Eden Prairie, MN

I wish I could tell you it was monumental. That this moment, these seven years of build up, came to a breaking point where crowds gathered, or clouds parted, where a line of buckets were each filled in succession with the proud vomit of my endeavor. Sadly, this is not the case.

This started six weeks ago. In Utah. Under a large red tent with fifteen or so other brothers in bike, we were slinging to the masses when a van pulled up and unloaded forty bagged lunches. Turkey or ham. I picked up a turkey bag and made my way back to my station near the back of the tent, parked myself on an orange plastic construction bucket and unwrapped the plastic wrap from the layers of turkey, mayo and lettuce. I lifted the right half of the sandwich towards my mouth, pausing to check for observers around me, the turkey surprising my nostrils. I went for it. The first bite dripped in delightful expectation. Glimpses of my childhood spent in wayside rest stops on family vacation flashed into mind; the midnight viewing of The Longest Day from behind humid slices of wheat bread encompassing the mound of layered turkey and Dijon mustard, my brother on the couch. This was it; this is what I’d been missing. Four bites in, the gleam from my eyes began to fade, the excitement of the first bite was lost in the second and third and by the time half the sandwich was gone I was yearning for the rush of the first hit. I tucked the remaining half of my crushed dreams back into the paper bag and tucked it under the table holding my tool box. And that was that. As some whispered traitor and other carnivorous bystanders exchanged proud nods, I dug back into my tool box searching for a 4mm bit for my torque wrench, washing away the last of my efforts with an orange soda.

Then there was Ragbrai. The six hours of heat and banter that led up to the lunch hour. The hoards of people passing by with porkchops and footlongs. The hotdogs being cautiously dipped into yellow corn batter across from our tent. I caved. With no emotion or reservation, I caved. Wiping the remains of ketchup from the corners of my mouth, I slumped into a foldable lawn chair under the shade of our tent, my belly feeling giddy and dense.

"Well clearly I can't be considered a vegetarian anymore, but I dont think I'll be at Ribfest anytime soon. I just felt... heavy. This rock, this settling in my stomach. I felt slow."

"That's called being full, and you haven't felt it in seven years." my younger brother jabbed from across a slice of sausage and pepperoni pizza.

Week's brought on the satisfaction of sausage, the gluttony of gravy. And today, jam packed into a wooden booth, in an out of the way roadside diner, with the selection of six options stenciled on the wall, the contentment of cheeseburgers.

Minneapolis, MN ; sleeping dogs.

There are moments when you know you should keep your mouth shut;
That time of year when stranger’s children are giggling with anticipation on the sidewalk, exchanging dreams of Santa Clause in oversized boots on the walk home from school. Your clenched jaw muffling those three words that could crumble their whole gleeful season.

When an extended family member goes in for a hug. The preventable aftermath leaving you plastered in potpourri Febreeze for the rest of the week, washing each article of clothing individually in attempts to shed the cling of deaths approaching grasp.

There are no take-backs.

Especially not when you’re afternoon drinking glasses of Basil Hayden’s discussing relationships.

Wheaton, IL

Every once in a while the extremes of my life intersect on one fantastically memorable day. Like leap year, it’s not often, and always seems to pass faster than I can predict. Last week, due to an unpredictable cancellation, stars aligned. I found myself getting my hair done, in full salon mode complete with gossip and magazines I’d never subscribe to, and later, crushing the two hours of tedious scissor work with a helmet, mountain biking.

It was in the most girly of moments, under a hair drying orb in a flowered nylon chair, analyzing the chipping paint of my toe nails, that I stumbled upon a contest in the back of a women’s housekeeping magazine. A writing contest. Having no pen within arm’s reach and unwilling to risk lifting the futuristic heat orb, I attempted to commit details to the dust ridden vault of my memory.

I’ve spent the days following this encounter trying to remember the topic of the essay or the name of the magazine. I’m certain I’ve become the target of a new women’s marketing focus group as one of few women to have mountain biking now paired with bridal magazine articles, the latest in HID lumen counts backed with dinner suggestions for mom’s on the go occupying my browser search history.

But I found it. Game on.

Kansas City, MO

The cars in the ditch weren't even the worst part. I think I'd rather it be raining again. I hit a button to my left and the window disappears into the door. No, no I wouldn't. Is it getting hotter in here? Is that possible?

I had left Minneapolis at 8am, expecting the morning haze to lift as I headed South into Iowa, but the sky grew darker. Dense heat slow dancing with brisk winds, each turn meeting the car with its own dynamic intensity. Cold. Hot. Cold. Hot. Winds raised and cars veered towards the gravel outskirts of the road as fat drops collapsed onto the pavement. I trailed a semi and ventured on, squinting, leaning far over my steering wheel, hell bent on Kansas City.

My left hand hangs in front of the air vent separating my window from the steering wheel. So not only is the air conditioning broken, it may actually be getting hotter in here, and nothing is coming in on the radio except church banter. And I'm in Iowa, again.

My right hand slaps the button on the radio. Passing cars drown out what music had been fading into static. My thoughts silence for a moment. The heat stomps on my chest.

This is what I imagine breathing marshmallow cream would be like. Like in those moments when I was younger when we'd imagine a pool filled with Jell-O? Replaced with marshmallow cream. And I'm drowning. Alone. In Iowa. I tug at my seat belt. There is a dark stripe that lays across my chest where it had been resting. The pressure remains.

I press the button on the arm rest that raises the window closed and crank the fan full blast, fingering the grated vents in the dash, attempting to convince them to hold position. The heat's wearing us both out, eh? I give up. My left hand wrenching the steering wheel and the other gripping the mouth piece of my Camelbak, the bladder of which is hanging behind my seat like an IV bag. I put the window down again.

Two hours. Two more hours 'til Kansas City. 'Til air conditioning. 'Til hotel beds and cold beer. My eyes wander towards the groceries which have liquified in their individually sealed packages, the cheese that has now taken on whiz type qualities. 'Til solid foods.

Flashbacks. Minneapolis, MN

(Camping trip, UP Michigan)

I’m walking towards a wooden shack that’s positioned on the edge of the lake. The road is a combination of gravel and sand granules that have been dragged from the shoreline repeatedly by boats and children longing for fireside sandcastles. The tiresome building is being held together by the paint of the season, this year’s color being a thick brown coating attempting to hide the beige of ’08. I open the outhouse door and immediately my mind fills with what’s to become the mantra of the day, Don’t look down.

Ask the locals. Don’t let language or instinct deter you, ask the locals. We’re thigh deep in water, making our way from the shoreline towards an island where we’ve been made to believe there is some excellent climbing. We laugh aside the idea that this could be one of the greatest goose chases, having trudged through dense woods to meet the beach and examine the coastline, only half assured that this was the island the stoutly balding man was referring to.
“If the water touches my balls I’m done.” He’s pants are rolled up revealing traces of skin normally out of reach to the sun, tiptoeing as higher waves roll towards us.
“Yep, I’m done,” his body jerks upwards straining to escape the cold water and I giggle. Our feet search out the long flat rocks on the lake floor to lower the water to calf levels.

We hike through denser wood, following the beaten path of locals and adventurists until the brush parts aside and piles of 2.3 billion year old rock are exposed overlooking Superior. Don’t look down. I’m pushing aside thoughts of my mother’s chiding voice. I can hear her repeat my first and middle name each time I lean over the rock’s edge.

Flashbacks. Minneapolis, MN

Kansas City, Missouri.
The microwave smells of floral spray. The cinnamon roll, whose scent I expected to loft through my King suite, has been engulfed in dense potpourri, as if an elderly woman was trying to recreate the comforts of home, or incense was burned in the microwave to avoid setting off a smoke alarm. My cinnamon roll tastes of orchids, each sugar coated petal nauseating the senses that had been craving the sweet warm cinnamon.

Damn this hotel cooking.
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Lawrence, Kansas.
It's quite warm and my beer has already lost its chill. I now have a quarter glass left to finish of a temperate Mothership Whit before I begin the slow walk back to my hotel. No one walks quickly here and time passes slow enough to make one feel relaxed, yet fast enough to assure tomorrow is still within reach. The accent here is minimal but noticeable. each drawn out syllable enticing me to stay just a bit longer to enjoy what comforts could be considered home. I suppose, true to theme, it's time to move on.

Stumbled upon a unique looking patio as I wandered towards my hotel. The old wooden counter tops and bar have an old timey feel, luring me to stay inside after placing my order. Or maybe it's the air conditioning. I order a lambic after a toss up with my traditionally post-ride stout, but only because it was on tap. A rarity that reminds me of the boy at home. It's served to me in a glass that's roughly nine inches tall and a mere inch and half wide. It's presentation and burgundy coloration is making me feel rather feminine, sitting here alone covered in bike grease and surrounded by images of the latest parts spec of the 2010 line.

Burnsville, MN

It's written in cursive on manila masking tape that's stuck to a cardboard box with handles on the sides. Le Roy's box. Hands off. The box is similar to the cable lined RC cola boxes that hold what's left of my belongings in my mother's garage.

Le Roy, or the culprit stealing his box, is wearing three shades of blue. Worn Levi's pulled high above his hips, a navy collared button down shirt tucked into it's collapsing waistline, and a periwinkle adjustable baseball cap with a mesh backing teetering atop his white hair. Tight lipped, his lower jaw pushes forward as he reaches for the stack of white Styrofoam cups. He pours his coffee and drinks it black, his back still turned to me as I shift in my chair, attempting to make out the contents of the box.

Hands off.

My brother growing up had a Bible which he had written KEEP OUT!! on the binding. I had convinced myself that his Bible had been far cooler than mine, stories far more epic, or had been whittled into a book-safe. Knowing that the Lord worked in mysterious ways, I felt no shame in opening the book, as His devine intervention could have been targeting me through a new marketing scheme devised by the Catholic church.

Le Roy's flaw had been using cursive lettering, as it took away from the severity of the statement, much like the deliquent permanent marker scrawling had lost all authority when written across a Bible.