Author: admin

“I haven’t ridden a bike since I was, like, five.”

“Can this seat get any lower? It has been forever since I have done this.”

“Oh, pedal brakes! That is so fun! Like kindergarten!”

“Only four miles? Any hills? No? Okay, I think I can do this.”

And off we go. My relationship to biking has changed dramatically in the last few months. Instead of crossing the windswept, molten hot deserts of the Wind River Range in Wyoming with my son, wondering where we will next find food, water and shelter, now I cycle daily on a three-speed beach cruiser down a sweet little bike path that connects a few historic lighthouses, leading tours for tourists, who ooh and ah over the beauty of the southern Maine coast. And you know what? I love it.

Don’t get me wrong, not everybody who comes to Lighthouse Bikes is a novice cyclist, it is just that those are my favorite. They wobble around on the side street practicing braking and switching gears, and their faces flicker from intense concentration to wide grins, like blinking sunlight through the leaves. It is a thing of mine, this love of seeing people step just a little bit out of their comfort zones, and watching their confidence and mastery grow. It is like I get to watch them all be kids again–just for a moment. Away from their offices and piles of dishes and oil changes. It is playing and learning and being open to something just a little bit new, a little bit adventurous.

I feel like a kid again, too. A tired kid. All this is so new to me. I have never been a business owner! Everyday I am making mistakes and correcting and recorrecting again and again. It is like learning to steer. Everyday I am fixated on trying to learn new systems from bike repair to computer use to the history of Portland. There are days when I come home in the evening barely verbal and actually yearn for the sun to go down so that I can slip quietly off to my bed and sleep. I feel hungry for it. Just like a child.

What’s more, I have always been terrified of public speaking, and now I have to do it everyday, all day long. I used to hate it so much that I would cut class in high school and take a big fat “F” for the grade rather than stand in front of a crowd and talk. My knee caps would literally shake, the patellas bouncing up and down, visibly trembling, and my neck would blossom with huge red blotches–announcing my anxiety to everyone around. The repetitive nature of the tour has thankfully quieted this, but it was a great hurdle to leap. A different kind of a challenge, but a challenge nonetheless.

So, those customers who wobble this way and that? Who are embarrassed about their lack of skill? Who are exhausted at the end of our ride? I get them. And I also understand their grins that break out after their small successes. My grin is breaking out, too, every time someone walks out of the shop happy. One day I will get back out on an epic trip, but for now this is adventure enough.

Oakley turned 18 the other day. It was bittersweet, to be sure. I am happy to see he is becoming a young man, but sad that I am slowly losing my ability to guide and control him. He is going to have to learn some hard lessons on his own, and his inner voice is going to have to get louder than his mother’s. It is inevitable and important. I wonder how much longer I will be able to coerce him into adventuring with me? He has been my excuse for everything: Oakley needed to bicycle across the country; Oakley needed Adventure Wednesdays; Oakley needed me to switch careers and open a bike shop; Oakley needed me to keep in great shape to keep up with him.

I think everybody knows the truth; I am the one who has needed Oakley.

Don’t get me wrong, he drives me crazy. I can tell you endless tales of Oakley debacles if you get me started, but the fact is, he has allowed me to run wild with him in the name of parenthood, and running wild is what I do best.

Currently, our adventuring has been focused on Lighthouse Bikes, our new bike shop, and I feel a bit anemic due to our lack of physical exertion, the outdoors and the unknown. I am like a dog barking at the fence waiting for the gate to open again. I know it will, and we are already concocting big plans for the winter, when the shop is closed, but for now, Oakley and I need to sit tight and limit ourselves to day-long expeditions. Last week we snuck in a sweltering 32-mile ride to get ice cream, and next week, a mountain bike ride at Mt. Abrams.

To celebrate Oakley’s birthday, we went out and got matching tattoos, commemorating our trip across the United States and all our other biking adventures together. I have never had a tattoo, nor really thought much about them, but when your 18-year-old asks you to get matching ones, in between your shouting matches, there is only one answer: Yes.

The design we chose is the symbol used on signs that designate a bike route on America’s state highways, back roads, and bike paths, but for us it was a symbol of much more than that. It is a reminder that we have the strength to persevere through all sorts of challenges, that we will always be a team, and that there is always a way forward, regardless of flats, broken spokes, bad choices and upset. And I hope that at least once he looks down at it when faced with a difficult decision, and it helps guide him when he is on his own.

I have also used it as leverage, of course. He made an oath to go on one bike tour a year with me until he is 25. Manipulative ? Yes. I am no peach, and not quite ready to let him go.

No, I don’t mean I’m on fire-like “Look at me go!” I mean, I am on fire like, “I am a sweaty mess.”

All the newness associated with opening a new business, combined with menopause, has left quite the sheen of perspiration from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. I might seem unflappable, but let me tell you, I am flapped.

I am lucky enough to have a generally optimistic outlook, and privileged enough to be able to bounce even when I fall from high heights, but still, change is scary and I am not immune. As happy as I am to be embarking on this new journey with Lighthouse Bikes, I still have a twisted gut and find myself clenching my jaw, perseverating on whether or not changing careers at 52-years-old and trying to build a business from scratch, when I am no market analyst or capitalist, is really the best idea.

Too late now. I have thrown in all my poker chips and am just waiting to see what the cards have in store. Besides, what was the alternative? Choosing safety and prudence and feeling under challanged and flat? I am too young for that.

The truth is, I believe this is the gift of menopause. I know that it is a shameful word in our culture-an embarrassment to step away from youth in such a definitive way, but menopause provides a great reminder that we can be so much more than any one role in our lives and that there are endless possibilities. It seems to me like it is a wake up call to seize the day. It is not only the end of something, it is very much the beginning.

I mean look at all the symptoms of menopause:

Hot flashes that make you want to strip off layers of protective clothing and open doors and windows to feel the cool, deliciously-silky breezes of the night time air.

Interrupted sleep nudging you and saying, “Wake up, don’t miss a thing!”

Emotions rising and falling like breaking waves, screaming, “Feel it! Feel everything!”

The loss of the menstrual cycle that allows you to feel like a 12-year-old again. Free, playful and unencumbered.

All these symptoms encourage us to open up, feel more, do more and begin anew.

I don’t mean to be a pollyanna about all this. It just feels like as a culture we just whisper about it when it should be a shout. “You made it! Now what!”

I have friends that have chosen this time to go back to nursing school. Friends who have left jobs in which they sat all day, to teach Yoga full time. Friends who found the agency in their work positions to take leadership roles. And friends who have finally found the time to return to creating art.

All this change is scary, but change is inevitable and exciting. Stagnation…not so much. So when you see me sweating, and biting my nails, and riding my bike as far and as fast as I can go, please know that I am just on fire, and that is fine with me.

Our fleet of Racing Red cruisers

Lighthouse Bikes is opening in two days! What an adventure this has been. I can feel the synapses in my brain arcing and stretching as I try desperately to master QuickBooks, “Point of Sale” systems, inventory procedures, web design, new-hire paperwork, insurance (workers comp and liability!), and take a crash course in the history of Portland and bike mechanics. These are not areas in which I have ANY natural aptitude and as I have tried to learn about them from endlessly patient friends, family and business associates, it feels like I am in a foreign country, straining to pick out one familiar word from their foreign tongues.

I have begun dreaming about bikes and bike tours. I wake with a start remembering “Ah yes, we need paper bags for the shop!” or “Who is picking up Oakley today?” My lists are scrawled on legal pads, receipts, in notebooks and on calendars. There is a whirling dervish dancing inside me, throwing everything that I knew up into the air and delighting in watching it spin and dance, and land in messy piles.

Last weekend was my birthday. I took the day off and went to Popham Beach with my family. It was a beautiful warm, sunny afternoon and we lay in the sun; snacking on burritos and chatting. I tried to put all things related to biking and business out of my mind. We all decided to take a walk along the ocean, walking in and out of the water and coaxing Cricket, my dog, to join us. Suddenly, out of nowhere came the wind.

The sand, that had seconds before lay down under our feet, rose up and began slashing against our wet, naked legs, pricking our exposed skin like a million little needles. Rain began spitting down icy droplets, and gray, cumulous clouds tumbled towards us. We hugged our arms against our chests and began to retreat, but to get back to our cars we needed to walk directly into the gale. The beach itself seemed to rise up and hover, a foot off the surface, and we soon became coated with a sticky, sandy grit. Cricket looked at me reproachfully through squinty, sand-crusted eyes, as if to say, “Whose bad idea was this anyway?” We bent our heads, and spread out, many of us walking backwards, some with eyes closed and some hunched into question marks of discomfort, and made our way back across the beach; everybody in a silent battle of annoyance.

As I watched the patterns in the blowing sand, felt the needles of the sand and rain pricking, and watched my family spread out before me, I was struck. “Notice this,” the sand seemed to be saying. “Pay attention,” said the rain. “You are here now, not in Quick Books, not in your computer, not on your lists, you are here. It is all for this.” I peered around me. It was true; the shape-shifting sand seemed ephemeral; the surf had become mighty, and the clouds majestic. Maybe I am a slow learner and need constant intensity to recalibrate and stay awake, but nevertheless it worked.

Lighthouse Bikes will open in two days, and we are ready. It is a different kind of adventure than bicycling across the county to be sure, but it is an adventure, and who knows where it will lead. I am excited to watch other people pedal out and explore the coast on our shiny, red bicycles. I love thinking of the sun on their faces, the icy water on their toes when they stop on a beach, and the simple fun that they may have as they ride. That is what it is all about, QuickBooks be damned.

Tonight we sleep in a city park alongside the Llano River in central Texas. We have been biking a 425-mile loop, out from Austin, and around the Hill Country of Texas. 

It seems the river itself is under construction, huge excavators, dump trucks and bulldozers parade along the gravelly banks that flank the river, pushing and spreading great quantities of sandy soil a quarter mile in both directions. God knows what they are doing, but it is loud. They push sand one way, than another, piling it up in  mounds then flattening it again, crashing their metal shovels and truck beds together in a never ceasing cacophony of scrapes and clangs.

The park we are tenting in is home of an annual Crawfish festival, drawing to a close just last week. Some 50,000 revelers—all drinking, frolicking and apparently making good use of the rows upon rows of port-a-potties they left behind. The area seems tortured, parched and wounded.

There are mounds of teeming fire ants, stirred up by the chaos, and as I stand warily, eyeing some geese that seem bent on attacking me with heads lowered, hackles up and beaks all a-hiss, the ants find their way into my Crocs, and on a secret cue, all bite down simultaneously. I shriek and run for the water. 

“You like this?” asks my husband, Twain. “I can’t believe that you and Oakley put up with this on your adventures.”

“There will probably be a nice sunset,” I reply, trying to salvage something of the evening.

We set about making dinner atop a large cracked cement picnic table. Tonight is generic-brand macaroni and cheese and “salad in a bag.” We can’t bring butter with us as we bike through the desert so we use bottled Parkay from a squeeze bottle and forgo the milk. The result is gluey mess that is barely swallowable. It is so bad I have to laugh—it would be better used as spackle than food. Again, Twain looks at me, shakes his head, and laughs. “This is fucking horrible,” he says.

“See what I mean? Food is fuel out here. Nothing more,” I say with pride. At least we have procured a few beers and a soda for Oaks to wash it down.

We set out tents up on a slight hill, aware that it means a night of slow downward sliding, and spread out our air mats. Well, my air mat. Twain uses a piece of blue foam that would be more suited to insulating pipes than sleeping on. 

Finally, the moon comes up and the construction noise ceases. We wander down to the river’s edge to sit on a wide flat rock where the ants can’t get us. Blissfully, there is nothing to do. The river washes by. I bring out a book and read aloud for two hours. “One more chapter?” begs Oakley, again and again. We moan to each other about how much our knees ache from cycling and how sunburned we are. We talk about how many miles we need to tackle tomorrow and what the weather might bring. We retell both the challenges and the beautiful things we saw today. We finish the last of the beer.

I don’t know why I love this, but I do. I also love my husband and son for putting up with my idea of a good time. There are definitely easier ways to spend a vacation, but none that I have found that scratches this itch.

I suppose it is the thrill of the unknown, the challenges, as well as the victories, and the bond that adventure creates that I am searching for. I am not seeking comfort, but rather the open horizon and discovery; fire ants, squeeze Parkay, sunsets and all.

I have to be honest, before this biking adventure, I had never given the landscape of Texas much thought. I have always just thought of it as a wide, barren, hot expanse, connecting the green humid swamps of Louisiana to high, red mesas of New Mexico and plains to the north. Texas was only somewhere to drive through—with the air conditioning on. Well, I have learned the error of my ways. For the last nine days, my husband, teenage son, and I have cycled 425 miles along the Transamerican Cycling Association’s Texas Hill Country route, performing a loop beginning and ending in Austin. We biked along ranch and farm roads, through wine country (who knew?), cattle land and desert, and I have learned that there is a whole lot more to Texas than I had reckoned. Texas is a land of extremes. In late April, the Hill Country temperatures reel between nearly 90 by day to 40 at night. The sky is pierced by the searing sun one moment, soft spritzing rain the next, and then with crescendos of towering cumulous clouds rising up majestically, rivaling the size of the enormous western sky. There are wild flowers covering the land. Blue Bonnets, of course, but also bright red and yellow-ringed Indian blankets, white tissue-paper like Texas prickly poppies whose blossoms rise up out of spiny, overly-protective leaves, brown-eyed Susans, purple asters and countless others. They bow, wave, quake, and salute along the roadsides and at times as far as the eye can see, demanding attention. Demanding one to slow down and notice.  Then there are the fields with no flowers, only flattened grass and cactus—eaten to nubs by various herds. The fields are filled with long-horned cattle, horses, burros, sheep, and goats, all munching away at their leisure, not seeming to be remotely aware of their power, starting like kittens when we sped by.   Wildlife abounds too, and we saw lizards and owls, deer and armadillos, coyotes and wild hogs, with which we enjoyed mutual staring contests at close range, one slow, lazy blink at a time. Of course there are ranches. Many of them looking like settings for the lifestyles of the rich and famous. They covered thousands of acres and had proud gated entrances along the road marked with their signature names—gold embossed.  But, here and there nestle small towns along riverbanks—seeking the water, the green and the shade.  In the Hill Country there is a strong German influence that rubs side by side with a Hispanic one. There are those that broadcast their politically conservative views with “Trump 2024” banners, and  then there is the liberal artistic vibe of Austin. There are dammed lakes with cool welcoming water, that are the perfect balm after a long sweaty day of cycling. There are tall red rocks and mesas striped with limestone strata, orange granite and bright green juniper, mesquite, and live oak. Veritable rainbows. There are horribly ugly stretches of highway, subdivisions and ex-urban sprawl, but that can be found just about everywhere these days. Those areas were tempered by the miles and miles and miles of roads we rode on where we could ride no-handed, side-by-side, chatting for hours—nearly full days, without seeing another car or person, remembering who we are, what we love and  how incredible this world can be. This part of Texas is neither barren nor flat—it is big, bold and hilly, my aching knees and saturated heart can attest to that.

Through all the chaos and the efforts of the last few years, something is emerging. Oakley and I have been elbow to elbow, plowing the earth like a team of oxen. We have hauled each other up mountains, skied across frozen lakes, and screamed at each over broken chains on our mountain bikes, deep in the woods. We have wrangled wild mink, and biked in the snow, the rain, and in 100-degree heat. We have hiked many 4,000-foot peaks in winter, summer, and dark of night. We have slept in city parks, rest stops along the highway, and on the open prairies of the West. We have slogged through the Covid pandemic with everyone else.

It hasn’t always been pretty; in fact, sometimes it has been awful, full of frustration, intense emotion and fatigue. Oakley is a teenager, after all, and I am a nagging mother, hell-bent on dragging him into adulthood, healthy and strong. Sometimes our expeditions evoke self-flagellation, for both of us, as we deliberately choose hardship over comfort. But, after every adventure, when we make it back to the safety of our home, we ask each other: “What is next? Where now? Wouldn’t it be fun to…”

I say we have been like a team of oxen because I do feel like we have been tilling the earth, trying to make space for something to grow, and now, I am happy to announce that it has.

On June 1st, we will be opening Lighthouse Bikes, LLC: Tours, Rentals, and Repairs. It will operate out of Knightville, South Portland, Maine, in the shadow of the old Million Dollar Bridge; we will be offering guided bike tours to the coastal bike paths and lighthouses and beyond, as well as rental bikes so that our customers can create their own adventures. Oakley will be in charge of the rental department and I, as always, will be trying to figure out everything else as I go along. We have ordered 24, bright “Racing Red,” Worksman-brand bikes (America’s oldest bike manufacturer, since 1898!). We are busily building the shop with the help of friends and family.

Lighthouse Bikes is the next chapter of our journey together and, hopefully, it will create an opportunity for people of all abilities to gain access to the outdoors and to that part of themselves that craves to see what is around the corner, and the next, and the one after that.

I am incredibly excited. Whether it is a three-mile cruise, a ten-mile ride, or a day-long expedition, we will get to hear the tales, and celebrate the adventure that can be found every day as the world continues to open, day by vaccinated day, around us.

Come visit! https://www.lighthousebikesportland.com

A scream erupts from the duck pen. A quacking scream, if there is such a thing. I am just finishing a zoom counseling appointment, and stick my head out the window to find the reason for the cacophony and what I see stops my blood cold. “Oakley!” I shriek, my pitch rising above the chaos, “The ducks! Save the ducks!”

Outside, there is a mink, and its jaws are fastened around the neck of our lovely Anacona duck, Chestnut. The mink is pulling him greedily, lustily, violently around the pen. Chestnut’s white, glossy feathers are bloodied, his neck limp and drooping off his chest like it is suddenly too heavy. Exhaustion envelops him.

His mate, Sequoia, is wobbling around in an agitated daze, her head and neck also lacerated, and she wears a bloody cap on her head, but she seems a little better off than her mate. There is no doubt he was trying to defend her with his very life, and she is at a loss of what to do.

Oakley is out of the house and in the pen in seconds. He chases the mink, brandishing a board that is lying on the ground, until the mink drops the duck and flees — into the duck house, where Oakley locks him tight.
I go to Chestnut and Sequoia and squat beside them. My heart sinks. I hold my head in my hands, more-or-less paralyzed by the violence of it all, I don’t know how to help. I feel impotent.
Not Oaks, this is where he shines.

Without hesitation he runs to a neighbor’s house and returns with an adult friend, wielding a homemade snare. Together, they work to corner and trap the mink. It seems to be able to disappear and reappear at will, becoming a shadow, becoming a feint, but they are dogged and at last they succeed.
As they pull him free from the dark corners of the hutch, the mink writhes and snaps in their snare that holds him fast around the belly. He hisses and bites at their gloved hands with his sharp, jagged teeth. His body is snake-like and sinewy; all muscle, all fight. I know he is just doing his job, maybe even hoping to feed his young, but at this moment, I feel repulsed.

Oakley and our neighbor put him in a cooler while they confer about a plan. What does one do with a wild mink? We try the police—no help—so the two take the cooler to the far side of the island to release this fiend by the sea.

After the ducks have been attended to, given to a kind neighbor who has the wherewithal to give them the care they need, whatever their prognosis, I go inside and am greeted by the other side of death, life.

Chesnut’s and Sequoia’s eggs, which have been incubating for nearly a month, have hatched. Just yesterday, five little bills nibbled and thrust their way into this world, using all their might and mane. How hard they worked to push themselves out of the shells! When they burst free, they all lie, wet and exhausted on the incubator floor, learning to breathe, to live. Now, at one-day-old, they are already dabbling in their watering tray, letting the water slip down their throats by stretching them to the sky again and again. It is like a dance, like a bow.

I sit on the floor with them and am amazed by the brightness of their spirits. They dart around in a duckling herd, little orange feet thudding across the carpet, bumping against me and each other in a gleeful parade.

Oakley comes in after depositing the mink across the island. He sits beside me and picks up his favorite duckling, Greased Lightning, and they coo and chortle at each other. Oakley’s eyes shine and he lets the duckling nestle under his chin for a little nap. He doesn’t move for fear of waking him.

Such gentleness from a mink wrangler, from a young man on the brink of adulthood. I am thankful for both sides of him.

Life is rich; such violence and such sweetness with barely a breath between.

We walk up. There is no light other than the sliver of a moon casting lattice-like shadows on the snow from the branches that stretch overhead. At first I am a little nervous, but then I remember, this is just a walk, and I have been doing that for most of my 52 years.

So we walk up. Away from the safety of the parking lot, away from our cozy beds, away from the warmth of homes, inns and towns. The air is fresh and cool like a mountain stream and its currents caress our sweaty brows as they blow by. My limbs loosen and I begin to feel an uncoiling.

We keep walking up. The stars glitter, the snow sparkles, and our breaths create halos around our heads. There are eight of us, marching like a brigade of gnomes, chortling, whispering and at times traveling in silence up 4,000-foot Mt. Tecumseh in the dark of night to meet spring, in the middle of the night.

Before this year, I had never climbed the White Mountains of New Hampshire in winter. Who would do that? It sounded cold and dangerous. When the snow fell, I had always turned to skiing and skating and other civilized sports with lodges and tasty comestibles involved. But something had brought me out here this year, and I have learned that the mountains do not go away in winter. Rather they become a playground, filled with slides and jungle gyms, silence and wonder, beauty and peace.What secrets they have been hiding!

Now, I want to know what secrets the night holds, here, deep in winter, deep in the snow. Luckily for Oakley and me, we have a great group of friends alongside of us, who are just as eager to explore what these mountains hold.

So we walk up. The snow beneath our feet crunches, our hearts pound, and a flood of well-being comes like it always does when we get to adventure outside. The path becomes a tunnel of moonlight. All we can see is the star-filled sky above us and the snow beneath our feet. Everywhere else is darkness — and silence.

In a few hours’ time we make it to the top. We are surrounded by a bowl of other mountains, and there is not a light to be seen on any of them. Below glows the small town of Waterville Valley. It feels like we are looking down at the peaceful Who’s in Whoville, all snug in their beds, dreaming their dreams. Then I think, maybe I am dreaming my dream, and this is it. This dark, this peace, this moment separated from all others. All chaos and worry. All agendas and appointments. Just us. Healthy and strong in this beautiful world. Oakley grinning in the quiet dark. What a beautiful dream.

This is Scuppers, our cat, doing his best imitation of how I am handling the threat of COVID.

Today, I received the results of my fourth COVID test, and the results came back positive; positive that I have a diagnosis of Munchausen. There are no viral COVID beasties taking purchase inside me, no matter what I have led myself to believe.

Over the past week I have coughed, had chest pain, sore muscles, pain in my throat, brain fog and fatigue. I have been certain that my husband has shared his COVID with me, and have been diligently monitoring my temperature, checking my ability to taste, taking it easy and living in quarantine. I have been so certain in fact, that I have manifested all the symptoms that I have read about, but to no avail. I am COVID free. My whole family is.

So today, to keep the crazies at bay and to whip my body back into submission, Oakley, my husband and I climbed Mount Osceola. A majestic 4,000 foot peak that demands good health to reach its summit.

It was a beautiful, blueberry of a day. The sky pulling us into the depth of its blueness, the snow burning our eyes with its brightness, and the birch trees showing off their red tipped branches that come only when the promise of spring is close.

We took long deep droughts of air, kicking our micro-spikes into the steep, icy trail again and again; our ski poles flailing, knees screaming, as we tried to gain purchase on the mountain. We must have sweat out every last toxin that our bodies have ever harbored. My shirt was soaked through and my bangs were stuck upright into a salty-frozen wave.

When we reached the top, we feasted on Oreos, peanut butter and honey sandwiches, clementines and chips; relishing the taste of them all. After a short, although acute, appreciation of the fantastic view, down we went.

It was so steep on the way down that it felt more like a prolonged fall than a hike; our toes compressing into the front of out boots, our leg bones percussing in our knee joints, and our brains thumping against our skulls. By the time we reached the bottom, we more than welcomed the idea of sitting still again, of being warm and comfortable and safe. The crazies, and COVID are behind us for now.