A boy and his sister's dog

It’s been a long time and a long road since I posted to this blog. The last time was only four days before my best friend, faithful companion, loving husband Tom suffered a stroke. I know–life changing event, right? Both his and mine are altered forever, in ways large and small that ambush us every day, every moment.

Much has changed in seemingly huge ways. Tom is in a wheelchair now. His speech is largely composed of sounds that are difficult to understand. He is not driving, or reading, or solving Sudoku puzzles.

Surprisingly, much has not changed, in even larger ways. Tom still has that mischievous sense of humor. He still loves to watch The Big Bang Theory, and laughs out loud as always. He is still the intelligent, patient, determined problem solver he ever was. These are the important things, not the chair or the speech problems. He is still Tom, the guy who introduced me to the joys of “let’s leave tonight” over 40 years ago. It just takes us a while longer to make our travel arrangements these days.

“Travel” is the culprit that ambushed me today. My colleague Arlen is posting pictures and descriptions about his “old guys’ ride” along Route 66 in Texas and Oklahoma. Friend Brian is cycling across the southern tier of states. Jerry is recently returned from Yellowstone, Shawn from Glacier National Park, Mary on a road trip to Arizona. And my sister and niece are on pilgrimage to Green Bay’s Lambeau Field, cheering on the Packers, in full regalia and paint even as I write.

Earlier in this blog I wrote about how reading The Adventure Cyclist was almost unbearable during winters in Alaska. Since then I’ve come to work for Adventure Cycling in the Tours department, and though I have not ridden long distance very often since then, I ‘ve been immersed every day in all things bike touring. It seems to have fed that travel hunger and partially satisfied the longing to be, to go, somewhere new.

Now, contemplating new vistas of long term responsibility and care giving tasks, I can hardly manage to look at my friends’ posts. Their journeys long or short, day outing, overnight or months long pull my spirit thin and make my heart hurt.

It’s early days yet. It’s been only three months since that transformative event. With the amazing progress that Tom has accomplished in that time I am convinced–intellectually at least–that the reality of today will change, and change again, and yet again. Tom may very well spin the Fiat down the highway one day, tie flies, read his favorite sci-fi magazine. We may eventually finish that bike ride down the Mississippi that is the original inspiration for this blog. We both hope, pray and work hard for that reality to manifest. Until that day I congratulate my friends, ask about their adventures and try to carve out a little time each week to enjoy the view from the seat of MY bicycle.

Our support group at Adventure Cycling

Our support group at Adventure Cycling

the semicolon project


Not sure anyone could say this better. Ask for help. We’ll be there for you.

Originally posted on hpwritesblogs:

FullSizeRender-1FullSizeRender Today I went to a tattoo artist, and for $60 I let a man with a giant Jesus-tattoo on his head ink a semi-colon onto my wrist where it will stay until the day I die. By now, enough people have started asking questions that it made sense for me to start talking, and talking about things that aren’t particularly easy.

We’ll start here: a semi-colon is a place in a sentence where the author has the decision to stop with a period, but chooses not to. A semi-colon is a reminder to pause and then keep going. 

In April I was diagnosed with depression and anxiety. By the beginning of May I was popping anti-depressents every morning with a breakfast I could barely stomach. In June, I had to leave a job I’d wanted since I first set foot on this campus as an incoming freshmen because of my mental…

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The Happiness Generator


Along the trail…


I am still so surprised at how happy the simple act of riding my bike makes me.

It’s the crazy season at work, made more so by being shorthanded. Two people from our team of five have left for other pursuits. Thank goodness the season is half over! However, I’m still staring at my computer from 8-5 each day, painfully aware of the hours flying by without me. I’m focusing so hard that often my forehead actually hurts at the end of the day from being furrowed in concentration.

When I break for lunch and ride the three miles home it’s akin to releasing a caged bird, or the last day of school, or a calf bolting from the corral, heels a-kickin’.  I’m sure I look like a madwoman flying down the river trail, grinning from ear to ear, nodding at everyone I pass, a 64 year old woman playing that she’s 12 again. I’m living proof that “you’re only one bike ride away from a good mood”.

It’s not quite the longed-for journey of weeks on the road, wheels singing away the miles, spending nights cuddled into my tent under the stars. It’s not that, but it makes me happy.



Reminders of Home

SAMSUNG CAMERA PICTURESI’m always startled into nostalgia when I come upon fireweed growing in Missoula. It’s such an Alaskan connection, my favorite wildflower and a vivid reminder of the decades I spent making the Last Frontier my home.



The alleyway that divides Missoula Textiles from Adventure Cycling is decidedly industrial. Walking back from my usual morning coffee I was delighted and surprised to spot this tenacious pioneer, struggling up through cracks in the hardscape. Like Alaskans, the fireweed is blossoming in a harsh environment, bringing beauty and a resolute spirit into the world and making me smile at the persistence of life.


Hitching a ride

Hitching a ride

A flotilla of butterflies passes me going uphill;

The four-mile-per-hour breeze behind me chills my back;

That cheeky ground squirrel 20 feet ahead of me ambles across the road.

This first day of summer saw my average speed recorded at 8.6 mph. Now, that average includes my top speed of 33.6, so you know it was a slow ride. For at least an hour of tire-turning time I pedaled at under 4, and that’s when the butterflies—hundreds, maybe thousands of them—passed me. They covered the shoulders of Deer Creek Road, resting on the damp sand and I think soaking up moisture there.

Clark Fork panorama along the Kim Williams Nature Trail

Clark Fork panorama along the Kim Williams Nature Trail

That 26.5 miles took me far longer than the 3 hours that my average speed would suggest. I left home at about 10 am and returned at 4. The original plan was a simple jaunt to the Saturday farmers’ market down on the banks of the Clark Fork. Mmmmmm…cheese curds, iced mocha, and barbecued brisket breakfast burrito. All the hallmarks of a great morning.

Crowd? What crowd? We don't need no stinkin' crowd!

Crowd? What crowd? We don’t need no stinkin’ crowd!

Once enfolded in the crowd, I plummeted into a very Alaskan emotional pit—holy shit, there are way too many people here! I grabbed my breakfast and sprinted to the margins, to eat and observe, and acknowledge my small loneliness. Boy how I wished that Tom or Sharry were along to elbow through the crowds with me!


I subscribe to the philosophy that I’m only one bike ride away from a good mood. Circumnavigate Mount Sentinel to sweat away the blues? Sure! So off I spun along the Milwaukee Trail, the Kim Williams Nature Trail, the single track behind the Deer Creek Shooting Range and up Deer Creek Road. And up. And UP, puffing and panting to pause at the Milltown State Park Overlook. Then up some more, down a half mile at 33.6 miles per hour, and then…you guessed it. Up. Just me and the damn butterflies.

Hitching a ride...


Not Meant To Be…

Yesterday afternoon at work we were all discussing our weekend plans. Lydia would run, Mike would bike–no surprises there! My usual partners in crime are all out of town, so I was at loose ends until a casual Googlemaps search for something else entirely turned up a great campground and a very cool rail trail in Great Falls.


“Isn’t that, like, 3 hours away?” asked Mike. He’s from Maine–in three hours’ drive time you could be six states away. I on the other hand have more of the Alaskan (or Montanan) viewpoint; 175 miles of driving doesn’t really get you much of anywhere.

We quickly determined that Mike, the cross-country bike tour leader, could probably ride that in two longish days. I on the other hand would much prefer to take four. Interesting to compare our viewpoints on distance when talking about driving as opposed to riding…

I rolled out of the sack this morning eager to pack up and be gone. I called the campground to make sure they had a spot for me, my tent and the Jeep.  I put some bratwurst, a couple eggs and the leftovers from last night’s dinner in a cooler. I gathered up my cookstove, camp chair, new bedroll and the borrowed camping pad and marched down to the garage.

**77–no dice. Hmmm. **77 again. Blank. One curse. **77 on the DAMN keypad and it still won’t roll up the garage door. Crap-a-rama. Yank the battery and march upstairs. No 9 volt to be found. Two curses.

Into the other car, down to the 7-Eleven. ( I couldn’t get into the garage to get my bike out or I would have ridden the 3 blocks…) Six bucks for a battery! Which, when I put it into the keypad, does NOT work! StompStompStomp back to the apartment, where I called the after-hours maintenance number. Wait for a call back/get a call back/ go try what the gentleman suggests/which does not work/so I call him back. Again.

Wait an hour for him to come to town and to my place, where he calmly uses the key I’d had for months, not knowing what it was, to unlock the super-secret emergency garage door release and roll it up, revealing my two bikes, my tent and tarp and my ignorance. Profuse thanks ensue, and probably a big bill will follow in the mail.

Hurray! I’m on my way! But wait, I need gas. So I go back to that same convenience store, where gas is cheaper than anywhere else in Missoula. I pop the cap open, stick in the nozzle–and promptly pump about a cup of 82 octane onto the ground. WTF?! I drop to the dusty cement and peer under the rear wheel. Oh yeah, now I remember. Tom’s duct tape repair of three years ago, to a fuel tank hose cracked by age and disuse, had finally expired.

The bike won’t fit into the Camry’s trunk. The old car’s bike rack will not fit on the new car either. Having been eagerly looking forward to new scenery, new campground, new ride along the Missouri River banks, I am finally stymied.

I wonder what horrible fate or gruesome accident awaited me on the road to Great Falls, that my guardian angel went to so much trouble to save me from it…

My guardian angel

Sometimes it’s good to go out riding on your own, just you at your own pace, not feeling pushed or held back. My back-to-back solo rides the past two days have both been enjoyable, strenuous, interesting–and a little lonely. Not to mention photographically frustrating. No one to take my picture standing by the awesome talus slope I rode past!

The trail was not quite this rough...

The trail was not quite this rough…

Yesterday’s road ride out to the foot of Blue Mountain took me along the Milwaukee Road trail and then onto some pretty quiet paved roads. There was the long haul up O’Brien Creek Road–clearly a training run for Missoula middle-aged male cyclists. Three passed me going in, and smiled and waved coming back down. Their skinny tires didn’t pass the end of the pavement, but I braved another half mile to make it exactly 10 before I turned back. The only surprise is how little wildlife I see in these quiet places. There were a few whitetail, far off in a field, but no turkeys, moose, bears on the upper slopes.


Today was another in the series of blue-sky, mid-70s spring days that typify the Missoula area. Salsa Cycles, in conjunction with a  local bike shop, was having a mountain bike demonstration at Ten Spoon Winery, which is a mere mile from the Rattlesnake Trail trailhead. I have been somewhat less than thrilled with the fit of my own, relatively new mountain bike, and so pedaled the several miles up to the demo to see if they could do better. Alas, they only have bikes for folks who are 5’4″ or more–like most manufacturers, Salsa apparently believes that short women who would love to ride dirt don’t make a big enough demographic to build to. Damn.

I rode up the road, then the trail, disgruntled. But a funny thing happened on the way up to 4200 feet. I began to appreciate the bike I own. Yes, it’s too tall to stand over comfortably, and if I have to dismount fast I’m in trouble. But the gearing is a dream, the disc brakes could stop a buffalo in its tracks, and I was having so much fun screaming back downhill for 10 miles that I forgot to stay disgruntled. That’s what a bike ride does.



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