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Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 2

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Part 2 of 2 by Megan Ritchie

(continued from Part 1 of 2)   After an hour on the water sea kayaking, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots.  I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!   Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. An enormous wave  overtook my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head.”

Wave after mighty wave ground me into the sand. I struggled to stand against them – I was only a dozen feet off the shore by then and the water wasn’t deep – and finally, gained my footing. I plodded up to shore.

On shore, Sarah was doubled over with laughter. “That was….gasp….the biggest wave….gasp…I have ever seen,” she said as she scrambled to grab my paddle out of the still pummeling waves. Adrianna, the wench, had made a successful landing on shore unscathed, and helped me pull my boat up onto drier ground, before we all collapsed into laughter.

“That was amazing,” Sarah said, once we’d all caught our breaths. Sarah pointed up to the pier. “There were even guys up there at the restaurant who were yelling suggestions to you, but once that wave came up, you didn’t have a chance.”

I tapped my head, trying to get some water out of my ear. “I’ve always known I’m really gracefully,” I said dryly. “But I think I may have outdone myself on that one.”

We decided to eat our lunch on the beach before heading back out for another round of kayaking. We scurried up to the parking lot and I reached into my running shorts to grab the key – we’d locked our lunches in the trunk. But the key wasn’t there.

“Oh. No.” I said.

“What is it?” asked Adrianna.

“The key. I put it right here,” I said, motioning to the little pocket stitched into my running shorts, “But when I fell, it must’ve…it must’ve gotten pulled out.” We all looked out onto the waves.

“Oh shit,” said Sarah.

“Yeah.”

We ran down the stairs again, looking around in the sand. But, like my sunglasses and bandana, there was no sign of the car key. I’d taken it off from my lanyard, so it was easier to tuck into my running shorts; our hunt was literally looking for a needle in a haystack…or a car key in an ocean. Sarah said she’d keep looking along the beach while Adrianna and I clambered back up to the parking lot. We debated what to do for a moment, before appealing to the parking attendant to use his phone. After explaining what had happened, he said matter-of-factly, “Oh, you should never take your keys out with you. Everyone just checks them here with me or at the Surf Shack. That way, you’ll never lose them if you hit a wave.” I looked at him. Paused.

“That’s good advice, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” I said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own (and maybe that big wave’s) that we were in the situation, but it wasn’t particularly helpful to be reminded of a wiser alternative.

Adrianna and I came up with a plan: I had a Triple A membership and could get them to unlock the trunk, which had my purse and phone. Then, I’d call one of my roommates, all of whom I’d met only six weeks earlier, and convince them, beg them really, to drive across the entire Los Angeles metropolitan area on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with my spare car key, only to turn around and drive home. I sighed. There went the afternoon, and a nice chunk of my dignity.

Triple A said they’d be there in 45 minutes. I handed the parking attendant back his phone and thanked him for his help. He shrugged and gave me a “You sure are dumb” look. Helpful. Adrianna went to go check in with Sarah, and came back saying there was still no sign of the key along the beach. Just then, the surfer dude from the Shack, the guy who’d helped us carry the kayaks down to the beach what seemed like days ago, passed by, helping another couple with their boats.

“How’d it go?” he asked. “You didn’t die, I see.”

“Oh, it was really fun,” I said, trying to reassure his latest victims. “Except, well, I managed to horribly flip my kayak and lose my car key in the ocean.”

The couple, still fresh, looked a little alarmed. “Oh God, that’s horrible,” said the surfer dude. He shot me a sympathetic look as he kept walking past. Adrianna sighed unhappily.

“Are you sure it’s not in your shorts?” she asked.

I shook my head as I poked around in them again, adding “groping myself” to my long list of how uncool I looked/felt at that moment. They were the type of shorts that had built-in underwear, the better to run in, I suppose, and I fiddled around with the liner.

“No, I don’t see—“ And then there, at the very bottom of the shorts, at the very bottom of the liner, I felt something: The key.

I pulled it out, looking very much like a proud hen that had just laid an egg, or, in this case, a Ford Focus key. “I found it! I found it!”

After high-fives all around and a quick phone call to cancel the Triple A locksmith,  we settled along some rocks for a victory lunch. Maybe I wasn’t a Californian just yet, maybe I hadn’t yet mastered sea kayaking or waves or heck, checking my car key with the parking lot attendant, but one thing is for sure: I am really good at storing stuff in my underwear.

 ~Megan~

Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 1

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By Megan Ritchie

About a month after I moved to Los Angeles, a friend and her girlfriend, Adrianna, invited me to go sea kayaking with them in Malibu. I’d been kayaking a handful of times, most recently on a family vacation to Lake Superior last summer, and was really excited to try it in the ocean.

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove the twenty or so miles from my house on the east side of Los Angeles, across the city and up the coast along the Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH, to us “locals”). Parking on the PCH, which runs right alongside the ocean, is impossible, but we eventually found a parking lot right next to the beach and dropped the ten bucks to park there. After locking all of our possessions in the trunk, I tucked my car key in a little pouch in my running shorts (pay attention to that detail – it comes in later), and set off. We scampered across the highway to the Malibu Surf Shack, which rents surf boards, paddleboards and, you got it, sea kayaks. After we ducked in to the little shop and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the guy behind the counter asked if we’d been sea kayaking before. Sarah and Adrianna both nodded, yep, they’d been once before at the Surf Shack a handful of months earlier. I hesitated, and then said, “Sure, I’ve kayaked before.” Technically not on the ocean, but so be it.

“Well, good,” said the guy, who was every bit a surfer dude. “Wouldn’t want an inexperienced kayaker out on those waves today….they’re reaaaal rough, even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

My heart began to pound as we signed off the waivers and put down the deposit.  Sarah, clearly the brains behind the operation—or at least the bravest of us all—led us out of the little shop. Adrianna and I both began talking about how we weren’t exactly “experienced kayakers.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Sarah said, brushing us off.

Feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and fear I always get from any rule-breaking or risk-taking because I am a coward and a square, I followed her around the side of the shop. We grabbed paddles and damp lifejackets and then waited for a lull in the traffic before running across the highway and back to the beach. The sea kayaks in bright citrus colors were stacked high in a trailer parked alongside the road. Another surfer dude from the Surf Shack helped us carry three down to the sand.

The waves were pounding along the beach. Adrianna and I gulped. Sarah, all confidence, tried to reassure us. I turned to the Surf Shack dude.

“Tell us, honestly,” I said. “Are we going to die?”

“What? No. You guys will be fine.”

“But we are not experienced sea kayakers, man.” I added the “man” there to let him know that even if we weren’t regular wave-paddlers, we were far from dorks. He seemed to pick up on how cool we were, because he said next in particularly soothing tones:

“Look, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but Adrianna and I were willing to be reassured by anyone, dude or otherwise.

The guy continued, “All you have to do is wait for a lull in the waves and then run out as fast and as hard as you can and hop in the boat when you can’t run any farther. The waves here in Malibu come in bursts—they’ll be a couple minutes of hard waves and then they’ll die down.”

We all paused to look out on the waves. They did seem to be dying down. Sarah took the moment to leap into the water and run out with her boat. When she reached waist-height, she leapt into her boat and paddled out. She looked cool.

I’d missed my window at that point, and had to wait for another round of boat-crushing waves before I too took the plunge. Once the water calmed again, I pushed my boat into the water and high-stepped as far as I could. I leapt into my boat not as gracefully as Sarah but I got in all the same, and paddled quickly past the waves’ breaking point. Alright, maybe I wasn’t going to die. Maybe I was all drama, it was all in my head. There is no spoon. Adrianna and I exchanged a nervous laugh – we were just being silly, everything was fine.

I should note that this was only the second or third time I’d even seen the ocean, let alone been on the water. I’m from Minnesota originally and so “the beach” to me means a day near a lake where the biggest waves we get are from a passing speedboat pulling a couple kids on an inner tube behind it. So my cowardice, while a little pathetic, wasn’t entirely ungrounded.

We paddled our boats out past the wooden pier. There were fishermen with long poles standing at the end of  it, and a few of them waved at us as we passed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, with barely a breeze and a cloudless sky. I looked around at the gentle waves and the rocky coastline, and kept having to tell myself “I live here now. This is my home now.” Sometimes, I find it amazing how huge the United States really are. I marveled how the beautiful coastline I was kayaking along was part of the same country as the rolling hills of prairie grass and wildflowers I’d ridden past only a few months earlier on bike rides in Minnesota.

As we made our way up the shore, we saw surfers up ahead; there was some kind of surfing competition going on up the beach. We paddled out farther to avoid them, and because (understandably) the waves looked even bigger there. We paddled for an hour or so before deciding to come back in and have lunch along the shore.

For the approach back to the beach, we were to do the same strategy as our way out: wait for the waves to calm before paddling. Sarah turned to us. “All you have to remember,” she said, “is to keep your boat at a 90 degree angle to the beach. Just head straight in. See, watch me.”

Sarah paddled forward hard for thirty or forty feet before sliding her boat gracefully onto the sand. Easy. Adrianna and I hesitated. She looked at me nervously. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said, thrusting my chin forward bravely. I looked behind me to try to gauge if the waves had died down. Things looked fairly calm so I paddled toward the shore, making sure to stay perpendicular to the shoreline, as Sarah had instructed.

Adrianna followed suit, looking anxious. After my hour on the water, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots. Humans emerged from the ocean thousands of years ago, shook off their gills and claimed their spot on land. And now, here I was, returning to my ocean homeland, victorious. The forces bigger than me were to be conquered, to bow before me. Yeah, I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!

I paddled harder for shore. Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. I glanced over at Adrianna, who was struggling to keep her boat’s bow heading straight for shore. Her kayak pushed toward mine, and I paddled even harder away from her, trying to avoid a collision.

The waves were now coming in even harder, rolling us closer and closer to shore. Suddenly, an enormous wave overtook us, and took my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head…”

…to be continued  

 

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Road Trip West: The Wildfire (Part 4 of 4)

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(Part 4 in a 4 part series)-

 

WILDFIRE!!!

By Megan Ritchie

…continuing on our journey out of  the Grand Canyon…we crossed the border into California just as the sun set.

The next day dawned bright and clear as I stepped out into the parking lot for my first view of California in the daylight.

There was desert. Everywhere. Palm trees, desert, and—there she was—the good old Ford Focus with the trusty U-haul trailer still attached. We packed up our bags and hit the road for our final day in the car.

At about 1 o’clock that afternoon, Chris and I pulled off for what was to be our final gas stop. He’d driven the whole morning, in preparation for our last few hours, when I would take the wheel in order to brave the big bad Los Angeles freeway system with a slow-moving trailer.

The saddest room in a gas station in CA

We fueled up, and then I swung into the driver’s seat and pulled out onto I-45.  About 45 minutes later we started to see smoke. As we got closer, we began making guesses at what it could be.  A house? Eh, who could say; it was too far away to tell. Bored, Chris went back to his book and I fiddled with the radio.

Then we hit traffic. Now, according to my handy-dandy smartphone (that I made Chris check, responsible driver that I am) we were about an hour, hour and a half outside of L.A., and part of me (the scared, “What if I hate this city? Can I actually do this?” part of me) was afraid that this was the edge of the fabled Los Angeles traffic. What if we were in this for the next couple hours? What if, for the rest of my existence, I find myself sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic? What if–Alright, alright, calm down, it’s stop-and-go, at least we’re moving.

And then we stopped moving entirely. The smoke was right near us now, billowing in big brown plumes.  Hauling that trailer, we were in the far right lane, the truck and trailer lane, and we weren’t moving at all. Suddenly, we heard sirens. Out my side mirror I saw them: fire truck upon fire truck upon fire truck, racing past us on the shoulder. There were your standard red engines, but also larger ones, with “Wildfire Control” printed on the side.

“Uh, Chris?” I said.

He looked up from his book.

“What?”

“I think this fire is sort of big.”

“Yeah, seems like it.”

Back down to the page.

Then, above: thwup-thwup-thwup-thwup….! I ducked down to see the sky through the windshield. Above us was a helicopter, dumping liquid on the fire.

We still weren’t moving. The smoke was getting thicker and thicker. While it had started on the right of the car, suddenly there was smoke billowing on both sides. I looked around. On the opposite side of the highway, four lanes across, cars were starting to turn around, using the shoulder to drive the wrong way down the freeway, away from the fire.

“Chris? It looks, um, really big.”

He finally looked up from his book. To our right was an entrance ramp. We looked to see cars driving the wrong way up the ramp, fleeing the flames ahead of us. There was a huge semi in front of us; our view was blocked from how close we were to the fire and then suddenly: to our left, it breached the hill.

We watched in horror as a shed not a half a mile away from us was consumed by flames in milliseconds. The fire enveloped a flagpole and burned through an American flag as fast as we registered what it was doing.

“Oh. My. God,” I breathed. “What do I do? What do I do??”

I struggled not to panic. The flames were close, much closer than anyone would like, but I couldn’t see any fire trucks nearby… I kept looking for a cop or a firefighter or some kind of authority figure to tell us what to do and where to go. But there was no one. Everyone was too busy fighting the fire, and no one was there thinking about the bystanders just trying to get out of the way. No one.

But there was Chris sitting in the passenger seat, his book long abandoned, telling me in the calmest tones possible, “Megan, we have to wait for the truck ahead of us to turn onto the entrance ramp before we can go. We just have to wait for the truck to move and then it’s our turn.” I looked over: there was still a big line of cars driving up the ramp, fleeing the flames.  We had to wait for the truck to move or we could get stuck. The only way around the truck was on the shoulder to our right.  But the truck wasn’t moving at all.

I inched forward, very aware that I had not been at all trained in the art of backing up a car with a trailer attached. I heard my dad’s voice ringing through my head: “You could jackknife that thing, easy. Just make sure you never get into a situation where you need to back it up. Just always pull through.” The truck in front of us wasn’t moving and there was at least a truck’s length in front of it. In fact, the truck in front of us wasn’t even running.

“Oh my god,” I said, as it dawned on me. “The trucker—he abandoned his truck! He just abandoned it. He’s not there anymore! He just left! He left it!”

I couldn’t stop talking. Chris was stunned. In my rising panic, I briefly toyed with the idea of doing the same thing as the trucker, leaving all of my prized and not-so-prized possessions in the car to be consumed by the flames. Everything would be lost: my passport, my books, my clothes and camera and computer; even old love letters, tax returns, photographs. But we’d be safe. We’d run through the tall grass on the side of the road until we weren’t breathing smoke anymore. Then some weatherworn trucker would pick us up and drop us in the parking lot of the nearest hotel or gas station with a “Just be happy you got alive, kids,” before he cruised away. It’d be like straight out of an action movie.

With the smoke getting thicker around us, it felt like straight out of an action movie.

“What do we do? What do we do??” I repeated, feeling my hands start to shake.

At about that moment, we started to see even more cars driving up the shoulder, on both sides of the road now. If we decided to zip out on the right-hand shoulder to get around the abandoned truck, we’d risk a head-on collision with someone coming from farther down the freeway.  In fact, these cars were definitely from the frontlines because they were covered in bright orange anti-flame retardant, the stuff the helicopter–no, now three helicopters–were dumping on the wildfire all around us.

I looked around, and made an executive decision.

“I’m going to try to turn around,” I said. “We can’t go around that truck and so we have to get on the shoulder on the other side of the road.”

“But you can’t back up the trailer.”

“I’m going to turn around,” I repeated. “We have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.”

The smoke was billowing even thicker now, blotting out the sun. It reminded me of a solar eclipse I once watched through a tiny hole in a piece of paper in 3rd grade. I wondered, briefly, if I should be looking at the smoke through a hole in a piece of paper too.

Gripping the wheel hard, I turned on my signal and put the car in drive. Thankfully, we’d waited so long that the traffic had cleared out more: so many people had already pulled their cars around on the shoulder and fled before us that the lanes were more open.

We must have looked panicked, two kids with very out-of-state plates hauling a little U-haul trailer behind us, flushed in terror, because someone let us in immediately. I craaaaaanked the wheel and we held on as I started the turn. And then, at last, I exhaled: we’d made it, a full U-turn across four lanes of freeway, and clunked out onto the shoulder of I-45, heading the wrong way down the freeway. With traffic, much of it splattered in orange, but going the decidedly wrong direction down the road.

“We’re okay! We’re okay!!” we shouted and pumped our fists, like so many action stars before us.

After we made it off the freeway at last, I’d like to say we found an easy route around the wildfire and made it to L.A. without any further incident. I’d like to say it was the breeziest part of the trip. I’d like to say we spent the rest of our hour to hour-thirty minute trip marveling at the wildfire and our superhero brush with death.

None of this happened, of course. Instead, after we made it off the freeway at last, we pulled out a road atlas and picked out a new route along a nice county road. It seemed like a pleasant enough journey at first, until the mountains starting rising up in front of us in a sheer wall.

“That’s…that’s not our road, right, Chris?” I said, very aware that the car groaned with effort at even the slightest change in incline.

He re-consulted the map.

“Nah…”

We kept driving, heading closer and closer to the mountains.

“Chris…”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on. Let me look at this…wait. What are these green dots on the road?”

“Green dots? What green dots??”

“Oh. Uhhh…the green dots mean ‘scenic route.’”

“WHAT!” I almost lost it.  “We do not want a scenic route! We want a decidedly UNpretty, UNeventful, UNscenic route! Pick another way! Find us another way!”

Chris held the map closer, squinting at the tiny roads.

“Hold on. Hold on. Uh. Megan? We might be in trouble…”

“Why?”

“Well, we’re trying to get through a national forest and I-45 was kinda are only main way, but that way is obviously, um, burning. But there are other roads!”

“So pick another road!”

“But here’s the thing: They’re…they’re all scenic routes!”

 

Nearly three hours later, after the car began to bottom out at literally 10 miles per hour, and after an old lady gave us the finger as she passed us in sheer frustration going the wrong way on a blind curve up a mountain, and after I thoroughly sweat through all of my clothes, we made it through the very narrow, very steep and very scenic mountain pass.

And then, after about an hour of that good old L.A. rush hour traffic, we made it to Los Angeles and my new home,  after a full five days of driving and nearly 2200 miles. We were nearly five hours later than we’d anticipated. Exhausted, we piled out of the car. And as we opened up the Uhaul trailer and began unloading my possessions into my new room, I couldn’t help but think, “Well, no matter what happens, no matter if I make it as a screenwriter here in Hollywood or go home crying and defeated, there is 100% no way L.A. can be as intense as that afternoon.”

And you know what, dear reader? On that, at least, I’ve been right.

~Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West Introduction

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

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Filmmakers’ Dreams Come True

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Filmmakers Martin Mudry and Alex Nichols’ Dream of Festival Screening  was realized this month.  On the heels of the documentary’s World Premier at the LUMS International Film Festival in Lahore, Pakistan held February 10 – 12, the filmmakers received more big news this week: Where Dreams Don’t Fade will be screening at the 36th Cleveland International Film Festival in March.

Martin Mudry in Hollywood

This is big news for EntertainingYourself.com because Martin is also one of our beloved contributors!

We would like to extend our Congratulations to both of these filmmakers, along with its stars, Robert Kigen, Alexander Mneria and Virginia Rono, on this major milestone!

Read on to see the announcement  in the Cleveland International Film Festival Program:

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Where Dreams Don’t Fade

Director:
Martin Mudry
Alex Nichols
Run Time: 76 minutes

Country: USA, KENYA

Year: 2012

Since 1968 Kenya has won 21 Olympic gold medals in long distance running compared to the U.S.’s three medals. While the rest of the world knows the African region gives birth to some of the best long distance runners on the planet, the true story of how each person gets to the big stage remains hidden. WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE is an intimate portrait into the trials and tribulations of the men and women who dream of a better life through running. Following three runners, this documentary provides insight into a part of the world where everyone shares the same dream, but the only escape is through hard work, determination, and a little bit of luck. Virginia is relatively new to running and she trains as she searches for a job; Alex was recruited into the army that trained him; and Robert is battling back from injuries hoping to hang on to the last chance he may have. The amount of perseverance, dedication, and discipline is inspiring and one can’t help but root for these runners as they chase their dreams in a place where dreams are all they have. (In English, Swahili, and Kalenjin with subtitles) –T.W.

 

tickets and showtimes

Tuesday, March 27 separator 8:45 PM
Wednesday, March 28 separator 5:45 PM
Thursday, March 29 separator 12:05 PM
Sidebars Standing Up Competition, Pan-African Images, Local Heroes
Producer Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Screenplay Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Cinematography Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Editing Alex Nichols, Martin Mudry
Principal Cast Alexander Mneria, Robert Kigen, Virginia Rono
Director Bio Alex Nichols is a Minnesota native who studied English and film studies before graduating from Colorado College in Colorado Springs in 2007. While there he ran varsity cross country and track, wherein he met fellow filmmaker and runner Martin Mudry.A native of Cleveland Heights, Martin Mudry studied at University School in Shaker Heights and Colorado College in Colorado Springs before finishing his tenure at Macalester College in St. Paul, Minnesota, where he studied filmmaking and graduated with a degree in Psychology.
Select Filmography WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE (2012)
Print Source Where Dreams Don’t Fade
Martin Mudry
m.j.mudry@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/wheredreamsdontfade
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Road Trip West: The Wigwam Motel (Part 2 of 4)

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(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

The Wigwam Motel and other Southwest Adventures (Continued from Part 1 – Road Trip West: Introduction)

By Megan Ritchie 

 

After Americana bliss in Emporia, Kansas, Chris and I continued south for our second day on the road, skirting through Oklahoma along with David Sedaris (Me-Talk-Pretty-One-Day), and resting at last in scenic Amarillo, Texas. Amarillo was, as far as we could tell, simply a freeway lined with chain restaurants, a few strip clubs, and an impressive amount of abandoned fake hair.

Amarillo, TX

We tiredly checked into our hotel, the Super 8, and both quickly realized we’d hit the jackpot: It was, hands-down, the nicest Super 8 either of us had ever had the privilege of staying in. Truly. They gave us a suite for no reason. There was a mini-fridge. There were free cookies. Okay, our standards might be low, but it was still fantastic.

Next on the agenda was dinner. Now, Chris had lived in Texas for a year serving with Americorps and had one requirement for the night: Bar-b-que. We settled on a place a few storefronts down and wandered over. I’d never had real, authentic Texan BBQ before, and went for the pork sandwich. And it was de-licious. Maybe not delicious enough to move to Amarillo, Texas, but darn near close.

The next morning, we regretfully left Super 8 heaven and were up and at ‘em again.

The day passed fairly uneventfully as we made our way across New Mexico…

…and into Arizona.

I’d never been to the Southwest before, or not to that extent, anyway, and fell in love with the blues and reds of the place. Simply gorgeous. That night, we made it to lovely Holbrook, Arizona, where we checked into  what is quite possibly the coolest motel of all time.

Now, when mapping out our route the previous week, we’d booked hotels based on ease and reliability—chains, we decided, would work for our purposes, since they’re generally clean, inexpensive, and just off the freeway. There are, however, some spots where the chain hotels don’t roam—and one such spot is smack dab in the middle of Arizona. Not to be deterred, I poked around for a while online, and stumbled across the historical Wigwam Motel. One look at the pictures, plus the motel’s signature catchphrase (“Have YOU slept in a wigwam lately?”) and Chris and I were on board.

As we pulled in to the Wigwam Motel’s parking lot, we struggled with where to park the Focus and trailer combination.

Each wigwam also features its own vintage car, which, as far as we could tell, didn’t work, didn’t unlock and, generally, didn’t serve any purpose whatsoever. I generally love cars-as-decorations, so I was sold instantly.

We found a spot and, stretching our stiff legs from another eleven hours in the car, trudged into the motel’s office to check in.

The office turned out to be part gift shop (all the t-shirts were double-XL though, much to my sincere disappointment) and part museum. It featured displays on the motel itself (it’s listed in the National Register of Historic Places!), but also on the nearby Petrified Forest.  Since Chris and I hadn’t been able to stop at the national park earlier that day, we found it pretty thoughtful of them to have arranged a private viewing of some of the rocks from there for us. We got our key and made our way to our wigwam, which is perhaps the most fun word to say ever.

Suitcase in hand, I swung open the door to our ‘wam excitedly and saw: Two slightly stained beds, an old TV, a nightstand with a burned-out lamp, some tacky art hanging on one wall. Oh.

Okay, so it might not have been the nicest motel on the inside.  We might have discovered over the course of the night that the air conditioner sounded like it was going to take off,  and that the shower tiles were in need of a good scrub, and that the doorknob jiggled a bit more than we would’ve liked, but it was a wigwam, okay? A circular, cement, stand-alone motel room in the shape of a teepee, with a dead blue vintage car parked out front, and for that night only, it was ours. All ours. It doesn’t get any better than that, you guys.

 ~Megan~

  Ready for More?

  Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

  Part 4 – The Wildfire

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Road Trip West – Introduction (Part 1 of 4)

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(Part 1 in a 4 part series)

By Megan Ritchie

I recently moved from my hometown of Minneapolis allll the way out to Los Angeles, some 2000-plus miles away. Here are a few tales of the drive across.

First, let’s lay out our cast of characters: We have me, Megan, age 23, and the one theoretically “in charge,” and Chris, my younger brother, newly 21.

 

We’re driving across the country in a red Ford Focus, character #3, and finally, our star to fill out the quartet, the whiney one, the high maintenance one, the one who weighs us all down: the 5’x8’ U-haul trailer packed full to the ceiling with all of my possessions, being pulled behind the car.

We left on a Monday morning at 6 am. My dad and I had been pouring over Google Maps stuff trying to decide the best route. We’d gotten in an argument, as young adult children are apt to do with their parents at times, especially when they’re being overly protective and you’re super strong and brave (and have lived in a foreign country…okay, Dad? I got this one.). I wanted to take the shortest—and therefore cheapest, as far as hotel stops and gas—route, right through Denver, where I could stay with a friend, and on through the Rockies, Vegas and finally to L.A. This idea nearly gave my dad a heart attack. “Driving through the Rockies? With a trailer behind a Ford Focus? Megan, are you insane?”

I relented, after looking at the elevation map and throwing a fairly unusual money temper tantrum (emotions were running high, okay?). So, our route was decided: Take Interstate 35 down to Oklahoma City, take a right, and take Interstate 40 to Los Angeles. That’s it. One turn. Thrilling, right? It was.

Now, Chris and I quickly discovered that driving a well-packed trailer behind a sedan was an interesting challenge. The U-haul folks in Minneapolis had warned me not to take the trailer above 55 miles per hour. I’d nodded along with them, but secretly scoffed at this at the time, thinking I’d be pushing at least sixty-five the whole way…I mean, I had 2100 miles to cover.But as we quickly discovered on the barely rolling hills of Iowa, the car couldn’t get to sixty-five with the trailer. The car couldn’t even get to sixty. And so we inched along at a (super pathetic) fifty-four miles an hour…for five days straight.  Any change in elevation and the car would scream in protest.

Wind Turbine Blows By Us on the Freeway

As it was, the car was going through gas at an impressive rate. Binge drinking, really. Instead of averaging about 300 miles per tank, we were checking in at around 180. Still, despite the gas and the speed, Chris and I were having a grand old time, mostly because of books on tape…which I guess we call audiobooks now because no one uses tapes anymore…or CDs, for that matter. Okay, fine, I just dated myself.

Time for another drink - Somewhere in Iowa

Anyway, on our first day, we listened to all of Tina Fey’s memoir, Bossypants.  If you haven’t had the privilege of hearing it, I’d highly recommend doing so. Fey herself reads the book and does all sorts of voices for her characters. Plus they use the actual Saturday Night Live clips that she discusses, which was extra fun.

That night, high on giggling along with Tina, we stopped in scenic Emporia, Kansas. We were, I admit, feeling quite proud of ourselves for having made it through three whole states (MN, IA and MO, for those keeping track) in one day.

Sunset in Emporia, Kansas

After checking into the hotel, I was quickly reintroduced to any Americana I may have missed in a dining experience in China by our nearby restaurant selections: Applebee’s, Pizza Hut, Burger King and Wal-Mart (does that count?). We were no fools; we chose Applebee’s and man, did we eat good in the neighborhood. Chris got a burger approximately the size of his head; I went a little less risqué and ordered the Southwest chicken salad because I’m trying to watch my figure. As it was, it was covered in tortilla strips, cheese, and creamy dressing. And was delicious. While we ate, someone across the restaurant had a birthday so the whole restaurant got to sing; I ordered about three Coke refills (for free!); and the waitress tried to get us to sign up for the Applebee’s reward program. Can you get any more American than that? No, no, you can’t. It was glorious.

Megan Richie

I couldn’t wait for the next day…

 

 

~Megan~

…And neither can we.  Coming Soon (we hope!)

The Next installments:

Part 2 – The Wigwam Motel

Part 3 – The Grand Canyon

Part 4 – The Wildfire

In the meantime, enjoy a few other stories by Megan Ritchie:

The World Really Is Flat

Running Five Polish Miles

Afterward

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Filmmakers Dream of Festival Screening

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FEBRUARY 2012 — NEWS FLASH –

2/13/12 – WHERE DREAMS DON’T FADE made it’s world premier debut this past weekend at the LUMS International Film Festival in Pakistan.  Say tuned for more updates about worldwide showings!  Next announcement coming soon….

Last July we checked in with Alex Nichols and Martin Mudry in East Africa, where they were interviewing and filmingKenyan runners for a documentary.

This week the pair got word that the Penine Film Festival in England will consider their entry, Where Dreams Don’t Fade.

After months of shooting in the Kenyan highlands, editing footage in Colorado Springs and finally shipping off a completed documentary, the onetime cross-country teammates have all but crossed the finish line for their project; they’re just not sure where they’ve placed.

Filmaker Martin Mudry in Kenya

Now it’s a matter of waiting to see if their work will be accepted–to Penine or any of the 20 other festivals, mostly in major American cities, to which they applied.
“If we get in, it’s a really exciting stage to move into,” Mudry said of the submission process. “At the same time it’s nerve racking because you’re putting yourself out there.”

The story Mudry and Nichols have staked their cinematic hopes to is one of three Kenyan athletes–a woman and two men–who train, work and sacrifice in the rural town of Iten, where they pursue running dreams of one shape or another.

The American filmmakers hope their portrayal of the nation outside the context of a disaster or an aid mission, and Kenyans as individuals, not endurance machines, will hook viewers.

Filmaker Alex Nichols on location in Kenya

“I think [the film] does a lot of good in breaking down stereotypes of Africa and African runners,” Nichols said. “Even if it’s not what people expect, it’s a fairly good representation of what’s going on and hopefully they’ll realize what we’re showing them is honest.”

For their part, Nichols, whose making his second feature-length documentary, and Mudry, his first, are adjusting to life without scenes to frame or audio to edit.

“One year ago Alex and I were talking to see if we were actually doing it,” Mudry said. “Now we’re virtually done. That’s pretty amazing.”

Even with the anticipation of waiting to hear from festivals, they’ve been able to reflect on the project as a whole. “It’s good to watch it at this point and see how entertaining it is,” Nichols said. “There are still things I wish we could make better, but it’s just not going to happen because there’s only so much filming you can do.”

Mudry and Nichols have also kept in touch with the subjects of their documentary, who’ve led eventful lives since filming ended. The men, Robert Kigen and Alex Mneria, battled injuries and spent time on army bases as the Kenyan army made incursions into Somalia.  The woman, Virginia Rono, has continued working at a new job and has entered a few races.

Robert Kigen studies his X-ray

Alex Mneria stretches after his run

Virginia Rono pursuing the dream

“We’ve told them they can’t officially quit running until the film is released,” Mudry joked.

That could be sooner rather than later. Nichols and Martin expect to hear back from the early festivals by mid-January.

Will Kennedy

~Will~

And if you haven’t already, be sure to check out these recent stories by Will Kennedy on EntertainingYourself.com

In defense of the family road trip:

I survived Dog Sledding in Mongolia 

EY Travel Tips: Scotland

 

 

 

Typical Countryside Residence

EY Travel Tips: MONGOLIA

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Why visit Mongolia?

Well there’re just about a million reasons. For starters the world’s second largest landlocked country (Nearby Kazakhstan ranks first) houses geographic diversity that rivals pretty much anywhere. There’s the snow capped mountains and Kazakh eagle hunters to the west; the vast Gobi Desert and great Central Asian Steppe in the south; reindeer herders in the Siberian forests of the north and the grasslands populated by native gazelle or Oryx to the east. Writing this, I’m wondering why I’m not there right now.

A successful population of the critically endangered Wild Asian or Przewalski’s Horse resides in Mongolia, as does 2-million year old Lake Khovsgul, which itself holds half-a-percent of the world’s potable water. Famed naturalist Roy Chapman Andrews—sometimes credited as the proto-Indiana Jones—discovered dino eggs in the Gobi and Genghis Khan launched an empire that linked Beijing to Baghdad to Babenberg, Austria. With the end of Soviet communism and institution of a capitalist democracy, Mongolia experienced incredible socio-economic change over two decades, but step a mile outside the capital, Ulaanbaatar, and enter a world where the felt tents and herders carry traditions held by the Mongols for millennia.

Now that you’re convinced, here are five tips for your trip.

1.       Dress Warm. Nuh-uh. Warmer

Mark Twain famously said the coldest winter he ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. Frankly, Mark Twain is a liar and moreover he’s never even been to Mongolia. The average temperature in Ulaanbaatar is freezing, meaning when you ask what’s the temperature, at any time of year, it’s quite probably freezing. Ulaanbaatar’s the coldest capital in the world. That means Reykjavík, that city in a land which, from my understanding, is literally made of ice, is warmer. When visiting Mongolia in winter, prepare like you would for a polar expedition: long underwear, solid winter jacket, winter gloves and liners and probably some sort of heat trapping mask. Summer days are warm, but like San Francisco, it can get nippy, especially at night, so bring clothes for hot and cold.

2.       Sunscreen

In addition to being one of the planet’s colder nations, Mongolia paradoxically ranks as one of the sunniest spots in the world. It’s generally accepted that the country gets over 250 cloudless days per year without a cloud in the sky, more sun than Yuma, Arizona. So for those afternoons out on the wide-open steppe when it’s just you, the Great Blue Sky, and the really hot, bright sun, UV protection makes the awe-inspiringness of nature less blistery and painful. You can buy some in UB, but selection may be limited, so consider bringing some from home.

3.       Make room for mutton.

There’s a good chance you will be offered a lot of mutton in Mongolia. “What’s on the menu?” you ask. Well, there’s mutton. Mutton with flour. Mutton with onions. Mutton with a side of mutton. There can be more—Ulaanbaatar has everything from Korean to vegetarian restaurants to fried chicken joints—but outside of the city your options are generally limited, so you may want to accustom the palate to boiled sheep meat. Unusual dairy products like dry curdled sheep milk to fermented horse milk is everywhere, so bring lactase tablets if you have difficulty digesting milk and want to sample the traditional food. Fun fact: Mongolian BBQ is as Mongolian as McDonalds is Scottish. The closest thing to barbecue in Mongolia is Boodog: goat or marmot cooked by placing hot rocks in its stomach. Less fun fact: marmot meat can carry bubonic plague. I recommend the goat.

4.       Be kind to the Khan.

Mongolians have a deserved reputation for hospitality and generosity and while pick pocketing does occur in the capital, it’s generally a pretty safe place. Mongolia is a peaceful democracy that’s managed to maintain good relations with both North Korea and the United States, but the heart of the nation is still ruled with an iron fist by Genghis Khan. In the wrong company, a bad word about national hero Genghis Khan is considered a fighting word. Yes, by some estimates he killed 10 percent of the world’s population in his day, but he was also brilliantly innovative and remarkably tolerant of the freedom of his subjects given the time period. Mongolians view him as a Goergebraham Roosevelt, the embodiment of everything great about the nation, a one-man Mount Rushmore. After being barred from revering their national hero under Soviet rule, the adoration has returned in force. His name appears on everything, from the airport to hair salons, so the temptation to bring him up is everywhere. If you’re at a bar, keep it positive.

5.       A little Mongolian goes a long way.

Sain Bainuu (hello) and Bayarlaa (thank you) are good to know. Mongolians are very responsive, and sometimes amused, when foreigners speak to them in Mongolian. When you’ve been in town for a bit Zuun, Chigiree, Baruun Tiish, the words for left, straight and right turn respectively, can be very handy for getting around. Street names aren’t commonly used in the country, so directions are often given in a series of turns. For transportation, licensed taxis are rare (although word is this may be improving)  and while nearly every car in the capital is willing to serve as an unofficial cab, they may not know where you’re asking them to go.  Provided you know where you’re going, you can help them.

~Will~

A world traveler hailing originally from the hills of California, William Kennedy currently resides in London, England.  His time spent living in Mongolia left many lasting impressions. 

“Did you know?

That the number of livestock in Mongolia is 20 times more than the country population? Number of livestock is 42 million and the population number is 2.9 million people.

That Ulaanbaatar is a True Nomad? The city changed its locations 29 times before settling in its present day location.”

For more tidbits visit the Official Tourism Website of Mongolia

Tri biking

Crazy – Part 2: Race Day

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Trying a Triathlon, Part 2: Race Day

(Cont’d from Part 1) The morning of the race was clear and cool. Since it was August, the race started at a pleasant 8 AM. I was up at 4:45, already chugging water to stay hydrated. The night before, a friend had helped me clean up my bike, greased the gears and pedals, pumped up the tires, even adjusted the stem. Its beautiful drop-down handlebars were freshly wrapped. I felt like a jockey before a big race, patting my trusty mount.

When I arrived at the race area, I got my race number (25! A good, solid number, I told myself) written in black permanent marker on my arm, thigh and shin, so I could be identified both in the water and on land. I quickly realized I never wanted to wash that number off again. I jogged around to warm up, shakily swigging water, my stomach fluttering.

As one of the younger participants in the race, I was in the first wave of swimmers. About fifty other women and I lined up on the beach in our red swim caps (“free” race swag!). The gun went off. And so did we!

Swimming in a pool is one thing. Swimming in a lake surrounded by bodies while being kicked in the face is another.

Months earlier, when some of my female coworkers heard I was doing an all-women’s triathlon, they thought it was so neat. “Oh, it’ll just be so nice, having other women there to support you as you go along,” they told me over our microwaved lunches. I nodded politely. It was nice, wasn’t it?

That was not the attitude I decided to take. I’d dropped nearly half a grand to get to this race. I wasn’t here to hold hands and braid each other’s hair, thankyouverymuch. Anytime someone kicked me, I pushed back, jostling for space, and, as people began to feel the swim halfway in, I began picking off the enemy, one by one.

With a final stroke, the swim portion was done. We lurched out onto the sand, ran past the lines of screaming fans (screaming, I tell you!), and up into the Transition Area.

The Transition Area in a triathlon is hallowed ground. Only tri participants can go in or out; spectators are banned. Each racer is assigned to one lane, and that lane consists of a metal sawhorse of sorts, on which you prop your bike, and a very small area near to it, where you put your shoes and socks, towel, and water bottle. Transitions between the races count toward your total time, so the name of the game is speed. I’d practiced transitioning a bit in my backyard, aware of how silly I must look to the neighbor cats who watched me from their window perches, and now was my moment. I ran in, dropped my goggles and cap, shakily got on my socks and shoes, threw on my helmet and away I went. Transition 1, done.

Next was the bike portion. This was by far the biggest part of the race at 15 miles in length. I let Ol’ Blue stretch out her legs and we were off.

The bike portion was along the Mississippi River, on both the Minneapolis and St. Paul sides. Since I lived nearby, I’d spent many Sundays biking the course and beyond.  My main concern for this part of the race was the no-drafting rule. Drafting is when you follow closely behind a biker, using that person’s slipstream to your advantage. There was a strict no-drafting rule, which meant you had to stay a minimum of three bike lengths behind a biker. If you wanted to pass, you must do so in 15 seconds or risk a time penalty.

I’m not sure how seriously the rest of the women interrupted this rule, but for me that meant that, if I were at all able to, I needed to pass anyone in front of me as quickly as I could, every time I saw her, or risk breaking the rules, something I’ve been afraid to do basically since birth. Midway into the bike race and my legs were shaking. Perhaps I’d gone a bit too hard. Perhaps this rule wasn’t meant to harm me.

“It doesn’t matter!” I egged myself on, sipping my Gatorade-water mixture to help me through.

The second half of the bike race proved to be a bit harder than the first half, mostly because the wind had picked up. Dramatically. We made it over the bridge near the Transition Area all but wobbling on our bikes in the gusts. I dismounted and ran my bike over to my lane. Propping my bike up on the sawhorse and throwing down my helmet, I jogged off in a minute flat. Transition 2, done. Now only 5k left to go!

There is a phrase in triathlon-speak called “bricking.” Bricking happens when you get off your bike and try running immediately afterward. It feels, appropriately, like your thighs are made of heavy bricks. Try (tri!) as you might, you can barely lift them. I’d practiced doing this, too, some that summer, but my quads were screaming from the bike race as I started out around the lake.

“Go go go!” my fans shouted at me. I lugged my body along, wind whipping my hair.

I was a mile in to the five kilometers when my shoe came untied. I ignored it. I was hardcore. I was a racer. I was doing a triathlon. A little untied shoe was not enough to make me stop!

A half a mile later and it was all I could do to keep running. It wasn’t that I was feeling sick or tired, at least not so tired that I couldn’t continue. It was that I had never had to pee so badly. Ever. All that hydration, all morning, all during the bike portion, and at each transition…all of it had backfired, big time. I willed myself to just…go…as I kept running. My shorts were black; no one would notice! And I could just jump in the lake right afterward. No big deal! But, like rule-breaking, peeing on command has never been something I’ve been good at. I was doomed. It was all I could think of, with a mile and a half left into my race, the race I’d been training for for months, when I should be thinking about picking it up, picking off people one by one, as the minutes clicked away on my time. All I could think of instead was…water.

I rounded a curve in the path. A water stop was up ahead. I was definitely not interested. But just beyond it…What was that there? Could it be…? Yes! A port-a-potty! I was saved!

And yet: Should I risk my victory for this pit stop? Was I such a fool? I looked around. The race was so spread out it was impossible to tell who was my competition and who had started minutes after me (the swim waves were staggered) and was therefore so far ahead of me, time-wise, that there was no way I’d beat them.

I stopped at the port-a potty, anything for some relief. An older couple out on a morning walk had stopped just ahead of me. I bounced around impatiently as the woman used the toilet. Breaking all rules of Midwestern propriety, I pleaded to the gentleman to let me go before him.

“I’m running a race,” I explained, pointing unnecessarily at my race number. “And I really have to go!” I hopped from foot to foot.

He rather begrudgingly agreed to let me cut, and, once his wife eased her way out of the stall, I bolted in. I relieved myself, tied my shoe, and, liters lighter, zoomed off after my opponents.

A mile left. My feet pounded on the pavement.

Then half a mile.  My lungs ached. Now was my time to go, this was it. This was it. I rallied, willing my legs to turn over faster. They shouted in protest, reminding me of the fifteen miles I’d just biked, and all a bit quicker than they’d been promised.

A third of a mile.

I could see the finish. Just around a curve, down the stretch, and I’d be there.

A quarter of a mile.

There were other women ahead of me, exhausted from the morning, like me. We could all just jog in together, nice and easy…

300 meters.

“Now!” said a voice in my head. “Now’s your time! Think of all the workouts, all the sweat, all the pain it’s taken to get here. Now go go GO!”

200 meters.

I lifted up my head, picked up my legs and pumped my arms down the last stretch. And when I crossed that finish line, I became, officially, a triathlete.

I can’t wait to do another one.

~Megan~

Megan has just returned stateside after a year of living and teaching in China.  Any guesses whether there’s a Triathlon in her future?

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

You Don’t Have To Be Crazy But…

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Trying a Triathlon: Part 1: Preparation and Training

The symbol for triathlon in the Olympics

I decided to start training for a triathlon in my rather dusty office cubicle in February of 2010. My office was in St. Paul, MN, at a public university, where I worked as an Americorps VISTA volunteer, helping expand the nursing programs to increase healthcare access to low-income patients, including setting up a community clinic. That last venture had completely stalled in contract negotiations with the local community center, and, since it was to be the vast majority of my job, I was bored. Underutilized, and bored. Left to my own devices, I spent a lot of time trolling the Internet, looking for random healthcare funding (that my school inevitably didn’t qualify for) and reading articles about healthcare on the New York Times webpage (that’s work, right?).

I needed direction, in or outside of the office, it didn’t matter. Having graduated from college the previous spring, 2010 was the first time in my life that I didn’t have any direction, didn’t have a clear syllabus with assignments carefully outlined. I found I missed it.

Since my cardiovascular-heavy semester in Eastern Europe (See Running 5 Polish Miles), I’d maintained an okay workout regimen of five days a week running, biking or swimming. Yet I just didn’t feel any spark in any of my workouts. I’d slog off a handful of miles on a treadmill or sweat away on a stationary bike while watching re-runs of Top Chef at the gym after work, then shower up and go eat dinner. Who cared.

And then it struck me: Since I was already running, biking and swimming, why not combine all three? Swim + bike + run = A triathlon! Hey! That was something!

I began cruising the Internet with a purpose. The length of these races was incredibly daunting at first, even the so-called “sprint tris,” which quickly became the only ones I was looking at. Sure, I could run 5 km or bike 15 miles or swim however many laps but combined? Um…

The second thing that concerned me was the price. Triathlons are no picnic to organize, I’m sure. They have to block off roads and beaches and parking lots. They have to hire lifeguards, police officers, and medical teams, and all the myriad of other things that goes into planning not one, but three races. And all that costs money, honey. As was quickly obvious by the registration fee for most of the tris I was finding: between $75 and $125. For one (three-in-one) race. Oi.

Let’s pause here for a moment to review a few facts. 1) I’m a recent college grad (two words: student. loans.) 2) In 2010, our country was—and still is today—recovering from the greatest economic recession we’ve had in years. 3) At the time, I was an Americorps volunteer. This last point is the most important, because Americorps volunteers get paid a very measly living stipend…a figure that puts them at the poverty line of wherever they’re serving…a figure so small I qualified for (and used) food stamps (A fact I always thought my alma mater probably wouldn’t be too eager to include in their latest admissions brochure: “Come to our college! When you graduate, you can get on food stamps only a few months later!”). Basically, it boiled down to $100 for a registration fee being a bit nuts for my monthly budget.

I sat on the idea.

Work stalled. Working out stalled.

Spring rolled around. I couldn’t take it anymore. Encouraged by my boss, a recent fitness convert (Don’t you love when someone can so utterly transform their lives, right in front of your eyes over the course of one short year? That was my boss during my year of Americorps service.), I looked up triathlon races again. The price had gone up.

I looked at my bank account balance, bit my lip, and went for it. A few minutes later, the confirmation email swept into my inbox. I was officially signed up for the YWCA Minneapolis Women’s Triathlon  on August 15, 2010.

The spring and early summer went by in a blur. Suddenly bent with purpose, I increased my workouts to six days a week. I ran around a track in blistering heat, swam between buoys at the lake nearby, and biked for miles on my old purple mountain bike, which dated all the way back to my junior high years.  I felt awesome! I was training for something! I was an athlete!  And yet…

That bike was going to be a problem. In all of my visions of triathlon glory, of me flying through the water like Michael Phelps and peddling the course at, like, 500 miles an hour, and leading the pack—no, breaking ahead of the pack!—during the road race, the bike was not in them. Its clunky gears, its thick and gawky wheels, its upright handlebars, its too-small frame…none of them were synonymous with my sure victory.

It had to go. Now bikes, as many of you may already know (and as I did not at the time), are really expensive. What’re a few gears and some rubber tires doing costing hundreds upon hundreds of dollars? I ask you. New bike, out. Used bike, in! I found one, a women’s Schwinn road bike that’s probably older than I am, at a used bike store in south St. Paul. I broke up with my purple mountain bike on the spot, and biked the blue one home.

Next stop, race day!

~Megan~