Rebecca’s Private Idaho: This Cowgirl’s Poem

There once was a Queen in Idaho With a penchant for pain, well dontcha know She put on a race With gravelly high pace And we all fell apart like weak so-and-sos. There’s poetry to riding a bicycle. A rhythm. A tempo. The percussion of the chain as it reverbs over terrain, the gear-shift melody, the rattling of a loosening bottle cage in a syncopated tick, which amplifies the verse as it flows through your mind. So. If there is poetry to riding a bicycle, then my style of riding could be classified as pure dirge. A ballad for the …

Common colds and carbonated beverages

Sick of it. Sick of riding my bike. Just sick of it. Probably not the best frame of mind to be in, a week out from The Death Ride. The Death Ride, aka The Tour of the California Alps, aka The 100% Surefire Way to Enrage a Saddle Sore Ride. Sick of it. Sick of riding my bike and the perceived detection of invisible expectation that I’ll always be found on a bike and the pressure I put on myself to Be Out There All the Time and Ride Long for No Reason at All. Except perhaps to find where …

Dirty Kanza 200: A Meditation on Self

You. You are a frivolous person. A frivolous person with frivolous thoughts that spin and cartwheel on the front lawn of your mind. Legs flinging, knees bent, your thoughts less perfect with each rotation. Less complete and full. This gravel is onto you. It’s not stupid. It sees your nerves as easily as if they were strung across this road at foot-tripping, shin height. That armadillo husk, cracked and desiccated, melon-ball empty like some hollowed-out canoe—it is onto you. It mocks you. You too, it says, shall be a hollowed out shell at the end. Consider this a warning. You. …

Rebecca’s Private Idaho

Prologue: Sixtyish mile mark, time unknown A crunch of gravel, the sharp ting of small stones against bike underbellies, projectile vomited there by irritated and belligerent tires. Bottles rattle in cages. Skeletons vibrate like tuning forks in our soft, beaten bodies. In the key of E-ouch. “Hey,” I say, looking over at Olivia as she pedals smooth, steady circles, piloting her Crux across the gravel. “Have you ever seen those old ads for the fat loss belt thingie that vibrates your fat away?” Instantly, she knows what I’m talking about and laughs. “Yes.” “How much weight do you think we’ve …

5 x 100 Miles of Nowhere. To Nowhere (Road)

The tradition lives on with this year’s installment of Fat Cyclist’s 100 Miles of Nowhere. 5 centuries in five days in four states. BOOM! I’m going to do a day-by-day posts with photos and lots of flair, but in the meantime, this summary will have to do. So, quick flashback to bring you up to speed Year 1: 100 Miles on Rollers Year 2: 100 Miles of Thomas Grade As you can see, I’ve backed myself into an insanity corner. So this year… This year, I found a road in Colorado called Nowhere Road. Brain clicked. It made perfect sense …

Solvang Autumn Double Ride Report

My eyes can’t tell my brain about anything it reads that sounds right on the cusp of being a dumb idea, because that’s JUST the kind of thing my brain goes for. Case in point: My eyes stumble across the words ‘double century’ somewhere – on the twitter wire maybe – and Brain plucks the fruity words off that silly tree and plants their idea seeds deep in some juicy grey matter in a corner behind a filing cabinet. There they fester and grow until one day PING! Brain says let’s do it, skin tube! That’s how I ended up riding …