October 21, 2001

Bike-riding season is slowly braking to a close.

At least, evening bike-riding is braking to a close. David and I will still be able to go for those occasional long, groovy rides on Saturdays and Sundays, depending on variables like weather, family obligations, hormonal peaks and valleys. Holidays and vacations and *hooky days* will probably be prime winter bike-riding time, too. But neither one of us has the equipment, or the eyesight -- or the desire, frankly -- to ride at night. After we've set our clocks back next weekend, "night" will have already begun before we've even made it home from the office. So our days of heading over to the abandoned Navy Base for a quick five-miler before dinner will soon be nothing more than a fond memory.

(Sort of like Temporary Voluntary Unemployment.  Or "Pasadena.")

The changing seasons are partially to blame. I felt it in the air this morning, as we were riding around Bay Farm Island: the unmistakeable bite of Bay Area autumn in the air. Usually I ride in a short-sleeved T-shirt and my little stretchy riding pants (yep: I finally made it into Spandex), but this morning I actually had to drag the fuzzy sweatshirt/pullover from the back of the closet and toss that on over my T-shirt. And even then I was still cold, especially as we chugged through the mist and the wind along the beach side of Alameda. (And since Alameda is an island, every side is "the beach side," essentially.)

"Is it just me, or is this especially miserable?" I whined, swiping at my runny nose with one sleeve of the fuzzy sweatshirt/pullover. The trail ahead of us was virtually deserted.

"It isn't just you," David replied tersely.

Later in the morning, after we'd made it all the way around Bay Farm Island and were sufficiently warmed-up  --  I ended up tying the fuzzy sweatshirt/pullover around my waist  --  the ride morphed from misery into pleasure finally. On a whim, we decided to ride home through the residential area of Alameda, thereby avoiding another chilly beach ride. In companionable silence, we pedalled past row after row of stately Victorian homes decked out in jack o'lanterns and American flags, down streets littered with maple leaves and palm fronds. At one point I caught a whiff of woodsmoke, and felt an instantaneous pang of homesickness for TicTac. 

It turned out to be one of the loveliest rides we've ever taken.

But the changing of the seasons isn't the only thing that's going to shortly put a dent in our riding routine. My new job is going to have a HUGE impact on our time/our schedules/our waistlines. Riding will only be part of it. I expect that the new job -- especially the new, expanded commute -- is going to forcibly rearrange the way we do a lot of things.

And I'm sort of worried about that.

(Although "worried" might be too strong a word to describe how I feel about this. I want to save "worried" for things that really matter ... like Daughter #2, or bioterrorism, or the nice lady on David's message board who has recently been diagnosed with breast cancer.)

Let's say instead that I'm fretting, ever-so-slightly.

I'm fretting about where and how we're going to fit certain critical things into the schedule, once I start the new job. I'm fretting about staying in touch with friends and family. I'm fretting about having enough Alone Time. I'm fretting about finding the space and the energy to write, and about how I'm going to keep *FootNotes* current. (I've completely abandoned NaNoWriMo for this year: simply keeping up with e-mail is going to be challenging enough.)  I'm fretting about asking a brand-new boss for extra time off at Christmas so I can go to TicTac. I'm fretting about how we'll keep up with the domestic stuff: the housecleaning, the laundry, the grocery shopping.

And yes, I'm fretting about how (and when) we're going to be able to squeeze exercise into the schedule.

But I expect we'll get it sorted out.

(We'd damn well BETTER sort it out: I've already given away all of my *fat clothes* ... and I'm at least four weeks away from that first paycheck.)

self-important blurb #1 will go here:
don't hate it yet.
give it a day or two to *grow* on you.
[and if it doesn't grow on you ...
we'll steal borrow another design.]

self-important blurb #2 will go here:
good news: we rode 28 miles this weekend.
bad news: the in-laws took us out to dinner on saturday night & i had a slab of tiramisu the size of a san francisco phone book.

amazingly profound thought of the day:
Wanna fly, you got to give up the shit that weights you down.
~ toni morrison

two years ago:
make mine a double
the olives were the second-best part.

throw a rock
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