woke me. Crumpling paper. Am I having a seizure?? What’s with the paper? I’m not talking candy wrapper in Cold Case. I’m talking full on paper rustling. Like two cats attacking a makeshift paper recycling plant, say in someone’s dining room (not mine). This day shift is a killer.

Finally, 2am. It’s not even time to make the donuts. We don’t make news, why do we have to be there so early?? I mean the newspaper isn’t even here yet!

Will she or won’t she? Of course I rode. Like RAAM I rode. And me with my RAAM shoes on. Ain’t they purty?

Prada, Manolo, Jimmy Chew. Oh, I’m not that kind of girl. I like my shoes as much as the next girl, as long as they come with cleats underneath. Pearl izumi, Addias, Diadora…ooh ooh, I’m THAT kind of girl.

But Stella? McCartney? I know! Threatening my secret girl status; is it leaking out? You can’t see it can you?

But look at them! Not directly at them Woman! They might burn your retina. I mean really, who was she designing these for? Even in daylight I wouldn’t recommend staring, not without proper eyewear.

Can you see me now?? Two miles down the road I bet. And they almost match my bag! Score.

NICE RACK

“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.

PhleGyAS

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.

Cartwheel

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,
K-Bop

XX

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?

OR

“May I help you?”

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

Are We There Yet?

Psst. HAS SPRING SPRUNG YET??

Pedalers

My Dearest State Rep:
Would you please watch your step
Gang loose on the hill,
“MAKE CLEAN-TEA A BILL!”

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.
“WE WANT COMPLETE STREETS!”

Beware the unruly
Sincerely,
Yours Truly

rEvolution

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!’

Bliss-ard

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.

This Just In

I CAN'T WAIT TO RIDE HOME ON MY BICYCLE

Roaaaar....like a lion.

Bike Lay'n

"She's so tough, she rides her bike sideways."

It's a slight deviation from the movie, but maybe it should have been called: Planes, Trains, and Bicycles.

Come to think of it Neil could have probably gotten home quicker by bicycle. Del would have never made it.

Hell, we barely made it. Me, the captain and Windy, the lazy 'toker. But now I understand those tiny lanes on the side of the road.

More importantly I get the symbol. "When being blown across the road sideways, please use this lane."

Unfortunately, it's usually INTO the lane of traffic when wind tries to turn your ride into a tandem. She's not a helpful partner.