Austin, TX

Due to photo requests and ease of use, I have started a tumblr.
Stalk away.

http://fewermovingparts.tumblr.com/

I am uncertain if I will keep up with this site with the same irregular frequency you've all grown accustom to. We'll see.

Cheers,
A

Austin, TX

Every once in a while I get a proverbial bee in my bonnet about something. Yesterday, it was milk&honey branded all natural chocolate banana granola. (insert plug) You should try it. You'll like it. Great for all ages.

Today, it has been about going home. I think everyone who works in this hotel knows when I'm going to Minnesota next, as well as who's all going to be there. The folks who now recognize me by face are all beginning to ask things like, "How's the countdown going?" and "So how old are your nieces & nephews?" I am two steps away from purchasing a wallet big enough to house all of the photo slots needed to give a complete background on each of the little ones.

I guess it's been a long month.

It has also made me far more aware of my presence in this city. I gave someone directions today without looking up from my newspaper- which isn't to say that I'm an asshole who doesn't have the time of day to draw a fucking map, but more that my timely and efficient directions were well received and, surprisingly, correct. I can barely give directions in my own city, where I'm allowed to wander around with the excuse of never being there, but I dare say I'm getting better at this plopped in the middle of no where business. My GPS, though having been switched to an all too addictive British male voice (swoon), has been absent from the dash over the past two weeks.

Batista's now know my beverage choice. The cashier at the grocery now comments on my half bottle wine purchases, or, due to pathetic attempts at training, the lack thereof. And the local riders are becoming familiar with how long to follow me on a climb before passing at my weakest moment. Yes, this city and I are becoming intimate. But it's time to shake this clinger and move on. 5 days, Austin- it's not you, it's me.

Dallas, TX

He comes down the stairs wearing sweatpants and an undersized longsleeve tee. He stands for a minute, struggling with the doggy gate before entering the room, bundling himself in a sleeping bag, and sitting down on the floor. He lets out a series of heavy sighs, shaking his head up and down slowly.

Neither of us are much in the mood for talking. So we take turns staring at each other while the other stares into the carpet. We begin a silent tango of head nods and shrugs, wide concerned eyes. After a few minutes, I set down my computer next to me casually pressing the volume of my itunes creep up one level and clear my throat.

"We should make a fort."
"Are you serious?" His head snaps towards me. I can tell he's not only wondering if I'm serious, but how this discovery would be accepted by his sleeping girlfriend. His expression reads; She's actually crazy. She's actually batshit crazy.

A sentiment, I feel, that is at this point deserved.
It be better to say that this was a distraction designed to get his mind off of the heavy family news, and the current turbulence of his relationship with the woman upstairs behind the closed bedroom door. And sure, partially it is. But really, it's not. The couch is L shaped and has huge cushions on it, each complete with velcro strips along the back. Given their presence and the contributions brought down to make my "bed" (sheet, sleeping bag, oversized blanket, two camping pillows, and four decorative smaller pillows) we could create a masterpiece that might actually be able to battle the Bubble Fort of '95.

I stand up and start tossing the cushions his direction. For a few moments I can tell his mind is not on the weight of the day and I feel as though I may have redeemed myself, if only for five minutes.

Tyler, TX

1). The first band I witnessed on St.Patrick's Day.
The bassist was wearing a TC hat. In between songs the lead singer grabbed the mic and said, "Once again we're so and so from Minneapolis..."

2). After seeing this guy , I'm trying to wipe the smile from my face. I'm analyzing the faces of folks walking by themselves in attempts to remind myself of how faces are supposed to be positioned without appearing creepy. Top candidates around me are clearly on a mission, practicing for the runway, or pissed. I settle for mission, my task: Poster show.
I walk in to the convention center and am immediately called over to a table of two gentlemen sitting behind beards and a small table in front of a wall plastered in thirty or so screen printed poster designs. They question me about the bag I'm carrying, and then dodge small talk to really get down to their intrigue (Is that seriously Lincoln? Have you read that Vampire Hunter book yet!?) They hand me their card as I start to head towards the next table. They're from Minneapolis.


3). I'm walking back from the poster show towards one my usual coffee stops. The barista exchanges a glance of familiarity and starts in on my beverage while we yell our small talk over the band that's playing. It's a two piece. Drummer and a guitarist who is mastering preprogrammed sound waves through his feet. They're good. They finish their set and ask to the audience to, "Please support other Minneapolis bands. They fucking rule, and one of them is playing up next."

I'm starting to feel like this is a set up. Someone is fucking with me.

4). Impromptu hair cut. Needed to happen. The woman wielding the scissors is from- you guessed it, Minneapolis. Should have seen it coming. I'm starting to wonder if the spell of seeing Bill Murray left me in a Groundhog Day daze.

5). I'm walking briskly away from the hair salon in a daze of product scents and exhaustion. There's a guy standing in the grass that lies in between the sidewalk and the street, watching a band playing on the patio of the burrito place I'm heading towards. I smile as I nod as I pass and he calls out Hey, in a tone that is almost accusatory. I turn back over my shoulder and he pulls up his shirt sleeve exposing a duplicate tattoo of what's on my forearm. I turn back and appreciate it and we make small talk about our native Minneapolis. I check for secret cameras in the bushes as I continue on my way towards burritos.

I'm convinced it's all the damn Minnesotans traveling to one place that's responsible for the current state of Texas weather. It's getting cold. There's snow in the forecast.

Austin, TX

It's 9 pm. We head out on bikes, weaving in and out of crowds of SXSW folks. It's like living Pacman, but with more monsters and no direct route. So Asteroids. Our bullets being strong eye contact in attempts to silently warn oncommers that- no, we have no intention of moving, so they'd best step aside.

We exchange glances from our positions in the crowd periodically, making sure the other hasn't been decked by a celebratory St.Patrick's Day drunkard. This in no time, triggers a race under the 35 bridge towards the calmer streets on the East side. We both win in that we weren't taken out by a cab or LA hipster waiting for the next big thing.

Ridgeland, Mississippi

6 AM: Alarm sounds.. Bib's on. Jersey on. Jeans on. Sweatshirt on. This is the fastest I've moved at this time in a while. Mainly it's in attempts to find food to eat before prepping four bikes and meeting a shop owner. I have forty minutes. Off to a good start.

7 AM: A Subaru with a Rocky Mounts roof rack passed me on the freeway. The driver was waving his ass off with a big ole grin- a wave that transitioned from out of a window to in front of his rear view mirror while trying to make eye contact. I don't get a good enough look to determine if it is the shop owner or photographer I'm supposed to be meeting with, but I wave politely and smile. I end up following his route for a while until I need to take a left into the shop parking lot. We end up side by side at a red light. He stares straight ahead. The woman in the seat next to him is laughing. OK.

9:15ish: Two woman are standing at the side of the bike path. Judging from the lack of hills in either direction, I'm guessing it's not because they're tired. I excuse myself from the woman I'm teaching proper shifting to, stand up out of the saddle and pedal as fast as I will all day (20 mph, weaaak) to meet up with them. Mechanical. Given I've been the mechanic, I'm immediately apologetic as I start looking over the bike. A stick cracks behind me. The small talk amongst the group stops and all heads snap to look over my shoulder. "Nature tour, eh? What is it?" I'm glad for any sort of distraction from their stare. "Probably just a crocodile." I leap forward scrambling with the sudden interaction of my road cleats struggling to find traction on the pavement. They all laugh. A tail flicks. Waves in the swamp lead out towards the dense woods.

11 AM: My phone vibrates. I'm standing on the edge of the bike path, kicking leaves, staring into the grass. Three days on tour and zero strip clubs, what a waste. It ignites a short but necessary laugh. I've lost my car key. I've now searched a four mile span two times. Four miles of 25. The path is an out and back rail to trail and each section of it looks exactly the same to me. There are no defining trees, houses or turns. It is all exactly the same brownish swamp on both sides. So, no despite being asked seven different times, I don't remember where I stopped to adjust a derailleur. I've begun prepping myself for being stranded in Mandeville until after the weekend while the two gentlemen kind enough to join my search party remain dedicated to finding the needle in the haystack, a single key. And yes, if you must know, that is my only key. Because last week I got locked out of my van for the first time ever and removed my spare from it's safe keeping. I then promptly left it in my hotel room, checked out and left the state. Awesome.

1 PM: I can't taste this panini. The crust is tearing apart the roof of my mouth like Capt'n Crunch. All I can think about is that damn cereal.

4:15 PM: Gas station bathroom. Between my greasy hair from this morning's ride, my fading mascara and bright pink cheeks on top of my pale skin, I look like a failed attempt harajuku girl. I feel disgusting. With my tongue running over the tiny cuts from Cap'n panini this afternoon, my face keeps settling into an expression similar to eating room temperature soft French cheese. A motion sensing air freshener triggers on the wall and shoots directly into my mouth. I feel so hot right now.

5:45 PM: Muppet's Schindler's List. Miss Piggy's choice. Schindler's List: In space. I'm listening to the Ricky Gervais podcast on "The Arts."

6:00 PM: Just passed a bill board of a woman crying on one side of a couch, and on the other a man sitting with his head in his hands. Across the top it says DIVORCE? Across the bottom it says $550. That's it. There's no other billboard for miles. Is this some new marketing technique? Or is there a slit in the pole holding up the sign, like those "Go ahead, we trust you" parking lots?

7:18 PM: Hotel room phone rings. It goes up an hour. Tonight. Keisha, the attendant at the front desk is my favorite person in Mississippi.

New Orleans, LA

Lately I've been taking notes in haiku.
This is what I had for today- it seems best not to expand.

Bo'n & Rais', he says
You won believe wit yo ayes
watta for jus miles

He has wet his pants
in talking about the flood;
five foot high waters.

We stand, side by side-
As looking at a cornfield,
But instead, rubble.

He keeps sipping wine
His speach slurring real poorly
Pants wet and heavy.

Usta be nice, ma'am,
Usta be real nice roun hea'
All this trouble naw.

But them Saints, ya hea?
It's all about ta change nah.
Yes suh, it sho is.

Little Rock, AR

I've been running lately. And since we're going to reveal that, I might as well admit that I've been lifting weights as well. I know this sort of statement will only result in a barrage of judgement and teasing. Well, bring it. Facts are facts. 15 pound weights, this girl. It happens.

Having doubled up a run with an upper body workout yesterday, I'm feeling a bit stiff today and ready to be sat down in a car with no reason to move for the next 8 hours as I make my way to Baton Rouge. But first, breakfast. Yes, I'm growing wearing of continental breakfasts. Despite how chipper the host at check-in sounded regarding the waffle machine, it's long lost it's flair. Now, when the obnoxiously loud timer going off signaling a crisp golden brown, it only makes me question why I am still sitting in a lobby when I could be, and likely should be, headed somewhere else.

Other than a older grandson visiting, there isn't much excitement at breakfast this morning. The pair of them making small talk over their hard boiled eggs make for poor people watching. Most of the business folk head out before the 8:30 last call and today's version of a hotel is more set up as studio apartments, which in itself encourages you to sit on your couch in your underwear rather than pretend to class up a bit before making your way downstairs. I finish the standard wheat squares and yogurt, transfer my coffee into a paper cup and make my way to the elevator.

The warm coffee relaxing some tight muscles, my arms dart away from both sides of my body and a powerful yawn escapes me right as the door closes. Power stretch. Each limb moving as far away from my torso as possible, my mind wanders as my muscles tighten and relax. Right before the door is secured a hand darts between it and the elevator frame, opening the door back up and revealing my power stance. The visiting Grandson. If I had been in an 80's power band on stage in front of a crowd, I'm sure the pose wouldn't have looked so strange. Since I was merely in an elevator, humming Kansas and stretching away- I looked like an idiot. He kindly hid his smile as he glanced away so that as his eyes popped out of his head they wouldn't smack me in the face. He stepped into the elevator.

Silence.

The elevator rumbles as it approaches the third floor, shaking. The doors remain closed, despite the arrival bell chiming. We exchange slightly concerned glances.
"Don't worry, if we end up dying in here my final farewell note will not include you dancing in an elevator."
I pause looking at him.
"I wasn't dancing..."
"Sure, just humming- what, Carry on my Wayward Son doing jumping jacks?"
"-Hey now! Stretching... And yes, yes it was."

The doors open. He laughs. I hang my head and exit.
"Good luck finding another elevator partner who can move, and shake, like thiissssss."
The door closes. His laughter disappears as he reaches the next floor.

Jonesboro, AR

I don't think I could live here, and I'm not truly considering it, but I dare say a part of me melted a bit in Arkansas. There's a charm.

I spoke at an event today designed to get women out of their houses and active. This means all types of backgrounds and bodies. All sorts of ability levels. Some, barely able to walk around the outdoor track one time, others pushing themselves to jog in two minute intervals completing four laps. Individual goals and meltdowns. Track suits, sweatpants, over sized t-shirts, two hundred women of all thanking me on their way out with dahlin', chayld, sweedhaar as they passed through the chain link fence past the buzzing overhead field light back to their cars.

They've seen the plates on the van and are thanking me for bringing the warm weather from California. I can't for the life of me bring myself to tell a 65 year old women wearing a moo-moo and running shoes that I'm from Minnesota.

Jonesboro, Arkansas

Today was the first day I wore sandals. Well, this season. With my tan lines still present from last fall, the faded orange bands of my Chaco's fit right into the pale routes mapped across the tops of my feet. It's a good feeling. One of many that set the tone of an approaching summer.

I enjoyed them for three hours before singeing the tops of my feet, leaving them a hint more red than the sun could have provided this afternoon. Fire.

There was a fire burning the brush on the side of the two lane highway that led me into Arkansas; a twisting road constantly rising and falling. Paired with clouds setting in on early evening it wasn't the most calming drive. In fact, it was down right terrifying. I was having flashbacks of a 3am drive into Wisconsin with two of my brothers. Sitting shotgun, my sole job had been to provide warnings of oncoming deer from either side of the road. Though this time, driving solo, my fears are less deer and more running out of gas or blowing a tire in these switchback roads where wandering would likely only get me into trouble. My eyes may have been just a tad wider this time. Especially upon seeing the flames.

I assume this was a controlled fire. I can't be sure. There was no image of flames growing, or a small spark. There was just darkness and then there was light. I drove on, hugging the yellow line and watching for headlights- hoping for headlights, from either direction. 2 miles passed and the flames were still burning evenly. Distractingly bright. 3 more miles. I felt as a bug to light. Engaged.

A mile further I saw a break on the far side of the road. I pulled into the entry of a gravel driveway and get out of the van. The radio was still on, the engine still running, my door still open. And I found myself just standing staring into the fire, feeling it's warmth on my face and arms. I find myself thinking of a rare family moment near a fireplace feigning Christmas merriment. Thinking of the hot tub suite I found myself enjoying while watching Olympic men's figure skating. Thinking of my sunburned feet from last summer.

I looked down and the ground was smoking around my feet. The radio program had ended and was fading into static. A shadowy figure appeared at the last bend, slowly and methodically shoveling the flames, overturning the burning plants. I got back into the van and drove away. Because I've seen far too many horror movies to know that many creepy things happening at once can only mean a leprechaun is about to appear, or some innocent looking serial killer looking for a ride to the nearest bus stop. And that story never ends too well.

Springfield, MO

"What are the odds?"
She stares up at me, pausing long enough to create a part from her wrinkled pursed lips and squint her right eye towards me while pushing up her over sized bifocals.

Let's back up.

I'm in the middle of Kansas. I've been driving for four hours eating nothing but the left over quarter package of Ritz Crackers and four bottles of water. Hydration is important. The inevitable is upon me- it's time. I haven't had the best luck with rest stops. Lately when I'm getting a bit stir crazy, finding myself pushing my knees together and eyes restlessly staring into a mirage of blue signs sporting rest stop mileage countdowns, they've never been a moment soon enough. To be fair, I am a bit too comfortable pulling over whenever the moment strikes to assure I can hit all the high notes in my itunes mix without worrying about excessive abdominal pressure. I'm not a patient woman. I do not fear cornfields.

But dear Kansas, sweet, sweet Kansas, serves in one's favor despite driving for such a while seeing nothing but dismantled houses and weather worn barns. Rest stops a plenty.

I pull off of the interstate, hide all valuables (read: Abe Lincoln mug, six pack of Boulevard, Groucho Marx figurine), and walk down the newly visible sidewalk towards the women's room. It's officially spring time in Kansas and if I weren't walking sideways with my legs crossed towards the restroom, I might appreciate the lack of ice a bit more.

As predicted upon seeing nothing but semi trailers in the lot, the women's room is completely empty. I enter the first stall and immediately start dreaming notes of Lady Gaga proportion that I'll soon be belting worry and judgement free in the confines of the van.

Mid-chorus I hear it. The door restroom opens. As is instinct, I pat my pocket to assure my bite-size pocket knife is where I'd last left it. The door lingers before slamming closed and rubber squeaks across the floor. From underneath the stall I see the wheels turn in my direction.

I yank up my drawers, press the already censored flush-o-matic, and open the door.

"What are the odds?"
She stares up at me. Hands gripped on the wheels on either side of her as she clears her throat.
"I mean, wow, I usually don't- but- really? A handicap? Kansas, huh?"
I know immediately I'm not saying anything right. I should have stayed for the continental breakfast this morning. I should have added that Emergen-C to my water. I should have shut up and left.
I take a deep breath and shrug at her with a meek smile, and walk over to the sink staring immediately into the mirror over my shoulder where she is lingering hesitantly before entering the only handi-capable stall I had just exited. Her mind is clearly caught between lecturing me and putting effort towards moving herself onto the porcelain throne waiting for her.

I brush my hands on my jeans and take off towards the exit. Seriously though, what are the odds?

Wichita, KS

I spend a lot of time with truckers. I've become fluent in brake tap signals. I know how to pull into the diesel only lanes without getting glared at. Though I don't have a subscription, I am familiar with the newspaper printing of 18-Wheeler Singles, and in turn, which rest stops to avoid. I've taken a few cues from my road brethren, but I think it's time to step it up a notch. I think I've clocked my miles. I've earned it.


Observation number one;
Many truckers have a nice little slogan on the back of their cab. It's not anything you'd pay much attention to unless they were driving without a load behind them- that's the moment when their true self is revealed.

"Road Bandit." "Nothin' But Trouble." "Jesus is my passenger." "Peace Be the Journey".

Alright, to be fair, that last one is merely a result of watching Cool Runnings twice recently. But you get the idea. It's time for my own slogan, my own choice statement to define my journey. Something with pop, with edge. Something defining to really let them know what this van can handle.

Observation number two;

There is a growing number of drivers who, by personal choice or company insistence, have a sticker on the lower portion of their driver's side mirror. Sometimes it's a picture, usually a cartoon. Sometimes a silhouette of a well endowed woman with an impossibly thin waist. But the phrases always intrigue me.

"Hangin' in there." "Get 'em" "Create safety" "Home soon"

More often than the defining badge, these usually are more personal, more emotional. Each glance into the mirror a reminder. I suppose if one really wanted to put forth the effort they could create some sort of rotational template- maybe a reminder as to what state they're heading towards. Or a silent to do list. Or a friendly reminder of a loved one's birthday perhaps. Or maybe just that cartoon drawing of the grumpy old woman in greeting cards just saying, "Who Farted?"

Time to start thinking. But if this is anything like seeking out an inspirational phrase for my Road ID, it might be a while.

Lawrence, KS

Things are bothing piecing themselves together and fraying at the ends at the same time. I'm dusting off my palms on my jeans and settling back into a keyboard. So forgive me for the long time spent away and the cobwebs that will no doubt reappear in the text.