A Stone's Throw

Nothing like building a stone path to bulk up one's biceps. Nothing like a path that is created from free building materials ( a neighbor's driveway rehab.) Nothing like a path that is gently lowered into the earth by a platoon of earthworms, fellows who work so well that the path becomes as steady as one created by a landscaper to whom one must pay big bucks.Nothing like Personally Integrated Exercise that ends up as a major home improvement.Thank you, CGJung, father of transpersonal psychology and stoneworker extraordinaire..

Crane My Neck...Yikes

As I have said before, I try to include exercise IN my real life not as an add on. I bike or walk everywhere I have to go. For strength training I lift bags of Black Cow manure in the garden and 30 lb. grandchildren when I get the chance. (In the interest of full disclosure, I do work out twice a week at the YMCA with Matt Linn, an excellent personal trainer. He makes me push the edge of my personal envelope. Left alone, I would merely lick the envelope edge.) Today looked light. The ground resembles a kitchen sponge left overnight in the dishwater.No gardening. Plus, Blue Angel squadrons of mosquitoes buzz ominously outside the screen door waiting to inject me with Nile virus. The Riverside streets resemble the canals of Venice. No biking. It is workout with Matt day, so ROF and I decide to use the car. This is a big decision for us as we try to walk or bike almost everywhere we go.Out we go jingling car keys mournfully and dragging workout bags. But a giant crane has straddled our street like some kind of T Rex. Its chainsaw mouth is devouring the old oak that had split in two, several days ago. Our ancient Buick-- having no off road skills-- can NOT go around the crane. We call Matt whining about the giant crane and fully expect an excused absence. He is not amused. At that moment the rain stops. It is a sign. We must bike. We have time. Racing by the crane, the operator points into the air. The chainsaw has carved off a Noah's Ark sized limb and is holding it over our heads. Do we know we could die? We understand.The adrenaline rush of the near miss makes it possible for us to weave in and out of raindrops and to achieve our record time to the Riverside Y. Maybe John Lennon was right , "Life really is what happens while we are planning otherwise." Or was it the Buddha who said that?

Flat Tire PIE

Recently a flat tire on my beloved's bike gave me a huge piece of PIE. As per usual, he had taken our aged Buick to Dave-the-Wizard's car repair with the bike strapped to its trunk. Our general rule is that we bike home from car repair and await the tragic phone call telling of us the repair's price tag. Dave is always gentle with us and gives the number softly. But, on this day, my beloved called me and relayed the message that his bike had a flat tire. Would I come and get him? I did. Realizing the day would hold the usual afternoon deluge, I decided to take my piece of the PIE on foot. I drove to Dave's, loaded the husband and the wounded cycle on the Honda and asked to be dropped off at Phillips garden shop about a mile and a half from home. Walking home allowed me to purchase half price thyme,stop by N's for a good talk, locate my employer's new office suite,see Jake's urban farm and marvel at the change,stop on St. Johns Ave to watch the neighbors' new bed be delivered."We've had the old one for 29 years," the new bed owner confided to me (thus triggering my guilt for replacing mine with only a decade's wear.) None of these interactions and events would have taken place if I had stayed in the Honda. None of them were on my calendar. All of them added to the quality of my life by weaving the communal threads of plants and people. Traveling on foot speeds up my metabolism and slows down my life by having me take roads less traveled( by me anyway). Didn't Scott Peck say something about the value of those roads. If I remember correctly----he did.

Trash Walking

Walking is the basic unit of my P.I.E. program. On the days when I do not have time to hop on the bike, I try to get in an early walk in the hood. This morning I faced a day full of finance. Lots of checking numbers on register receipts against numbers on bank statements.My beloved husband insists on this activity and in the age of identity grabbing, I guess he's right. So, knowing I had to wear the green eye shade all day, I pulled on my walking shoes at dawn and grabbed three letters to mail at the petite post office which is about a mile away. I didn't make it off the block before I found a giant cardboard box that was just the thing I needed for the bottom of my newest lasagna garden. Back to the house. I start again, and then stop to carry home a piece of jade green garden fence that will provide perimeter fencing for the grandkids' fairy play house.Back to my house. The third time, I actually made it off the street and started walking briskly to the post office. Mailed my letters and started home. Half way home I stumble over a refuse site containing four large framed pictures. I know that I can't drag them home. They are heavy,copper framed,and modern. They are a little water stained, but surely, another urban recycler will pick them up. Reluctantly, I lean them back against the black, plastic cans. It is then that I notice the last picture, a smaller one, oak framed. It is the second pull of a print with a run of thirty. It is signed by the artist Hope Barton, and seems to depict the Suwanee River where I have camped and kayaked for the last two years. I can't leave the print. I pick it and start home. The picture is heavy, but I'm able to shift it from hand to hand and get it home. Having run a landfill in 1967 when I couldn't get a teaching job in Virginia while my husband was going through Marine OCS, I know what happens to trash. Everything gets smashed by a huge blade and transported to the same deep hole. That is why I recycle some pieces of my neighbors' trash. I take many of the items to Goodwill where they can be used by someone else. It requires a little effort on my part to transport them, but my personal satisfaction is immense. I think the Hope Barton print will hang on my wall. For a few days anyway.

Ladies Room at 7200 feet

There are some compensations for a spring time afternoon facing death on the side of a well known mountain. Sometimes one gets to be the season's first individual to use the high country facilities. Mt. Rainer's Panorama Point ladies'room-- built of solid granite-- was River Club quality, or so it seemed.

Mr. Marmot and Moi

Here I am on the F2D slope after having said goodbye to the Kilimanjaro climber lady and her group. The furry one is the marmot. I am the tall skinny one about to slide into the abyss.

F2D = Fall to Death

As a Floridian,I am not someone who feels naturally at home in large masses of snow. I am especially ill at ease on large mountains adorned with glaciers. Give me a swamp or a beach at low tide. Thinking about climbing part of Mt. Rainer recently gave me twin knots in my stomach. The folks around my beloved adventure seeking spouse and me at the base camp did nothing to assuage my queasiness. Their average age was about 25 and they were togged out in climbing boots, skin tight black suits, ski goggles, ropes, backpacks and I-Pods. They spoke lightly of climbing Kilimanjaro and " other 14ers" which I think means mountains of 14,000 feet ( or more). Still they seemed to know what they were doing,so when they took off, I stayed right behind them. The advantage of staying close to the correctly attired mountain men ( and women) was the fact that they made footprints in the snow, creating a ladder I could claw my way up. About 1200 feet up, the group passed a Marmot who did not seem the least bit concerned that his name had been co opted for a line of fanny packs and other outdoor attire. The Marmot did not seem particularly telegenic or industrious, so I had a little trouble understanding why the advertising team picked him as a symbol for gear.Does the average outdoor adventurer really want to look like an overweight rodent? Just when I had settled into a steady slog and quieted my overactive imagination, we turned right and the others turned left. Suddenly, ROF and I were making the only footprints in the snow. And, at least twice,we were on what I call F2D slopes. One slip and we would be back at base camp in pieces on a stretcher. Obviously, we made it. The view from Panorama Point was suitably breathtaking with a view of Rainer and two other fire cone mountains. Even more memorably, we got to be the first summer season climbers to use the Panorama Point restroom that consisted of a compost toilet in a rock cave. So much for Personally Integrated Exercise in the Northwest.( Pictures will follow I hope)

More Tow Path with Toddler

Lots of my newly commissioned g-parent friends take their grandchildren to Disney; some do it more than once, or twice or thrice. For me nature trumps Mickey. A recent trip down the bike path from Georgetown into Maryland featured nature in the form of deep mud puddles, baby Canada geese, and one very small serpent. To celebrate the acquisition of the garage sale Burleigh, the entire clan biked from the boutiques of Georgetown to the sun warmed rocks of Fletcher Park where we ate Baby Bels, drank apple juice and played soccer. Then we walked along the bank of the caramel colored Potomac River to converse with fisher folk, all of whom were wearing ear buds and listening to IPODS. Not one of them responded to our archetypal inquiry, " Catchin' anything?" Sadly,the world of casual connection seems to be disappearing.

Wearing A Scarlett D

Biking up the Northbank Riverwalk ramp I heard my name. " Victoria," yelled Robert, my former neighbor and a current yoga teacher at Lotus.He was bike commuting from his work at the TU Performing Arts Center. We stopped on top of the railroad bridge to catch up. After assuring one another all was fine in our lives, we fell silent absorbing the early evening beauty of the St.Johns River below us. The Fuller Warren Bridge was bathed in sunset silver, the river itself supported three sailboats heading stern to stern toward the Atlantic Ocean, looking like thoroughbreds racing toward the Derby wire. Up the ramp came another bike commuter, my friend Tim. I introduced Tim to Robert and we three agreed bike commuting was the way to go. We decided, however, that we should have some way of telling non-commuters that we DO NOT have DUI's since the possession of a DUI seems to be the inference most folks make when they see a non-spandex clad biker. ( Victoria, honey, when do you get your license back? is a question I have been asked several times lately). Perhaps, I should create a Neon yellow teeshirt with the black lettered words DUI-NOT for those of us who have chosen NCET( non-carbon emitting transportation.)I met a Dane in D.C. recently who was very puzzled when I told him the DUI inference story. In Denmark, he told me, 40% of the folks ride bikes.Another friend of mine told me that in Amsterdam if there is a bike/ car accident, it is ALWAYS the car's fault. Ah,such a smorgasbord of bike wisdom!

The Tow Path with Toddler

How ineffably wonderful to live in a truly walkable city, a burg one can take one's grandchild from the White House to Fletcher Park with its view of the river and fabulous picnic areas. D.C. is working on its reputation as a green city and it is succeeding. For the casual rider, there are bike shares. Put your credit card in a slot and remove a sleek ruby red bike that you can park outside the Senate building if your work takes you there. Everyone who is not riding is walking, striding and swinging designer briefcases. And guess what???? Folks, on the whole, are slim and trim. Nirvana!!!

Once Again, No DUI

Once again,I love it when someone asks, " When do you get your license back, Victoria?" The implication is that anyone who--- bikes regularly, is an obvious elder, wears no spandex, sometimes pulls a cart---must have LOST her license because of bad behavior. Our culture likes to deal in stereotypes---racial, gender, age boxes that allow the observer to label and not to investigate as it does take more effort to investigate. Perhaps that is the cause of the stereotyping. As a culture we are time starved. Quicker is always perceived as better. The bumper sticker has taken the place of the book. The political sound bite has overridden the entire speech. The 144 character Twitter feed has replaced the more lengthy e-mail.

No, I still have my license. I simply elect to ride my bike. As the poster at the coffee shop says, " A bike saves you money and runs on fat. A car runs on money and makes you fat." or something like that.....

It seems a simple choice...to me, anyway.

The Neon Mormons

Because Jax is not a friendly town for cyclists, my beloved and I have matching jackets.The SUV repelling jackets are the glowing neon yellow favored by the director of the East Coast Greenway and Jacksonville's cycle riding police. Recently, on a Publix run we passed a group of skateboarders, average age 12. I was behind Robo so I got the benefit of their discussion." Who are they?" said one of the larger ones to his nearest buddy. The buddy, observing our paired reality said, " I think they are Mormons."

A redheaded friend answered sotto voce, " No way. They're neon Mormons."