ride along canal
to find new favorite playground
the March to summer
70 Degrees
ride along canal
to find new favorite playground
the March to summer
cycling
Trailing
more than thirty-three miles
too long for these sedentary legs
trying to race the sun
trying to find my way home
with little headwind and my blue-sky view
Pandora playlist popping me along
everything should be perfect
everything should be all right
but rejection trails behind tire spins
blocking my perfect peak view
making me regret it again, again
making me wish i never left
what is it about me that they hate?
that is the constant question i ask
trying to find February sun
trying to be the me they want
ReCycle
back in the saddle
tight muscles better than view
that i’ll bring to bed
In the Middle
They come into two classes to tell them the (what I think will be simple) news: they will have a new English teacher next semester, and it won’t be me. The AP describes it in her usual convoluted fashion: “We are growing as a school, and we need your teacher’s skills to teach another class, and you’re going to have a different teacher.”
Z shouts out (as always–no one scares him)–“Wait. So we have the teacher with the best skills and you’re going to give us the teacher with the least?”
She begrudgingly looks at me: “Is that what I just said?”
But I know what he means. I speak his outspoken language.
Another student: “But I like this small class. It’s safe.”
Another: Tears. No words.
Another (different class): “I ain’t doin’ it. I’m still coming here fourth period. Try and stop me.”
AP (to me): “Isn’t it great to be loved?”
And I think, these are the same kids I threw under the bus the other day for not showing up on the “NOT” snow day. These are the kids I was jumping up and down about saying goodbye to because I want to teach immigrants, kids who really care, who are fully invested in wanting to be in my classroom every day. On time. Ready to learn.
And I feel a mix of joy and hatred all in the same moment.
And I think about these things, these fourteen-year-old faces running across my mind as I begin my Thanksgiving break. As I drive the carpool kids home and drop my girls off at piano and put frozen pizza (my Friday cop-out meal) in the oven and cross stitch and listen to my Spanish book and wait until the optimal moment before venturing out into the snow back into my old neighborhood.
I am saying goodbye to these green walls and these three girls and all the kids who have come in and out of my classroom for fifteen years to drive into richville and pretend like I’m someone else.
It is just what I thought and nothing like I thought. One block away from where I grew up, a 1940s war home that (amazingly) hasn’t been torn down… just doubled in size on the backside, granite counters and a peak-through kitchen from the living to dining to family room to breakfast nook. The hostess is a jubilant extroverted redhead with children who are driving up with their father to ski training for a week. She proudly shows us the brownies and fudge they made, the doggie bandanna (“bark scarves”) business her children have developed (web site and all), describes the destruction and reconstruction of her “starter-turned-family” home.
And I make the mistake of telling all the blond and blue-eyed businesswomen-doctor-lawyer-private-school-till-now moms that I teach. At the local high school.
And they want the good. The bad. The ugly.
“I’ve been keeping an eye on it for years.”
“I even hosted a German exchange student a couple years ago to see how it was (and I wasn’t impressed).”
“I heard the principal is leaving.”
“I heard that there’s no accountability.”
“I heard they have a great football team.”
And there I stand. In the middle. I’m not going to lie. And I’m not really going to satisfy their curiosity either. And I’m not going to go home to a mansion. And send my kids to a ski team training. Or use Uber because “it’s better than driving.” I’m not going to be a “CEO recruiter” and tear down half a house because the one I bought wasn’t good enough. I’m not going to find some German kid to “test out the local high school” for me.
And I’m not going to lie.
“It’s apathetic.”
“The administration is mediocre at best.”
“The kids don’t do their homework.”
Everything they want to know. And don’t want to know.
Because I’m in the middle. I am a teacher and a mother. And I constantly ask myself: What is best for my kids? (MY kids.) And: What is best for my kids (THEIR kids). And the answers almost never match up.
Because that kid who cried in my class today told me his story about his mom beating the shit out of him. About social services ripping him away from her broken-bottle alcoholic rants. About the safe haven with grandparents in New Mexico. About how fucking scared he is every time he steps out of his Denver home because his mom lives SOMEWHERE IN THIS STATE.
And he doesn’t want to tell it again.
Because that kid who said he likes the small class can’t quite do work when “he’s going through some emotional tough shit, Miss,” and I let him have extra time.
Because that kid who said, “I ain’t gonna do it” has lingered into lunch on five occasions, emptying my wallet for a few bucks to have a meal.
Because I can’t lie. And I can’t tell the truth. And I can’t be a CEO recruiter who could never understand why a day filled with luncheons and a flexible schedule will never be my day. I can’t fit in with the blond-and-blue-eyed bitches just as well as I can’t fit my kids in with kids who won’t do their fucking homework (and yet I love them anyway).
There is no middle ground. There is no balance to what I face every day (tears and joy, tears and joy) and what I want my kids to see (apathy mixed with perseverance???).
And there is no way in hell a single one of these women would understand where I’m coming from anyway.
So why am I here? Why am I asking these questions?
I put my coat on and the hostess begins a story about running out of gas at the top of a pass on the way to a camping trip and coasting down the mountain into the only gas station in town.
I tell my story of driving 5000 miles in a Prius and running out gas in a no-cell-phone range and putting on my bike helmet and riding my bike down I-70 for six miles at 21:30 and my husband guarding the three kids in the back seat.
“I like your story better,” she admits as she walks me to the door. “I think I might steal it and call it my own.”
She’d be just like those other teachers who Z thinks “don’t have the skills” to teach him. Just like my kids who I can’t quite fit in to this frenzied life of private schools and ski team training.
Just like me. Stuck in the middle, good story in hand, just not quite the right place to publish it.
The Seedling of this Cycle
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better take that fear you’ve carried around all your life and bury it at the bottom of your heart. It will pound against your chest in a rush of adrenaline stronger than the blinking red light that lines your helmet and warns every car in town that you are on your way, that you will circle into that roundabout with death at your wheels, and that they’d better yield or someone’s getting fucked.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better keep your mouth closed and your mind open. You will have to stop every few hundred feet for a pedestrian who jolts out between cars, for a light that intermittently changes to red but only for one direction of traffic, and for a society that prefers feet on the ground over feet inside cycling shoes. You may think that the road rage of your previous life has a presence here, but your language is too foreign for their ears to comprehend, and your Americanized version of right-of-way will never fly with this set of Spaniards.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you’d better learn how to ride the wrong way on a one-way street. Forget smooth sidewalks or bike paths–they are filled with sneakers and strollers. You will need the road at your wheels, your heels, spinning beneath those pedals in its smooth, cracked, gutter-ridden, bus-polluted, fountain-lined surrealistic view of life.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must recall your numbers. They will blend together like the apartment buildings, pisos, escaleras, and disappearing miles on a bike computer that has been jolted out of place from so many lockings and unlockings, so that its measurements are lost along with the trail of tears that has carried you across the sea.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must forget all the reasons that brought you onto this route and remember all the reasons you will ride your bicycle back home. You are not commuting. You are not joy riding. You are, with every wintry breath you pull into your lungs, the same person you were when the seedling of this cycle first sprouted in your heart.
To clip your shoes into these pedals, you must be yourself. The cyclist. The fanatic. The mother, the teacher, the lover, the poet. All of these rest along that metal incision at the bottom of your shoes, tightened with expert tools, holding you to that magical piece of machinery that is everything you are, have been, and ever will be.
Cycle of Life
view from uphill ride
my city backed by mountains
night ends in laughter
Average Speed of Satisfaction
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
Average Speed of Satisfaction
Today I had my first real bike ride since arriving in Spain. Yes, I have ridden my bike almost every day, but riding around this city is merely to save a few minutes of time, not for enjoyment. There are so many crosswalks to have to stop at, and the bike paths are on sidewalks full of pedestrians who refuse to get out of the way and almost seem to pride themselves, instead, on getting IN the way, so it’s not a fast-paced, Cherry-Creek-Bike-Path kind of experience. Not to mention if you ride on the side of the road you have to constantly slow down and look behind you as you pull around whatever random car that is double-parked in front of you.
I have come across a few “back roads” to get from one side of the city to the other in half the time, and I began my morning ride on one today, then riding along the harbor and heading towards the closest beach. It was a bit of a climb, and I wanted to take a back road, but missed it, and was stopping to check the map on my iPhone when two guys on mountain bikes cycled past me. Everyone here who has a bike has a mountain bike or a foldable bike. Today I learned why.
Though they were in front of me, I finally got to use my favorite cycling term of all time, “On your left!” as we pedaled up the hill (though I’m sure they didn’t understand my American-accented Spanish version of this phrase). Of course the two men on mountain bikes couldn’t keep pace with me!!
I reached the crest of the hill and stopped to take a few photos of the harbor, the mountains, and the Mediterranean. Not exactly the same views as home, but I think I’ll survive. 🙂
At last, just after the beach and having to ride through two tunnels (very frightening, as they were just wide enough for two cars, but as usual, anywhere outside of this city has ZERO traffic), I saw the back road I’d wanted to take that led to the top of the mountain bearing a castle… It was full of gravel two inches thick, and a passel of mountain biking men were making their way up the trail. It was the first moment in my bike-life where I was disappointed with my Fuji. Access denied!
Nevertheless, I continued down the main road, hoping to gather some other great views, only to be disappointed again by a fuel refinery whose smoke filled a large cove and choked me as I pedaled uphill.
Despite these two small disappointments, I felt amazing. Rather than averaging the Cartagena-city-limits speed of 8 mph, I was at least able to come out of my morning with a 13-mph (hey, I said mountains, remember??) average speed of satisfaction. I could actually feel my muscles tightening, my quads pulling themselves into a gratified smile. How could I have put this ride off for so long??? Oh wait… I was trying to adjust to this insane schedule they have here of staying up late and getting up just before work.
Well… they can put the girl in Spain, but they can’t take the Colorado out of the girl. I think it’s time to start setting my alarm so I can brighten my day with the beauty of actual cycling.
Coffee and Cigarettes
Spanish homes are spotless. Mothers put on special aprons to clean and everyone has a mop set like in a restaurant. They may have round-the-house clothing styles such as sweats and workout shirts, but they will never wear these things in public. I have seen them actually change clothes to run downstairs to the grocery store at the bottom of their building! How strange they must think I am, showing up at their doorsteps clad in bike shorts, clip-in shoes, a cycling jersey and a helmet in hand. No wonder I get wide-eyed looks wherever I go. I’m sure they just put their surprise aside and say to themselves, “Those crazy Americans.”
Perhaps they’re right. We are a bit crazy, or at least I’m a bit crazy. Not so sure anyone I know would drag a family across the sea for a year in Spain, but I’m pretty positive there’s not a crazy enough person on the planet to ALSO drag her bicycle with her!!
I thought for sure that everyone here would walk everywhere, and that the public transportation system would be awesome, much more effective than in the United States. I am disappointed to announce that both beliefs are untrue. Spaniards walk. Hell, there are crosswalks every five seconds, and all cars obey them if a pedestrian is present (Boulder! I’m living in Boulder, a dream come true!!). But Spaniards walk two blocks to the closest market or cafe, and then they either drive (most of them have cars) or sit patiently for the bus to take them the rest of the one mile if they have to go any further than that. I have no idea how they have the patience to wait for a bus that takes them nowhere. The bus system here is completely ineffective. To get from my apartment to the center of the city, where anything and everything happens, it is an easy two-mile walk (or cycle!), or I can wait, pay 1,20€, and take not one, but TWO buses. Why would anyone in their right mind choose to wait and pay for a bus when walking is much better for the body?
Speaking of bodies, Spaniards are beautiful people. I have seen more attractive people here than just about anywhere else. And of course they’re all skinny. To go along with my original beliefs, I’d always assumed they were thin from having to walk everywhere. But that’s not it. Not in the least.
After a month of having to choke on the constant smell of tobacco, adjust to the Spanish siesta schedule where we have to wait from 7:30 till 3:00 to eat? I have finally come up with the reason Spaniards are so thin: coffee and cigarettes. They live for their cafes, and for the outdoor seating which affords them the ability to smoke at all hours of the day. Even the teachers smoke!! Ugh! I’ve never seen so many smokers in all my life.
I guess we all have our demons. Mine is a bicycle I can’t live without, theirs are appearances on every occasion (even an errand) and needing tobacco to make it between meals. No matter how we choose to make it through the day, I think we can all look at each other and say, “Vale. No pasa nada.”
Our Latest Spain Adventure
With handlebars barely within her reach, a bike seat that doesn’t allow her feet to touch the ground like she’s used to, and hand brakes only (also new), it is a bumpy one-mile ride to the beginning of our latest Spain adventure. Isabella, nine, is anxious to be a part of something here, both with me and the people of this city. She lives to belong.
This is the cheap bicycle we bought for Bruce at Carrefour, the one with crooked handlebars and a pedal that already fell off and is now on somewhat crookedly as well, its bearings stripped after a single repair. We move along side streets until we reach the bike lane, having to stop only a few times for hazard-lit cars whose drivers are greeting friends, delivering fruit, or just not in a hurry.
No one here is ever in a hurry. After a fall and a few precarious turns by Isabella, we are ten minutes late to the park. However, as cyclists of all ages continue to stream in, it becomes clear to me, once again, that this is not America. There is no liability form to sign, no registration fee, no separate event for kids and adults. And there is certainly no reason we should begin on time!
After another twenty-five minutes of waiting, we begin, five hundred or more, to stream out of the park. We fill the street with trailers, tagalongs, training wheels, baby bike seats, and a speed slow enough to walk. North to the first roundabout, over to the main Alameda, where we move along the palm trees toward the harbor, our safety enforced by neon-green uniformed policemen who stand at each corner. “It’s like being in a parade, just like the one last night!” Isabella announces, reminiscing the 11:00 p.m. march across town of people dressed in B.C.E. Roman and Carthagenian robes, kilts, skins, helmets, and furs. (Yes, I said 11 PM, where every age from little Roman toga-bearing babies and seventy-year-old crowned queens lit up the streets with their drums and song).
I am a cyclist. I have ridden three thousand miles in eight months, regularly ride my bike twenty-five miles to and from work each day, and have participated in a cycling event that took me over two mountain passes in the depths of the San Juans. But I certainly have never seen anything like this.
Like a slow-motion mob, we “ride” across town, weaving in and out of kids ranging in age from two to seventy (kind of like the parade!). There is no finish line, no lineup of booths promoting muscle milk or the latest carbon bike, no giant banners bragging about sponsorship. There are freestyle cyclists showing off, juegos tadicionales like hopskotch and jump rope, and all the families in Cartagena, gathered here at the city center to cycle their way to a sacred Saturday of family time.
I watch my daughter, who has mastered control of her handlebars, who leads me along what she calls “the Italian street” into and out of narrow “alleys”, who rides in circles with the other kids on the concrete at the center of a park, who asks to ride the long way home. We weave in and out of pedestrians, meander along the bike path past all the now-dispersed cyclists, and make our way back.
She has completed her first cycling event. I have completed my first cycling event in Spain. In our latest Spain adventure, where nothing is the same and everything is the same, we arrive home, unscathed, barely sweating, eight miles behind us, and all the miles ahead of us paved in love, in beauty, in the connectedness of belonging to a culture that cherishes their children far more than riding a bike over two mountain passes.
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