Hills

This last weekend I took a very challenging bike ride, down near San Diego. We were staying at the beach house of some close friends for the weekend and I brought all my gear with me, hoping to find a few hours to indulge in my latest obsession.

Fate saw fit to place two wonderful women cyclists literally in my path as I pulled out of the condo driveway.  We ended up chatting and they took me under their collective wing, saying I was welcome to join them on a rather easy fun ride.  Not a ride for training.  Not a huge ride for distances.  Just a fun, 30 mile or so ride.  With a few hills.

As Bilbo Baggins used to say... “You step into the Road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there is no telling where you might be swept off to.”

So I said sure.  It was a beautiful morning, the sun out and sparkling on the vast expanse of the Pacific as it rolled out towards forever.  The kelp beds painted patches of deep orange on the tourquoise waters, the surfers dotted the shore watching the rise and fall of the incoming swells, the open windows of the bars on the main street let out smells of bacon, and last night's beer, and sounds of Jimmy Buffet and people laughing.

And yes, there were some hills.  Pretty manageable ones at first.  Little ups and downs.  But as we got out of the main parts of the necklace of towns, the hills started getting longer.  Going down -- ocean on the right, lagoons and rolling hills and the snake of I-5 on the left -- was a truly glorious thing.  Wings could not have made me feel any more free.  But going up....?  Going up was another thing altogether.

I do not like hills.  I have a nice bike, but all the gearing in the world does not make the hills feel flat.  All the gearing in the world just makes me feel like I'm never going to be strong enough to really do any significant riding.

I used to have this thing where I would save some gears, like I'd hide some extra cash in the glove compartment of the car.  I'm a big saver, a big fan of rainy day stashes.  And I found myself saving my lower gears for a rainy day.

When I started riding, I always stayed on my big front gear.  I made it a point of honor to never shift to the small inner gear.  Which was fine... because I was riding up and down the Santa Monica beach path which is just about as flat a ride as you can get.

Then I started training and getting more into elevations.  Elevations are a fact of life if you're going to cycle anywhere meaningful, so I started trying some out.  Well, in short order, I found the beauty of the lower gears.  Lower gears are great!  But... I always left the lowest ones unused... like, if I didn't use that last gear, I'd be really badass and bitchen, but if I caved in I was just another middle aged bag trying to get in shape.

But, ya know? ...  I got over that pretty quickly, too, as soon as I started tackling some bigger climbs.  Man, I started shifting down to that lowest gear like it was my best friend at a high school reunion.  Hello old pal!!  Here we are!  My legs spun, my heart raced, my thighs burned as I checked periodically to see if I was really in my lowest gear... and of course I was.  And that's about where I found myself on Saturday, going up the Torrey Pines grade... all two miles and 400 feet elevation of it, in the heat, in the lowest gear possible, with real honest to god cyclists passing me by while I pedaled... and stopped.  And pedaled... and stopped.  And pedaled... and stopped.  Many times.

My newfound companions were patiently waiting for me as I got to the top of that hill.  Some very smart entrepreneur had put a permanent table out with water and bananas and business cards for people who successfully made it to the top.  And I rested and caught my breath and doused myself with water from my bottle, and then we carried on.

Hills.  They bring out everything.  The fear of public humiliation always gets me propelled up a slope for a little while... almost trumping mental and physical fatigue.  But then after awhile, that just kind of goes away.  I usually have to stop at least once on a big slope, and I feel like a totally wussy pants... but... really, I don't give a fuck at that point.  I just can't go another foot... and so I stop, and wait until I can think again... and then I go a bit further... and then I stop... and so it goes.  Up the hill.  Bit by bit.

My friend Scott send me some hill climbing advice yesterday.  You have to sit up tall, so you can breathe.  You should try to concentrate on the upstroke of the pedal, rather than the down.  It sounds backwards, but you fatigue much less quickly if you use the opposite set of muscles.  Don't burn yourself out too quickly.  And, most importantly... enjoy the ride.  Even if it's painful, even if you feel stupid, even if you don't think you can go on.  Enjoy the ride.  You're going slowly, so look around.  You can't get into too much trouble going uphill at 3 mph, so take a moment and enjoy the scenery.  All too soon you'll be back to your stupid day job, or your disgruntled spouse, or your list of errands, or your pile of laundry.  As hard as this hill is... this is the best part of your day. So, enjoy it.  Enjoy even the pain of it.

There are big hills and there are baby hills.  There are hills you can get a running start on and sail up.  And there are hills that look so easy, so benign, and they just crush your spirit.

Last year, I went up a big hill.  Cancer is up there with the Himalayas, right?  It's big, it's scary, it's life changing.  And it brings out everyone's best, or so it was for me (and for which I am intensely grateful).  I had so much support, was surrounded by so many good vibes, the tables of water and bananas were available to me at every turn.  Not to say that it was easy.  And not to say that I didn't, ultimately, have to ride it up all by myself... with many sinuously evil dark nights and much teeth clenching fear and some really really bad moments.  But it was The Hill, and it was my turn to take it on, and I didn't have a choice in the matter, really.

And yet the smaller hills are just as challenging, in many ways.  I now find that I have to take on the smaller hills all by myself, without the bananas and water.  People pass me by and actually really DO think I'm a pussy for standing there, gasping for breath.  The smaller hills get me because they are normal.  The smaller hills get me because there is no escaping them if I want to get anywhere even a little bit interesting.  The smaller hills get me because everyone makes them look so easy.  The smaller hills get me because sometimes I am just so fucking tired. 

The same strategies apply for the small hills as the big, I think.  It's all about sitting up and looking the world in the eye.  Breathing fully. Approaching things using a different set of muscles if the traditional approach is burned out.

Even if that little baby hill is just stupid, or boring, or annoying.  Even when I am angry, or lonely, or feeling stuck.  It's where the Road is leading right now.  So I need to be swept off.  Be taken away.  Give myself over to the glorious flying downhills, as well as the tedious soul crushing climbs.

One year

My surgery was one year ago this morning. The last 365 days have been full of fear and wonder, discomfort and joy. I have been transformed, both inside and out. If the self of that day met the self of today, we would not recognize each other.

That's not entirely true. Some things remain the same. I am still driven to do too much. I am still, I think, basically me.  But sometimes I wonder. I have a new impatience, a new bite to my thoughts. My measure of everything is whether it will waste my time or not. Time is everything to me these days. I mark my days between mammograms and thyroid tests as the sweet spots in which life must be lived to the fullest. I don't know when the party will end, but -- for a long while at least -- I suspect I will remember the way that a single doctor's visit turned everything upside down. Point to point, mammogram to mammogram, I now live, six months at a time.

What wastes my time varies. Certainly I'm spending huge chunks of it with the opera company these days. Unpaid, as usual, and on projects that I am firmly convinced will bear fruit but, of course, are not guaranteed. Still, I'm full bore on these things. Working on grants, writing a new show. I am working 14 hours a day these days, either at the day job or at home, writing, writing, writing. It's a good thing that's what I do, I think, as I tackle whatever the next project is. This would sure be a drag if I hated to write.

Weeknights for the rest of the month are grant nights. Weekends are for the show. Last weekend I holed up in an Embassy Suites in El Segundo and did nothing but breathe, eat, and write Gilbert and Sullivan. This weekend I may do it again. I take my breaks at work scanning Expedia and weighing the costs and benefits of pure solitude. The Embassy Suites tour... where for less than $200, I can buy myself quiet, a desktop, and a bowl of rather gluey oatmeal. How much am I willing to spend for the luxury to think nothing but my own thoughts for 24 hours? A lot, as it turns out.

I have not yet hit my stride. I have an intense amount of inner energy, which is contained in a still somewhat fragile exterior. By this I mean I'm not Ironman on the outside, even though I feel like him on the inside. The fragility is rapidly falling away (in all areas except work where I fatigue rapidly and often). Outside of the office I am riding my bike more and more miles, with increasing elevations, and feeling stronger daily. Yesterday I brought home my first set of cleated shoes, and am both excited and dismayed at the prospect of learning (basically) how to re-learn to ride my bike. I spent a half hour by the washing machine, propped up, just clipping in and out, fifty times each side, hoping to build up the muscle memory so I don't topple over the second I get on the road.

So yes, the fragility is falling away, at least in terms of physical stamina. But I do not suffer fools gladly these days. Irritation factors are high. (I asked my oncologist: "Is it the tamoxifen, or is everyone in the world just basically really annoying?") Give me something meaningful to do, or talk about, or watch, or enjoy... and I'm fine. But don't waste my time. I have too many things I want to do, whether it's just sleep or ride the bike, or continue with the myriad projects. I don't have time to kill these days. I want to be out there breathing the air, stretching my body, engaging my brain with creative and productive thoughts.

Quite a year. Transformative. Being back in the trenches is both exhilarating and frustrating. I deeply want and need six more hours to each day. I deeply want and need my brain to be able to relax into the new groove enough to enable me to find the pause button a bit more frequently. Biking is the thing that keeps me settled down, the anxiety at bay. It is a form of active meditation that forces focus on the present moment. When I'm done with a ride I'm in my body and mind and soul again fully. Ready to tackle the projects I've set out for myself once again.

To the Kathy of 4/14/14, I send my greetings and my best wishes. I am glad we made it through. I would not want to be you again, for anything. But it was a good year in so many ways, laced through with such grace and laughter and compassion and love. I am deeply and tearfully grateful to be on this side of that year... and at the same time I would not trade it for anything.

Beyond Redondo

In the mid-eighties I did a lot of bike riding. I was in great shape, loved the exercise, and it made me oh so happy.

That was awhile ago. But I'm getting my juice back. I'm at the same weight I was back then, I'm gradually building up my miles and endurance, and it still makes me oh so very happy.

One of the greatest things about LA is the Santa Monica bike path. If you could vaporize the yahoos with their selfies and their three abreast entitlement issues, it would be the best thing ever, anywhere. (And speaking of entitlement issues. Like, why does being a cute young female absolutely grant you total dispensation to ride, slowly, down the middle of the bike lane, sometimes veering over into oncoming cyclists, sometimes veering back in front of approaching cyclists, always looking so terribly perfect and expressionless? With your little hat and your postage stamp little shorts and your hair blowing in the wind just so. It's always the sweet young things, sometimes riding with some dumb young hunk... and... they just ride in the middle of the road. Like it's their right. Their god damn right.)

Where were we? Oh, vaporizing. Did I mention there are a lot more stupid people these days than there were thirty years ago? For starters, there were no smart phones that you could use to capture yourself riding along the bike path with (while riding, of course... I want to make it absolutely clear that the big deal out there these days is riding, sometimes with all of your friends, through the middle of Venice, with the breakdancers on one side and the body builders on the other, and the smell of pot in the air, three people abreast on both sides of the path, sand under the wheels, Asian jersey clad bombers whipsawing through the crowd at 17 MPH, while you hold up your phone so you can take a picture of you and everyone else right before everyone collapses in a pile of gears and bike chains and water bottles and iPhones right there on Muscle Beach. Seriously people?)

Let's try this again.

One of the greatest things about LA is the Santa Monica bike path. Going south, surfers on the right, dotting the waves like dolphins. The smoke stacks on the left, tall and eerie and wonderful. Planes from LAX casting rippling shadows over parked cars and sand berms as they head out to see the world, probably drenching us all in exhaust particulates, but who cares because the beach weaves a magical timeless spell over all who visit, harkening back to when we were kids and you could immerse yourself in an endless afternoon of bliss with just a plastic bucket and a shovel. The din of voices and laughter and crashing surf, the tang of salt in the breeze, the radiating heat of the sand... who could possibly ever feel old at the beach?

Riding through the beach scene, dodging sunbathers and strollers, zipping past piers and through parking structures, keeping pace with the surfers catching their long breaks... it's pretty much perfect. And today I found out something that made it even more perfect than I remembered it.

The top of the path is north of Santa Monica. A usual used to go from Santa Monica just across from the California Incline, down through the Venice boardwalk, up Washington to the Marina, through the parking lots of the Marina and then up the spine of the breakwater. You can stop and rest on the bridge that spans Ballona Creek just sound of the entry point to the Marina, and smell the guano on the rocks, released by the sun's heat, an intensely specific odor to a very unique spot in the world. 

In the old days I would turn around there most of the time, and make it a 15 mile loop. Occasionally, though, I would keep going and go all the way down to the terminus of the bike path at Redondo Beach. Dockweiller State Beach, Manhanttan Beach, Hermosa, and then Redondo. At Redondo I'd turn around at the parking lot and then slog back up north, into the afternoon headwind, watching the drum circles form in the park by Santa Monica as the sun started to set.

Today I went back to Redondo, and discovered the bike path had been extended way past the parking lot, at least a mile past where I used to turn around. It opened up in front of me like a delightful new portal, beckoning me to vistas never seen before.

This blog came to me then, and it really is a very simple point I'm trying to make. Things change. Things always change. But sometimes you can visit your past and make it your present once again. And sometimes when you revisit something that you did many years ago, the addition of time and experience makes it so much more sweeter, or so much more special, or so so much more precious.

All things change. Even in the timelessness of the beach, technology has brought great changes such as iPhones and selfies and pileups of very expensive bicycles. But sometimes things change for the better, too. Sometimes you find things you never found before. And sometimes the thing you've remembered has stayed exactly the same but you have changed, and the world is a whole new place as a result.