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Word to the 098

I’m turning into a mountain recluse. I had to go into San Jose today for errands…and damn, that place sucks. The whole thing was like an assault. People in a hurry and self involved, everyone on the phone, everything so crowded. I felt like a crotchedy old mountain hermit moving in slow motion while everyone whirled around me. How I ever lived or went to school there is beyond me.

Mountain recluse. Right, who am I kidding? I am way too weenie to be a mountain woman. I need to either mtb more or lift weights or something. All this road riding is turning my arms into useless limbs good for nothing more than holding up my hands over a keyboard. This weekend, I wanted to be all independent hear me roar woman, and so I found HIS weed whacker. And after about 20 minutes, figured out how to start it. And after about 10 minutes had to put that damn thing away as I thought my arm was going to fall off. It was so totally hard. The rest of the day my bicep would spasm whenever I held up my arm and today it hurts like someone punched me. From ten minutes. Oh, I broke the little string thing too. Honey, the whacker is all yours. Whack yourself out.

What a great weekend. Amazing how refreshing it is to just stay home and sleep in and drink too much wine and ride too much and other stuff. Not necessarily in that order. I haven’t been to Skeggs in a while and it was a sweet treat. All the trails seem to have recovered from the weather (thank you trail builder people of which I should be one but someday I promise I will) and Manzanita was either just a touch more rocky and exposed or I need to re-learn how to ride rocky and exposed.
I think I am finally getting used to my new mountain bike. And I have to kick the retrogrouch in me. I love them damn disk brakes. Holy cow. I hopped on my old bike for a spell and almost fell off a cliff because I couldn’t stop in time. Ok..not really. But it felt that way.

In the Skeggs parking lot,I met fellow bella, Piper. She was looking Pooper after her ride. Seems as if she overdid the wine tasting thing the day before. Best line “When you already have a hangover by 8:00p.m., you know you’re going to be in trouble”. She was also playing hooky on the 8 hours of Sonoma. Sorry Mike!! We missed you…really.

So at Pescadero, I am pinning on my number and wondering why they gave our group such a low range. My number was 098, and usually we are like 650 or something. But away I pin anyway. I get to the line and after getting heckled at by smarter riders than me, I realize that its supposed to be 860…duh. Like it mattered anyway.

And I was super disappointed to learn that the Flamingo House is no more. Its just a house with a couple of flamingos now. Sigh…nothing lasts forever I suppose. Not even a ridiculous amount of cheap lawn ornaments.

Pescadero race was nice and all, but the post Pescadero activities were the best. We excused ourselves from the usual post battle race talk and hit up Arcangeli for bread, cheese and beer. We rolled down the coast and found a perfect spot to sit, eat, schmoop, and stare at the horizon saying something, or nothing. We were in that zone of foggy sunshine…or sunshiney fog, whichever..it was cool. The capper on a perfect Saturday was a stop at Bonny Doon for a bit of irreverent wine tasting and toasting. And then a late afternoon nap. A nap. Talk about decadent. Talk about lucky.

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