If you count Cary Johnson’s 1.6 mile ride from Pure Fitness this morning, 6 of us pedaled a combined 59 miles to make it to work this morning. A little more than 50% of that distance is a result of my riding 30.5 miles from Pacific Beach!!! Look at my route on Google Maps. Assuming we all rode home, we would have traveled 114 miles total -probably saving us a total of 6 gallons in fuel.
Overall, we found the streets biker friendly. Stephen said he only flipped off 4 drivers.
As Mia was stopped on the sidewalk contemplating calling an ambulance, one of those colorfully uniformed biker people slowed down to ask if she was okay. See, they are friendly!
Cary’s ride was all Zen. He had just finished his hour of yoga before making it over to work.
Ricardo said he would do it again but with one of those padded gel seats so his touché won’t hurt so bad.
Fumi prepared by taking a warm shower to loosen his muscles up. He also took a longer route in favor of bypassing the Palomar Airport hill.
Xavier, who rides his bike to work now and again, said he’s noticed maybe 4 times as many people riding to work than when he started riding last October. My 2 hour 45 minute voyage is still nothing to mess with. Even though I spent most of my time paranoid about getting a flat tire, I have to admit that I would do it again IF: I got paid, drove part of the way or had reliable tires…
Riding out to lunch was a fun little trip too! Nadia busted out her beach cruiser and we bee lined to the Food Court in just a few minutes.
Join us next time!
When I lived in Solana Beach with a friend from college, we occasionally made our drunken way to a local bar that is not fit for the area, let me tell you. The ol’ “Surf and Saddle” brings out people from the wood works. On any given night, you could run into any slew of people. One night you might talk to a man that had just been released from prison for almost killing his sister’s ex-boyfriend, whereas on another night you will run into the freshly graduated (or drop-outs) from the nearby community college that live off of their winnings at the weekly goldfish racing.
One night in particular, Jimme and I had ventured our way to the Surf and Saddle for a nice cocktail or three. After almost being accosted by the ex-prisonmate and a group of college punks that don’t know the first clue about being alive on this Earth (ugh, seriously) one man seated at the bar had been eyeing our conversations immensely. Once Jimme and I got a moment to ourselves, his mid-life-crisis-lets-see-if-I-still-got-it radar began to go off. Beginning with the small talk “are you girls here alone” and “what are pretty girls like you doing in a bar like this” he found a way to begin talking more personally with Jimme. As she continued pounding her drink and fake laughing at his old-fashioned jokes while he gently caressed her leg and hand uncomfortably and awkwardly, I continued to look like I was meant to be at the bar alone. I did the usual; checked my phone every ten seconds for a possible text or call, watched TV intensely, tried to observe the bartenders to see which one would make my next drink stronger.
Long story short, this guy Larry turned out to be a “horse buyer” from Florida. He was here for the summer, watching the horses and buying them. His trick is that he buys the youngin’s (horses, I mean) and then sells them several years later when they are at their racing prime. He kept talking about this and that with Jimme and I, which seemed like a very unrealistic profession for his image (and name), but as long as he was buying our drinks, he could have been the King of Tibet and I would have stilled smiled and nodded.
He then proceeded to invite us to the track (us, only cause he knew I was Jimme’s wingman) to watch the horses practice. I, in my beginnings of a drunken stupor, began raving about my dream to do a time trial around the track. The Del Mar track is approximately one mile long, which, to a runner, is a fantasy. He promised me that he would get me on the track to do that, and insisted that Jimme get his number to make the arrangements… hmmm… suspicious at all? Naaaahhhhhh! He kept talking up his expertise about the turf, the horses, etc.etc. as I drifted off into runner’s dreamland and pictured my record braking mile on the Del Mar track making the news.
Needless to say, the summer went by and the text messages got creepier and creepier from Larry. He not only texted Jimme when he was in the shower thinking of her, but he also made sure to call and leave a message on her phone and then quickly call into her work to ask why she didn’t pick up. Eventually she avoided all contact, which led him to the last message we would hear from Larry stating how inconsiderate and rude it is to just blow someone off. He left back home at the end of the season and we never heard from Larry again.
As for the track, I insisted that Jimme return at least one of his calls, so to have a chance at the time trial. I thought better of myself and of, well, nothing much else. I would have protected Jimme from running off with “Larry the Horse Guy” just as long as I had gotten to run around that track. But alas, I will have to keep dreaming. But wait; its opening day…. Wonder who is at the Surf and Saddle?
The ambiguity of this blog is set up for a reason. Please be advised and when you see “…” please whisper to yourself that’s what she said… On that note:
The first time is always awkward. And of course, you are never prepared. Everyone knows how it’s going to turn out, and what stories can possibly develop from it. You just want to get in, get out… and see ya later.
I was a little sweaty; mostly hot and bothered though. I had my change of clothes with me; I was here for business- no pleasure. I didn’t exactly pack anything else; I figured it would all work itself out…
When I walked in with my bag, I had to figure out a place to put my stuff. I looked around with my bag, timid and shy, almost giggling to myself to break the silence. I wasn’t quite sure where I was going to place my bag. It’s strategic. Too far away, you have a long time and distance to walk embarrassed back to your stuff. Too close, it gets in the way. You have to be prepared to gather your things if you somehow get walked in on, but it needs to be far enough away that nothing gets “soiled” in the process. I set my bag down, and seriously contemplated if I was even going to go through with this. I felt pretty dirty, but was I that dirty?
I had cold feet, I will admit. Just the thought of my nakedness being so close to my work environment; how would you feel? It is hard to deal with the lack of eye contact you don’t make once back in the office, the constant blushing, the anxiety that you are being talked about at the water cooler when you re not there. It’s hell, and it could be avoided. But, oh the sweat…
First things first, you have to check for cobwebs. You don’t know the last time it was ever used. There could be things crawling around that you forgot about. (When I finished, I found spiders… I know; exacerbates the awkwardness). OK, back to the beginning though. Foreplay. You gotta make sure its set up just right. Bottles are handy, testing the waters to make sure it’s just right…. It won’t be, you know that, right?
Trying to heat things up is NOT a smooth move the first time. It’s all cold and gives you the chills, so you barely want to get wet. You fiddle with the valves but damn it, still cold. You stand there naked, halfway in because it’s not hot enough yet, eff, it’s not even getting warm. Fiddle this, fiddle that… bam! holey moley!! Burn! Somehow the pressure hit just the right spot and yikes! Now it’s too hot. Oh well, it will have to suffice; remember, its business.
Keeping this as clean as possible, I will yadda yadda over some stuff…
The worst part is when you are finished with everything and you think you are gradually cooling down again, lowering the pressure. But remember how it went straight from freezing cold to scalding with no warning? Well, just like that, the cooling off has the same effect, except when you escape the scalding, you get the last bit of pressure released right into your face as you are reaching to turn everything off. You don’t expect it because you are not thinking about it, but one word of advice- close your eyes!
I didn’t have a towel afterwards, so the wetness had to be endured on my body so uncomfortably as I scrambled to find any old thing to wipe off the excess. Then, covering what I could with what I had, I managed to get all my clothes on in record time, as if everyone in the office was watching me. I had no makeup, no brush; it was going to be like the walk of shame all over again. At least this time I could spend the walk back drying off instead of remembering what happened. I had nothing to hide this time. People would see my ruffled hair and smeared makeup… it was going to be talked about. So I packed all my stuff back up, took one last look around to make sure it was as I had come in (save for the cobwebs) and I snuck out; closing the door as gently as I could so as not to disturb anyone. Walking back, I ran my fingers through my hair, thinking it would cover up the evidence. But, it didn’t work with my mom, it wouldn’t work here. I had left my shoes on the entire time and they were all I had, so it made me uncomfortable for the rest of the day having to remember the experience every time I took a step. Next time there won’t be any surprises.
Kristen and I had every intention of making it a calm evening. She had texted me earlier in the day needing some best friend advice, and being the best friend, I gladly obligated myself to aid and console her worries and woes. After a wonderful and enriching Bible class, we walked outside in the beautiful dusk-filled parking lot, discussing the readings and the lessons from the class that were fresh in our minds. Still smelling of the Sacramental ash, and with the Holy water still damp on our foreheads, we decide to meet at Chili’s for a virgin margarita (I had to drive home). She was still worried about whether her happiness would be fulfilled, but I had no doubt that she would somehow find the light and the path back to a peaceful life.
Arriving at Chili’s, we sat at a quiet booth, where we thought we would be clear of the riff raff and the weekday drinkers. After all, we did not want our Bibles and cardigan sweaters to be destroyed by Godless sinners that don’t follow the Word of God everyday Sunday like a true Catholic (wink). There were two other tables of people, one table considerably loud for the size of the room (and for a Tuesday night in Temecula at that). Making our order, I hesitated to order the Awesome Blossom, as Kristen kindly pointed out that it contained over 2,000 calories. She must have known that I am trying to watch my figure and was there to encourage me away from the empty calories. I thought for a moment, and ordered them shyly- blushing the whole time. When the server left the table to get our order we were able to laugh together when I reassured her that some of the 2,000 calories were unsaturated fat since the onion is fried in oil (if it’s clear at room temperature, its unsaturated) which means that those calories would not necessarily show in our legs and thighs (of course, we’d have to run a marathon directly after for this to be true). Being the best friend that she is, she happily offered to help me eat the blossom. Neither of us being too extremely hungry- who would be after the fulfillment you get at church- became even more comfortable with the order knowing that we could never finish the entire Awesome Blossom; so that is even fewer calories to discount. Being a running blog, I should say that I earned the blossom calories. I had run, twice in fact, and burned well over the amount of calories which I had consumed earlier.
In the midst of our conversation, Kristen quietly whispered that one of the tables was a bit loud. Of course, there was nothing that we were able to do about it, so decided to continue on in our conversation. This got to be rather difficult as they continued to increase their volume and alcohol consumption. Occasionally the server would walk over and chat with them, causing us to insinuate a friendship among the parties.
Luckily just as we settled Kristen’s angst and enjoyed a toast to her future peace, we overheard an older woman at the loud table shouting some derogatory and inappropriate four letter words to the other table in the bar. Kristen and I looked squeamishly at each other and realized that the Sacramental ash was no longer in the air that night……
….The loud hag kept bitching at- we’ll call her Ed Hardy for her clothing choices that night- about being loud. It went back and forth, louder and louder, “You are being f***ing loud!” “Don’t f***ing look at me!” “Turn the f*** around!” “Leave the f***ing bar!” and so on and so on…..
A lot of comments were shouted back and forth about leaving the bar, being loud, being old, being fake, being, loud, and being old. Eventually, Ed Hardy girl shouted, “Listen you old b****. I could kick your ass, so why don’t you mid your own f****ing business and turn the f*** around and quiet down” which got the response, “You can just leave the bar. I am not old. C’mon, let’s take it outside, b****. Just leave the f***ing bar” etc. etc. The funniest part up to this point is when the old lady shouted that she was not old, a younger girl at the table began shouting “Mom, shut the f*** up. Stop it” HAHAHA. If that doesn’t make you feel old, lady, maybe Ed Hardy’s fake perky boobs would.
One of the bus boys had come over at this point and tried to get in the middle to break it up, but he was just a small Asian boy and quickly got knocked out of the way. Finally, when Ed Hardy laughed and sneered her nose at the old lady, MOM- we’ll call her- stood up making her look even older with saggy boobs and varicose veins, and walked over to Ed Hardy. She had an empty pint glass in her hand full of ice and melted booze leftovers, and had she not turned her back to me I could be more detailed here, but once I got a visual, it was of two arms going up, one with the glass and the other defending her fake boobs from that glass….
… and then ice; all over our table and on our Blossom. Ed Hardy then stood up, both of them still cussing and shoving, and two glasses being dropped to the floor. “Oh, don’t you dare f***ing push me. I will knock you ass out” “Let’s take this outside” “blank blank (forget names) here’s my wallet, pay my bill, I am taking this outside with this b*****.” In shock of the cold ice, Kristen and I had pushed out stools away and stood up in astonishment of being disturbed.
By then, the manager had come over and the loud table had already began to gather their belongings (save for their now disowned mother) and left the bar. The mom still in a fit of rage kept making threats. One of Ed Hardy’s friends looked over at us with ice all over and forced us into the middle asking “weren’t they being so f***ing loud and obnoxious?!” Kristen being somewhat more confident in confrontation agreed and as we continued to try and salvage our cardigans and Awesome Blossom, somehow got pushed into the middle of the debauchery (we were pushed into it, I swear).
I am completely defenseless in these situations, except when there is competition as in a cross country race I am not afraid to use my defensive elbows. Being pushed, I somehow threw out an elbow and managed to hit the old lady in the boob or belly roll, not sure at this point, and Kristen quickly helped to defend herself by pushing- just outright pushing- someone in the mix. Mom decided she couldn’t actually go through with a fight and left the bar, which left the Ed Hardy table, the manager, Kristen and I. They quickly got on their phones, complained about all the Ed Hardy apparel that was ruined and full of spilled booze, and tried to replay the entire night of disruptions to the manager. I didn’t see a point, as they had already paid the bill so they wouldn’t have gotten any free meals out of it. Only the gifted can talk their way out of paying for a perfectly good meal that is somehow “just not right”… Ed Hardy did remember to mention the price of her clothing and purse ($250 for the jacket, $200 for the purse) in her rant about the unprofessionalism of customer service and the fact that the girls were actually employees of the establishment; oh yeah, and that it is unacceptable to have “blue s*** spilt all over her new clothes. They basically wrapped up their complaints in the following manner: 1-they were trying to have a decent conversation 2-the table was disrupting 3-they tried numerous times to sit closer together and talk louder to hear each other 4- when that failed they “kindly” asked the other table to please quiet down so that they could enjoy their time in the bar 5- the fight…. Finally, as they left, they asked for the manager’s business card because they were going to be late for their tattoo sess…. sounds a bit exaggerated to me.
Not being able to talk our way into anything free, the nervous manager shakingly apologized to us as we paid our bill. It turns out that the loud table consisted of two employees and one of their mothers. Kristen and I hurried out to see if there was a continuation of the fight, so do not know what became of the employees.
And that was my Tuesday night in Temecula. How does this have anything to do with running? It doesn’t; but it was so f***ing exciting, I had to write about it. There are one or two running references, sorry for the digression.
