10, 100, 1000 resolutions. Or, why I quit the Beer Can Scramble.

February.  The month of abandoned resolutions.  

Is it just me?  I get tired of being resolved.  My brain rebels or just plain ignores the plan.  So, habit is usually my only hope.

Those resolutions we all made back on January 1st?  They are either habits by now - or they're not. 

I made a lot of resolutions this year.  A LOT of resolutions.

10, 100, and 1000.  My resolutions for 2017.

10 = pounds to lose.  (Duh, always that damned 10 pounds!)

100= miles per week on the bike

1000= 1000 NO's.  A little tougher to explain.  But basically, there are so many times when I regret saying yes.  Yes, to the Weasel in my head who begs for donuts or pizza.  Yes, to some stupid activity I don't really want to do.  Yes, to tolerating people whom I really can't tolerate.  So in a whole year?  A thousand no's seems about right to me!

But lets' start with the easy stuff.  Which is, of course, the bike. 

I am slowing down in my older and wiser years.  Just riding my full suspension around for fun.  No road bike.  No pacelines.  No Ironman.  No regrets.

Guessing I did about 5500 miles (street and trail) on my mtn bike last year.  So, a resolution of 100 miles per week should be pretty easy.  Just shoot for a ride every day.  Something will come up - guaranteed - once or twice a week.  But five remaining rides of various lengths should add up to more than enough. 

No particular plan, of course, not training for anything, certainly not racing any more.  And having Strava makes keeping track a breeze.  Besides it's good to have some goals - even general - non specific - sissy retirement goals.  Like 100 miles per week.  

Just a day at a time, doing something you like.  The easiest kind of habit there is.

The other two, not quite as automatic.  And no easy, peasey Strava to help me out.

For the 10 pounds, I keep my own logbook.  Most days anyway.  So, most days it's not all that hard to stay on track.

But then, there are those stubborn, fighting-back-every-step-of-the-way, brain wrenching NO's. 

The hardest thing so far this year was to step away from The Beer Can Scramble. 

It's been about four weeks now.  I don't miss the sameness of riding Turkey Creek - the exact same 10 mile trail - in the exact same direction - every single Tuesday night.  But I do wonder what I might be missing when it comes to the beer-after portion of the ride. 

Of course I have always wondered that.  

The guys have their kitchen passes and stay for dinner and beyond.  My self imposed kitchen duties demand that I get myself home to my husband and put some dinner on the table by 9pm.  So about 20 minutes of socializing is realistically all I'm missing anyway.  Yet, it's still requires some self-pep-talking not to wonder what I'm missing every Tuesday. 

But that's how it is with NO's.  Always evaluating.  Weighing the costs.  Social and otherwise. 

Saying NO habitually would be just as short sighted as saying yes habitually.  Which means that saying NO can not be left to the luxury of habit.  Which makes it hard work for the lazy, rebellious chunk of my brain that so often rules my head.

So - the 10 pounds?  Yes. I. Can. Make. Eating. Less. Food. A. Habit.  (Eventually.)

100 miles a week?  Absolutely.  Habit already.  

1000 NO's?  Much tougher. 

Got a start, though. 

One down.  999 to go.



 


 

Riding in Secret. Scouting trail for the Full Moon Hash.

My very first job - after babysitter - was kitchen worker.  My ride to work was a bulky blue Schwinn that was my sister's before it was mine. 

There were fewer No Trespassing signs back then, but I met my share of dead ends checking for shortcuts between home and the back door of the village diner where I leaned my unlocked bike every morning at 6.

Some things change.  Some things don't.

Strava in privacy mode.  I duck behind the strip mall.  Looks pretty promising.  There's a long skinny strip of grass between the long shabby building and a long skinny fence.  At the very end I can just make out an open gate.  The bike rolls through a narrow stream of cloudy water seeping from the back of the 24 hour laundrymat.  Hmm, a little closer and I can tell that, yes, past the gate hanging open, there's a walkway leading to the right.  

I roll right up to the gate before the No Trespassing sign is actually visible.

"Dead end," someone chuckles behind me.    

Two young guys are schlepping paint cans out the open back door of the soon-to-be out of business hardware.

The guys don't seem a bit surprised to see a middle aged woman on a full suspension Lefty fetched up at the end of their particular back alley.  Or even surprised that I add my laughter to theirs. 

"Yep, another one," I say.   As if I do this sort of thing all day long.  (Which sometimes I do, but usually just for an hour or so at a time.)

This is Florida.  It is not safe to ignore No Trespassing signs, but I am curious.  "So, where's the passage go?" 

"There's like, a patio back there.  Total dead end."  And I know a kindred spirit.  Of course he's checked.

We all check.  Shortcutting kitchen workers, teenage hardware employees, and of course, suburban hashers looking for new trail.  There is just no passing by a double track, back alley, or hole in a fence without taking a second look.

What I am hoping to find is a way to come out far enough down the block to be out of sight of a possible halfway stop across the street.  Oh well, the answer is not here.

Today, my local quick suburban route of about 15 miles has yielded 3 surprises.  I've ridden this way dozens of times, so you'd think surprises would be, well, surprising.  But no, there's always something new if you're really looking.

"There's a shorter way past the soccer field, but I'm not sure they always leave the gates open," I told my co-hares last Sunday as we scouted trail.  Mental note: check later when I happen to be nearer the other end of the block. 

So, my second surprise of the day is a good one.  Not only is the gate in question hanging open in the middle of a weekday, but there is an enormous gap in the fence not far away.  As for No Trespassing signs.  Not a single one.  Yes!

I continue riding, with no intention of further scouting, just the need for an hour's worth of miles.  But something unusual for our flat suburban neighborhood catches my eye.  Clouds of black smoke billowing up a few blocks from the beach.  It could be one of the countless shoe-box houses in this town... or, oh no.  It could be the tiniest patch of wooded park in the county.  

Sure enough, the one and only patch of wooded singletrack in town, a postage stamp sized patch of woods behind the public library is on fire. Not just smoldering, but really on fire. Flames shoot straight up from the cabbage palms next to the parking lot.  Black smoke billows skyward while county workers watch from their white pick up.  Caution tape is warped across the road out of the park, which also happens to be my route home.

I roll up to the truck.  If you are simply curious - and nice - nearly all public workers are more than willing to answer questions.  

Down comes the window obligingly.  Controlled burn? Downed power line?  Arson?  I'm just curious!

This time the answer is controlled burn.  Supposed to be done a month ago. 

Beats crazies in the neighborhood.  I guess.  The result is the same, though.  Another bit of shiggy (hasher speak for off road trail) gone for now.  Hopefully in a month it will be passible again.  We'll see.  Meantime, not a bad idea to scout some bypasses as soon as it all cools down. 

Meantime, the fire may be just getting started, but the day is getting on.
 
Fortunately there are other exits for someone looking to elude a bunch of caution tape and just get on home. 

At least there are if you're on a bike.  And you know where there's a hole in the fence.
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Full moon hash...  Feb 11, 2017

Waiting for the hounds to arrive.

Hares re-upping flour at LongDoggers halfway.

Hounds begin to arrive at halfway.

Hounds begin to arrive for slam bang beach bonfire ending.

The Santa Cruz, my ex-bike.

Finger owns Flash now. 

And definitely dresses him better!

Down-downs under the full moon.

Swing Low.
   

* If the idea of a hares and hounds sort of bike chase appeals to you (and you're over 21), check Bikehash.com.