Bikemum

My ears are ringing, pulsating actually, to the beat of high-decibel music and the cacophony of a sports bar, full of people trying to speak over it. My eyes are burning from the lights of twelve, big screen televisions playing nonstop videos, sporting events and celebrity interviews simultaneously. Too much-it has made me feel like a deer in the headlights and I have retreated to my hotel room.

Despite all the struggles with wind and cold and fatigue that I have experienced over the past week, and as much as I am looking forward to seeing my family, I am sad it is over. Am I crazy?

I had to finish my trip today, because there was no safe way for me to get to Phoenix, by bike in time for my flight home. The short cut from Globe to Phoenix is too dangerous-even by my estimation.

This morning, as I sat in the sun at the Besh Ba Gowah ruins, eating a bag of Bugles and drinking yesterdays Gatorade, I tried to really pay attention to what it is I love about bike touring, before I went home and got distracted.

The truth is-all this makes me feel alert, alert and fully alive. The working hard physically, the chasing of beauty, the close to the earth living-it all makes sense to me. I like being dirty. I like being exhausted, I like wondering what is next, and next and next. People have told me that I am naive and fool hardy to take such chances, but to me, that is living. I am not a thrill seeker-really, It is more that I am just curious.

I believe in the goodness of people. Meeting them when you have nothing, but a bike and your open mind breaks down many preconceptions and barriers. Yes, there are some unsavory types out there, but they are so few compared to the good. In all my touring, I have never had anyone try to cause me harm.
It is through interacting one on one with people, away from my normal life, that I blow up every stereo type that I didn’t even know I had.

The dangerous reservation? I passed a school there where everyone was on their way to lunch laughing. and pushing and shoving each other. It was there that I was scared that I wouldn’t make it out of the reservation by nightfall, yet their giggles and laughter sounded like birds.
In the poor reservation town of Bylas, where I ate my lunch standing up, astride my bike because of the same fear, every home along the main road had paper cups stuck in their chain link fences in the shape of their child’s name as a sign of support.

El Paso? Border town full of baddies? The first person I met on the corner spent 10 minutes telling me about what kind of bike he had and how he wanted to go on a tour. The second gave me a sports drink.

I also think people really enjoy helping. I am not using their goodwill, or taking advantage of it. I am letting it show-at least it seems that way. Just one person helping another-it does both parties good. Bike touring can really restore your faith in humanity.

And that wonderful feeling of knowing that you have everything you need is incredible. It all fits in a few panniers- food, a tent, a sleeping bag, pad, clothing and tools. If I had gotten stuck anywhere, I would have been fine. There is incredible freedom in that, It is just hard to remember sometimes, but then you get to remember again and again-I have everything I need, I can do this.

And the things you see. Every mountain range is different, every turn in the road, every sky, every ecosystem. As I pedal along I devour it all, like I have been starving and my eyes gulp it all in.

So this morning I held a rock in my hands that had been placed in a wall probably 800 years ago, and I took the time to pay attention and look across the wide open desert. Now my ears ring and I am in a high rise hotel in Phoenix and it his hard to make sense of it all. I just know I love my life of adventure and this won’t be the end.

If you enjoyed reading this blog-there is more. I have a book coming out on May 23rd, 2022, called Changing Gears, published by Familius Press. It is a story about biking across the United States from Astoria, Oregon to Yorktown, Virginia, with my teenage son and how it changed our lives-mostly for the better.

Today is hard to write about because it was a bit intense. I like to sugar-coat things and I have been called a toxic optimist, but today, I cried. It didn’t help much, so it didn’t last long, but there were tears.

I woke up cranky because my tent fly was STILL flapping in the wind. I knew a head wind today would be rough because I had to go 74 miles across the San Carlos Apache Reservation with limited services AND it was hilly. It deserved an early start to say the least.

I broke camp in the predawn and quietly wheeled my bike past the still sleeping RVers that had hung F**k Biden and F**k everyone that voted for him flags. I felt a bit like I was escaping some stronghold.

Once I hit the road I tried to bike quickly, knowing it was to be a long day. The landscape was lovely, but the wind was not. To make matters worse, 15 miles into the ride my seat post bolt suddenly sheared. I was sitting on it one second and on my panniers the next. It could have been much worse, I could have been badly hurt, but as it was I had to use quick-ties to temporarily hold it back on and wobble my way back the way I had come. The seat shimmied and leaned and I had to perch with one cheek and one cheek off for six miles back to a garage.

Luckily, there was a lovely man who had a bolt that would work, so before long I was ready to try again. As I got on my bike to go he looked concerned. “You aren’t still going to try to get to Globe today are you? Last thing you want to do is to get stuck out there on the res at night. People disappear out there.”
I pride myself on not stereo typing people, so I told him that they couldn’t be all bad and sallied off.

It was a slog, I was only able to make about eight miles an hour and it wasn’t long before I did the math and realized that there was no way I would make it, I had lost too much time. So big liberal me, was terrified.
I went to grab my map and triple check how far I had to go and realized it was gone. Lost. I turned off my phone to conserve batteries in case I needed it later for the map and feeling very alone, decided to go even faster.

The day was grueling. I felt like I couldn’t stop for lunch or take more than a two minute rest. I told myself that at five o’clock, an hour before dark, I would get a ride if I needed one.

After many exhausting and tense hours, I turned on my phone to check the time. I saw that it was time to make a plan AND, I realized I had no cell reception. Hitch hiking without a phone was too much. That is when the tears came.

Ten painful miles later I got to San Carlos. A town! I limped my way to the tribal police head quarters and stopped an man outside. With my voice wavering I told him that I was biking, there was no way I could go twenty-eight more miles to get to Globe, and did he have any idea of how I could get there. “No,” he said, ”There is no way.”

So, shaky and exhausted, I moved on. I saw an Apache a woman getting gas and thought in times like these, it is always better to go to a woman. I rode my bike right up in front of her Bronco. “Are you going to Globe?” I asked.

“No,” she said, ”but I will take you there.” And she did. She helped hoist my bike and panniers in the back, telling me that of course she wanted to help, that we all need help sometimes.

On the way she told me about her seven kids, Hoop dances and funeral rites. We talked about racism and climate change and the constant wildfires in the area. And she brought me here. The ugliest and most wonderful RV park that there ever was. Safe.

I love bike touring, and the truth is, sometimes there are just days like this. The thing that bums me out the most is that the ride was so beautiful and I was stuck in my snarly head of fear the whole time.

Last night I slept in the town park of Duncan, Arizona. It was more than sufficient, but the restrooms were quite tragic. Seems like most park restrooms in this country are. Not to worry. Right across the road was the Road House Restaurant, and so this morning, bright and early, I scurried over to partake of their facilities, as well as breakfast.

There was nobody else there except for one table of cowboy-hatted, elderly gentlemen. The waitress brought them coffee. “Don’t you want to know what we want for breakfast?” asked one.

“No.” she said. “You will have the quesadilla, Steve will have the Four on Four, Barry will have the oatmeal and Mike will have two with toast.”

“Awe shoot.” sighed one. ”Anyways, what are you guys doing today?”

“Irrigating.”

“Why? It’s going to rain.”

“It’s just gonna blow and spit enough to get the windows dirty”

“I saw a nice Gila monster yesterday. A two-footer. Once I saw a three-footer. When I was a boy I had one for a pet.”

“Did you cuddle it?”

“Nah, you ever seen one of those things whip their head around?”

“Haven’t seen many lately, they used to be everywhere. Seems like they come and go.”

“What you do see are rattlers.”

“No kidding, too many.”

“I used to work at some archeology restoration site. Girl there heard I killed a rattler and she comes to me, and she says, ‘We need to relocate those, not kill them.’ Rest of the time I was there, I relocated them alright. Right off a 200 foot cliff. Maybe they lived. She could have gone and checked on them if she wanted.”

“Oh look, something new, looks like we have blueberry jam now.”

“I don’t care for that. I like strawberry. My mother, she made jelly from pyracanthas, prickly pear, blood oranges, just about anything. She didn’t let anything go to waste. Couldn’t around here.”

Needless to say, I was riveted. This guys mother must have lived here one hundred years ago. What a world it must have been. All along this ride there are memorials to settlers that died during conflicts with the Native Americans in the late 1800’s (no monuments to the Native Americans though). These men’s parents lived here not long after. My ears strained to pick up every little nuance of their conversation. What I really wanted was to sidle up to their table and start asking questions, but I thought I was already freaking them out-the dirty, eaves-dropping girl, sleeping in the park and all.

So, I finished my breakfast, practically gave myself a tub bath in the restroom and was off. The rest of the day involved so much wind that I don’t even want to talk about it, lest I have PTSD, but I made it. 38 miles was literally all I could do and that was a stretch. Now I am killing time in the library-my go to windy-day spot.

There is a saying about the sea-the sea is a fickle lover. Well, I think the southern deserts of New Mexico make the ocean sound like Romeo.

Maybe it is because there used to be an inland sea here. If you squint carefully you can still see it-the sandy floor, coral like cacti, the wide expanses, but for sure you can see it in its temperamental nature.

Today, I woke again freezing, despite sleeping in all the clothes I have packed. Within hours, however, I was a sweaty mess, the sun searing my skin and forcing me to wear clothes that made me even hotter. Desert trick number one.

Then there is the wind. As I peaked over the continental divide, I saw the desert stretching out before me-a bicyclers dream. After so many days of hills and mountain passes, here was flat as far as the eye could see, and it was beautiful. My heart sang. Down and down I coasted, euphoric, spellbound by its beauty- the pink sands, platinum grasses and sentry like yucca. I was waiting to be welcomed into this desert I love, that I have missed…but no.

Instead the wind greeted me. not just a breeze hear and there, but a full on assault. The pink sand that had lain so quietly, came up off the desert floor creating clouds that reduced visibility so much that the cars used their headlights. Tumble weeds blasted by, some as big as my bike! Often I found myself barely doing four miles an hour despite a slow, gentle decline. It was ruthless.

There are no services in this area, so I was forced to continue on. Wind scares me. It makes me jittery and tense. And the desert had beckoned me so from above! Trick number two.

So tonight, I feel kissed by the beauty, but slapped by its power. I am sun burned, wind burned and dirty. Very, very dirty.

*A little disclaimer-I am only on the Southern Tier for a week! Wish it could be longer-that is why I dropped in in El Paso. I will finish in Phoenix.

*Thank you to those who have offered me support-I will respond to you when I get home. It means a lot to me

Tonight I am too tired. Too tired to tell you about my day. How I woke before dawn and and left my cozy Scamper camper behind to pedal into the desert and watch the morning come. How I was greeted by big black bulls in the road that still had sleep in their eyes.

I am too tired to tell you how the mountains rose up above me. A lesson in geology onto themselves. Towering peaks worn down thought the ages, some of them have come to resemble old mens crumbling teeth rather than their former majestic selves. If you stop to rest beside one, you can hear their erosion happening, the pebbles falling down the rubbly sides, knocked by a lizard or a mouse. It has been happening for eons-just like that.

I am too tired to tell you how the road from Hillsboro to Emery Peak winds and climbs, taking you first through scrub and yellow grasses, then up among groves of Alligator Juniper with their reptilian, scaly bark and then how the towering pines fill in, thrusting upward just like the peaks. Snow fills in too. But, don’t worry, I didn’t get cold. My inner furnace burned, and so did my hands, knees, neck and back.

For nineteen miles, I climbed, the sky getting bluer with each one. And then finally I was there. The elevation made me light headed-or maybe it was the euphoria. The air seemed thin and shimmery.

Then down. Sluicing through the forests on the cold, northern side, snow and rock and tall pines all in the shadow of the mountain. My hands sore from gripping the breaks, the wind chilling me, and then out, into the desert again. A different desert though. Tall mountains always seem to create separate worlds.

I am definitely too tired to tell you that after all that, I still had 40 miles to go-up and down again and again over the foot hills, nearly bringing myself to tears before I realized that it was way past lunch time. Then sitting on the side of the road and delightedly eating last nights left over Alfredo sauce on bread thins, and apricots-they are like candy-and my first ever energy drink. It worked.

Now finally, I sit in my tent in the courtyard of a closed hostel ready to sleep. This was an exhausting, grueling, most beautiful, fantastic day. Good night.

.

Two pairs of socks, two pairs of pants, two shirts, a fleece, a wool cap and me, all cocooned inside my sleep bag like some sort of frozen larva. That’s how my day started. The desert gets so cold! Never-the -less, by the time the sun reached the horizon I had already made some bad coffee and was on my way.

It feels like Mexico here. Most of the people I meet speak Spanish as their primary language and as I passed several border patrol stations, early in the morning, I was left feeling that the United States is more of an intruder in this area than vice versa.

The Pecan trees that lined the roads yesterday have been replaced with red chilies. Miles upon miles of them, each farm bearing a huge sign proclaiming that their chilies are “World Renown!” That is a lot of famous chilies.

As I began climbing into the Black Hills, the less farming there was and by early afternoon, I found myself deep in the desert with narry a farm in sight. In fact, there wasn’t even building of any sort, nor a person, nor more than one car every 15 minutes. I was alone. Absolutely alone, and very small.

The desert stretched from horizon to horizon with not one sign of civilization except for the road. I love how small the desert makes me feel under its huge sky and towering mesas, but that same feeling of smallness can also be very unsettling. It makes me feel like a wayward ant. I saw fields full of cranes, and when they flew overhead it was so quiet that I could hear their wings beating.

On and on I went, until I reached Hillsboro, my destination for the night. I was exhausted from an entirely uphill day-65 miles of knees screaming and butt burning. The map had promised ample amenities here and I had tried not to fantasize, but instead of cute western cafes and bustling creekside campgrounds, it was a ghost town. There was not a soul on the roads and all the businesses were closed. That part of me that felt like a wayward ant loomed large. My possibilities seemed few.

Suddenly, an elfin woman with huge blue eyes and a thick tangle of grey hair came out of her home and found me literally standing in the street. ”Are you a biker?” she asked. I nodded and asked her where I might stay. “You can stay in one of my vintage trailers. I collect them. There is one in my back yard.” and with that we were off. She gave me a wifi passward, turned on the lights, plugged in an electric heater and told me to make myself at home.

I was overwhelmed by her kindness and told her so. “That’s what we do,” she said “we take care of each other. It is our job, It is everybody’s job.” I felt like I had been tucked into bed after a very long day and that wayward ant feeling gone.

On the flight to El Paso, I remembered, dispite the turbulence and hot, sweaty, mask I was wearing, why I love adventure. “I raise French Bulldogs.” my seat mate said. ”I sell them for 4,500 a puppy.”

“Wow, those must be some puppies, may I see a picture of one?”

“Sure!” she responded, and quickly started tapping through her phone, her fingers flying from one photo to the next. “I have to charge so much because they are very complicated, not only can they not give birth naturally-they need C-sections, but they also can’t mate. I have to give them artificial insemination.”

I couldn’t stop myself, I had to ask. “How do you do that?”

And as she continued tapping on the photos with her long, pointy, elegant nails she replied, “With my hands. One boy needs to bite me while I do it.” I was mesmerized.

When I debarked the plane, I stood in line at the baggage claim waiting for my bike alongside of a group of beautiful young women dressed in athletic gear from Texas Christian University. ”What do you guys play?” I asked.

“We rifle.” They said with a toss of their ponytails. I had no idea. As I hauled my bike box off the conveyor belt, they stepped up and grabbed gun case after gun case.

And then I met Claudia, my Uber driver. She spoke some English, and I speak a tiny, little Spanish, so we pieced together a conversation as she drove me to my hostel. “I have a great life,” she said “I drive grandmothers to the supermarket and doctors appointments somedays, and on other days I make videos for youtube and use them to teach Spanish speaking women carpentry. It helps them be more self sufficient.”

People are amazing, and I get to meet so many on these trips.

As far as the biking goes-I am feeling pretty chuffed. I rebuilt my bike, loaded it up and pedaled all day. The land here is dust dry, in fact the Rio Grande is all sand and I even saw families playing soccer in it. There are pecan trees as far as the eye can see-I think they are holding the Rio Grande in their branches. And judging from the way my bum felt at mile 70, I think some shells have found their way into my skivies.

Forgive my typos-I am writing with my thumbs in the cold. It is going down to 27 degrees tonight-Yikes!

It is time for another adventure. I know, you have heard many tales about my teenage son Oakley and I doing this and that together over the years, but this time is different. This time I am going alone.

In two weeks, I will depart on a ten day, unsupported bike-packing expedition from El Paso, Texas to Phoenix, Arizona all by myself. I will ride 512 miles, and experience an 8,228 foot elevation gain, averaging 72 miles a day. I will try to camp for the entirety. Just me and the coyotes, what fun! But, truth be told, as I sit in my cozy house on the coast of Maine and look out at my snow-covered yard, shimmering in five degree temperatures, I feel a bit nervous. It is a big world out there, and as much as I long to experience it, I also cherish the safety of home, friends and family. It helps quell my anxiety to imagine what I may see.

For the first day or so of the ride, I will follow along the Rio Grande river, looking across its waters into Mexico. I’ve always wanted to see the Rio Grande. It is a river full of history, meaning and myth. I am also psyched for its flatness and perhaps eating some good street food along the way.

Then I will turn north and climb through the desert, up and over the continental divide. Going from my sea level home to such a high elevation in this a short of a time is bound to be a challenge. Heady to say the least. The days will be warm, but the nights cold. Temperatures will fluctuate between 20 and 60 degrees Fahrenheit. I hope my sleeping bag is up to the challenge.

If I am lucky, I will have time to explore the the Gila Cliff Dwellings found near by. There is evidence that they were occupied as early as 100 A.D. Maybe they will help me put some of my every day woes in perspective! It seems to me that sort of deep history can be felt in the air. After that I will descend down through the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation. I am sure I will see Saguaro Cacti, Teddy Bear Cholla, and hopefully, some Horny Toad Lizards and Mule Deer. Hopefully not, any scorpions or rattlers.

As I enter Arizona, I will visit the Tonto National forest and pass by Arrowhead Mountain, Black Mesa, Iron Dike and Theodore Roosevelt Lake. I can hardly wait for the wide open land-the horizon that stretches out forever and the endless sky; piercing blue by day, glowing translucent at sunset and pricked by endless stars at night. All that expanse, and just me and my bike. I plan to take some seriously deep breaths. My ride will end in the Phoenix Basin, where, if all goes well, I will exchange my wheels for wings and fly home.

I will see beautiful things, that is for sure, but this time, I will have to change my own flats and keep my own wheels true. I will have to keep my own company and fill my head with my own thoughts instead of Oakley’s. I will have to set up my own tent, watch my own back and motivate my own self to keep going. I will also have to carry all my own gear! I have come to rely on Oaks. Not only his strength and company, but his distraction. I don’t even know if I remember how to be alone! That is why I am going. Wish me luck.

I will post daily when the trip begins. It helps me make sense of it all.

“Your wheels are due on Tuesday. Spokes laced and trued. All the rest of the bicycle maintenance tasks you will need to have signed off on as we go. We will learn to rebuild everything from hubs to derailleurs, head-sets to hydraulic brakes, cassettes to cranksets. There will be a practical, hands-on final and a 100 question written test.”

A wash of bafflement flows through me. I look over at Oaks and he raises his brows and widens his eyes over his N-95 mask at me. I don’t think either of us really knew what we were in for we when we signed up for the course. I grin at him to hide my anxiety and then lean forward and ready my ears to act as funnels for each and every word the instructors want to impart. I can do this.

This time Oakley and I are not on a cross-country bicycle adventure, this time we are on a bicycle learning adventure. I have signed us both up for a two-week, professional-level bicycle course at the United Bicycle Institute in Ashland, Oregon. It is the most respected program of its kind in the country. I figure, if we are going to run Lighthouse Bikes; Tours Rentals and Repairs, we better get a handle on the repair part.

Problem is, Oaks and I both have our learning challenges. I am not detailed oriented, at all. I am also fairly uncoordinated and am adverse to following directions. Not to mention I have poor eyesight and lack depth perception.

And Oakley? He is the captain of the ADHD team. He not only rides both ends of the seesaw, but also has the ability to not see with his eyes open. However, I am happy once again to have him by my side as I look around at our fellow class mates.

It is like we are in a different country, one in which they speak bikology. They discuss bearing materials and grades, Newton Measurements on torque wrenches, hub flanges and Swiss-ring nut tools the same way that I might talk about how cute my dog is. I am in awe of them. My brain scrambles and climbs over boulders of thoughts and ideas hour after hour. Eight hours a day, forty hours a week. Once an hour we break up into pairs and have to build or dismantle the part of the bike that we have just been lectured about.

Oakley decides early on that he is not going for his certificate which decreases his anxiety considerably, but I, competitive with myself to the end, decide that against all odds, I want to make a valiant try.

The first real test is the wheel build. Sounds easy enough. Take a rim and a bunch of measured spokes and weave them in a specific pattern to connect the rim to the hub flanges. Tighten them equally and ta-dah, a nice, round wheel. But as I look around at the quick, graceful weaving of the spokes by my classmates I panic. Instead of taking the time to figure it out I rush, pell-mell into the process; I don’t want to be the last to finish!

They all look like they are weaving beautiful braids where my spokes stand all akimbo. The more I try to bend and force the spokes to conform to my will, the more my wheel looks like it has been in a terrible accident. they bend and arc and stray in a most unsound manner. A rats nest. I begin to feel a little sweaty. One of the instructors sidles up to me. “You can stay after class tonight or stay in at lunch.” He means this in a supportive and kind way, but Oakley over hears and lets out a little cackle.

“You have to stay in for lunch!” He whispers as we sit back down in our seats. And so it goes. Every exercise sends me scurrying-trying desperately to remember the order of the necessary washers, bearings and caps, while my classmates elegantly reconfigure their bikes again and again. I am learning, but in a messy, looping sort of a way. Oakley enjoys the class, but my struggles delight him even more.

Every night we limp back to our hostel and I reread the days lessons while Oakley hangs out with our roomie-a 19 year old bicycle savant whose course is being paid for by a teacher who saw his promise. They make Annie’s mac and cheese and salad in a bag and watch horror films while I study. It feels like I am the nerd living in a boys dorm room, and I love every minute.

We have one week to go. To be honest, the chances of me passing are very low, but that is okay. I still haven’t finished my wheel-I am staying in for lunch again tomorrow, but I am eager to keep trying to absorb everything these people have to teach. I am astounded at all the intricacies in bicycle technology and at all the people over the years, whose brains have worked in such a different way than mine and dreamt them up. I have never really considered them before and they have made my life so much fun.

It is like this part of my brain has never been turned on, until now. The test will not measure what I learned, because what I am learning is immeasurable.

Strength doesn’t have a pretty face. It is ugly; sweaty and grimacing. It involves blood-shot eyes, spittle, chapped hands and body odor. Have you ever seen a body builder in action-neck tendons staining, muscles shaking? Yuck. How about an emergency crisis worker in the 23rd hour of their day? Pale and fumbling, sunken eye sockets and hands that shake from too much caffeine. They don’t smell so good either. How about childbirth? Nobody wins a beauty pageant during that. Strength is not pretty. It is ugly and raw.

Truth is-our culture seems to be obsessed with prettiness, from hair to nails, from lip gloss to dainty ankles. There is a “don’t let them see you sweat” attitude that pervades everywhere from boardrooms to parenting, and it is not helpful at all. Yes, it is a social media problem-but it is also about not wanting to show vulnerability anywhere. I have fallen into this trap myself and have spent a lot of time trying to put a spin on difficult situations to make them sound pithy and wholesome. Life is more palatable that way.

But what does that accomplish? Maybe a few people are relieved to hear that perhaps somebody has this life thing knocked, but I would venture to say, I think that it makes far more people feel alienated and alone in their struggle, because theirs is the only sweat they see.

Here a the non-Hallmark version of this blog:

Sometimes parenting overwhelms me with anxiety; sometimes I cry and sometimes I can’t sleep and sometimes I eat too much and sometimes I say things to my son Oakley that I watch leave my mouth in a cartoon talk-bubble and stare at it as it travels across the room to him in disbelief that I just let those words leave my mouth. Sometimes I can’t get out of my way and I mope, wishing that the world treated me more like a princess than it already does. Sometimes I am not grateful, and then to make it worse I slather on a heap of shame that I feel that way. And sometimes all I want is a large snort of whiskey.

Ascending a tall mountain and taking a selfie with a huge grin or riding a bike hard and fast, that is the easy part. The lucky part, but not what deserves attention.

What is far more impressive is much less pretty. It is wading through the gunk; the boring and the mundane parts that come with no adrenaline for fuel. It is finding a way to cope with insecurities, anger and sadness and doing what it takes to make it through the day-perhaps without running for the mountains. It is sweeping the floor again and again because somebody needs to do it-even though it will be covered in dog hair again tomorrow.

So, here is to the ugly parts of strength. To the failed adventures, ugly fights and embarrassments and the routine tasks that must be done. Here is to circling back again and again; to fixing things, or trying to, with busted knuckles, pot-bellies, sweaty bangs and heartache.

We all deserve accolades for that!

Here are the sources of the dog hair…can’t really complain about that.