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.

Morgan Hill, CA

Ever wonder what happens inside the women's locker room?

Let's back up. It's 1 pm. It's raining outside.

Four of us have just spent our lunch hour on bicycles in the fitness room following instructions set to the top 20 hits of 2006. We've simulated climbing in and out of the saddle. We've completed various intervals mimicking the surrounding hills of the West coast. We've established a victor without ever crossing a distance marker. They yelled faster, we pushed harder. Sweat beading our red faces soaked strategically placed towels as droplets themselves raced towards the floor.

We've shouldered our bikes down a flight of stairs, filed them away on alternating hooks between the bikes forsaken due to rain and headed towards the locker room.

You ever wonder what happens in the ladies locker room? In the U-shaped bank of showers, where only bare feet are exposed from behind red curtains as suds rush for the drain?

Elixor brakes. The bane of Juicy 5's. Comparisons as to how many fingers can reach the brake levers while riding in the drops of various handlebar manufacturers.

This isn't your average locker room. But this definitely isn't your average job. And we aren't your average women.

Austin, TX

Crashing is a lot like losing a spelling bee. You feel like an idiot though in the grand scheme of things, no one is going to remember in a week. You learn from it. Though I've never been in a spelling bee, I've crashed a lot. Too much. Last night I added another to my list, this being a bit more harsh.


My shoulder looks like it's been gnawed on by an R.O.U.S. The tiny spot of road rash on my wrist is a small telling of the joint aches that are lying beneath. A blue and purple haze highlights the range of bones nearing my elbow, focusing around the burst of red and crimson- a physical description of the exact moment of impact, the momentary tattoo of guilt.

The guilt lies frankly on the right side of my head. A protruding knot. A knot that wouldn't exist had I had my helmet with me. Instead, while a rough paved surface was burning through the first through layers of skin on my shoulder, my lips let out a "fuckfuckfuck..." but internally all I was thinking was Watch your head, keep on your shoulder, keep on your shoulder. No luck.

I can count the number of times I've ridden without a helmet on one hand. I am not one of those folks. I'm an advocate. I strap on the plastic bonnet even to go two blocks to the grocery. Cause I'm safe. Cause helmets are sexy. Cause I have trust issues with oncoming traffic.

Guilty. Can you use it in a sentence, please? G.U.I.L.T.Y

*Dear Ma, Minor MINOR concussion. Only wounds that will heal. I'll return to MN in one piece for Thanksgiving. Promise. Love, yourfoolishdaughter.

Austin, TX

The Wizard of Oz is on TV. It's at that part where color inherits the screen and boatloads of little people made their acting debut. Having just stepping out of the shower, removing all traces of the red dirt mapping my weekend of mountain bikes and camping (read; sleeping in the van on a crash pad as I have no tent. Whine. Moan.), I feel like I may be stepping into a new world, myself.

So I'm watching the Wizard of Oz, trying hard to place the last moment I watched this movie. A memory I place somewhere in the '95 range. Much has changed. I'm drinking from a stale bottle of red to compliment my crisp pita bread with chevre. In bed. It's 7:30 pm. I'm an adult, damn it.

I'll spare you the predictable no place like home moment. If there were a place to compare to what used to be home, Austin would have to be it. But warmer. Enjoyably warmer.

Dallas, TX "There's no panic in his fight." The Old Man & the Sea.

It's barely three in the afternoon on a weekday and I'm already sitting with an empty Shiner bottle to my left and a half a bag of bakes Cheetos on my right. This is about as close to a moment of weakness I get these days.

I've been on the road for one year. One year of diesel lanes and height restrictive bars; waking up to vacuums on the floor above me, attempting to place accents to determine what state I've just slept in.

Recently, it's been Texas. Lately, the accent's been mine.

The van and I died today. Me, parting ways with it like a mother leaving her first born in kindergarten. My hand slowly sliding down glass window built into the door, my hesitant steps to leave. Despite my insistance, they assured me things would be fine, I'd be more comfortable if I left for a while and returned at four.

So now I sit waiting, with nothing to distract me, wondering where I'll pick up in this situation during the van-free winter months to come.

Austin, TX

It's raining in Austin. Despite the sky's efforts to cut through the heat, the final result is more in line with a hot sigh, heaved after a summer afternoon spent moving furniture. Wet and thick, the air urges me to pedal slower as beads of perspiration form on my reddening cheeks.

The coffee shops proves to be a bit drier with the same weight to the atmosphere, keyboard cackle with business transactions and love affairs, the desperation and narcissism of social networking all fueled through over-caffeinated fingertips. I am a zombie amidst the productive mid-twenties crowd. Though in season, I still feel out of place.