Posts Tagged ‘commuting’

We All Have Our Own Stories

November 2, 2014

Etched on our skin, soft glass, bevelled, delicate to the touch, the smoothness be lying the pain that scraped out the hardness therein.

My friend sat on my chaise lounge and broke it down.

He had picked me up in Noe Valley.

He was on the motorcycle, leaning against it as I walked out, wondering about my life, about this thing in me that leads me where it leads me.

My heart.

This incessant, necessary, almost compulsive desire to feel, feel, feel.

I used to not want to feel and now I am this feeling junkie, give it to me, I want to be alive I want to sense it, this world that is about me.

I was walking up the hill into Noe Valley from Valencia taking 24th and just over awed by San Francisco.

She does it to me, this city, I was taken and inflamed with love and majesty, and magic, really, its magic and I am always just a little startled when this happens.

I can see things in flat two-dimensional ways, planes of glass on mirrors, flat, a fallow falling of shadow, a skein of dust floating across the pain (pane) of a plexiglass frame, dust it all you will and it is still there, sallow, coating the picture with a filter.


There will be days, like today, violet days, days of purple, when the skein comes off, the sun flashes out, the dust is gone, it is clear, the world is wiped, shiny, emboldened, lovely, loverly, and I am smashed to pieces with the beauty of it, just the frame of the condominiums across the way from the SafeWay grocery store on Fulton Street blows me apart.

The curry yellow faded paint and the mid-80s architecture some how smote me, the mediocrity of the building becomes bludgeoned with the vast sea it frames and the roll and heave of the Pacific Ocean in that one snippet of view, thunderous and huge, and yet, contained in the picture.

I knew by the time I was getting back from Noriega Produce this afternoon that I was not riding my scooter, I was not riding my bicycle, I was walking or taking MUNI, I was daydreaming with my load of groceries on my back from Safe Way and almost got side swiped by a car that rolled through the stop sign at La Playa and Lincoln.

I had the right of way.

I was right, but I was about to not be happy.

Normally, it wouldn’t have matter, I would have recognized that the driver was doing what the driver does, the driver has his own agenda and it does not involve me.

But I, in my self-centered way, was blithely riding my bicycle along believing that everyone can see me, and see me clearly (though, to stretch this into a metaphor, I don’t see things clearly anyhow, I need a community of like-minded people to daily, constantly, hopefully, lovingly and compassionately, give me fucking perspective), that they know I have two half gallons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk in my bag and there was a sale on my favorite organic yogurt so I got more and I splurged on bottled water, which I never do, but there was a sale and.

Holy shit.

I am almost hit.

Not because I wasn’t obeying every traffic law there was, hell, I was even in the turn lane on the Great Highway to take the green arrow with the cars, it didn’t matter, the driver was doing his own thing and came out of the gas station, onto La Playa and right out into the lane, no stopping, not even pausing, probably did not see the stop sign.

And I.

I was too smitten with sea salt and the smell of a bonfire, and the crispedy crisp ness of the world and my environs, like a camera obscura, lit within and edge with gold and saffron, to see that I am about to get hit on my bicycle.

“Well officer, I didn’t see her coming, it was all just a vast river of almond milk in the road.”

They shake their heads sadly and kick the waxed cardboard half liter to the sandy curb.

I missed getting hit.

I caught it out of the corner of my eye and swerved, the driver never saw me, never stopped, I felt the whick of the car sliding along my ankle to the point where I had anticipatory pain wing up my calve and cause me to gasp out loud.

I gave the car the thumbs up and said, “thank you God for saving drunks and children” as I am both a drunk (sober) and a child (emotional).

I resolutely set forth the last three blocks to home, not getting hit, shielding my eyes from the startling beauty of my neighborhood–did you see the clouds, did you feel the sun, did you smell that air today, did the last kiss of autumn beguile you?

I got home, unloaded my groceries, made a run to Noriega produce, hyper aware and absolute in my resolution to not be on two wheels, either scooter or bicycle, today, ride the MUNI, get a ride home from Noe Valley, call a cab.

Or have a friend meet you at the place on his motorcycle and scoop your wet eyed self up on the edge of the sidewalk and adjust the helmet on your head since you, suddenly incapable, blunt smacked with feelings, struggle to get your hair out-of-the-way.

And it stuns me.

These feelings.

“You need to stop writing about__________,” my friend said to me today.  “________ knows everything about you, it’s not fair, you have to keep somethings to yourself,  you, can you fictionalize it, can you make it up?”

I can’t.

I want to, you know.

But there it is these colors and feelings, the sharp hammer etching out the frosted glass of my heart and it is beautiful, but sharp and painful and I can’t stop doing it.

Because I become the art and the beauty and it is my process and my love and me.

Not all me.

“I know you don’t write it all out, that’s for your morning pages,” my friend astutely observed as we talked about love, loss, stories, the nuances of feelings, the perspective of time and what it is like to make art in real-time.

I am an artist.

I love myself.

I forgive myself.

I accept myself.

“Honey, of course he called you an artist, you ooze it out of your skin like your sexuality.”


I had not thought of that.

So I am the art, the piece and the parcel and the story, it is I and I am it.


There’s my heart on my sleeve.

Was it any wonder that I can’t come up with a good costume for Halloween?

I was already dressed for my part.

And so.

I continue, and it’s here, but not here, you see it, there beneath the bevelled glass, a shimmering of truth, but frosted slightly.

I get the pain, you get art, vibrant and mitred on the skin of my being.

Tattooed with love.

Yet again.

Trying To Figure It Out

September 15, 2014

Is not helping my sense of relaxation.

I just clicked through a number of “secret San Francisco spots” and things to do and thought, meh.

I’ve pretty much done that been there.

It’s the big guns I have not done.

I have not gone to Alcatraz.

I really can’t quite bring myself to go, to tell the truth.

I do love taking photographs of it when I have ridden past it on a ferry-boat at night or sunset, its a spectacular piece of spooky and eery and beautiful, but I have not ever really hankered to go visit the Rock.

I have never walked the Golden Gate Bridge.

I am not about to start tomorrow.

My ankle still sucks.


Half way to full healing, not walking in a boot, no crutches, but still aches, still gets swollen, still needs attending to.

Speaking of which, I am going to pause and prop it up with some frozen peas now that I am thinking about it and take a few ibuprofen for the swelling.


That’s better.

I have not ever been too keen on walking the bridge, though, I have done it numerous times on my bicycle.

Which I was going to ride today, not much mind you, just to the grocery store and back.


I blew out the valve on the inner tube trying to inflate it.

I have to change out the tube and I just didn’t feel like doing it to justify an eight block round trip bicycle ride to Noriega Market.

Although I will probably change my tune tomorrow when I go through the last of the Stumptown Holler Mountain coffee in my cupboard.  That will dramatically increase my odds of fixing my flat tire.

I was going to be lazy about it and just wheel it up the road to 42nd and Irving where that little local bike shop is, but then I was like, really?  I have the tube, I have the wrench I have the pump.  The time it would take to walk there and back I could probably change it faster and it will be free.

That’s one thing to do on the morrow.

I do have someone coming over for an hour tomorrow to do some work and catching up.

I am getting lots of that.

“You’re going to graduate school in San Francisco!?  You got a new job in the Mission!?”


Some one I do some work with was over joyed to hear my news when we met at Maxfield’s House of Caffeine on the Dolores/Mission border.

Over joyed that I am not moving or going anywhere but staying here in SF for graduate work.

It was lovely to catch up, it has been about a month since I have done the one on one work and I have missed it.

I’ll get more this week.

But aside from that, not much is happening until Thursday.

After 1 p.m. tomorrow I am wide open.

I called and left a message with a friend of mine who occasionally has Monday’s off, perhaps we’ll kick it around the city.

I have a possible lunch date on Wednesday.

Tuesday I will say goodbye to the little guy in Cole Valley, pick up my playa bike, and hand over the key to the mom.

Bittersweet to see another story close.

But excited to have a new adventure happening soon.

In the Mission.

“Are you going to move back to the Mission?” A good friend of mine, who lives in the Mission, asked me this evening when I shared the news of what’s happening next in the life and times of moi.

I wish.

Unless y’all can come up with a spot for me, that is no more expensive than what I pay now and I get as much room and access to laundry.

I mean.

I would in a heart beat.

It is going to be a big commute to get to the Mission from out here.

I can do it.

I have before, but it’ll be about an hour and a half commute every day on my bicycle.

Maybe not that long, but about.

On a good gravy I am going fast day, with good traffic, and not really obeying traffic laws, I can make it to the Mission in about a half hour.

But I will probably give myself 45 minutes to make the ride.

I don’t want to die.

And this does bring me back to my other thought, my scooter.

I would love to use it.

I don’t think I am going to though, I can’t afford another injury on it.

I just cannot.

But I also don’t want to have a vintage Vespa collecting dust if I am not going to use it.

I think I am going to head to a couple of scooter places on Tuesday (SF Moto is closed on Mondays otherwise I’d go tomorrow) and see if I can trade in for a new model, I have been checking out the stock on their website and there seems to be a lot of options.

The commute won’t be quite so daunting on a scooter.

I’ll be getting on my bicycle until that sorts itself out.

I figure another week of taking it easy on the ankle and fingers crossed, I’ll be up and at ’em for the new job commute starting a week from tomorrow.

There’s not really a good MUNI connect between here and where I am working in the Mission, two transfers and some walking, I would rather spend the time on the bike and go slow and get there, it’ll be faster no matter what anyhow.

Of course, this is all unnecessary commuter speculation right now.

I don’t have work to go to until Friday when I am doing a date night for the parents of the new family and Saturday afternoon when I get to see my little guy in the Castro who started up pre-school while I was away at Burning Man.

Until then.

I shall ferret out some secret San Francisco treasures for my “staycation” enjoyment.

Wish me luck!

Tuesday, It’s a Good Day

July 3, 2013

For a panic attack.

I shit you not, I had my first panic attack in about oh, six years.

Man that was not fun.

In tears, on the floor, trying to desperately regulate my breathing.

All because I am powerless over BART and my life is fucking unmanageable.

Fortunately it was a baby panic attack, probably more of an anxiety attack than anything, but the lead up to it was hella sexy.


I was trying to juggle too many people and too many schedules.

Attempting to figure out how I was going to make it back to East Oakland tonight so that I could bicycle commute to North Oakland in the morning for a nanny gig.

Throw in I had a 6pm meet up at Dolores Park Cafe, followed by a 7:30pm commitment at the Women’s Building.

Add to the crazy I was leaving the house sitting gig, so like a good hermit crab I was going to have to pack up all my belongings and trundle them along with me to the East Bay.

Oh, yeah, and I was attempting to figure out how to pick up the keys to the house sitting gig I am doing starting Thursday, here in SF.

Then, the final cherry on the top, I am nannying on Thursday and Friday here in SF.

Holy mother of God.

No wonder I was freaking out.

All I could do was make a cup of tea and sit down and be grateful that the baby was sleeping.

I posted something to facecrack, then got a few responses but nothing that quite seemed to make the proper connection, in fact, it all seemed to get bigger and more blown out and more complicated the more I looked at it.

Then the mom in North Oakland shoots me a text saying, we’re still on for tomorrow, right?  And I’m in the city until 8pm if you need a ride back to the East Bay.

I do, but I have a bicycle that won’t fit into your car along with the timing on picking up the keys and I suppose I could leave the bike here, but then how do I get from Graceland to North Oakland–it’s seven miles and um, yeah, the BART is not going that away either.

I mean I suppose I could take the bus?

Cue the unset of panic, the baby is waking up, the texts are whistling in, and I just about blew a gasket.

I stopped, turned off the phone, well, I turned it to silent.

Then I realized I could probably ask for some help and guidance and I didn’t need to figure it out on my own, even though I was still trying to figure it out on my own.

I knew in my heart I was going to have to cancel one thing.

Either the pet sit.

Or the nanny in Oakland.

I was going to have to be on one side of the bay or the other.

The back and forth was just not an option.

I wanted to crawl into a five gallon bucket of mint chocolate chip ice cream and cry.

Instead I ate half a bag of baby carrots and some organic humus and I started making the phone calls.

The first three I was in such a panic explaining what was happening that I think I actually did not leave a cohesive message.

I called John Ater first and said the breathing is not working, I can’t catch my breath, but I could hear him in my head, “just breathe, just breathe, take another deep breath.”

I left my inchoate message on his voice mail, tears rolling down my face, talking to myself out loud to breathe and called the next person on the list.

I called four people, left four messages, and on the fifth hit the jackpot.

I got a live person.



She just listened and made some suggestions and asked me what I could do and next thing you know I am telling her all I really care about is meeting this person at 6pm at Dolores Park Cafe and then going to the Women’s Building, that I know everything else will fall into place, the keys, the transportation, where I am going to stay, how it will work.

I don’t know how, but just focusing on that, just getting from 5 o’clock to the baby is getting picked up and then get on bike and go to the cafe.

Just that.

Oh, yes, and take care of the baby.

Which I managed to do and was most likely the reason why I did not go into full-blown attack, I had a responsibility, a little life, a person completely reliant on me.

I knew that he was my only true concern at the moment and that it all was going to suss its way out.

I listened to my friend’s suggestions, made eyes with the baby, flirting with a boy always helps, then took the next action in front of me.

I called the people I nanny for and was house sitting for in Cole Valley and asked if I could stay two more evenings (I work as a nanny here Thursday and Friday).  Dad is back and there is no need for me to be here.

Mom said yes, just clear it with dad.

I text dad.

Dad said it’s a go.

I have a place to stay.


I called the person who had offered to give me a lift if I needed it and said thank you, but I am going to pass, I’m staying put.

Which meant calling the family in the East Bay and saying those words I so dread, “I have to cancel, I am sorry, but I am staying in the city.”

Of course the mom was entirely sympathetic and we worked it out that she is actually going to bring her daughter here.

So I won’t lose a gig, I won’t lose my mind, I won’t be hurting myself trying to shuttle all my stuff to the East Bay and then back to the city and I won’t be having any more panic attacks today.

Thank fucking God.

Just like that, just ask for help, just stop figuring it out.

Figure it out ain’t a god damn slogan.

The show’s officially in town all week, pull up a chair.

Checking Out

June 19, 2013


I just want to watch some West Wing and not think or move.

I nanny’ed today and the mom was at home sick.

That is not a horrible thing, mom’s get sick, kids get sick, it just means I was hyper vigilant.

I felt like I was on high alert and my best behavior and all that.

I took them out to the park and had a fabulous time.

We sat in the sand box, which is like the nicest sandbox in the world, we were at the Golden Gate Park recreation area for kids towards the front of the park.  It is a playground heaven.

I put the babies back to back on the swings and they had a blast.

My feet hurt, my back hurts, and my brain hurts.

Not from the nanny, the last, just a lot of awesome e-mails from my boss at the design firm and some things that need sussing out tomorrow.  I just got a smidgen overwhelmed when I opened up the inbox on my gmail and saw all the messages.


But tomorrow is another day, a day where I don’t have any nanny.

To make up for this I have a double on Thursday again.

This was not planned, but since I am short shifted three shifts this week, I took it.

I need to do a small bit of schedule arranging, but for the most part, tomorrow I am staying put.  I will work remote, no parking tickets here please, and stay in the East Bay.

I’ll be back in San Francisco on Friday for errands and meet ups and seeing ladies.

I may also try to get out dancing, I will have the car for one last day and that could be a fun thing to do.  I also was debating going to the ecstatic dance tomorrow night on Telegraph.

I am so tired out though, that’s the thing when thinking about how I will feel tomorrow–I don’t know, I am too tired to figure it out.  When I feel good it is easy to say, yes!  Let’s do something, too often I say yes let’s do something when I am feeling smashing and have no clue how I will feel the day of the event or the night.

Not only do I need to learn how to say, “let me get back to you on that,” with friends, colleagues, nanny gigs, life, I need to say it to myself.

Let me get back to you.

I will have a better idea how I will feel tomorrow to make decisions about tomorrow.

I tried to get out a little tonight, but after the long day, not helped by the inability to take my bike on BART from the MacArthur station during morning rush, so I drove in to the city and right into the 45 minute wait at the toll plaza.

There was an accident this morning.

Then this evening when all I wanted to do was get back to the house sitting gig and make dinner (normally I would have eaten dinner at the nanny gig, but mom being around cooking up dinner, it just didn’t seem a good time), it was the Giants game traffic.


I don’t need to do any driving tomorrow.

Unless I do go dancing, but I doubt that there will be traffic heading to a non-alcoholic ecstatic dance space and studio in Berkeley.

Again, that’s tomorrow.

I feel quite unfocused right now, back hurts, neck hurts, feet hurts.

Wait, I wrote that already.

Ah ha!

Fuck me, why don’t I get a massage tomorrow?

Or some sort of body work or a soak in a hot tub somewhere.

I mean, damn it, I work my ass off and yes I know I could use the money somewhere else, rent, groceries, clothes, but fuck, I could use a damn massage.

This is when I want a boyfriend.

That and when I want sex.

So pretty much I always want a boyfriend.

I was thinking about that last night as I was tossing and turning trying to go to sleep early since I had a 6:30 a.m. alarm set–the time I needed to eat breakfast, do my morning routine, and write, before getting to the 8:45a.m. start for my 9 hour day of nanny (which actually did not get started until 9 a.m. what with the hideous traffic).

Sleeping with someone.

Not the act of sex, but the actual act of sleeping with someone.

It’s been a long time since I slept wrapped around someone.

I miss it.

I had not realized that, I do miss it.

I miss falling asleep laying against a man.

Well, what do you know.

News to me as I continue to think I will never fall asleep in a man’s arms again.


No sign of that, despite the nice dinner I had last week with the Mister.

One teeny tiny text message that was a response to the thank you I sent him three days after the dinner date.  “More to come….”

More to come when motherfucker?

Uh, um, uh, excuse me.

I meant, “do you have a date in mind?”

I am not holding my breath mister busy pants.

So, trying to be here, trying to not check out, too much, just be present as much as I can.

Alright, I lie, I am ready to down load a bad romantic comedy and eat some popcorn.

We shall see what happens.

Regardless, nothing’s really wrong and I don’t think my nanny hangover will be too bad, and I will sleep in tomorrow and either get some body work done or go dancing or fuck it, maybe both.

I will also call up a girl friend and see how she’s doing.

That always takes me out of my head.

The best way to check out is to ask after someone else.

So, how are you doing?

That Was Not for Naught

June 18, 2013

Despite the immediate, somewhat childish tantrum building in my head.

I went into the city today to do some work, although I knew I could do it remotely.  I wanted to be in the office space, I wanted to provide myself with accountability.

I wanted that to not be a ticket on the windshield when I went to move the car.


Damn it man.


That pretty much negated going into the city to work.

I only had a few hours to put toward the project, although when I left and had packed up I had some more thoughts that will bear exploring, but not today.  Today it was get back, after a coffee date at Four Barrel, to the East Bay without getting any more tickets.

It was not a horrible day, it was not, I got to see a lady bug and do some work with her and I had a delicious cup of Four Barrel, I know folks that might pay $62 to just do that, a little trip into the city.

I took a walk down Valencia Street, I went to Dog Eared Books, I bought a book and a new notebook–my last journal from Paris was filled this morning–I saw my friend Carlos on the street, I got a hug.

I saw so many folks out there, in San Francisco and here in Oakland, pushing shopping carts that the sting of getting the ticket was gone before too long.

I paid it immediately.

It’s not my car.

I do not want my employers to come back from their vacation and wonder what the hell their car was doing on the wrong side of the street, in San Francisco.

Not to say that they did not give me permission to drive it, they did, but I get to be honest and adult and take care of shit before it bites my ass.

I was trying to remember when the last time was that I got a ticket and I could not remember, although the feeling of it was similar, annoyance, anger, fleeting financial insecurity.  Then I thought, I did not die the last time I got a ticket, I paid it and went about my life and forgot that I had been given one.

I will drive into the city again tomorrow, but I already secured parking for it.  I texted the family I will be nannying for and asked if I could park in their driveway.  I was given a resounding thumbs up and I shall motor back over again tomorrow.

Counting down the days when I will not be crossing over the bridge so much or under the water via BART.

“You’re moving back to the city?!”  She asked me in line at Four Barrel.  An old friend who last I saw was in Oakland a few days back.  She too does a lot of work in San Francisco, not too strange to see her in a coffee shop in the Mission.

“Yup, Ocean Beach,” I replied.

“You’ll love it,” and she gave me a hug.

I will certainly love it more than this commute.

I have a new appreciation for everyone who does this on a daily basis.

I feel challenged doing it and tired and grumpy and over it.

I feel grateful that I have a reason to come and go for work, despite there not being a lot of it this week.  Two nanny gigs and a few things for the design firm.

It feels like I will break even coming and going and groceries for the week.

Not much else.

I am hoping to have rent for the new place set aside before I leave for Burning Man so that I may secure the space.  Although I feel confident that my friend is not going to pull the rug out from under me and tell me it’s not available.

I just want to have it set up.

I am grateful for all the places and spaces, beds, guest rooms, couches, and fold out futons that I have gotten to stay on, the couches, oh the couches I have surfed.

However, the thought of being in my own room makes my panties damp.

Sorry, but it’s true.

I can live pretty lean and I have done so for many years now, not as lean as the lady pushing a cart in the bicycle lane at Valencia and 19th, though, truth be told, she may have had more belongings in her heaped up cart than I own.

I am not saying extravagant, I am not saying over the top, although I won’t sneeze at that.

I am saying comfortable and my own.

Yeah, I know life is transitory, stuff is stuff, but I am tired of being rootless.

Perhaps I am just not as spiritually evolved, but I can say it here, if I can say fuck and shit and piss and burning man and sex and kissing, then I can say it here, I am ready for my own damn place.

I am a material girl.

At least I know it.

I want to hang a hammock from the back and have a big cushy bed with white bedding and a wrought iron frame.  I want to have mason jar lanterns and wooden crates for night tables, I want a desk/kitchen table combo, a nice chair, fluffy towels in the bathroom, a plant or two to call my own.

I want bookshelves and notebooks and pens and candles that smell pretty.

Oh, I want it all.

Being satisfied with what I have is good and I am.

I am lucky and grateful and blessed, I have good friends, and good coffee beans to grind tomorrow morning before I begin my journey back to the city, all these experiences that help me to realize what it is exactly that I want.

None of them were for naught if they got me to where I am today.

Not a single one.

Body By Bicycle

December 8, 2011

I wore tights today.  I wasn’t thinking much about it, just put on what was available to wear, it’s laundry day (tonight’s my last night at Reno’s so I wanted to make sure I got a load of laundry in before my next move) and I did not have any clean jeans I wanted to wear into work.

Alas, I am down to two pairs of tights.  It’s time to get more, and some fleece lined ones at that.  I just discovered a big run in the two of the ones I have been wearing.  They have been good troopers–even made it back from not one, but two tours of Burning Man.

Suffice to say, it was a chilly day out there on my bicycle.  But my legs got a work out.  I ran an errand on my bike today for the store, I also got up early and went shopping at Rainbow for a few staples, so I used the leg muscles a little more than I do on an average day, but really, I blame the tights–

hot pink.  and the short black dress.  Not super short, but just short enough.  So, what I’m saying is that the legs were noticeable today and when I see my legs in mirror I myself ogle them a little.  They are pretty rocking legs.  I have hamstrings that are solid and defined, as are my calves, but it is always my thighs that I go to when I see my legs bare to the world–look at those muscles.


Body by bicycle.

I may not be riding up and down Nob Hill at the moment, but I am still bike commuting and I am riding up and down Potrero Hill.  Not to the top, thank god, but I’m getting in a decent little climb every night when I come back on 23rd street.  I remember when I was incapable of riding much past General on my old commuter bike.  It was a slow, heavy, fat tired hybrid.

I had walked into Pedal Revolution and said, “I don’t care about hip slick and cool.  I want something that will get me from point A to point B and is comfortable.”  I got the hybrid.  Which I regretted in about two weeks as it started to need constant repairs and tweaks as I rode pretty hard right from the get go.  By the time I had gotten rid of the bike, which is now rusting quietly on Reno’s back porch (this is where all hybrid’s go to die–the back porch of a family with a small child that wants a slow, heavy, stolid bicycle to put a child seat on to occasionally take their toddler to the park on or do Sunday Streets with), I could have bought four hybrids, or one really nice bicycle which would have lasted me indefinitely.

Lesson well learned.

I will end up paying more in the long run for a cheap bike.  Get the good one and just do maintenance, ends up being much cheaper and you have a nicer riding experience.  Problem with me is, you could not have told me that when I got that first bike. I really thought spending $450 on a bike was extraordinary.  Now I know much better.

I wouldn’t bat an eye at paying $1500 for a decent road bike.  Not at all.

Good thing I get a discount at work!

So, in tights, end of day, unlocking bicycle and getting ready to step into my clipless and ride off into the night to meet Maitreaya (!) at Muddy Waters on 24th and Valencia.  I had gotten a text from her about an hour and a half before the shop closed and she was in town and took a stab in the dark to see if I was around.  I hadn’t seen her in years, three?  Three and a half?  God, maybe even four, so I was absolutely down to have my plans changed up.  Although I do rue not seeing Joan as I was supposed to hook up with her this evening.

Nevertheless, I am ready to get the legs moving as it is cold out there, thank god I just realized there’s a space heater up here in the attic, it has been going full blast since I walked up to my chilly abode this evening.  I get into the bicycle lane on Valencia and am blown by a cloud of nasty exhaust coming from a tow truck.  I couldn’t decide whether or not to save the lungs and hang back a little or get closer and report the licence plate for smog, it was seriously bad.  BAD.

A fellow cyclist on a Specialized was debating the same thing, and as it turned out, not so discreetly checking out my hot pink clad legs.  And as I find out a block or two later, my bum.  He verbalized, not too inelegantly or I would have made a turn off early, the splendid nature of my gams.  And how were they so achieved?

Bicycle.  I ride a lot.  Every day, twice a day, just like thousands of other people in the city.  Probably not all of them wear fancy pants tights however.  Or short black dresses when they ride.  I ride in whatever strikes my fancy.  There was a time when I felt uncomfortable riding in dresses or short skirts, but after having done the AIDS LifeCycle ride and been in form-fitting bicycle shorts and jersey’s, nothing bothers me.

Andrew once said to me while on a training ride in Marin that it was like riding naked anyhow, and really, it kind of is.

I don’t know how much more of the commentary I would have put up with, it was getting to be a little too obvious, checking out my ass, can’t stop that, but dropping back more than once to do so, kind of pushing it there dude.  I appreciated the compliments, and didn’t flirt back and dropped over to the side of the road when my destination was in sight.

Only to be engaged in another “bicycling” conversation as I was locking up my bike to the post.  This time about my cycling shoes.

Really ladies, if you are interested in a certain kind of guy (slightly geeky, but cute, moderately shoe gazing, borderline hipster, mid twenties with beard and curly tousled hair or the hard-core bike messenger tattooed guy sporting a Chrome bag and an attitude) get yourself a pair of SiDi bicycle shoes and learn how to ride clipless, worth the investment.

Also helps sculpt legs.

But so does hill climbing.

And yup, he too was checking out the tights.

Which round about leads back to end of day at the shop.  Where I have been left alone with one mechanic to hold down the fort.  GM’s well deserved day off (thank god I am no longer a gm, the days of working six days a week are done for me!), and a relatively slow day, led to many people ducking out early.  I didn’t mind and as the last employee was leaving a gentleman I had not seen in years, probably four?  Walked into the shop.

We caught up, shot the shit, and related what the other was doing as far as doing the deal was concerned.  It was good to see him, and he re-iterated it was good to see me.

Then he dropped the “f-bomb” on me.

He stopped by the door turned around and looked me up and down, “I got to say it, you look really foxy”.

I chuckled, spouted off my tag line, shrugged a little, said something about a bike and what it will do for you, and smiled.

“Well, to repeat, you are lookin’ foxy and now that I know you’re working here, I’ll definitely be dropping by more often”.  Then he wandered off into the night.  Well, ok then.

Funny how my brain works, I had not thought I was looking all that hot today, my hair was not doing what I had discussed with it (there are some draw backs to bike commuting–funky hair apres helmet) and the “radio silence” from Mister West Oakland (am so proud of myself, I have not texted or called!  I will continue to be uncomfortable and let him make the next contact. We’re confirmed for Saturday, it may not be until Saturday that I hear from him.  Ugh.), who I know is busy, but–kind of led me down the not feeling so hot today.

Feelings, sing it with me.

I apparently was wrong.  I blame the hot pink tights and the body by bicycle.

I will be investing in some more pairs very soon, be on the look for me next laundry day.

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