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.

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.