A Cure for Run Procrastination. Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Crunchies.

 

 

 

 

This happens to a lot of my clothes.  I don't know why or how - although lifting the bike in and out of the car four or five times a week could have something to do with it.   

Even if there were extra money to spend on new clothes all the time, I'd still have a problem. 

I hate shopping. 

I just like to have stuff.  I don't like to buy stuff.

I don't even like shopping for fun stuff.  Like a new bike.

I have finally come to terms with selling my road bike. 

Yes, I'll get right on that as soon as I sell some of this old furniture and my old hardtail.  Thank goodness the new furniture is picked out.  That was an ordeal!  Lord help me when I have to decide on a rug!  But a new bike - that's actually tougher.  So many choices.  

Popeye and I do spend more time on our bikes than we do on the couch.  And, truthfully, most good bikes cost about five times what a new sofa cost. 

 

So you can imagine the decision.  Or the indecision, rather.

I have the perfect 29r and it's not dead.  Not yet, anyway.  Last week it's computer rolled over to 10,000. 

Considering the computer only works about two thirds of the time...  So, retirement time is coming.  It will be an awesome back-up bike.  

But... oh no, not shopping.

So what to do? 

Procrastinate, of course. 

Meanwhile, there's plenty of other endeavors around here that are coming up on the already-procrastinated-long-enough list.

Running:  The Dirthead Du is coming up fast.  Dec 7, just two weeks away.  Um.  Time to start running, maybe?

Blog posts:  Five sitting in draft over the last few weeks.  Zero published.  But I do have a new idea about that.  For later, of course.

Thanksgiving. Christmas. Boat Parade:  Truthfully it had crossed my mind this year that by now I should at least be thinking about the holidays.  

So yikes,  I gotta go.  But before I do, I wanted to rave about one last thing.  Some cookies I suckered for at Publix last week. 

Now it's been since last Christmas since I surrendered my soul to any cookie other than the occasional Oreo, but these called directly to me from their eye level rack at the end of the cat food aisle.  (No, one doesn't have to be anywhere near the cookie aisle.  Yes, Publix can be downright demonic that way.) 

These devilish concoctions were called "cookie chips", and they were awesomely chocolaty and super awesomely crunchy.  They were also over $4.00 for a six ounce bag! 

Ouch.  Do NOT do that again.

Instead - do this.  Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Crunchies. 

I've got mine in the freezer as future protection from the demonic store bought bag o' cookie-chips.   The plan is to enjoy one or two per session instead of an entire $4 bag.  Well, assuming the end of any run procrastination, anyway.

Chocolate Chip Oatmeal Crunchies

3/4 c. butter 
1 1/2 c. packed light brown sugar
1 egg
1/4 c. water
1 tsp vanilla
1 c. flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 c. rolled oats
1 c. choc chips
1 c. dried fruit and/or nuts.  I used dried cranberries and pumpkin seeds, just because that's what I had.  Apricots, or even raisins, could be good too.

Cream butter and brown sugar in mixer bowl until light and fluffy.
Add egg, water, and vanilla; beat well.
Combine flour, soda, and salt; stir into creamed mixture.
Stir in oats, fruit/nuts, and choc chips.

For about 2 dozen large cookies, drop by the tablespoonful onto parchment covered cookie sheet.  Bake at 350 for 10-12 minutes.  Remove from cookie sheet and cool completely. 

(Not my style, of course, but you can always drop by the teaspoonful for about 5 dozen small cookies.)

Now, forget about the carrot at the end of the stick. 

Get.  Run.  Shoes.  On. 

And get going!

There's a cookie in it for ya.

Tuesday's 2-4-1 Slow Cooker Broccoli, Guinness, and Cheddar Soup

Tuesday is crockpot day.  

 

Popeye has done the Tuesday night road ride for years.  So did I. 

Until I got a job in a bike shop. 

Silly bike shop - closing at 6pm in Merritt Island - making it impossible to be all the way down in Palm Bay for a 6pm ride. 

But the bike shop did one thing right, and that was the awesome Trek discount.  With which I bought an awesome Superfly 100.  (The previously awesome road bike went to the attic, and hasn't come down yet.)

Leaving the bike shop eventually led back to Palm Bay on Tuesday nights.  Only now, Killer the Superfly and I go there for the Tuesday Night Beer Can Scramble at Turkey Creek.  

Tuesday =  Two rides.  Two riders.  Home late.  Hungry.  

Tuesday = Crockpot day.

See how the universe just falls together? 

The favorite slow cooker meal around here is Ribs According to Kurt.  2nd is chili - in just about any form. 

But when Publix has a triple BOGO and the stars align for something a little different?  Well, who am I to argue with the universe?

OK, so I've never made broccoli cheddar soup in the crockpot before.  But how hard could it be?

I check all my favorite recipe websites, and read at least five blogger versions.  None of them quite suit me.  Either they require mid day attention to the crockpot (not likely to happen) or some form of condensed soup or frozen packages of broccoli.  Not what I am looking for.

OK, so just wing it.  How hard could it be? 

Tuesday's 2-4-1 Slow Cooker Broccoli, Guinness, and Cheddar Soup

2 heads broccoli 
1 c. onion (about 1/3 of a large Vidalia)
1 1/2 c. sliced carrots
1 1/2 c. golden potatoes, cut in chunks
1 clove garlic, chopped fine
1 1/2 c. ham, diced

4 T. butter
5 T. flour
2 c. Swanson's Tuscany Chicken broth
3 c. Swanson's Chicken broth
1 c. Guinness  (or a 6th cup of broth if Guinness doesn't appeal)

2 blocks of seriously sharp cheddar, grated.  (To stir in just before eating.)

(OK, so the Guinness was an afterthought.  Not a terrible one, I hope.  And the flavored broth was something new.  No doubt why it was 2 for 1 at the store.  Swanson's Tuscany Chicken broth.  I poured in about two cups and it absolutely reeked of rosemary, so the other three cups were regular old chicken broth, thanks to other half of the BOGO.  Also why there are no other spices or herbs, like rosemary, added.)

Make a roux from the butter and flour.  On medium, melt the butter in a pan and stir in the flour to make a paste.  Cook, whisking, for a couple minutes until light brown.

Gradually pour in 2 or 3 cups of the broth and whisk.  Cook for a couple more minutes.  Keep whisking. 

Here's where the idea of Guinness popped into my head.  Suddenly a choice had to be made.  Use my new power tool, a supercool immersion blender, for a creamy-milky-cheesy soup?  Or forego the fun of blending for a chunky-vegetably-beery clear soup?  

With only a brief pang of regret over the blender, I pop the Guinness and stir a cupful into the broth.  

Put the chopped vegetables, garlic, and diced ham into the crockpot.  Pour in the broth/Guinness mixture.  Add 2 more cups broth to the pot.  Stir, then cover.

Cook on low for 8 hours. 

Grate the cheddar and store it in the fridge so it's ready when you get home hungry. 

Cross your fingers.  Go for a muddy, fun ride.

 

Hooray! 

The bridge that was under water last week has reappeared. 

 

When you walk in the door the aroma will hit you.  Wow!  That crossed fingers thing really works!

Scoop it out.  Pile on the cheese. 

Oh yeah.  Gotta love Tuesdays.

100 Days of Doing.

June 30, 2014

Do you cringe when people declare in a blog that they are embarking on a weight loss attempt?   Aren't you just afraid for them that they will have to slink off the radar in a few weeks after an epic fail?  

Weight loss attempts fail all the time.  I always root for things to be different, though.  I sincerely want everyone who diets to succeed.  I also want them to share every twist and turn of their weight loss path. Anything that might help me find my way too! 

I like overeating.  Love overeating, actually.  Not a lot.  Just a little.  A few extra bites.  A little every day.  It is a primal force from within.  Get. Yourself.  Full.  Plus a few bites more. 

There is probably some anthropological explanation for this drive to go one step beyond just-full-enough.  No doubt the habit helped cave men survive an extra crucial day of starvation or something.  OK, so I am the descendant of genetically blessed Paleolithic survivors.  At least there's an explanation for all that refrigerator gazing.   

What do you think of when you think of dieting?  Not-doing, right? 

Not eating.  Not indulging.  Not having seconds.  Not having birthday cake.  

Ugh.  Not-doing.  What a crummy way to spend the day.  And certainly a crummy way to spend your life.

I want to DO stuff.  I want to take action.  I want to get yesterday's fat off me - like yesterday.  If only!  No, time is the prime ingredient.  Nobody would be fat, if fat would come off in a day. 

Numerically well intended news segments, blogs, and books always catch my eye.  The 100 Thing Challenge.  The 30 Day Detox.  30 Days in the Zone.  Today, the news has twice mentioned 100 Days of Happy.  

100 days.  Wow.  Now that seems like a good long time.  

I add it up.  100 days.  100 days stretches from tomorrow, July 1st, until Oct 8, in fact.  That's like, forever.  Or at least an entire hurricane season.  I can lose the 5 lbs. that has crept back on since my last diet in far less time than that.  (IF I do not overeat, of course.)

But no, dammit, that's back to not-doing.  

(Uh oh.  I feel a rebellion coming on.)

I want to DO something.  Something to help myself.  Every day. And, as a bonus piece of pie-in-the-sky, I also want this doing something to be effortless.  Happy, even.

Dieting is hard.  But so is being fat.  (So pick one, right?)

The thing about diets is that they really do work.  

Sticking to a plan.  Paying attention.  Being stubborn.  If you can make that mental shift, diets work just fine.  I know this for an absolute certainty.  I spent a fair hunk of last year doing exactly that.

But maintenance.  Whew.  That's been a bear.  And to think I was looking forward to it, that I thought it would be easier than a diet. 

How does one DO maintenance?  How do you open the door of indulgence a crack without releasing the floodgate?

There's gotta be a hundred ways, right? 

100 ways.  100 Days.  Doing has to be easier than not-doing.  Especially if you are facing an endless sentence of repeating a diet of not-doing, over and over, again and again.  

I have no idea what could happen over the next 100 days.  After all, I have dedicated myself to many diets, only to fall apart at the sight of say, an Oreo cookie at a sag stop in the rain. 

So, first and foremost, this is not a diet.  (No need to cringe.)  It's a gathering of tools.  A growing of the arsenal.   A search for a hundred things to do instead of the emptiness of not-doing.

Tonight is the Beer Can Scramble, thank goodness.  It's not a lot, usually about 12 miles on sandy trails.  But it's something.  Check off Day #1. 

Oh, and take a light beer. 

Postscript:  October 7, 2014.

100 Days of Doing.  July 1 - Oct 8.  Fast forward.  Day #99.  

Wow.  For someone who thinks of herself as a persistent failure, it is weird to have it in writing.  I am not as idle or lame as I thought.  I actually did do something - found out something - wrote something - every single day.  AND I maintained my weight within the four pound range I set for myself! 

Been thinking about what the overall conclusion might be from this 100 day project.  What started out to be weight maintenance turned into a mission to accomplish that little bit of something extra each and every day.  To live a little extra.  Ride a little extra.  Enjoy a little extra.

Scribbling notes down by hand kept me involved in enriching my own life.  There was focus.  In a way that just going through each day unrecorded could never do.  And I think, after recording the highlights, that not only do I normally do more than I ever thought I did, but that to add just a little bit, some lagniappe, is easier than I ever thought as well. 

I just realized something.  I am not just some happy go lucky total loser after all.  

Then again, I am not a gainer either. 

(And, I've got that in writing.)

Kill the Enemy. 10 things I Hate(d) About Fall.

The end of summer. 

The start of fall.  

The season for sneezin'. 

Cold.  Dark.  Shoes, socks, long sleeves.

Pumpkin brews instead of summer ale.  Football instead of the Tour de France.  Negative campaign ads. 

Comfort food.  Too depressing.  Just the thought puts on a pound.  Or five.  

Am I up to ten yet?  That was easy. 

But the Autumnal Equinox will come tonight, no matter how I feel about it.  

 When the Blackfoot had to find a way to ally with enemy tribes in order to face a greater threat, they played a game called Kill the Enemy. 

The tribe would gather and each member would take a turn to say something good about the former foe.  "They are fierce warriors."   "They have fast horses."  Eventually even the most resentful braves had "killed" the enemy and gained themselves allies instead.

Worth a try...

10 things I don't hate about fall:

1)  New bike lights!  Even the most familiar trails seem exotic in the dark - like riding on another planet.  

2)  The Walking Dead.  Finally.  What the heck has been going on in that box car all summer?

3)  Our new "double".   Popeye's idea.  Instead of the two Gainesville road centuries back to back in October, we realized we could mix it up along the way.  The off road Ride of the Living Dead on Saturday, then Horsefarm Hundred on Sunday.  Half a weekend of mountain biking is (much) better than none.

4)  Tis the season to start running again.  (OK, I am still trying to embrace this one.)  But the Dirthead Du was fun last year.  And we won hats.  So there's some motivation for getting through the first couple weeks of run resumption.

Ok, that's four.  That wasn't so hard.

It's a good thing we braved the rain for The Rocky Waters Brew Fest this weekend.  There were easily six more things there to love about fall!

Because the last six items on my kill list are really tough to love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

10 days of Kitty rehab. A bike ride with a very happy ending.

 

I love riding with friends, but if I end up solo, I try not to let it bother me - and just have fun with it.

 

 

 

Once in a while, if I'm on my own, I take an eclectic ride around town.

  

Saturday before last I rode my favorite mtn bike on a Melbourne safari.  First, checked out the new bridge by the old dam, and then on to Wickham Park, and out to Lake Washington. 

 

I always have fun cutting through the alleys of Eau Gallie on the way.  Gets some dirt under my tires.

 

 

 

 

One of the alleys in Eau Gallie.

 

 

 

This is Kitty.

  

I was on my way home through the alley. 

 

There she was, right in my path - barely able to stand, bleeding, covered with bugs.

 

I didn't think she would live through the hour-long wait for Popeye to come with the car to pick us up. 

 

But she did. 

 

Kitty eats like a horse all day, even with a sore mouth.

By Sunday she is strong enough for a flea bath.

And on Monday, a trip to the vet for blood tests and shots.

 

A week later...

 

This is what eating like a horse four times a day can do for a Kitty!

 

 

 

 

In one week, Kitty is strong enough for sedation. While she is out, she gets more blood work (all normal!) and a shave.  She has gone from 5 lbs to 6 lbs, and her mouth is on the mend.

   

 

 

 

It might be a bit chilly with the matting all gone, but it has to feel good.  It sure isn't pretty, though.

 

Kind of glad for the delay on the sedation and haircut now.  How scrawny would those bones have looked if we could have seen under all those mats a week ago? 

 

 

 

 

Not liking me so much after the vet visit and the shave.

 

That's OK.  Another plate of food = Kitty forgiveness. 

 

 

 

Kitty went to her new home today.  Happy ending!  For Kitty, anyway.  Because, darn.  We are really going to miss our beautiful boarder.

 

So, how about that eclectic Saturday safari ride now?  You probably want to come next time, right? 

 

Because, who knows? 

 

You might just find yourself a real treasure. 

 

As long as you don't mind a little dirt.

 

 

 

 

Prepping for 8 Hours of Labor at San Felasco, 2014.

"An eating contest disguised as a bike race."

OK, so Fat Cyclist's friend, Kenny, was referring to Leadville. 

But hey.  It's true of our little, low altitude, 8 Hours of Labor as well.  Actually it's probably true of any long'ish bike race.  If you want to do well you better get the food right.  If I look back at anything I've ever written about the 8 Hours of Labor, it pretty much centers on food.  Even the fastest riders can be laid low by poor food choices.  For those of us at bare-survival level, it's crucial.   

Having a disorganized mind can make your life interesting.  Like every day - a surprise!  Of some sort, anyway. 

One of my surprises last week was the realization that the 8 Hour is not in September at all this year, but rather in August.  August 31st to be exact.  Like, in a week.  

Kind of a relaxing notion in it's own way.  It is certainly way too late now to worry about building distance or speed.

Which really only leaves logistics and food.  Popeye is pretty good with the logistics, so that leaves me with just one category to prep - the food.  Cake, right? 

(Only not cake.  I wish.)

The old rule is the best rule.  Never try anything for race day that you have never tried before.  This goes for equipment too, but especially food. 

So, I have a pretty short list.

Stock up : V-8 and green olives. Gatorade and Perpetuum.  Gu and Endurolyte capsules.  Gallons of water for mixing.  Coke (for the end lap). 

Make ahead:  Sushi rice bars.  Sandwiches, in case of a craving for "real food". (Skipping the protein balls - we never used them last year.)

That's about it.  Then just show up. 

Find a pace you can live with.  Keep going til they tell you to stop. 

Eat.  Drink.  Ride.  Repeat.

How easy is that?

 

 

 

2 recipes for sushi rice bars:
http://bikeeatsleeprepeat.blogspot.com/search/label/sushi%20rice%20bars

Red and the Rocket Ride

This is Red.   

Is he handsome, or what?  I was going to call him Rusty, but he just isn't that bad.  He cost $20.

 

This is our beach.  It's a mile away.  (For crows, a little less than a mile.)

When Jason introduced me to Red at Village Cycle last Friday, my inner matchmaker instantly kicked in.  It was obvious that this bike and this beach belonged together.  

Popeye is not especially happy that I have brought home a trash bike.  He is quick to point out that there is no room in the garage.  So Red stays outside by the garbage cans, out of the way, and out of sight. 

Red and the beach.  First date at last!  Monday, 3:30pm, low tide. 

In the giddy free spirit of beach cruising, I set out barefoot and helmet free.    

Ride without a helmet?  

What was I thinking?  That there wouldn't be any cars on the sidewalk?  OK, there weren't. 

But there are much more dangerous things for a mountain biker going from Shimano XTR pedals to flat footed beach cruiser. 

Two words:  Coaster brakes! 

Make that three words:  Coaster brakes! Yikes! 

As for no shoes, well, that seemed a fine idea.  Until the light turned just as I got to the crossing at A1A. 

Putting a foot down on hot pavement turned into an agonizing, two minute, tippy-toe dance.  No wonder all the beach cruiser kids ride in flip flops. 

OK, so finally.  The beach and Red, together at last!  Perfect! 

We start out toward the south, obeying the sailor's (and biker's) rule.  When there's a choice?  Upwind first!  

Except...  less than a mile, and kaBOOM!  Afternoon thunderstorms sneaking in from the north.  Holy cow!  Where did that come from?  Here's something else.  Old Red can be pretty fast when properly motivated.

On the way home, I am already plotting our next excursion.  Sadly, since I am committed to real rides most days, it could be awhile before there's time for any more frivolous low tide cruising. 

The thunderstorms of Florida are fickle creatures.  Back at home, one mile from the beach, it is bright and sunny. 

But the window has been blown for a repeat excursion today.  Best get going on the regular chores.  

Later, around 7pm, the laundry is folded and dinner prepped.  The sky is blue and the house is quiet.  No more Tour to run on TV in the background.  And no call yet from Popeye. 

Opportunity!  I hop on Red one more time (just say yes to shoes and helmet) and head again for the beach.   It's high tide, but I can check out the waves and get right back for dinnertime.

Whoa!  Look at the crowd.  What's going on?  Suddenly I remember.  A launch!  What luck!

There is the usual circus atmosphere.  Families line the railing, eating from sacks of Taco Bell, and passing out drinks from brown cardboard trays.   High tide or not, I walk Red down the ramp to the beach, threading through the crowd and onto the sand. 

The sand is soft, but rideable with a bit of effort.  Toward the north the crowd thins with the absence of condos. 

 

OK.  It's a picture perfect launch, if not the perfect picture.  (There's always someone who's missing it, right?)  

Speaking of missing out, I definitely need to get Popeye on board with this redneck beach cruiser thing!

Because the only other thing missing from this picture, is a coozie on the handlebars and a PBR.   

And that, at least, can be fixed.

Wickham Park Marathon

3 weeks later...

Wickham Park Marathon

personal results:

DNF @ 15 miles

 

WPM is no ordinary marathon.  And although I have never taken on an ultra-run, the 50, 100, and 200 Mile Fun Runs don't look too ordinary either.

At Wickham, there is no support.  There are no race packets, age groups, T-shirts, or medals. The timing is you - writing your time for each loop down on a clipboard.  

Just the same, you really do get your money's worth for this one.  Because there's no fee either. 

But absolutely best of all?  There is absolutely no pavement. 

OK.  So we have a 200 mile, off-road foot race of fifty miles a day, over four consecutive, 12.5 hour days.  All on a 3.75 mile, flat, sandy loop.  In bright, sunny Florida at the beginning of our bright, sunny summer.  With some stretches of shade and roots, for a little variety.  Probably no one would be surprised to find a fallen body or two, to step over later in the day, either. 

An ultra run, like weight maintenance, takes a certain lifestyle.  You have to walk the walk (or run the run) to get it done. 

It would be nice to be in the kind of shape it would take to qualify for days 2-4, wouldn't it?  

My longest run this year had been about 8 miles.    

But it's all in your head, right?

Two loops - 7.5 miles - totally confident.  

Three loops - 11.25 miles - probably doable.  The 7:30 start is much earlier - and cooler - than I would ever do on my own. 

Four is the number, then!  You can always do more than you think you can.  Although, to still be running at the end of 15 miles, I would have to be having a really, really good day.  

Since the goal setting comes too late for any actual distance training, there was only time for one last thing. 

And that is, show up.    

I love the start time.  Pretty much whenever you want.  But to be in with the in-crowd, and to get a good parking spot under my favorite shady oak, we arrive at 7:21.  No hurry, no worry.  By 7:24, the camp is set, and we walk over and sign our names on a clipboard, with plenty of time for the 7:30 start.

Camp Pop-High, Wickham rendition.

Lawn chairs and cooler.

Shoes.

We are ready!

 

 

7:29am

To the starting line.

 

7:30.  Go!

Popeye's point of view,

looking over my shoulder at the start.

A moment later, I am looking at the back of his head,

getting smaller in the distance.

 

The Fake Rock for first place in the 200.

You even get to carry it back on the last lap.

No expense is spared for the prizes. 

Or the signage.

3 runners made the entire 4 days and 200 mile.  One girl and two guys - Wow!  

Not me, that's for sure!  But I did give it my honest best.  

Somewhere along the fourth loop, as predicted, my run ran out. 

Heading for the clipboard to sign in my time, I look over at the lake and decide that's really where I'd rather be.

15 miles and a sit in the lake.  Wickham is truly my favorite marathon, ever.  Even for a DNF.

The Inner Weasel Strikes Back. (Or How to Kill a Phone.)

Except for the iPhone that took a dive into the ladies room toilet at The Mansion, all my phones have been killed in the line of duty.  On the trail.  In the river.  No phone of mine has died a natural death.

Early on I found that Ziplocs work fine for a quick rain, but they are insufficient for total immersion.  Along for the ride when the kayak turns over, for instance. 

My phones have not been allowed to go kayaking since.  Although someone told me the new case I just bought works so well for him that he swims with it. 

Hmmm, still a little unwilling to test that on a brand new bazillion dollar phone.  But it's young yet.      

For a long time, after I tripped on a root trail running and put my thumb through the screen of the last of the Star Trek Communicator type Nokia's, my phones were banned from running too. 

Then they came up with smart phones and those darned run applications.  Keeping track of mileage is just too irresistible.  Pace, elevation, a map of my route.  For some reason it is particularly satisfying to see a winding trail route mapped out with the miles neatly labeled.

So the phone was invited back to trail running. 

On the bike it's pretty easy to stash a phone.  Jerseys come with pockets.  There is always the camelbak or trusty Bento.  But running.  That's trouble.  For me, anyway.  And it's not just the only-one-pocket-the-size-of-a-key outfit, either.

First of all.  I suck at running.  Running is hard work.  The first few miles are always awful, and always have been.  It takes determination to hang in there until the heart and lungs can agree on a harmony.

Second.  There's a Weasel in my head.  I wish she would go away.  When things get tough, the Weasel, that inner spoiled brat, starts looking for a way out. 

Or at least a pit stop. 

The Weasel is one superb bargainer.  Very hard to ignore.  She really should be in sales.  Maybe at a flea market.

Weasel:

"These shoes are too tight!  Oww.  Better stop and retie them." 

"This waistband is rubbing!  Stop and adjust the drawstring.  It'll only take a second." 

"And these sunglasses!  (Too dark/too big/too tight/too dopey-looking...)  You know, it would only take a few minutes to go back to the car for a hat instead." 

Now there's the phone to help the Weasel out with a whole new list of distractions. 

Weasel:

"Hey, it sure would be nice to have music."  (Adjust ear bud.) 

"This ear bud is bugging me!"  (Put ear bud in pocket.) 

"Is that the three mile mark?  Or is it around the next bend?  Hey.  I know.  You could get the phone out and check!"   

Assuming experience has taught you to resist the siren song of constantly checking the run app, or say, taking pictures of every gopher tortoise on trail.  There is always the physical irritation of actually carrying the thing.

I was just so tired of listening to the brat, though. 

Stinkin' Weasel!  Wah, wah, wah'ing about how the brand new armband was bothering her and maybe I should stop and adjust something.  Anything.  Just one little stop, right? 

So I reached to adjust, and flip!  The armband sprung off and landed in the dirt.  On impact the clear faceplate came unglued and popped out.  Much sand was scooped into the previously sealed off portion with the phone in it.  

I am not so naïve as to trust an armband to keep a phone dry.  This one was inside a Ziploc, inside the armband.  So it was just a matter of dusting off the outside of the Ziploc.  No harm done.  Except to the armband.  And my run pace - not that it was good to start with.

Seconds tick by.  The brat is momentarily happy.  But I am not.  I've had it with the stupid arm band.  I already switch a bottle from one hand to the other.   I don't want to juggle the arm band and the phone too. 

I hang the bright pink armband in a tree where I will be sure to see it on the way back.  I stick my phone into my waistband, cinch it up tight, and resume running.     

Stinking Weasel!  What now?  

Weasel:  "Wah.  It rubs.  The edges of the Ziploc tickle." 

Me:  "It tickles?  Really?  So what!  Let it.  I am absolutely NOT going to stop again." 

And I didn't. 

I.  Practiced.  Resistance. 

Said NO to the inner brat for the next four miles.  Which, in my world of sand and roots and fellow tortoises, translates to oh, about 45 more minutes.  Without stopping. 

Hallelujah!  Success!  Defied the Weasel. 

I head back to the tree to pick up the torn armband.  Only then do I give in to the urge to check my pace, and pull the Ziploc'd phone out of my waistband.

Uh oh. 

The heavy duty, 1 quart, Smart Zip Plus freezer bag is full of sweat.  Not just some damp mist, either.  The bag is squishing. 

Two days in a bowl of rice.  The poor phone never does come to.  

The new one has finally been persuaded into consciousness and encased in it's pricey new waterproof cocoon.  I ask the clerk at Best Buy for a phone cover to take deep sea diving.  I settle for one that claims to be good to six feet.

Just the same.  The battle is on.  The inner brat may have been defied once, but it would be silly to think she is gone for all time.  

Should the new phone be along for the next run?

Truthfully, I am not sure.  

One thing is certain though. 

It's always a whole lot harder to leave the Weasel behind.

National Honesty Day and Faking a (really good!) Chocolate Shake.

Honesty Day is celebrated on April 30 in the United States. It was invented by M. Hirsh Goldberg, who chose the last day of April since the first day of that month, which is April Fools' Day, celebrates falsehoods.  -Wikipedia


Did you know there was a National Honesty Day?  Since the early 90's.  April 30.  
  
One day, though.  That's just silly.  How about complete honesty all month?  Heck, maybe all year!  (Unless you have political aspirations, of course.)

I set a few goals for May.  Not too many.  Just a few.  I wrote them down.  Yes, on paper.

Once down in writing, it is easy to see that the number of goals really doesn't matter.  Or the reasons.  Or for how long.   Because every goal comes back to just one theme - honesty.  A goal is useless if you allow for fooling yourself.

OK, here's an example.  Two of my goals that might seem completely different.  But they are not, not really.

Goal #1)  Catch The Creep.  Log all food. 
Goal #2)  Wickham Park Marathon 

More about those later.  Because, as I sit with my coffee, writing about honesty, Popeye was reading and saw a recipe for a chocolate "shake".   To be honest, I've seen this one before, but avoided it.  That, and all the other fake-treat recipes floating around the Internet, promising to taste just like "the real thing".   Yuck.

Popeye reads the ingredients out loud.  OK, sure, all good stuff.  But I say again.  Yuck!  

Banana, cocoa, honey, avocado, and almond milk.  No almond milk around here but we have cow's milk.  Organic and nonfat, of course. 

I am willing to make it, if Popeye is willing to drink it.  

Although these are good nutrients, this shake is NOT going to be low in calories, so I know going in I will have to give it an honest resistance. 

I figure that won't be hard to do. 

Not bad!  I take a taste of Popeye's, which is as close to the original recipe as we can get with the ingredients in house on a Sunday morning. 

Surprise!  Very chocolaty.  More creamy than shakes made of ice cream.  Honest.

I tweak a second one because I think the first one is actually TOO rich and TOO chocolaty.

Thankfully, after a tablespoon each for taste testing, the ever-hungry Popeye drinks them both.   Saves me from writing some big numbers in my food log.


Sunday Morning Chocolate Shake 

Blend:
1 c. non fat milk 
2 T. cocoa powder
1 banana
1 T. honey
1/2 avocado

A little tweaking helps, in my opinion. 


Second Try Chocolate Shake

Blend:

1 c. nonfat milk
1 T. cocoa powder
1 banana
1 T. honey
1/4 avocado
drop of vanilla extract

Better. 

Just the same, give me ice cream any day.  

Except today.  I really don't want to have to write that down.

Caloosahatchie Regional Park. The Sampler Trail.

The first quilt I ever made was a Sampler Quilt. It seemed the logical choice for a beginner.  There's something of everything to try with a Sampler. 

I know better now, but back then, what was to know?  You bought some fabric, you grabbed your scissors, you went to work.  

It never occurred to me how much more time and effort it would take to make the patterns for 20 different blocks rather than simply manufacturing the same block over and over. 

But that is the value of a sampler.  20 individual opportunities to learn to put together what amounts to 20 different mini-quilts.  Choosing your colors, where to place them, when to blend them, and where to use contrast. 

A quilter must practice creating balance and contrast within each block.  Then comes the big picture, balancing each of those blocks among all the others.  

When it's right, the finished quilt turns out to be interesting and beautiful.  If it's not, then you've got yourself just another boring blanket. 

But there's something else you should know about a sampler quilt. 

With twenty blocks, all different, you are bound to absolutely love some of them. 

But you probably won't love them all.
 

A gift for The Chick in 1984.

A limited palette compared to what I would do now,

and faded with the years.

But still hanging together!

We didn't get out of town to ride much in April.  I look back at my photos, sorted by date.  Except for a ride at Caloosahatchie, we stuck pretty close to home in April.  

Southwest Florida sure has the weather.

Before I am half way around the 11 mile loop, it occurs to me that Alva is the perfect sampler quilt of a trail, if ever there was one. 

The Mudcutters have put in something for everyone.  The different sections of this trail are as different as the blocks of a well planned sampler quilt.  And they appear to be just as artistically deliberate, with contrast and balance in all the right places.  

Just like a sampler quilt though, some blocks you just love.  And a few you will probably never do again.

It's hard not to love warming up

on the sweeping turns of the meadow.

(That's Popeye way ahead of me, in red.)

 

 

 

Low, narrow bridges

allow for practicing sharp turns

  with low consequences.

 

 

There's some rocky stuff...

 

 

Some easy, wide open riding...

 

 

And lots of technical shade.

 

 

For those who love a challenge there are optional sections.

Where shade is deep, and climbs are steep. 

Enter the dark side, you do, when you enter The Far East.

 

 

My least favorite section is a short series of man made (mostly wooden) obstacles called Techno-ville.  I told myself I'd stop for a photo there on my next loop through.  But, as with every well thought out trail, there was a by-pass.  Thank you, Mudcutters.  And no thanks to a repeat of Techno-ville. 

(And sorry - no photos either.)

 

But my favorite section is the Ridgeline toward the end.  Some swooping, some roots, some shade, some sun.  And every blessed bit of it, swooping, whooping fun.

 

Down low on the Ridgeline.

 

 

But some of the best (and the worst) sights I saw all day weren't the cut of this trail.  It was the sight of riders cut up by this trail. 

 

Holy 29r, Batman, there are some super amazing females riding here!  Quite a few of them.  In just a little over 20 miles, I came across 3 fairly spectacular crashes.  

 

All of them girls. 

 

Which is great to see. 

 

Because if you never crash you aren't riding hard enough, right?  

  

One girl's head injury was an actual concern.  At the first drop off the Ridgeline, nearly blind in instantly deep shade, I suddenly realized there was a girl laying under a bike next to a busted up palmetto by the trail.  

 

I picked up her bike and held it while she got herself up.  Without a word, or even an ouch, she took off her bright pink jersey and wrapped it around her head to stop the blood from running into her eyes.  I thought we should walk out, but she somehow jammed her cracked helmet back on over the matted jersey, got it buckled, and rode herself to the end of the trail.  Now that's a tough cookie. 

 

On the second loop I have more confidence.  I thought I was really haulin', anyway.  But I was a snail compared to the girl who flew by toward the end of that very same Ridgeline section. 

 

Recognizing futility when I see it, I didn't even attempt to chase.  A couple dips later, there she was, rolling on the ground, next to a nasty stump.  Darn it, I miss all the good endo's!  

 

Her banged up knee, all bruised and bloody, was pretty spectacular.  Probably even more so the next day, if I know my bruises.  (And I like to think that I do.) 

 

Later, back at the picnic tables she was taking selfies and laughing at the gouges in her knee.  "Yeah, I knew I'd go down today - just feeling reckless, ya know?"   Oh yeah.  I know.  Well, sort of.

 

Popeye comes tearing back in with some new found fast friends, dirt on their shirts, and smiles all around. 

 

Next, a girl with beautiful black hair rolls in, unbruised and unblemished, having sampled mountain biking for the very first time.   I remembered her crash from my first loop through.  She had done a slow forward roll off the side of a berm and popped up laughing.

 

Caloosa.  It's rare to find such alluring contrast all in one trail.  Flat and steep.  Soft and hard.  Shade and sun.  Blood and laughter.

 

Sometimes it takes the eye of an artist or a master quilter to craft a work of art. 

 

And sometimes it just takes a dedicated bike club.