Faith in humanity

Some of my faithful readers may remember my inaugural RAGBRAI, which was inordinately hot and humid, and by day 7 I had burned my lower lip to a crisp and was talking with a lisp and only able to eat tiny bits of food with a fork. In other words, I looked totally ridiculous.

It was under these circumstances that I met the most awesome people in the world, Jim and Faye Petersen, who were in one of the last towns on the last day meeting up with their daughter Tomeka. I wound up having breakfast with the Petersens, where Jim Petersen blithely and cheerily assured me that it was “all downhill from there.” This was the day my dreams were shattered as I learned that even the most friendly of Iowans were expert liars.

Anyway, of course as we parted that year, I threatened assured them that I would show up on their doorstep should RAGBRAI ever go through their lovely town of West Liberty, Iowa.

This year was that year.

Amazingly, the Petersens had somehow managed to find me after RAGBRAI 2011, through my Blog Which Has Swept the Nation.  So we’d kept in touch, and for some odd reason, they seemed excited to have me visit and be their guest at their home. I know, go figure.

That Friday, after dealing with the 19% hills that Iowa is composed of and cursing the blazing Iowa skies, I was passed out in our shade-less camp lot coolly relaxing after a leisurely day of riding when who showed up in a blaze of glory but Jim and Tomeka, driving a truck borne on celestial clouds and accompanied by the halcyon sounds of a heavenly choir. Umm, not that I was tired of riding at that point or anything.

After loading my bike stuff in the car so that I could just pick up the RAGBRAI route the next morning from their house, we headed on out to West Liberty, aka mecca. Truly mecca. Because not only is this the cutest little town in the world – the REAL Bedford Falls of Iowa – but the Petersens also live in the most glorious Victorian, one of a sea of glorious Victorians in WL. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many gorgeous houses in one town.

I was in heaven.

I really don’t think a week of hot and hilly riding had anything to do with it, but I was highly appreciative of the accommodations.

Faye Petersen: Oh I’m sorry the guest bed isn’t very comfy, it’s kind of old and….

Me: OMG THIS IS THE BEST BED EVER!

Faye: And it can get a bit stuffy in here so you might want to leave the door open a bit…

Me: OMG I’LL BE SLEEPING INDOORS! ON A BED!

Faye: And the bathroom is…..

Me: OMG A REAL BATHROOM WITH A REAL SHOWER!

That evening after hanging out on their porch on the swinging bench with cocktails, we went to dinner at a local Mexican restaurant (OMG BEST FOOD EVER) and then wandered around town a bit. We visited Slightly Vintage, where I begged the owner to come decorate my house, because she had done such an amazing job. Then the still-in-progress printing press store, with a focus on all kinds of old-timey printing press machines and such. This is where I learned the origins of the term “upper case” and “lower case” – based on where the letters were placed in the cabinets. Well duh, who doesn’t know that? I’m also reassured by Jim that this time, it really IS all downhill to Davenport, truly, no more hills. Whew!

That night I slept on the wings of angels in the comfiest bed I’ve ever encountered, to complete blissful silence. No train whistles, no crappy bad band music or karaoke, no drunken cyclists trying to find their tents. Blissful. Complete. Silence.

The next morning, I sadly bid farewell to the most amazing people in the world who have so graciously welcomed me into their home and who live in the most adorable town, and we make plans to work on ways to boost commerce and tourism in West Liberty. Because did I mention that it’s the cutest town ever with an astonishing number of beautiful Victorians? I envision all sorts of Christmas-y things happening here, wandering carolers with roasting chestnuts and house tours and mulled wine at the shoppes dusted with lightly falling snow and and and….well, you get the point.

As I set off on my way to the final stretch to Davenport, with happy thoughts in my head about the wonderful and generous people of Iowa, and thinking about how I can get the Petersens to come visit The Manor in Silverton, and life is grand and HOLY SHIT WHY ARE THERE 19% HILLS AT THIS POINT IN THE RIDE YOU LIED TO ME JIM ET TU JIM ET TU?!!

So yeah, there were a few hills. By a “few” I’ll just note that there were so many that at one point, no exaggeration, it looked like there was a zombie apocalypse upon us, because there were that many people slowly trudging up the hills, having just had it with their bikes. I for one did NOT walk my bike, but let’s be honest – our speeds were about the same.

Finally, yes, probably about 5 miles out of Davenport, it was in fact downhill. Along a highway-like road, which didn’t quite give us room to go bombing down it, but hell, I’ll take it at that point. We finished in a park along the river, and it was nice enough relaxing there for a while. But to add insult to injury, to get back to where our charter was, it was about a 6 mile slog straight uphill to St. Ambrose. Sigh.

So I might still have a slight bone to pick with Jim Petersen, just saying. I’ll call you guys. Jams will be on their way. Thank you for being the most memorable part of any RAGBRAI that will ever be. Ever.

RAGBRAI 2015

Yes yes, I know, Ragbrai was about 6 months ago and I’m a little behind. I had meant to live blog from the road, but alas, the singular world wide web connection in Iowa was elusive. And I’ve had other things to blog about since then, but have kept thinking…but Ragbrai! Things need to be in order! So, my dear nineteen of readers, the highlights:

·        You know how you have past experiences and you learn from them and think you’re doing the right thing? So yeah, the fact that the last 2 Ragbrais I did were the hottest on record and I didn’t even pull out my sleeping bag because it was so damn hot and muggy? So I smartly didn’t bring one this year? Bad. Fucking. Move. Note to self: using your towel to drape over yourself as a pseudo-blanket doesn’t work very well.

·        Day One, I am almost plowed down my Schnauzer Lady. This is the batty little old lady who rides with her poor ancient schnauzer in a basket on her bike. Of course her bike is weighted down with all sorts of crap because she’s apparently also a semi-hoarder, so she can barely keep the thing upright. Which leads to her being in front of me, trying to get moving, and starting to tip over, right in my way of course.

Schnauzer Lady: “Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!”

Me: “Ahh! Ahh! Ahh!”

Luckily some good Samaritan manages to stop her before she hits the ground, AND before she does so right in my path. Disaster averted.

·        Best lines of the week: Ann is riding along next to a serene and sweet 72-year-old lady, with a basket on her bike and I believe an I Love Jesus sticker on her helmet. The full effect. Suddenly a peloton of  cyclists go zipping by in some long-ass pace line, as people can’t seem to help themselves from doing.

Little old lady: Look at those assholes, all clipped in and stuff! Who the hell do they think they are? Where the hell do they need to be? Look at them!

Ann almost falls off her bike from laughing so hard, and for the rest of the week this becomes the rallying cry of Team Sloth: “Look at those assholes, all clipped in and shit!” It never ceases to amuse.

·         Scene, Day One: Sloth Michelle and I are riding next to each other as we start out, amidst a sea of people. Suddenly she moves off to the left, and I hear a faint “Winning!” from her. Say……what??

Me: “Did….did I just hear you say….. “winning”?”

Michelle: “Yep.”

Oh, it’s now ON. When there’s an opening, I make my move and go flying by her on the left.

Me: “Who’s winning NOW, bitch??”

Cue uproarious laughter from our fellow cyclists. So yeah I guess I can be a wee bit competitive (all in good fun of course).

·         My tent is a shitlord. As of day 2, I’m already composing a letter in my head to the asshole Coleman tent manufacturers.

Dear Horrible Tent People:

 

I’m sure you were very proud of yourselves in creating such a compact little bundle for your tents, one easy to tote around, without a spare inch of space. Kudos! Bravo! Might I point out though that there is one problem: the fucking thing won’t fit BACK in the bag once you’ve actually used the damn thing.

This is how physics works. If something fits into a bag with no room to spare when that thing (tent) is perfectly dry and unused and fresh off the factory floor, what are the chances it’ll fit BACK into that bag once it has, say, a wee bit of dew on it? SLIM TO FUCKING NONE.

I hate you people.

Sincerely,

Miss Tasha

·        I determinedly stick to my low-carb diet. Day one: Burger with no bun. Other forms of protein. A cheese stick. Nuun instead of sugar-laden Gatorade. I feel very virtuous.

·        By Day Five, I am subsisting on popsicles, watermelon, corn, and pickle juice. Fuck you low carb and the horse you rode in on.

·        Iowa, seriously, 19% grades? Really? I love you, but COME ON.

·        By Thursday, Day Five, bitterness has set in. This year’s route is long and hilly and I’ve just had it. This leads to the following thoughts in my head:

o   Upon seeing the handmade roadside signs: “What the hell people, those don’t even RHYME!”

o   What did you patch this road with, Iowa, cowpies?

o   Seriously, another fucking hill?

o   FINE, I’ll ride in the middle of the road TOO, you asshole cyclists, since you’re all incapable of understanding the rules of the road EVEN ON DAY FIVE.

o   Similarly: “No, I’m NOT going to call out ‘rumbles’ three times. Because if by day five you haven’t yet figured out that there’s always 3 sets of rumble strips in a row, then you’re too stupid to be out here.”

·         Ackley, Iowa = the Bedford Falls of Iowa. Not only do they have the most amazing decorations coming into and going out of town, but they’re selling CANDIED BACON. ‘Nuff said.

·         One day at our Brancels campsite, we’re chatting with this nice guy who’s doing Ragbrai for the first time, and we come to a realization.

Me: You know, it’s true, those movies they show on the buses out here are pretty damn depressing.

Nice guy: Yeah, I mean had I seen those beforehand, I never would have signed up for this.

Me: Right – you have the Race Across America one, where the one guy gets plowed over by a truck. Then the Ragbrai Spokes one, where the one guy is riding for his wife who died of suicide.

NG: And the rest of them have causes they’re riding for! I need a cause.

Me: You certainly do. Otherwise what’s the point? How about biking for People Without a Serious Cause? They need love and attention too.

NG: Done.

 

·         At the same time, the best thing about the Spokes movie are the lines from John Karras, one of the two founders of Ragbrai. When it was suggested by their employer, the Des Moines Register, that they let whoever wanted to join me on their maiden trek across Iowa, Karras’ response was : “I thought that was the stupidest thing I’d ever heard.” And later, about the 90-year old guy who decided to do the ride a couple of years in: “He was glacially slow.” Classic.

·         Ragbrai included some off-roading this year. Fun.

·         Goatsies! This was right before the tornado hit. Or what the little girls who owned the goats decided was a tornado. Because when the wind picked up, chaos ensued.

Little girls: EEK! Eek! What do we do! And Hansel is stuck!

Me: Umm….

Yes, poor goatsie had gotten his string wrapped around his chair. I, umm, proceeded to lift the chair and untangle him. It took 3 seconds. The girls were in awe of my prowess.

·         If you don’t like biking in the heat and sun, I’m going to say you proooobably won’t like Ragbrai. One person on Team Sloth, who rode on average about 8 miles a day since she’d ride to the first town and then catch the SAG wagon, seemed to forget this part.

Me: Umm, so are you planning on riding more tomorrow? (after hearing that she had been just riding to the first town) Maybe to the second town at least?

Slothy Sloth: No, this is working for me!

Me: But….you’re not doing much riding then.

SS: Yes, but I don’t like riding in heat.

Me: …….

SS: Or sun. When the sun comes out, hoo boy, I’m done.

Me: But……it’s Iowa. The last week in July.

SS: Right….

Me: Heat and sun are kind of a given.

SS: I just can’t ride under those conditions.

So there was that.

·        The worst thing about Ragbrai this year, other than my tent being a shitlord, was the fact that my hands and feet were completely screwed up. I’ve always had the poor circulation thing, but this was epically horrible. Both got extremely painful and then numb, yet still painful, however that works. As the week wore on, I’d have to stop more and more often to shake out my hands and take my shoes off and rub my feet. This was not good.

·        The best thing about Ragbrai…….well, that’ll be in the next post. It was as epically awesome though as the hand/foot thing was horrible. More so.

Team Sloth, the ramp up to RAGBRAI

The last time I did RAGBRAI, aka the crazy-ass bike ride across Iowa, was the year that has become the stuff of legends. The year that’s whispered about in hushed tones. THAT year.

Yes, dear reader, yours truly managed to bring RAGBRAI to its knees in 2012. Because 2011, my first RAGBRAI, was until then one of the hottest on record. As Ann put it, “It couldn’t possibly get any worse than this.”

2012 was worse.

People were dropping like flies. That year had the highest drop-out rate ever, the most SAGs, I think the most deaths as well. It was like riding a bike in an oven that was attached to a wind tunnel. I remember clear as day riding one day into a fierce headwind, and telling myself I’d just ride another mile, then would join the other walking wounded collapsed in the sparse shade on the side of the road. The year after Hell Year 2012 was apparently the first year in forever that RAGBRAI didn’t sell out. I’m not surprised.

The result was that the next two years, 2013 and 2014, were gifts from the RAGBRAI organizers, in that they were some of the easiest years on record. As short and flat as they could make them. Easy-peasy. A couple days in there that were a mere 40 miles.

I mention all this to note that this year, of course, when Miss Tasha is back, the organizers decided fuck that shit, we’re going hardcore again. So tomorrow, Sunday, is the hilliest day, at 60,0000 feet of climbing, and 213 miles. Okay okay, maybe it’s just 4,000 ft of climb and 82 miles, but still, that’s ridiculous enough. It doesn’t get much better the rest of the week. AND, after an entire summer of cool and rainy, it’s now in the 90s in Iowa, with 99% humidity. Because of course it is.

And Team Sloth’s start has been less than auspicious. Sloth Mary Beth woke up last Tuesday with horribly swollen knees, her arthritis acting up, so she’s out. Me, after one of my ramping up rides last week, I could hardly walk afterwards because of my lower back. For some reason it’s fine when I’m riding, but when I try to actually be upright, major pain. This could be a problem. Ann has plantar fasciitis. So far only Sloth Michelle is unscathed; hopefully I haven’t jinxed her. Oh, and we were thisclose to running out of gas on our way to Davenport yesterday and limped our way in to a gas station finally, telling the girl working that “you have the best most wonderful gas station I’ve ever seen in my life,” and her responding that “yeah, it’s a LONG way between gas stations, we hear that a lot”, so there’s that as well.

Tonight I had a sno-kone for dinner, and because I hate Huey Lewis and the News with the burning fever of a million suns, we’re not going to that concert here in Sioux City. Tomorrow we rise with the crack of dawn, and, onward.

Here’s hoping we got all of the bad luck out of the way already……

A little life in me yet

A few weeks ago I went to see the illustrious Dr. B., to get some final stuff out of the way before BFU transfer in August. Of course, the SIS and mock embryo transfer went as expected.

Dr. B.: Okay, so everything looks good…….except…….we have a polyp now.

Me: WHAT? What the…..where the hell did that….that…FUCKHEAD come from??

Dr. B.: Unfortunately they sometimes just pop up.

Me: Shit! I can’t believe this!

 

That meant I needed to get Fuckhead taken care of via ANOTHER hysteroscopy before leaving town for RAGBRAI, because otherwise the timing of everything would just not work. I’d have to have the hysteroscopy in August, then wait a month, then that would put me in October and my beloved Dr. B. would be on maternity leave. Nay! So I put the full court press on Dr. A. in Silverton, along with the Sad Cancer Face, and lo and behold she squeezed me in to get this taken care of.

Of course, that surgery went without a hitch, with all the usual accoutrements. The perplexment (yes this is a freaking word!) at my rejection of Versed, my insistence on referring to the polyp as Fuckhead (yes, I’m done with the cutesie names, going right for the jugular now), the ensuing witty banter, me bouncing out the door post-surgery into the 102-degree heat to be picked up by Most Excellent Friend and Neighbor Laura so that I could go home and take Kone to the rezzy. Again, the usual.

So now it’s all over but the waiting. Well, waiting for the Frozen Embryo Transfer, or FET. I waver between thinking this has to work, and that it doesn’t have a chance in hell. I’d obsess over statistics, but quite frankly, there aren’t any. Nada. Zip. There are no numbers to pore over of women my age and their success or lack thereof with FETs. There isn’t even an ORM precedent, because I’m the only woman my age who’s wound up with an actual normal PGS-tested embie on ice.

By all accounts this should work – most miscarriages are caused by a chromosomally abnormal embryo, and BFU is definitely not that.

But what if it doesn’t? This is my only shot. My only chance to give Kone a sibling. It crushed me when on my third IVF cycle, my slacker embies only made it to the early blast stage and not full blast, and I wound up with nothing. That was beyond devastating, and it’s fortunate that Most Excellent Friend Sarah came over and dragged me out for Tiki Tuesday at the Creekside and tropical drinks.

I don’t think there are enough Tiki Fucking Tuesdays in the world, if this doesn’t work.

My BFU is already a little person in my mind.

He has a name, one other than Badass Fucking Unicorn.

I already picture him outfitted in old-timey clothing, toting a scythe or helping me and Kone pick berries or being held up to reach the highest apples on the apple tree (even babies have their uses).

Me yelling at him when he’s a surly teenager and telling him “And to think YOU were the lone embryo that made it!”

I do way too much thinking as it is, and I fear that if this doesn’t work, my brain will never shut off.

I will have sold my house and moved for nothing.

I will have spent $70K on nothing.

 

I’ll be witness to my hopes and dreams crashing down around me into incomprehensible rubble, never to be put back together again.

I’ll rethink and regret every single decision I’ve ever made in my life that brought me to this place.

I don’t know if or how my fragile soul will come through this, as a culmination of all the other shittastic things that have happened in my life.

I might just pack up The Kone and the bike and head off for parts unknown.

I do some of my best crying on the bike.

Thoughts in my head while cycling

Oregon cyclists, wtf? At first I thought it was a fluke, this female cyclist who didn’t acknowledge my friendly wave in any way. That tended to happen sometimes in the Huntley environs as well, with the women cyclists more likely to ignore others than the men did. With her, I figured that she was such a newbie cyclist that she was too scared to let go of her deathgrip on the handlebars in order to manage even a small polite wave.

But then the other day I saw a guy on his bike headed my way from the other direction. Aha! Surely he would wave! Aaaaand…..nada. Wth? Even in IL when I or the other person was hammering along on our tri bike, we’d manage the head nod or slight wave, or something. But here I get nothing? Don’t these people know the laws of bicycling etiquette??

* * * * * *

“…cause the rain don’t care.” Milli Vanilli may not have been all that great at actually singing their own songs, but their lyrics were clearly the precursor to Honey Badger.

* * * * * *

It’s all about the pie. Imagine my surprise when the route I so carefully mapped out wound up taking me directly past…..the Willamette Valley Pie Company. At right about the halfway mark. Now, I know they’re not donuts, so this doesn’t quite compare to the donuts in the bucolic town of Sharon, WI, but still, pie. Mayhap I can even time it right to get there for Pie Happy Hour in the morning. Of course, this would just be in the interest of diligent training for RAGBRAI and all the homemade pie that that entails – I am nothing if not devoted to my craft.

(Note: the above was written while I was still in OR, and I am now in IL, i.e. land of the evil town of Capron, turkey vultures hovering overhead, tornadoes, and crayzee white trash crackheads trying to run me down with their car. I shall report back.)

Petal pedaling away.....

First off, yay for the ACA! Yay gay marriage! Yay four out of five SCOTUSes! And I have to say, whatever Justice Scalia is smoking, I’d like some please. Anyone who makes up shit like “jiggery-pokery” and then uses it in a Supreme Court ruling is definitely on the good stuff, ifyouknowwhatImean.

Anyway.

Last Saturday was the classic Heatstroke 100 DeathCycle 2015 Petal Pedal ride, which I felt obligated to sign up for since it started and ended right here in bucolic Silverton, at the Oregon Garden. Anticipating being on top of my game, I naturally signed up for the 100 miles. Which pretty quickly became 50 miles on the day of, as temps were going to be in the 100+ range. Did I really want to recreate the RAGBRAIs of 2011-2012 and all their accompanying hot misery? No. That would be a no.

I set off on Saturday with some trepidation, given that this would be my longest ride this year. (Still in the ramping up phase. The science here is sound.) I almost immediately felt the need to start writing letters in my head to various constituents involved in this ride.

Dear Petal Pedal Organizers:

Thank you for organizing such a lovely ride. A small note, however: a mile-plus climb of 14% is NOT a “gently rolling hill.” Please make a note of it. Thank you!

Best regards,

Miss Tasha

I soldiered on, to encounter more hills but none as steep, at least not yet. But really, why the hell does Oregon have to be so damn hilly? Couldn’t they take a cue from the beautiful flatness of north-central IL?

Soon enough, another letter just randomly came to mind.

Dear Petal Pedal pushers:

I know that numbers aren’t supposed to be exact and all. So when you write that the rest stops are “approximately every 15 miles,” one understands that that could mean anywhere from 13 to, say, 17.5. However, even my not-so-mathy self knows that 20 does NOT equal 15. Nay! It does not! So when we’re slogging along and wondering where the hell gosh darn heck that next rest stop is, it would be great if it were actually closer to the rumored 15. K’thanks.

Best,

Miss T.

After a quick stop, I continued on the bucolic country roads, but couldn’t help noticing something that bugs the crap out of my cycling-perfectionist self.

 

Dear Oregon cyclists:

Why? WHY you all keep your seats so low? Pro tip: if your knees are jutting out to the sides as you ride….your seat is too low. Stop it now. This is what a multi-tool is for, to make these all-important adjustments.

Concernedly,

Miss Tasha the Cycling Goddess

I contemplated riding up to these people and asking them “Hey, how ‘bout I work on you with my multi-tool?” – but not only did that sound a bit strange, I also would have never gotten anywhere.

The ride meandered over to Bauman’s Nursery, a place I know well, where we could contemplate the kids’ petting zoo/jungle gym area they have there. Quite frankly, at this point I didn’t want to move. My hotfoot problem was flaring up something fierce, my butt hurt, and a headwind had picked up (of course) as soon as we turned the corner to go to Bauman’s.  This damn ride was miserable. And yes, another letter came to mind.

Dear Miss Tasha:

Why? WHY you keep doing this to yourself? You know, getting into great cycling shape – to scale the Alps! To almost careen off a cliff in Morocco! To rule the roads around Annecy even after renting a bike from the Roll the Chicken bike shoppe! – only to then let it all go to hell? To then have to start from scratch all over again. Why? So fucking stupid. Starting up cycling again after a hiatus is just as bad as it is when doing this with running. Dumbass. Enough with this jiggery-pokery once and for all.

Annoyedly,

Miss Tasha the Slug

I petal pedaled on, knowing that we’d soon be hitting the Gallon House Bridge, and then the end. We actually rode past my street, and I briefly contemplated pathetically asking Most Excellent Neighbor Laura if she’d just drive me back the last half mile to the Garden. Because I knew what was ahead, namely two big-ass hills. At this point though, I just said fuck it, let’s get this shitshow over with.

We of course all wound up back at the Garden, where a lovely lunch awaited us, with chicken and steak and orzo salad and beer and cake. And a side of bitter regret. So much regret.

I know this comes as a shock, folks, but it doesn’t always pay to emulate yours truly. Still, as they say in vaudeville, the show must go on. Onward.