Pedal Pusher

The fresh breath of summer. Crisp, cool mornings erupt into sun-drenched afternoons then dissolve into picture perfect sunsets. The lakes warm to a balmy 62 degrees and fill with hardy wake boarders, skiers, surfers and Frisbee flingers.

And like the annual onslaught of swarming black flies come the color-coordinated, spandex-assed bikers riding three abreast on the winding lakeshore roads.

People like to stay healthy and fit. The allure of not too hot/not too cold calls out to you weekend warriors. I get it. Ok – not really, but I sympathize (yes "sympa" not "empa") with your need to exert.

Hey – “mi blacktop, su blacktop” and all that. But, really? Really?  I’m driving a huge Mom Mobile. I’m right behind you. There’s nowhere for me to go except right smack over your tight, healthy little tushie.

I don’t mean to be snarky. (oh no…never….) but you do realize that except for the runners, joggers and speed walkers, everything on the road is much bigger than you, right? And faster?

Oh wait. No, not faster. Because I am behind you and although I see your little clipped-in feet going all hamster-on-a-wheel fast, you’re still going slower than I can idle.

In all these years, I’ve only flipped one biker the bird and it turned out to be my buddy, Action Figure Dave.  Busted.

Truth be told, I got talked into a bicycle up here one summer.

The BoogerButt was at that youngling age where he could ride for days and never get tired of it. Stud Muffin, being a stud muffin, could/can hop on anything and go for days.

I, being a Southern Dixie Princess, fell over getting out of the driveway and had a bladder infection within a block.
My hair was plastered to my forehead, my mascara was running and the stitches on the spandex were stretched out so much it looked like I was wearing a corset.

There was no “clipping in”; no logo-laden unitard. There was a butt-ugly helmet borrowed from my mother-in-law (c. 1978) and clothespins on my pant legs.

I stuck it out for about 45 minutes then peddled over to the Dune Dog stand for a Chicago all the way and some fries.

Not being one to give up on my (deeply) buried athletic abilities, Stud Muffie bought me the perfect bike. Big, cushy seat, high handlebars and an electric motor.

From afar, my new rig looked like a normal person’s bike.
It sounded a little like a mosquito but all I had to do was not fall over. Even that takes enough effort for me to break a sweat, trust me.

Whirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.   Off I go. I’m lovin’ it. The wind whistling through my helmet vents. The beauty of nature a bright green blur beside me. My legs pumping furiously……

Wait a minute. My legs are not pumping. This is an electric bike. I’m just perched on top of it – riding.

And now a car is coming. Awkward.

I lean over the handlebars, scootch my butt back on the seat and start pedaling my heart out. I don’t smile and wave – I’m way to into my fitness, man. Plus, I have to throw a hand signal out so they know I know my stuff.

The problem is the bike is actually in some high (or low – I don’t know which) gear and the pedals are ridiculously loose. I’m going up enough of a hill that even I know I should be in one of those “grind it out” gears and here my legs are in Hamster Mode.

I do this five more times.
Perch and ride.
Car coming.
Get low and pump.
Car passes.
Perch and ride.

I’m faking all this effort and, still, my thighs are starting to burn.

Then I get to Burdickville Hill. It’s a real long hill, y’all. Highest point on the lake. At the top is a scenic lookout called Inspiration Point. It’s beautiful. You can see Big Glen, Little Glen, Sleeping Bear Dunes and, on a clear day, on out to Lake Michigan and the baby bear islands.

The little motor on my bike starts to wind down. Then sputter. It ain’t makin’ it. You’re kidding me.

I pedal a little to give it a break. This works for five minutes. Long enough for me to turn beet red and scrape my ankle on the chain twice.

The motor farts once and quits. So on the biggest BEAST of a hill, I have to actually exert – a lot! – on a bike that, due to the motor, weighs a kajillion pounds more than Tour de France boy’s– who just passed and hollered, “Lookin’ good! You can do it!”

And now, of course, there are two Suburbans, three Jeeps and a Model T climbing up my ass.

The guy behind me toots his horn just a little. I look back.
It’s Dave.

He’s laughing while he flips me the bird.
Ah.... the irony.

* For more about Anita’s non-athleticism, click to read “Natural Born Leaner”.

Bad Bang

In a fit of pique, I hacked my bangs like a 15 yr old in a love triangle. In fact, I haven’t butchered my hair like this since I was a 15 yr old in a love triangle.

 

While I am prone to both the hair brush throwing hissy fit and the occasional boogered up bang job, rarely do I break anything or cause (semi) irreparable damage. But this is bad, y’all. It’s a real bad sign.

The other day, after picking the shells off the umpteenth hardboiled egg, I went postal on a particularly stubborn one and just crushed the whole damn thing in my fist and threw it in the sink. The crunch of the shell combined with the warm squoosh of the innards was so satisfying that I did it again on a perfectly innocent one. There is no comin back from a smooshed-ass egg, y’all. Major irreparable.

Out of two dozen eggs, four of them felt the wrath of my pre-menopausal impatience.

Cheaper than therapy; easier on the liver than Merlot.

When my brand new Stick Vac quit after sweeps, I held it over my head and aimed it out the window. The image of having to clean up all that shattered glass without said Stick Vac stopped me before I let her fly. So I walked outside and tossed it, with great indignation, into the yard.

Then, of course, I picked all the grass out of the handle, found the receipt and took it back to Meijer.

See? I’m not a hysterical 47 year old, hormonal lunatic.

My sweet Stud Muffin totally agreed with me when I asked them that very question just this morning while I was using his super-sharp filet knife to carve up a chicken. He gently took the knife from my hand, agreed wholeheartedly that I was not psycho and graciously offered to finish all that nasty cutting. He’s a pip, that one.

So the whole hair whack job has me in a dither.

I’m going to have to go to my hair chick and admit to cutting my own bangs. Then I’ll have to admit to the Hissy Fit. Then she’ll sweetly ask what on earth was wrong? And then I’ll have to admit that it was nothing more than me being tired of tucking that little patch we were trying to grow out behind my ear every five freakin’ seconds.

“Well, we don’t have to worry about tucking it behind your ear now, do we, honey?”

Witch.

Then she’ll talk me into layers so my bangs will blend. Which will look great after she puts three brands of goop in it, blows it, curls it, fluffs it and lacquers it down but will look like living hell after two seconds on the boat or in the Jeep or in the morning FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!

Oh my. Oh my my…

This is when Brittany got the scissors out. This is when Carrie Underwood carved her name in the leather seats. This is when Charlie popped open the Tiger Juice.

But not me, y’all. Southern women are bred for civility and gracious forbearance.

This is when I uncork the bottle.

My name ain’t Anita Merlot for nothin’….

Picking & Grinning

 

I knew summer was here when my friend, Ivana Shiraz, laughed so hard she snorted out a booger.

That’s good stuff, my friend. This is not a woman who one would think could even cultivate a booger; much less bring one forth the size of a cheese curd.

Of course, we were all very gracious and civilized about the whole thing. Are you kidding me? NOT! Much ado was made and we’ve changed her name to Ivana Kleenex for at least thirty days.

She was/is mortified. Which, actually, is the funniest part and is why we won’t let it die. Ever. In fact, I’m going to stop typing for a second to text her.

“Booger”  Send.  I hope she’s in public right now.

After nine straight months of turtlenecks and puffy vests, there’s something about sitting out on the deck with a snapping hot burger and an ice-cold concoction. Throw in some new friends who haven’t heard all your jokes, a little more liquid refreshment and a spontaneous nostril eruption and you’ve set a the bar prettttty high for the summer.

You’ll forgive me for not having pictures for this little post?

Neither Ivana nor the booger would give me permission to print.

I promise, however, a summer full of Up North summer adventures complete with photographic evidence!