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Born of Jets

If you were to enter my room at this moment, you would be disgusted. It’s completely unrecognizable under a thick layer of dirty laundry, bikemag swag, and empty edemame pods. Why, you ask, have I begun to act like a hermit/hobo/depressed person? Well, I say to you, because I have become very tired from riding my bike a lot and can hardly manage to feed myself properly (here I might gesture towards the edemame pods) let alone do laundry.

It was a hard training week, culminating in a night spent curled on a hotel floor that smelled like tri-flow, shivering and listening to three snoring boys, the gurgling mini fridge, and the Punjabi screaming nextdoor. I’d consumed roughly my body weight in bison meat, spinach, avocados, peanut butter, ice cream, santitas chips, cookies, granola bars, and anything else I could lay my hands on, and yet my stomach was still growling. All I wanted to do was feel like a normal human again, but as I smiled and breathed the sweet scent of chain lube, I realized that option is probably long gone.

I’d mistakenly followed my racing pals to San Dimas for the weekend. Forbidden by the trailmaster to actually race, I thought it might be fun to spend a few days people-watching in the feed zone, schmoozing around the tent city, and doing my longest rides for the week on some new trails. Unfortunately, I was wrong. I totally annihilated myself exploring the new trails because they were so awesome, and consequently spent the next twelve hours eating like a starving hyena. It turned out I was a pretty risky feed zone girl as well. Granted, Stephen, Chloe, and TJ kept insisting on riding through all at once, but it didn’t help matters that I was nearly dead on my feet only fifteen minutes in. The worst part was that despite my body’s complete lack of juice, the only thing I wanted was to be racing. It was a horrible conundrum.

I didn’t think I’d want to move when I woke up Sunday morning, but against all odds I found myself totally kitted up, adequately sunscreened, and doing a happy little ‘about to ride my bike’ dance. In other words, I might just be a big melodramatic baby. I called up my new pal Amy and we went on a girlpower ride in the hills around San Dimas. I really liked what I got to see of the trail system up there, and we took enough picture breaks to keep my cardboard legs from crumpling. An apple and a few peanut butter cups later and I said bye to my friends for the week, my love for bikes once again rekindled.

So after the hard week I’m now faced with the bleak expanse of an easy one. Without the constant demanding structure of multiple hours pedaling, I’ve found my mind going some pretty weird places. Not, of course, to laundry-doing places, but more towards stuff like nail polish and why they name cars the way they do. The Yukon XL is an easy one (it’s obviously for people with extra large penises, extra large sweatshirts, or both, who thrive in rugged places like the Yukon) but then there are the more cryptic made-up words or worse, just numbers. (are we supposed to think that certain BMW drivers have 328 eyes?) I love Volvo because it’s latin roughly for “rolling” but I’m not a huge fan of Escalades, because everyone knows you have to be light to climb. And also because they’re stupid cars. My Shakespeare professor loved to tell us the story of the Toyota Cressida, because Cressida (of Troilus and Cressida) embodied exactly the opposite of any trait you’d want in a car.

My car was recently defeated by the I-5 grenade scare traffic jam, but other than the clutch cable, and the fact that it looks like someone drunk tried to jam the key into fifty places around the keyhole, it’s a good little vehicle. It gets me where I need to go, it’s green, and it doesn’t have a pretentious or silly name. It does, however, have a button on the dashboard that makes all the dials go dead. The possible use of this button, other than tricking me into thinking I have no gas in the middle of New Mexico, remains a total mystery to me. I assume it’s just some feature left over because saabs were pooped out by jets.

All that having been said I think the car for me is actually a truck; the Chevy Colorado LT. I don’t really know anything about it other than the fact that I wouldn’t have to buy a vanity plate, and that’s enough for me.

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