A Quote

Yesterday I was reading through the journal I kept while I was in Kamchatka. I came across my entry for April 16 where I had written down a quote from the book I was reading at the time - Three Cups of Tea. In the book, the author quotes another writer - Helena Norberg-Hodge. The quote I wrote down is from her book Ancient Futures.

"I used to assume that direction of progress was somehow inevitable, not to be questioned. I passively accept a new road through the middle of a park, a steel and glass bank where a 200-year-old church had stood and the fact that life seemed to get harder and faster with each day. I do not anymore. In Ladakh (Pakistan), I have learned that there is more than one path in the future and I have had the privilege to witness another saner way of life - a pattern of existence based on the co-evolution between human beings and the earth."

I remember the day I wrote this. I remember that it was cold and we were exhausted. It was a rest day for us. We sat around camp in our booties, puffy down pants and sub zero jackets. We frosted cookies with nutella, read and watched the day pass by. I remember feeling homesick. I remember being hyper-aware. I remember writing this down and thinking - right on lady, there is more than one path. And I remember smiling at the thought of embracing a saner way of life when I returned home.

Thought I would share...

Over the Handle Bars

I LOVE mountain biking. It is a sport I never thought I would pursue. When I lived in Los Angeles I was a triathlete and preferred my road bike. I couldn't understand why anyone would ride dirt. It's much harder than riding smooth pavement. The bikes are heavier and the downhill a bit scary. Then I moved to the mountains.

Looking for a spin class one May morning, a local instructor said, "It's nice out - we don't ride indoors anymore." I was intriqued. "Do you have a bike?" she asked. "Yes, I do," was my response. I met her and four other girls at 5:30 a.m. at the Triangle in Fawnskin. We rode Grout Bay. It was almost magical, the light illuminated the wild flowers that lined either side of the trail. The ride was equal parts laughter and hard work. And even though the mountain bike I owned was a rusty, 36 pound, nine-year old Haro with an inch of travel, I still had a good time. Six weeks later, on my 40th birthday I bought a hardtail Specialized Stump Jumper. Then I dragged my boyfriend out on a rental bike and showed him how much fun it was. He was hooked and bought a Cannondale hardtail with a Lefty fork.

These last three summers have been about exploring the trails in my community. Meeting for early morning rides and developing friendships that will last a lifetime. My riding abilities have also improved. I rarely ever fall. Except for these last two weeks: My first was impressive. I sailed over my handle bars hitting a log drop. The log caught my chain ring and stopped my bike. I continued on, however, and scorpioned onto the trail with dirt the consistency of powdered sugar. I lay motionless, starfished in the center of the trail mentally scanning my body for injury. I felt only one rock jabbing at my right hip. Hearing another rider come down behind me, I reluctantly moved to the side. Covered in dirt I tried to brush it off - I couldn't. I wore it like a badge of honor as I climbed up yet another fire road for one more descent. Get back in the saddle, right? It took two showers to remove every particle but otherwise I was fine.
My second fall was stupid. I was crusing a relatively easy trail thinking how lucky I was to live in such close proxmity to great mountain biking when my front tire was swallowed by soft sand. As my bike went right, my body flew left. I let out a yelp before I hit - vocalizing the reality of my landing: Two very sharp rocks. My knee cap took one while my shin took the other. Though I couldn't walk for a couple of minutes, I did recover and rode back to my car. It has made teaching yoga a bit challenging this week and added to the army of scars I have accumulated since taking up the sport. But, again, I was fine.

Overall I am glad I fall. While I am not happy about the bruises or the pain - neither are permanent and that's pretty much a metaphor for my life ....

An Old-Fashioned Road Trip

Finally some action! Packing up the truck, loading the bikes on the rack and grabbing the dog. First stop, Sequoia National Park. After that only a notion of sights we wouldn't mind looking at.

Why are road trips so appealing? Is it the excuse to unapologetically eat at every greasy spoon along the intestate? The simplicity of life on the road? Or that time appears to stop when you are listening to tunes and enjoying the scenery?

While I love to be home, I love to travel more. Travel short distances, long distances, for 2-days or 2-months - it doesn't matter. Traveling has this feel - this sense of the unknown. I have never been one to spend time off sticking close to home. Yep, I'm a vay-cationer. Not interested in taking a stay-cation. That's why we have sick days, right? I mean, sure, when I lived near the beach, I occasionally would leave a pre-8:00 a.m., croaky-voiced message for my secretary. Letting her know I wouldn't be in, I was not feeling well and adding an uncontrolled fit of coughing as I hung up the phone. Then I would hustle down to 2nd Street Cafe LA Times in hand, have my favorite breakfast and read the paper at my leisure. From there I was free to spend the rest of the day at the beach - warm sun on exposed skin feels so good. As I people watched from the vantage point of my towel I would wonder what everyone was doing at the beach. Were they sick too? Or just smart enough to have choosen a profession where they could spend the day in the sand?

Yep, vacation! A good, old-fashioned vacation. Sure gas prices are high but we'll mitigate the costs by sleeping under the stars, eating at cheap greasy spoons and spending every moment in the present.