I took Highway 93 up, and didn’t have my fair Kenneth GPS Tom Tom for guidance, so I was wondering if I had chosen the right avenue up North.  I used to drive til I got tired, then I’d throw a bag out under the stars and sleep until the sun came up  or a farmer drove by, then continue on.  These days, LA has gotten me more edumacated about my fellow man, so I’ve wised up and decided that locking myself up in my hatchback and making a nest is the better, more prudent way.  I am getting older and wiser, you see. About 40 miles south of JACKPOT,  and having covered 15 hours of driving, I was disappointed to see that I was still in Nevada.

It wasn’t until I hit the foulest construction where there was NO PILOT CAR taking us through a chewed up goatpath, passing two steamrollers each driven by a woman, that I knew I was in the right place.  Why was I humored by the no pilot car?  Because it’s little things like that, I realized, that developed me into the stubborn ass I can be.  No Pilot Car, as if to say, just figure it out.  The funny part is, when there IS a pilot car, I want to shove the car off the road with my car and rage through the construction.  As I wove through the one-lane highway construction zone, I was slow, careful, thoughtful, and on my best behaviour.  Like, I didn’t want to lose the priviledge of being able to think for and act for myself. Kind of like the NO SPEED LIMIT deal we had a few years back.  On the whole, I wanna do what I want, which is the right thing, but when someone tells me what to do, suddently I want to do the wrong thing. I’ve always wanted to drive a steamroller, too.

Priviledges.

I missed Montana more than ever this time.  The mountains are still snow-capped, even this close to July, and everything is greener than I remembered ever seeing it.  My love for this state goes much deeper than my love for Kenneth, even.  On the long drive up, I remembered….all of it.

Here’s to home!

BB

My California studies continue.

I’m coming across all these people that comment on my ‘refreshing‘ quality.  I here it over and over: “refreshing“.

Blow me.

Since I was three, I’ve tried to be other than what people expect, which, being a tall not-so-with-it blonde, is easy to do.  Some sort of saying what I mean, or riding a bike, or not putting up with anyone’s shit, or trying to make things better, has placed me in a category other than the ‘I am me’ category.  I don’t care.  I am me. If a guy hits my car in a public parking lot, you can g-damn bet I’m going to raise hell and act like a crazy bitch until I get some answers.  If a retarded crack head cuts me off in traffic with his arm out of the window flipping me off, something takes hold and I chase him down and out-do him with a cut so close that he gasps a little and looks at me like he shat himself only because I simply want to beat him.  And, also,  you don’t cut me off with a quick, not-as-quick-as-you-thought Left as I am minding my own business and continuing in the opposite direction on my bike in my own little iworld, entirely helpless to your ESCALADE, even if you do have a gi-normous cheap grill and a scarey face.  My sweet-ish face is gonna give you some huge posturing and a whole lot of language that even your homies haven’t heard.  Ya, you can pop one in my ass, but I’m a betting woman who knows my odds and I doubt it. So I lay it all down on the table. 

Which is why I’m surprised, every time, when I hear I am “refreshing”.  Yesterday, it was a dude near skid row who wanted to trade my big white Serfas sunglasses for a hit of heroin.  Today, it was my Sacred Geometry instructor, who has never seen me and only seen my work, stating during a critique, “you’re light and refreshing”.

Damn, you all.  When will you see I’m sinister?!?!? Like a rotten banana…brown… peel back… and browner.

So how are you? Did you have a good day?

BB

I’m reminded of this as I think to myself, “I want to eat the hell out of some sushi”, a colloquial phrase that my teammate, J-Dub uses.

Here’s Booty’s blog: http://pudgycyclist.blogspot.com/ . Funny little turd. This is the girl that was photographed at Philly climbing the wall with a cup of beer in her hand.  This chick glows.

And Tale Dye, the fastest, angriest snail that crushes careers and is now metal-free: http://daletye.blogspot.com/

And Lady Bemis, my favorite Limey, http://bemisfamily.blogspot.com/

Was having a hard time with LA this week, then was reminded by my sage-like Ex, that “Even bad Catholics like you can leave LA. It’s not about guilt…and it’s not purgatory”.  Oh yea.  I’m going home to Montana, though, next week. So……………………..YAY!!!!

I swam in the ocean last night and thought about how long it might take to swim to New Zealand.  Then I thought of those slow boats from China that take months to deliver the furniture I order and thought about hitching a ride because the swim would take decades.  Then I went out to dinner post-swimming with friends and had this kick ass, see-the-entire-restaurant booth, where we were literally Flies On The Wall, and I remembered how entertained I am and just how tacky Californians appear to Right-Coasters. And why.

Then, I had some banking to do today, Sunday, and remembered that this Great Nation of California has priorities and banking on Sunday is one of them.  Open seven days a week!!

Ok, I gotta go back to work now,

BB

Flying across our great nation yesterday, a few things popped into my head that I couldn’t figure out.  I am often a self-serving traveller, so, as I relaxed from my exit row seat that had the non-seat in front of me, spread out to high heaven, I sought to figure out some of the intricacies of air travel. If only I put such energies into something that mattered, I’ve been told.  Little do people know, this kind of crap matters. To me, at least.

1. We got ‘re-routed’ for bad weather across the nation’s heartland last night.  That said, we sat on the runway and waited for our new route for over an hour.  I thought we just flew OVER dangerous clouds, especially when traversing over the entire nation at something like 45,000 feet.  The pilot got the new coordinates and shared, in great detail, the crazy new flight path.  Seemed like the only reasonable path to me, but what do I know? And why should I care that we would now be going over The Green River?  I can’t even see The Green River.  It was cloudy. And even if it wasn’t, only a small fraction of those privledged enough to be positioned right could see the string of yarn that was The Green River.

2. Why did Dale have to miss her important connection to New Zealand, waiting for hours and hours, because the pilot was held up in Chicago and needed to be in DC?  Is that to say that they don’t have subs? Does that mean that a pilot, one single possibly slightly intoxicated and irresponsibly tardy pilot is flying the plane? Does that mean that someone like me is flying the plane!?!?!?

3.  Is it my imagination or is The Great Salt Lake becoming The Less Great Pools of Salt Water?  And why does it look dead, making me think it’s dead, until I see that one lone boat buzzing across what looks like a wasteland?  Never fails: one boat.  Is it the same boat?

4. Why is it ok to demand that someone help you immediately at the ticketing desk, citing “I’ve been waiting for 15 minutes” when it’s clear that the agent is helping someone else.  Is that person really more important than everyone else?  If so, I think I should have dropped what I was doing and introduced myself to him because he is someone I need to meet, perhaps.

5. No one on my team showers before airtravel.  Remember the days when we used to dress up to travel?  I do. My mom made me. Then I’d get covered with that greasy film and need to shower again.  What is that grody-feeling filth all about?  And why is everyone else in on it so that even the stinkiest people subscribe to the newly-instated TSA policy for non-showerance? Was that policy advertised in the in-flight magazine?

6. I had accidentally put my sweatshirt on our dinner table two days before and lit my sweatshirt on fire without knowing with a votive candle that was serving as a centerpiece/deathtrap. I was oblivious and Dale saved all the lives within a crowded 50 mile radius with her attention to detail and cat-like reflexes.  That said, I wore the shirt through security and it looked like a little bomb had gone off in my pocket.  As Crystal accurately pointed out, “If I were a good security agent, I think I would notice the fire that took place on you”.  Good point.  I had four ounces instead of three ounces of water in my bottle, though, so that served as a diversion for the miss-timed bomb incident that could have raised some questions.

7. Why do flight attendants wear clown make-up? Do they juggle, too? Sad clowns, happy clowns? Drunk clowns?  In any event, I don’t like clowns and I’m not sure why.

8. And why is it that I have to go back to Hell-A and miss the “Bon Jovi Cruise” on the Finger Lakes with some of my teammates after Rochester, again?

From the land where the sun is bright-white like a spotlight, every 17th person does NOT have a twitchy nervous nature about them (that person is most likely baked), and I just saw a guy with skin the color of salmon sashimi and hair the color of white, smog-tinted concrete,

BB

I’ve been racing in DC and on the East and I’ve noticed a tendency in women’s racing.  I’ve been unfortunatly noticing this for about 6 years, but I’m cracking on it. In fact, I’m blown. 

Race.

Just Race, would ya? If you’re not gonna race, get out of the f-n way so that we can.

You’re in the way.

I really wonder about the chicks that follow wheels and never stick their faces in the wind. I say this cuz I’m racing with a team that tries every trick in our bag. Sure, it blows up most times, but G–damn.  We try.  We go out with a floor full of empty shells, no one on the podium.  I’d like us to win, sure, but more importantly, there is not a soul on this team that doesn’t leave it all out there trying and that’s why I am a part of this team.  Passion.

Ladies.  Do you feel proud sitting in, rolling at 14 mph and “sprinting” in the last 150m?  Does that give you license to eat what you want? Expect what you want? Do you honestly feel like you raced? You put your compression tights on and feel good about that crazy beer you earned?  Did you mark Laura and lose her wheel then race for 19th?  Good on ya.  The wind, well, you were right.  It’s tough out there.  Best you follow wheels and go for that glory top 30.

IT PISSES ME OFF WHEN YOU DON’T RACE.  You wanna be Kristin A. or Laura VG or Tina?  Risk it.  You will never get better doing that shit. Further more, you (we) will never get respect. And, honestly, that is worth something, like sleep at night.

Word,

BB

My dad, Wally Broeder, has been saying to me since I was about four years old, “Becky, not everyone is your G-ddamn friend”. With that in mind, here’s the random conversation of the week:

Me sitting on front porch, sinewy black woman strolls up and stops in front of me smoking a cigarette. I immediately think that she has got a killer body for bike racing, until she speaks to me and I recognize that she has no teeth and maybe her endurance is not so good.

Woman: “Excuse me.  Do you happen to have a hammer, well, I probably have a hammer, but, a hammer and a bullet?”

Me: “Hmmm.  I think we have a hammer.  Do you mean a flat headed nail or a screw (making hand gestures)?”

Woman: (Glaring with a look of her thinking I’m ridiculous or naive or both) “Honey.  A BULLET“.

Me: “Oh. no.  What do you need it for?”

Woman: “I’m going to kill my husband, for real, even though I’ve already killed him a million times in my head.  Did you know that they give you $40 when they release you from jail?”

Me: “huh. What would you do with your $40?”

Woman: “You have a beautiful smile.  I think I’d get a smile like yours.”

Me: “Ah. Thank you.  Tell you what. Odds are, if you keep asking, you’ll find a bullet on this street.  If you find one, will you stop by and tell me so that we can get outta here?”

Woman: “sure thing.”

Wally would argue she’s not a G–damn friend, but I wonder. Tough Call.

BB

on anything, but I wondered about the Amish woman I saw on our ride today wearing sunglasses while weedwhacking.  Seemed a nuisance to the ox and plow that was trying to push past her on Snake Hill.

In Lancaster with my team. We ran into some ol’ pals on the winding roads,  smelled some manure, had some water come shooting out of my nose, lil’ house party, couple of beers, a pirate pinata, good coffee, Market, Pedialyte for the 90/90 temps, nice times.

Off to Philly tomorrow where my teammate is going to rip legs off on Sunday.

BB