september riding

I had a fun ride last Wednesday with the Dirt Divas. They let me lead and since the trails had been pretty dry for the last week, we decided to take some singletrack just north of Campbell Airstrip Road. After we finished that stretch we were discussing the next leg of the ride - across the road and then ride the STA trails.

On the STA trails in June.

One of the riders opted out because she has a touch time on the new singletracks. I told her I thought she'd do great, after all she is strong and did just fine on the bumpy rooty trails we'd just finished. Turns out, she told me, it was the descending that was a big challenge for her. I felt a bit bad that I didn't change the route but I don't think she wanted us to change our ride for her and I can understand where she's coming from.

Over a dozen years ago when I first started mountain biking in Anchorage, plenty of hills intimidated me. I still had a lot to learn about maneuvering my body with the bike, about trusting myself to move back off the saddle without losing control and believing that two brakes are better than one. On a few hills I would ride behind Jon or our friends and run down with my bike then climb back on before they could catch on to what I was doing. I was a pretty timid rider. I can still be that way if I'm on a new trail or one that just plain freaks me out because it has lots of steep drops and rocky ledges. When we travel to the desert it always takes me a few days to remember how the bike handles on that terrain compared to ours.

Thunder Mountain, Southern Utah,

Last fall.

Mountain biking, or any skill for that matter, takes some patience and practice. There are things to learn about handling and things to learn about ourselves, including our tolerance for things that could hurt us. The more time we spend on the bike especially on trails that make us just a little bit nervous, the better riders we will be. Which reminds me of this one spot...

On the STA trails, there's this one right-turning switchback at the very beginning. This silly little corner where I've never seen anyone else have a problem is my little nemesis. It has shut me down every time. I know I should be able to ride it and I feel really lame that it trips my "I can't" button every time. I've even tried a do-over. (I mostly hate do-overs.) My friend Karen tried to show me how to ride it the other evening, but I stalled as always. Next time, I told myself, I'm going to try a higher gear. I will keep trying.

Yesterday I was riding with Jon. It was my first time out in a week since I have been a little under the weather. I was on my twenty-niner and still didn't make the darn turn. The brain is just being stubborn now. Still, I am determined that before the snow creeps down the mountains, I will nail it. Um, depending on how many do-overs I can stand.

intersections

still life with excavator

Kitty escaped the house through her pet door, probably when the backhoe was dropped off causing a lot of racket and vibration throughout the house. A few hours later, a white cat was strolling through our backyard, no doubt excited to make use of all the freshly-exposed soil. I didn't see Kitty, but when I called out to make the other cat leave, I also scared Kitty who ran down the hill, across the street and disappeared into the bog.

I decided to go after her because when she's scared, sometimes she can disappear for an entire 24-hour period in the brush of the Baxter Bog. Walking down the hill, about to pass the house on the corner, a young man was standing on a garden hose that was coiled around a spool. He was leaning into a window. "Excuse me!" I called out. No reaction. "Excuse me; can I help you?" I know that sounds just like something a girl who's worked retail for years would say.

He pulled his head out of the window. The hood of his sweatshirt was pulled over his head. "My sister locked me out."
"Do you live here?" was my obvious question because I didn't know who lived on the corner; at least I wasn't sure.
"Yes."

I didn't know what to do. I crossed the road, looking over my shoulder at the house, calling for Kitty in the bog, trying to devise a plan. I could tell where she was by the cackling of magpies, no doubt harassing her just as they do in our yard when they surround her and I have to shoo them off. I started up the hill, again passing the open window, and motioned through our kitchen window for Jon to come out to help me. What do I do? Do you know who lives here? Neither of us were positive. More hesitating. Jon walked to the bog and called until our already-wild, growling cat was in his arms and trying to claw her way back into the wilds of the bog.

Back up the hill, I called 911. I'm not sure if the person lives there or if they were breaking in, I told the dispatcher. I usually give people the benefit of a doubt. I want to believe that the people around me are honest and have no ill intent. But my gut told me this was a break-in.

I can't see the house from my place. When the police arrived, nobody was there. The window was still open; I told them what had happened. An hour later, they called me again. Can you come over and make a statement? Crap! They had crawled through the same window, found an empty holster. Later I learned there was a missing XBox. That was all. Oh, and a large backpack, no doubt to carry away the XBox and gun.

What was I supposed to do? Could I have confronted him more forcefully? Was there another person? In the back of my mind, I expect bad people to have guns, so protecting myself is highest on my priority list. I was afraid. I could have acted faster, but no matter how quickly I had gotten to the phone, he still would have had time to take those two things. I didn't stop him, but he probably didn't stay long.

Should have thought to send the
dump truck driver to knock on the door.
(click to see why)

I met the homeowner; his brother lives right next door to us & is a great neighbor. I feel bad that I didn't realize this was who lived there because then I could have said "I know you don't live here" and it would not have happened. Kick, kick, kick! But if Kitty hadn't run off, I wouldn't have seen anything at all. Then it wouldn't have been my problem? Well, no, because whether I see it happening or not, a guy breaking into houses in my neighborhood is my problem. It puts everyone on their guard.

view from the dining room

My new foundation is being dug today, I'm worried that I might have H1N1 and my architect who needs to make some minor clarifications before we can pour the foundation is in Seattle promising to overnight the revised plans. Now some punk lied to me and stole from my neighbor. Not only does that stress me out but it makes me pissed.

more demolition

volcano rock & overhang... my office window

is in the upper left. The siding has already been
removed from around the garage door.

For the past two days, contractors have been showing up to do the demo on the outside of the house. In the front, we'll add a larger entryway and remove a roof overhang that prevents sunshine from coming through the window of my office for much of the year. It's not until midwinter that the sun is low enough on the horizon to peek into the room. I guess that's one of the reasons I don't use the my office as much as I'd like during the summer.

The larger entry is partly so that we can install a better staircase. Our early 70s house was built before Anchorage had established any uniform codes for houses and you can tell just by walking up (or down) our stairs - each step has a tread that's shorter than 10 inches and the heights vary among the steps. Over the years I've gotten used to it but we've always known we wanted to change it.

The other good part about changing the entrance to the house is that the volcano-rock facade is going away. In fact, today most of it was taken off by noon. Just stripping off the ugliness is progress.

Notice the window in the shade & the wonderful
birch tree out front...

The guys cut out the center portion of the beam
and lower it down so it won't hit the birch tree when
the posts and the rest of the beam fall.

Sunshine on my window makes me happy!

Volcanic rock is almost gone.

To follow up on the deck demo, Jon got himself a chainsaw. Guess it was on his tool list (he should have told me; it would have been a great birthday gift!) So while the crew was working on the demo, he was cutting the deck boards and I was stacking them for that day when we get a new woodstove. Most of the balusters were still in good shape and one day should be part of a sauna... something that's been on my list for some time...

firewood formerly known as our deck,
stacked in the back yard amid the
bloomed-out fireweed.

So, one of the goals of this project is to remedy a structural problem that's caused a peak in our floor. Jon told me tonight that he was talking with one of our neighbors about the project. When Jon explained the project and showed the neighbor the offending beam, the neighbor's hopes sank. He has a similar flaw due to an overhang and thought he could solve it by doing work on the subfloor. Guess we'll give him the name of our structural engineer. I was just wondering today how many Anchorage homes have this problem - a problem that is typically uncovered, literally, when a homeowner decides to pull out their carpet and finds the surprise. Way to stimulate the economy. There are probably hundreds of these!

By the way, Jon took a load of aluminum siding to the recycler and got $61 for his efforts. That's alot of wine or beer. Too bad the Anchorage Recycling Center still hasn't resumed taking in glass... our stockpile is getting embarassing!

let the remodel begin!

Last chance to go in through this door, Kitty.

Jon and I spent our Labor Day tearing down the back deck that was just off the dining room. Jon has grilled on that deck many evenings. Sunny evenings in the middle of summer; winter nights when it was nearing zero degrees F. Salmon caught in the summer, moose from a hunt with a friend, chicken and steak from the market. It's a small grill, but it probably gets more use than most, the ones that are fired up a few times a summer then put away for the winter. Now it's set up in the back yard, next to a small burn barrel and the newly-relocated wood pile.

I don't know how much grilling there'll be while this remodel happens. Where the deck once stood will be the garage expansion, an area that will double as a shop for Jon to do various wood-working projects and maybe a bit of bike work. The new, expanded deck will go above the addition, but that likely won't happen until spring.

This whole thing started when we (mosly I) wanted to get rid of the wall-to-wall carpeting in our upstairs. Kitty helped to hurry the project by bringing into the house a mouse to play with. When she released it from her jaws, it ran under a baseboard heater and burrowed under the carpet and pad. What better time to pull up the carpet than when there's a little mouse hiding from our cat! Jon pulled up the carpet and pad to find particle board that had been ground down to level a peaked high spot running the length of our house. Pulling it up revealed just how much settling our house had done. More evidence in the garage ceiling showed us how some beams were heaving up to create the peak in our floor. All because of a two-foot overhang without enough support. Anchorage 1970s construction!

The offending overhang!

That was a couple years ago. Since then, Jon has also torn out our inefficient fireplace and toe-breaking hearth that were in the center of the house. Then we were in limbo, limbo caused by busy work days and a desire to get out and have some fun, vacations and procrastination until finally I made a request. "Jon," I said. "I've never had a 'honey-do' list for you. But this is one thing that just has to happen." He started it; it was his project.

Structural engineer/architect, general contractor estimates, building permit, utility locators, summer weeks flipping by on the calendar. The Dumpster was dropped off this afternoon, ready for the debris of the demolition. Siding will have to go, the project has expanded to include a new front entrance and stairs that will be up to code. In the midst of my attempts to write, I will now be at the house each day as the contractors show up.

I vow to not be a pain and promise to go to the coffee shop a few blocks away when I can't deal with the noise and chaos. But first, I'm going to have to tell them that we want to recycle materials whenever it's reasonable to do so. I mean, come on, can I actually justify putting aluminum siding in the landfill when I bitch at people for tossing away a soda can? Exactly. I'll tell them about that tomorrow. Okay, they might find me to be a pain, but it's for the children... somebody's children.

railing & balusters gone

nice! rotting beams.

and, gone!

bell on a seat bag

I've not been a huge fan of bear bells or of anything else that distracts me from the welcome sounds in nature. The sound of a stream or waterfall nearby; the call of a jay; the rustling of leaves in a breeze; brambles being pushed aside by a moose or porcupine. I don't wear headphones and am often puzzled when others on the local trails are wearing them.

Music players, cell phones; to me they are part of the big disconnect; an extension of the culture that pulls us farther from the wilds even as we are surrounded by them. A bear bell posed a similar problem. It would cover the sounds I wanted to hear, cause me to add my noise to the others out there in the woods, on the trails. But this spring, after years of not having one, I purchased a small bell.

I liked the shape. Not round like the jingle bells most people carry. It is angular, with four sides, resembling a cow bell, but smaller. More like a goat bell. I used it first on a solo hike, trying to be more bear aware. The bell's sound conjured a vision of goats grazing on mountain slopes, their bells alerting herders to where they roamed. Hanging from my pack, it rang in rhythm with my stride: DING-ding-ding, DING-ding-ding. Sometimes it was silent; sometimes more insistent. Always there. But near the end of the hike, I was done listening to it and put it away in my backpack.

When June arrived and the new singletrack trails were opened for biking, it didn't occur to me to put the bell on my bike. Bells on bikes often just annoy me. But the trails have lots of twists and turns, corkscrews and switchbacks. Some bikes can be almost silent. One evening, as I was descending one of the trails, I heard a bell from the other side of a switchback. I slowed and moved to the side of the trail before the rider came into sight, rounding the bend. We exchanged hellos and kept going. Now, I thought, this is a good reason to have a bell.

this little bell of mine...

A tiny bell is not going to save me from a bear, and it doesn't replace paying attention. But it might just allow another rider who is paying attention to know that I am there, either coming up behind them or around a blind corner. As for having the sounds of nature obscured, not my little bell. I can still hear the water rushing through the Campbell Creek Gorge. I can hear the birds flitting in the brush off the side of the trail. And if I sound like a grazing goat, so be it. I'm not going to get run over. Of course, that assumes people can hear my bell over their digital soundtracks or their squealing brakes.

Rider up!

not all out to get us

I was lurking on the local bicycle forum where someone had posted a link to some stats about bicycle fatalities. Knowing what mistakes drivers and cyclists make might help protect us from ourselves and others out there. This summer, two of my friends were involved in out-of-state bike/motor vehicle collisions. They're both okay, mostly. One was a hit & run. No known witnesses, no memory. He just doesn't know. I've suggested he post something on Craigslist in the area where it happened in case someone showed up at home & told their partner or parent that they didn't know what they hit with the car. I guess I'm just the kind of person who likes answers. Because if I don't have the answer, I'll just make up a story.

Who?

In my mind, the story has now evolved into an illicit affair, a sports car (based on seeing the bike), drugs or booze and lots of denial on the part of the driver. (Maybe I should write fiction.) I don't understand not wanting to know. I have so many curiosities and unanswered questions jumping around in my mind. For example, what is kitty thinking when I place the laptop upon my lap and she decides there's still room for her? Does she think she's being replaced as official lap warmer? Is she competing? Does she realize she's covering the mouse? You see what I mean: I like to have mysteries solved. But, I digress.

I haven't been bike commuting to a job for over a month. Doing a little mountain biking and riding my single speed across town occasionally. I'll admit my mileage is down. So, the other day I decided to ride over to my sister's place in South Anchorage for a little family get-together. My nephew's 29th birthday. (Happy birthday, Craig!) It was mostly the commute I used to make to the shop, except instead of descending to the business park, I had to climb up her winding street at the very end.

Even though I haven't biked the route in awhile, I'm very familiar with the motorists' behavior at the intersections, especially my favorite: Lake Otis and Abbott. Here's what happened. The traffic had the red. As the crosswalk light turned white, a pickup driver pulled through the crosswalk without stopping, slowed down and turned right in front of me. "That was my light!" I yelled through the open window as his passenger gave me a "what the hell is your problem?" look. After I crossed the intersection I laughed at how they probably couldn't even hear me but I was right. They hadn't stopped. They didn't yield. Hadn't looked. But I never assumed they would. Never assuming is part of our protection.

After having biked that route to & from work for years, I never expect any right-turn-on-red drivers to stop. But I almost always yell something at them. Maybe, over the years, I've even called some a bad name. Or two. I was commuting, what do you expect? Bikers can't occasionally have a little commuter rage? At least I've never purposely run into a car like someone I know. Of course, not all drivers are so ignorant or arrogant.

On occasion, a car will pull slowly up to the crosswalk, see me and stop. I am able to make eye contact with the driver, get a wave to go ahead. When they do that, I smile and say "thank you." By taking the time to notice and acknowledge me, they have just brightened my day and for a few moments, I have hope. Not every driver is trying to run us over. I figure they're another biker. Or they have actually read the rules of the road. Or they're Chechakos and haven't learned that in Anchorage stop lines are just a suggestion. To those drivers who follow the rules: thanks! To those who don't look and don't care: I wish for your children to become cyclists; avid cyclists. Will you see us then?

learning to ride

I learned to bike one September day when my cousin Dan was visiting from up the road. A year younger than me, he had biked down from his home on the dairy farm my aunt and uncle owned. My family didn’t have many bikes; maybe we didn’t have any. Bikes were luxuries tough to attain for a family with 10 children to feed and clothe. There were no hand-me-down bicycles for me. So, although I was just starting third grade, I had never even been on a bike.

When Dan offered to show me how to ride, I was enthusiastic. Never mind that it was a gravel driveway with not much room to ride before entering the gravel road where I would have to either turn right to go down hill or left to climb up just a bit more to the crest of the hill. I didn’t think that far ahead, nor did I make it out of the driveway before the bike tires washed out from underneath me and I landed with my left knee pounded hard into the dry, dusty gravel.

Blood flowed down my leg. I don’t know if I made it into the house. Maybe someone else relayed the message to Mom who was inside and would need to drop whatever she was doing to take me to the emergency room for stitches. The car ride to a hospital about 10 miles away would have taken us past the gravel pit, past the round barn and across the railroad tracks that were right next to the hospital. One year those tracks would carry the late-night train that slammed into Mom’s car where it sat stalled on the tracks, door left open as she ran for safety moments before the impact. Not how she anticipated ending her shift at the hospital.

I asked Doctor Strong if I could watch as he worked on my knee. First the injection to numb the throbbing that had started. Then I remember sitting up on my elbows as the needle dove into my skin and out the other side, the sutures tied in little spider-leg looking black knots on my torn skin.

My memory tells me that I wore a dress to school that Monday and walked up the stairs, taking one step at a time, with one unbending, bandaged knee to the third-grade classroom. In a way I was proud of my injury. This was what I had done. I rode a bike! It was an accomplishment and I wanted to be the center of attention, as I had been on the table in the emergency room that weekend.

I don’t remember the next time I rode a bike, but even after that short, less than 50 yard-long ride, I knew how to ride and I would never, despite gaps of years, forget how.