There was Alice In Wonderland, and then there was Alice Through the Looking Glass. Everything experienced backwards, upside down, back to front. Confusion. Struggle.
It sometimes seems like meeting someone, falling in love, getting married is like Wonderland. And divorce: it’s a bit like the Looking Glass. Everything is backwards. You are unpicking what you created. Life is suddenly upside down. Confusion. Plenty of struggle.
When you get together with someone, there are so many firsts. First date, first kiss, first time making love. And through the looking glass, there are firsts too. First night alone. First mail at your new address. First anniversary of leaving.
Some of the firsts on both sides of the looking glass are more subtle, but they can be more privately meaningful. First time saying “we.” First time saying “boyfriend.” First time buying something at the grocery store that your new love eats but you don’t.
Tonight I had a first that I celebrated quietly. It would not show up on any timeline, but it was significant to me. After 20 months, first time dropping my daughter over to her dad’s and driving away from my old house without a feeling of wrenching sadness; without tears. Since she started driving a year ago, I haven’t had to go back there much. In the beginning, it was a lot harder. But last night, I drove down the hill from the house I lived in for 17 years, and I heard myself saying aloud “don’t cry, don’t cry.” Then I realized I actually didn’t want to cry. I was listening to a favorite song, and I sang it happily as I drove down Meadow Way and out of my old neighborhood in the dark of a random Saturday evening.
I had taken my daughter to the market on the way to her dad’s: she was drooping and exhausted, having sat her SAT this morning and clearly not eaten enough all day. I bought her hot chicken and dolmas and blueberries and she ate in the car and perked up visibly. She was happy to be going to her dad’s. I was happy she was going to her dad’s, and had that filled-up mom feeling of having fed my child, nurtured her. She could have driven her own car, but I noticed in time that what she really needed was mom to drive her. I offered to pick her up tomorrow morning. Wonderland. And as I drove home to my own place, it felt a little like driving through the looking glass. The familiar San Geronimo Valley was no longer my home. Driving to a new home. Strange: bizarre even. But I was smiling like a cheshire cat.
Saturday, June 2, 2018
Friday, June 1, 2018
Jellybeans on the East Peak
It’s been a week since I waited expectantly with all 124 of my Climate Ride cohorts at the northwestern entrance to the Golden Gate. We were waiting for the bridge patrol guy to open the west side to bikes. I don’t think he’d had such a splendid reaction to this simple act before. He looked very pleased with himself as we cheered and hollered and streamed onto the bridge in a very long single file Climate Ride snake that made its way across the glorious span, shiny rust color that it was in the Spring afternoon sunlight, and down from the southwestern side into the Presidio. As we snaked along into Crissy Fields, and the pedestrians and tourists stopped to stare at this lengthy train of cyclists all wearing the same jerseys, I heard a bystander, clearly impressed, say oh, it’s the Climate Ride! That moment was, for me, one of the happiest of the ride.
We had ridden that morning from our Olema campsite south along Highway One through the eucalyptus grove I love just outside Bolinas, and along the Bolinas lagoon to Stinson, where we stopped for snacks and water. It was cool and cloudy, but that was good, because once we headed out from Stinson Beach, we knew we had the daunting climb up Mt. Tam and you don’t want to do that in blazing sun. We needn’t have worried. Once we climbed a few hundred feet above the beach, we were in the fog. I took a last good look at the view - Stinson and across the lagoon to Bolinas - and then headed into the chilly mist.
The mountain was quiet that afternoon. There were few tourists because of the shroud. Few cars as we climbed endlessly up to the Pantoll and the saddle point at which we could decide whether to head on down the other side into Mill Valley or take a (surely ill-advised) four mile steep climb to the East Peak. There could be no spectacular view to reward us. That morning, having achieved my century and climbed a series of mad hills in the course of the ride, I felt there was no way I was going to do that crazy East Peak thing. By the time I reached the saddle, I knew there was no way I wasn’t doing it. For one thing, when would I ever do it again? Certainly not on my own. Doubtful any training ride would be this ambitious. But mostly, I just yearned for the challenge. The Climate Ride bug had bitten. The East Peak was there. How could I not ride up to it?!
Having decided to brave the Peak, there was no way I was letting my friend Ken miss out on it. Ken had no intention of adding four miles of arduous climbing and four miles of freezing descent to an already taxing day. But I wouldn’t stop nagging him. In fact, I shamed him into doing it. It was done out of love, really. Plus a desire to shame him into doing it. And it worked! He complained a lot of the way up, but in a good natured Ken sort of complainy way. A way that made me laugh, which tired me out even more. Plus there was that horrible moment when I was riding alone for a half mile and suddenly there was a steep downhill so I thought I must have missed a turn somewhere and got lost. I stopped by the side of the eerily quiet road, where are all the others? How could I have missed the peak? Where the hell am I? Lost on Tam!? What an idiot! I was just google-mapping my location when Ken rode round the corner. Finally! I berated him. I’ve been WAITING for you! Didn’t fool him for a moment.
We made the peak. Of course, there were ride leaders there to cheer and clap, plus a giant plastic tub of jellybeans that I ate an undisclosed number of handfuls of. I just rode a gajillion miles up a mountain. I can have a few (hundred) jellybeans. We took pictures and looked about at the impenetrable blanket of fog on all sides. We did it! We rode up Tam! Ho hum. Let’s ride down.
The descent was an extremely long steep downhill and utterly freezing. I thought my body had solidified into permanent bicyclist position. I’d never walk upright again. Then we arrived in the noisy Thursday afternoon normalcy of Mill Valley, which was also somehow surreally busy and unnormal. Normal had become long stretches of quiet country roads. Normal was pristine California coastline dotted with sleepy villages and the odd cluster of impassive roadside cows. This was town. It was loud. It was treacherous, with cars and pedestrians and dogs. It was a shock to my system, and I began to long for the ride not to be over. That feeling persisted through the last few hours: lunch at the Bay Model, the group photo at Cavallo Point, and the ride across the Gate.
In fact, despite the euphoria of finishing, the high of having ridden all 320 of those hard-earned miles, and the joy and pride I felt for days that I had done this lunatic thing, the feeling is still with me...So when can I do another one?!
We had ridden that morning from our Olema campsite south along Highway One through the eucalyptus grove I love just outside Bolinas, and along the Bolinas lagoon to Stinson, where we stopped for snacks and water. It was cool and cloudy, but that was good, because once we headed out from Stinson Beach, we knew we had the daunting climb up Mt. Tam and you don’t want to do that in blazing sun. We needn’t have worried. Once we climbed a few hundred feet above the beach, we were in the fog. I took a last good look at the view - Stinson and across the lagoon to Bolinas - and then headed into the chilly mist.
The mountain was quiet that afternoon. There were few tourists because of the shroud. Few cars as we climbed endlessly up to the Pantoll and the saddle point at which we could decide whether to head on down the other side into Mill Valley or take a (surely ill-advised) four mile steep climb to the East Peak. There could be no spectacular view to reward us. That morning, having achieved my century and climbed a series of mad hills in the course of the ride, I felt there was no way I was going to do that crazy East Peak thing. By the time I reached the saddle, I knew there was no way I wasn’t doing it. For one thing, when would I ever do it again? Certainly not on my own. Doubtful any training ride would be this ambitious. But mostly, I just yearned for the challenge. The Climate Ride bug had bitten. The East Peak was there. How could I not ride up to it?!
Having decided to brave the Peak, there was no way I was letting my friend Ken miss out on it. Ken had no intention of adding four miles of arduous climbing and four miles of freezing descent to an already taxing day. But I wouldn’t stop nagging him. In fact, I shamed him into doing it. It was done out of love, really. Plus a desire to shame him into doing it. And it worked! He complained a lot of the way up, but in a good natured Ken sort of complainy way. A way that made me laugh, which tired me out even more. Plus there was that horrible moment when I was riding alone for a half mile and suddenly there was a steep downhill so I thought I must have missed a turn somewhere and got lost. I stopped by the side of the eerily quiet road, where are all the others? How could I have missed the peak? Where the hell am I? Lost on Tam!? What an idiot! I was just google-mapping my location when Ken rode round the corner. Finally! I berated him. I’ve been WAITING for you! Didn’t fool him for a moment.
We made the peak. Of course, there were ride leaders there to cheer and clap, plus a giant plastic tub of jellybeans that I ate an undisclosed number of handfuls of. I just rode a gajillion miles up a mountain. I can have a few (hundred) jellybeans. We took pictures and looked about at the impenetrable blanket of fog on all sides. We did it! We rode up Tam! Ho hum. Let’s ride down.
The descent was an extremely long steep downhill and utterly freezing. I thought my body had solidified into permanent bicyclist position. I’d never walk upright again. Then we arrived in the noisy Thursday afternoon normalcy of Mill Valley, which was also somehow surreally busy and unnormal. Normal had become long stretches of quiet country roads. Normal was pristine California coastline dotted with sleepy villages and the odd cluster of impassive roadside cows. This was town. It was loud. It was treacherous, with cars and pedestrians and dogs. It was a shock to my system, and I began to long for the ride not to be over. That feeling persisted through the last few hours: lunch at the Bay Model, the group photo at Cavallo Point, and the ride across the Gate.
In fact, despite the euphoria of finishing, the high of having ridden all 320 of those hard-earned miles, and the joy and pride I felt for days that I had done this lunatic thing, the feeling is still with me...So when can I do another one?!
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