Breathless

I’ve been reliving the moment he popped the question. The Crisp mountaintop air, the whir of the chairlift and the chatter of a foreign tongue surround us. The pictures tell a story, they capture the surprise, but they also show the exact moment of where he stood before me, one ski off and unzipping his jacket and starting his speech, at which exact moment the only logical thought my mind could concoct was, “Oh my God, he’s going to take his coat off and roll around in the Austrian snow! He’ll freeze!!!”
Next frame: He’s on one knee holding open a little box it’s contents sparkling. I’ve caught on to what’s happening. The next: We embrace. That photo. I’m taken to that exact moment. How it felt to be held in the arms of someone who just told me he wants to spend his life with me. Incredible. Overwhelming. It still is. I suppose that, in reality, given time this will fade, but for now I will relish every moment that the sight of him, the thought of his presence and the sound of his laughter makes me smile. Something that I was hesitant to ever believe in, and would never allow myself the luxury of thinking would happen, has indeed happened. It feels like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and it is incredible.
Our engagement moment: “It’s not how many breaths you take, but the moments that take your breath away.”

… Did I finally get that right, honey?

I promise, I'll try.

It has been brought to my attention more than once during my life that I have no fashion sense. My mom is a fashionable lady, my sister could have fed a small country keeping up to date of the current trends, even my dad knows how to dress. Not me. Apparently the “don’t mix plaids with stripes” gene missed me. I must have been playing in the dirt somewhere that day.
When dressing, I play it safe. Everything goes with jeans, right? Sure it does! That and black pants. I’ve got it covered…all but the socks apparently.

I enjoy a nice pair of poly-blend socks, preferably with a cute picture around the ankle and a funny saying stitched into the foot. No one generally sees them. They’re dark so they must go with the outfit. Wrong again. Apparently cycling socks don’t go everywhere. I’ve heard gals with the same theory relate near disastrous results when, dressed cute for a date complete with short skirt and tall boots, removal of the ever-so-sexy footwear produced black and pink anklets with flames at the top. Not hot, not sexy – it kinda sends the message, “hey, if this doesn’t work out I hope there’s still enough light to get a ride in.”

I must first explain something about cycling socks. They’re an independent type of clothing, and they like to roam. Most of the time only one of the pair will make it into the washer and out of the dryer while the other is out gallivanting in the garage, the car, somewhere in the closet. If this happens, the lone sock goes into the “rouge sock drawer” until its mate surfaces. It happened tonight, it was bound to sometime. I claim sabotage, but that’s just because I don’t remember folding this particular pair. Mike and I sitting enjoying a perfectly nice dinner and conversation, I notice him looking at my feet. Conversation ceases, I follow his stare to my feet. Oh lookie there. I’ve got two different socks on. One brown with a cute doggie picture, the other reddish with a flaming heart. No, I didn’t’ notice. I just assumed they were a pair. Poor Mike, “You have Garanimal socks and you still can’t get it right!!” I lost it. I laughed so hard my eyes teared up. While Miuccia Prada I’m not, I guess exerting a bit more effort into a matching ensable wouldn’t kill me.

A hot shower and an ice-cold beer

To a mountain biker, sixty degrees and sunny in Michigan on January 28th is like taking a newly rehabilitated alcoholic to an open bar.
Oh, there were plans, all right. Our group was to meet at 9, pick up another friend downtown and drive to Cleveland for a day at an indoor mountain bike park. All was on track until 45 minutes later when we got to her porch and on a whim decided to scrap the trip because the sun was out. There will never be a more fickle bunch than a group of cyclists on a sunny day.
Racing back from whence we came, half of the group decided to ride back roads, which at this time of year are muddy at best. There was no question the roads were muddy. With the sun melting the remaining spots of ice, wet, sloppy, slow and deep can be added to the condition description.
Plodding along we splashed through miles and miles of water filled potholes and mud bogs until we and our bikes were nothing but unrecognizable mud figures. Our jerseys were covered, it was in our hair, teeth, and eyes and somehow it even managed to get lodged in our bike shorts.
Finally we headed back, but not before walking in to place a take-out order at a local Thai restaurant. The look we got was something like this: (as described by Dustin)

Hostess: “Ohhh…what you want?? You so muddy!”
Biker: “I…I just want to place a take-out order…”
Hostess: “Oh nooo…you pretty girl, but you leave! You diiirty!!!”

Take out order was placed and we rode back to the house to clean up. Of course immediately upon return beer was opened, pictures were taken and conversation took the place of getting clean, and by then the food was ready to be picked up. Off I went, glass bottle in hand riding my filthy bike and drinking my delicious beer through the neighborhoods and into downtown. This is exactly what I needed – what I missed from my days in CA. Suffering through an otherwise miserable ride with good friends with the promise of good food and a good brew afterwards.
It’s hard to explain why I felt so free at that moment. Maybe because I felt like I was 8 years old again, maybe because I felt like I was untouchable by the “real world” or maybe because at that moment, I was devoid of all responsibility. Whatever it was, it’s the feeling that I long to attain each time I get on my bike.

Thai food, a quick bike cleaning at the local car wash clean(er) clothes and I was on my way back home, somewhat exhausted, but feeling that high normally reserved for epic summer rides. I was looking forward to a shower.

I cranked the hot water then went to the refrigerator to grab a badly wanted beer. Grocery duty was neglected over the weekend. Shame on me, we were out Blue Moon. Grimacing, I selected a Porter from a “Beers of America” gift box. The quality was suspect, but after a sip from a chilled glass, the prospect of it actually being somewhat good was promising.
Stepping through the rolling steam into the shower I relished taste of my magic elixir. How good it tasted at the end of the day! There is nothing like standing under a spray of hot water with a cold beer in hand, remembering the day, feeling the ache in your muscles and watching your skin appear from under the layer of dirt and grime. Sometimes life is so simple!