Monday: Nothing
Monday was supposed to be a swim-Spin class combo, but that fell through. I was sitting in the kitchen at work frittering away my free hour between clients when another trainer who I'll call Peter Pan walked in with my backpack on his back, and a very worried expression. I looked at him for a long moment with alarm on my face. He looked at me with eyes that softened from concern to sympathy. "Your window's broken," he said. "This was sitting upright on the sidewalk." Motherfuckingsonofabitch! How could this happen again?!
This time I hadn't parked down the alley where no one goes, I'd parked right on the corner of the main road, in front of a loading dock that is kind of the centerpiece of the room at work. (The door to the dock is usually open, but it was a chilly day.) I'd taken my bike out of the car. There's a breakfast place right across the narrow alley where cops hang out. And yet the junkies had smashed my window in broad daylight between 7:45 and 8:15 in the morning because I'd stupidly left a backpack full of gym clothes on the passenger seat. I knew there was nothing of value in it, but they didn't. Junkies will break into your car for the change in your ash tray.
I called around to autoglass places, willing to go the extra mile to get a cheap price. The first guy I called quoted me $200. "Yeah, I was hoping to get a better price. I'm going to call around and see what I can find."
"What are you looking to spend?" he asked.
"$150 at the most."
He stifled a laugh, "Good luck with that. I'll be here when you call back."
I called another place: "$250." I called the dealership, "$250 for the part alone." I called a place in Oakland: "$300." I called a couple more places, but everything was between $200 and $350. Apparently I have a very "special" window, with some "attachments," and for some reason it was significant that it was a "new car." My feelings of rage and frustration were mounting. They hadn't even stolen anything, and it still was going to cost me a couple hundred dollars (money I didn't have after draining my savings on the tow truck a few weeks ago).
I called back the first guy, talked him down to $180 and dropped off the car. I could have still made it to Spin class on my bike while they were fixing the car, but I just couldn't bring myself to get up the aerobics teacher pep, so I called it in and said that I would be waiting for the autoglass guys on the street during class and sorry, I couldn't come. It goes without saying that a car can't sit without a window for several hours in downtown San Francisco. Instead I walked some 15 blocks to the SFMTA office to try to finance the tickets I'd been planning to pay off with the $200 I just spent on a window. I just knew that knowing my luck I would wind up with a boot on my car next week. I walked all that way and... fuck! It was Presidents' Day. I threw a mini temper tantrum right there on the street, but because I was still in Junky Town no one seemed to notice or care. I hoped that every junkie I passed in the 15-block walk back would start shit with me so that I could beat the living shit out of someone. I wanted vengence, and then I wanted a chance to bitch my whole sad story to the cop who came to take my statement. But unfortunately no junkies were feeling as pugnacious as I was.
Note: I'm sick of people telling me that I need to ditch my car, so if that's what you were going to say, then I'm going to nip that in the bud right here. I live 20 hilly miles outside the city-- a 1.5h bike ride. I often work from 5:30 in the morning until 7 or 8 at night, and am not willing to tack on a 1.5 hr commute onto that. Add to that the fact that I often have 4-8hr breaks in the middle of the day; I can't get work done at work because there are too many distractions, nor can I nap at work. Riding home on these split shifts would be 80 mi of commuting. Renting a spot at a garage is about $200/mo and that still doesn't prevent break-ins. I would love to move to the city, but to do that I need a deposit on an apt; which I can't get together because fucked up shit keeps happening to my car. Add to that that I even looked into returning my car. No dice. I'm locked into a lease and can't give it back without my credit taking a 300 pt dive. Not that I would anyway; you couldn't pay me enough to be stuck in the city and miss races and rides. I am doing the best I can with the resources I have and if you tell me to "go green" I'm going to punch you in the teeth.
Tuesday: Ride 50 mi
On Tuesday, Judi's friend Annie Mac (I use her real name because I have nothing but good things to say about her) was in town for a conference and we had plans to go on a ride together. I had no idea where we were going to go since I'd long ago stopped trying to get over the Golden Gate Bridge on my own, but she said she didn't mind if we got lost and I had nowhere to be from 9:30 until 5:00, so I figured that we'd be alright.
At the bike rental place, I vaguely recognized Annie from the shiny flowery shoes that I thought I remembered seeing at a crit that Judi brought me to when I was in Cincinnati en route to San Francisco. The bike shop guy described the Paradise loop, which I have actually ridden before and I recognized some of the landmarks that he was describing. Maybe we'd be alright after all... if we could ever get out of the city. (I still had yet to find the Golden Gate Bridge on the first try.)
With less drama than usual, we found the bridge and began riding over. On weekends, they open the western side of the bridge just for bicycles so that they're not sharing the narrow passage with foot traffic in both directions, but for reasons that I will never understand, they close the bike side on weekdays and force everyone onto the same walkway. A couple looking off placidly over the railing unexpectedly took a step backward, almost taking me out. Because I'm used to and have a short fuse for such things I yelled out, "Watch it!" or "Don't do that!" or something else snappy.
Because he was used to such things happening as well he screamed, "USE THE FUCKING BIKE LANE!"
"It's closed, asswipe!" I yelled back.
Annie, on the other hand, who is from a much less bike-friendly city where there is not as much accustomed animosity toward cyclists preferred the much more polite, "On your left." When Judi introduces you to someone you never really know what to expect, and Annie surprised me by being that genuine kind of nice that in my cynical moments makes me wonder if she's got a crop of dead kittens buried in her basement but usually just makes me realize what an asshole I am by comparison. I am not a nice person.
My legs were still blasted from the 50K on Sunday, but for some reason I always feel stronger when I'm tired. I was surprised at how good the ride felt. It was a flat to rolling route over lightly trafficked roads with beautiful views of rich neighborhoods.
When we hit the bridge again, now it was later in the day and more tourists were out: People backing up into the middle of the sidewalk without looking to get a better picture, Commonwealth citizens on rented bikes riding on the wrong side of the sidewalk, annoying lovers holding hands red-rover style, one particularly obnoxious dumbass walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk with a video camera in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other (I got as close to him as I possibly could to scare the shit out of him and almost knocked his coffee out of his hand on purpose, but couldn't waste the Starbucks, even on this moron). (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog) A pair of 50-something women was up ahead with their backs to us and one was telling a story, gesticulating heavily. "ON YOUR LEFT!" I yelled. I slowed down. "ON YOUR LEFT!!!!" The woman gestured wildly as I passed her, swinging her arm out and almost hitting me in the face. "ON. YOUR. LEFT!" I said, practically in her ear. She screamed and jumped... LEFT, narrowly missing me.
"Oh my god," Annie said. "That lady almost hit you! Is it always this bad?"
"Are you kidding me?! It's 1:00 on a Tuesday, this is tame! Imagine at 3:00 on a sunny Saturday during school vacation week!" I felt validated.
As we finally got around the last blind corner at the end of the bridge we saw another pair of cyclists going in the other direction. One of them had a whistle in her teeth. THAT'S WHAT I NEED! I thought, A WHISTLE!
Monday was supposed to be a swim-Spin class combo, but that fell through. I was sitting in the kitchen at work frittering away my free hour between clients when another trainer who I'll call Peter Pan walked in with my backpack on his back, and a very worried expression. I looked at him for a long moment with alarm on my face. He looked at me with eyes that softened from concern to sympathy. "Your window's broken," he said. "This was sitting upright on the sidewalk." Motherfuckingsonofabitch! How could this happen again?!This time I hadn't parked down the alley where no one goes, I'd parked right on the corner of the main road, in front of a loading dock that is kind of the centerpiece of the room at work. (The door to the dock is usually open, but it was a chilly day.) I'd taken my bike out of the car. There's a breakfast place right across the narrow alley where cops hang out. And yet the junkies had smashed my window in broad daylight between 7:45 and 8:15 in the morning because I'd stupidly left a backpack full of gym clothes on the passenger seat. I knew there was nothing of value in it, but they didn't. Junkies will break into your car for the change in your ash tray.
I called around to autoglass places, willing to go the extra mile to get a cheap price. The first guy I called quoted me $200. "Yeah, I was hoping to get a better price. I'm going to call around and see what I can find."
"What are you looking to spend?" he asked.
"$150 at the most."
He stifled a laugh, "Good luck with that. I'll be here when you call back."
I called another place: "$250." I called the dealership, "$250 for the part alone." I called a place in Oakland: "$300." I called a couple more places, but everything was between $200 and $350. Apparently I have a very "special" window, with some "attachments," and for some reason it was significant that it was a "new car." My feelings of rage and frustration were mounting. They hadn't even stolen anything, and it still was going to cost me a couple hundred dollars (money I didn't have after draining my savings on the tow truck a few weeks ago).I called back the first guy, talked him down to $180 and dropped off the car. I could have still made it to Spin class on my bike while they were fixing the car, but I just couldn't bring myself to get up the aerobics teacher pep, so I called it in and said that I would be waiting for the autoglass guys on the street during class and sorry, I couldn't come. It goes without saying that a car can't sit without a window for several hours in downtown San Francisco. Instead I walked some 15 blocks to the SFMTA office to try to finance the tickets I'd been planning to pay off with the $200 I just spent on a window. I just knew that knowing my luck I would wind up with a boot on my car next week. I walked all that way and... fuck! It was Presidents' Day. I threw a mini temper tantrum right there on the street, but because I was still in Junky Town no one seemed to notice or care. I hoped that every junkie I passed in the 15-block walk back would start shit with me so that I could beat the living shit out of someone. I wanted vengence, and then I wanted a chance to bitch my whole sad story to the cop who came to take my statement. But unfortunately no junkies were feeling as pugnacious as I was.
Note: I'm sick of people telling me that I need to ditch my car, so if that's what you were going to say, then I'm going to nip that in the bud right here. I live 20 hilly miles outside the city-- a 1.5h bike ride. I often work from 5:30 in the morning until 7 or 8 at night, and am not willing to tack on a 1.5 hr commute onto that. Add to that the fact that I often have 4-8hr breaks in the middle of the day; I can't get work done at work because there are too many distractions, nor can I nap at work. Riding home on these split shifts would be 80 mi of commuting. Renting a spot at a garage is about $200/mo and that still doesn't prevent break-ins. I would love to move to the city, but to do that I need a deposit on an apt; which I can't get together because fucked up shit keeps happening to my car. Add to that that I even looked into returning my car. No dice. I'm locked into a lease and can't give it back without my credit taking a 300 pt dive. Not that I would anyway; you couldn't pay me enough to be stuck in the city and miss races and rides. I am doing the best I can with the resources I have and if you tell me to "go green" I'm going to punch you in the teeth.
Tuesday: Ride 50 mi
On Tuesday, Judi's friend Annie Mac (I use her real name because I have nothing but good things to say about her) was in town for a conference and we had plans to go on a ride together. I had no idea where we were going to go since I'd long ago stopped trying to get over the Golden Gate Bridge on my own, but she said she didn't mind if we got lost and I had nowhere to be from 9:30 until 5:00, so I figured that we'd be alright.At the bike rental place, I vaguely recognized Annie from the shiny flowery shoes that I thought I remembered seeing at a crit that Judi brought me to when I was in Cincinnati en route to San Francisco. The bike shop guy described the Paradise loop, which I have actually ridden before and I recognized some of the landmarks that he was describing. Maybe we'd be alright after all... if we could ever get out of the city. (I still had yet to find the Golden Gate Bridge on the first try.)With less drama than usual, we found the bridge and began riding over. On weekends, they open the western side of the bridge just for bicycles so that they're not sharing the narrow passage with foot traffic in both directions, but for reasons that I will never understand, they close the bike side on weekdays and force everyone onto the same walkway. A couple looking off placidly over the railing unexpectedly took a step backward, almost taking me out. Because I'm used to and have a short fuse for such things I yelled out, "Watch it!" or "Don't do that!" or something else snappy.
Because he was used to such things happening as well he screamed, "USE THE FUCKING BIKE LANE!"
"It's closed, asswipe!" I yelled back.
Annie, on the other hand, who is from a much less bike-friendly city where there is not as much accustomed animosity toward cyclists preferred the much more polite, "On your left." When Judi introduces you to someone you never really know what to expect, and Annie surprised me by being that genuine kind of nice that in my cynical moments makes me wonder if she's got a crop of dead kittens buried in her basement but usually just makes me realize what an asshole I am by comparison. I am not a nice person.
My legs were still blasted from the 50K on Sunday, but for some reason I always feel stronger when I'm tired. I was surprised at how good the ride felt. It was a flat to rolling route over lightly trafficked roads with beautiful views of rich neighborhoods.When we hit the bridge again, now it was later in the day and more tourists were out: People backing up into the middle of the sidewalk without looking to get a better picture, Commonwealth citizens on rented bikes riding on the wrong side of the sidewalk, annoying lovers holding hands red-rover style, one particularly obnoxious dumbass walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk with a video camera in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other (I got as close to him as I possibly could to scare the shit out of him and almost knocked his coffee out of his hand on purpose, but couldn't waste the Starbucks, even on this moron). (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog) A pair of 50-something women was up ahead with their backs to us and one was telling a story, gesticulating heavily. "ON YOUR LEFT!" I yelled. I slowed down. "ON YOUR LEFT!!!!" The woman gestured wildly as I passed her, swinging her arm out and almost hitting me in the face. "ON. YOUR. LEFT!" I said, practically in her ear. She screamed and jumped... LEFT, narrowly missing me.
"Oh my god," Annie said. "That lady almost hit you! Is it always this bad?"
"Are you kidding me?! It's 1:00 on a Tuesday, this is tame! Imagine at 3:00 on a sunny Saturday during school vacation week!" I felt validated.
As we finally got around the last blind corner at the end of the bridge we saw another pair of cyclists going in the other direction. One of them had a whistle in her teeth. THAT'S WHAT I NEED! I thought, A WHISTLE!
Wednesday: Run 3.1 miles, Spinning
I planned it so that I would have lots of time to either run or swim before my Spin class on Wednesday. I went back and forth 100 times about which one I should do, but when it came time, I'd forgotten my class outline in the car and had to ride the 10 minutes in each direction back to get it, not leaving enough time to get in the pool. I hopped on the treadmill and ran a 5K as fast as I could. "Fast" is relative. With the stress of the 50K still in my legs topped off with a 50 mile sauce from the ride yesterday my legs were reluctant to turn over. I wound up taking an unimpressive 26 minutes or so to get through the run, then ran off to teach my class without even cooling down.
Thursday: Run 10 mi, Swim 1000 yd, Spinning
I was going to Phoenix this weekend, meaning that I really had to get my shit together if I planned to do an Ironman a week. I was going to have to fall short on the swimming, but I could make it all up if I ran some 10-13 miles today, put in as many yards as I could in the pool, hiked in Arizona, and then did a quick bike-run brick when I got back on Sunday.
I got on the treadmill to bang out a half marathon, starting at 9:13 pace and trying to run each mile faster than the last. When the treadmill reset itself after an hour and I'd covered some 7 miles, I decided two things: 1) I was too tired to run 8-minute miles, and 2) I was too tired to run 13 miles. I ran a deathly 3-ish more miles and headed for the pool. In the pool everything felt terrible. The water felt heavy and my arms had no power in them. I felt uncoordinated and stiff. I decided that I probably should eat something and quit being a stubborn idiot. I got out of the pool after 1000 yards.
Once I got to my Spin class I perked up. When I used to take Spinning classes they were always miserable clock-watching sessions, but when I'm teaching, the time flies by for some reason. Partly because I'm yelling and mostly because I love what I'm doing, I always wind up in the upper end of my aerobic zone while I'm teaching, even if I've resolved to take it easy that day.
I got on the treadmill to bang out a half marathon, starting at 9:13 pace and trying to run each mile faster than the last. When the treadmill reset itself after an hour and I'd covered some 7 miles, I decided two things: 1) I was too tired to run 8-minute miles, and 2) I was too tired to run 13 miles. I ran a deathly 3-ish more miles and headed for the pool. In the pool everything felt terrible. The water felt heavy and my arms had no power in them. I felt uncoordinated and stiff. I decided that I probably should eat something and quit being a stubborn idiot. I got out of the pool after 1000 yards.
Once I got to my Spin class I perked up. When I used to take Spinning classes they were always miserable clock-watching sessions, but when I'm teaching, the time flies by for some reason. Partly because I'm yelling and mostly because I love what I'm doing, I always wind up in the upper end of my aerobic zone while I'm teaching, even if I've resolved to take it easy that day.
Friday: Trail marathon in a Camry
I was visiting my friend... let's call him "Flipper" (for reasons I won't explain) in Phoenix while he was visiting his grandparents before he deploys to Afghanistan for a year. Flipper is the kind of guy that makes me wish that I were straight so that he could be my boyfriend. He's just got such a great head on his shoulders, and we have so much fun together. Before I'd left Boston we'd risked our lives on the Zipper, which hadn't seen a maintenance man since 1926 and screamed like little girls as the door moved noticeably and our weight (way more than most middle schoolers) caused our cart to flip and flip and flip. This time before I came out he had texted me to see if I liked to play catch and would I climb the Agrocrag with him? (Who thinks of these things?!)
I rented a Camry (as you do) and drove the hour out to his grandparents' house on the edge of a golf course in the middle of the desert, where we got directions to the mountain. We were going to pick up lunch on the way, but we just didn't pass any restaurants in the desert. Finally we saw a sign off the freeway that said, "Four Peaks" and an arrow. I pulled off. A giant pick-up full of angry looking Mexicans was headed straight for us. "OH MY GOD, THIS ISN'T IT! This is private property and they're going to shoot us!" Flipper yelled, mostly to get me flustered. Much of this was reservation, and they could have been Indians or Mexicans, angry or bored. So we got back on the freeway. Flash forward about 20 minutes; no, this was definitely the turn.
We pulled off onto the dirt road and started bumping and rolling up what was for all intents and purposes a fire road in pretty tough shape. "How far is this going to go?" I asked. "It had better be right up here." A few miles later we passed a burned-out car with bullet holes in it. "Oh my god, we're going to get stuck out here and we're going to die!" I said. Suddenly an ATV buzzed around the corner followed by 3 more. All of them stared at us in our Camry like we were elephants at a tea party. "Flipper, this isn't a fucking road, its ATV trails!" Several miles later on we saw a Jeep. "I'm going to ask them if we're even on the right track," I said.
"No! Don't do it! They'll kill us! They probably have guns!" Flipper seemed semi-serious, but when he saw a Vietnam vet bumper sticker he said it would be okay to talk to them. Yes we were on the right trail, and the trail head was several miles up.
The Corolla was starting to slip on the sand as the trails got steeper and narrower. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked. "AAA will never come out here, and even if they could, how would they turn around once we got hooked up. I haven't had anything but a Starbucks muffin since 2:30 this morning (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog), and by the time we get to the trailhead, hike 5 miles, and get back to civilization it'll be 7 at night." And still we went on. "I'm getting really worried," I said a bit later. "I'm such a bitch when I get hungry, you don't want to be around me. I usually keep at least some Chewy bars or something around so I don't starve." Flipper broke out some grapefruits that he'd picked in his parents' yard and started peeling them, throwing the peels out the window as we ate them like oranges. "You expect me to live all day off of grapefruit?!" I asked. Now my phone was dying from searching for a signal.
We passed Pathfinder coming in the other direction at a wide point in the trail. "Is this the way to Four Peaks?" I asked.
"Sure is, but it gets pretty slippery up there. Do y'all have a cell phone, because you're going to have to call for help if you get stuck."
"Flipper, that guy said we're going to die. Can I please turn around now?"
"No, come on. It's just up the road. I'm sure there will be food."
"There is no fucking food, Flipper! We're 10 miles out in the desert!"
"I've got a survival book about edible roots of North America!"
"Fuck you."
Finally, finally we found a trailhead and pulled over. A few minutes later the Jeep pulled up. "Y'all giving up so soon?" one of the vets asked us.
"You mean this isn't it?!" I asked.
"Nah, it'd be a long hike from here. If you're looking for the 5 mile hike around the amethyst mine, then you still have another 5 miles to go."
"How far have we gone?"
"About 13 miles."
When they were gone I turned to Flipper. "I'm done," I said. "We've seen lots of scenery, and I don't feel like getting stranded in the desert at night and it's going to take us almost another hour to get up there and then hike, and then we're going to have to drive back down. I'm sorry, but I'm turning around." He gave me shit, but I think that he was relieved that someone had done what we both wanted to do.
As we were finally approaching the freeway again, I saw something sticking out of the dirt on the side of the road. "Flipper! It's a Chewy bar sticking out of the ground!"
"What are you talking about?" I kicked the car into reverse and backed up about 100 feet. "Oh my god, I see it!" he said. There, half buried in the hard dirt that was piled at the side of the trail was a Chewy bar sticking straight up out of the ground. "See?" Flipper said. "I told you that there would be food in the desert."
"Don't touch it," I said. "It's a booby trap. They'll probably shoot us."
I was visiting my friend... let's call him "Flipper" (for reasons I won't explain) in Phoenix while he was visiting his grandparents before he deploys to Afghanistan for a year. Flipper is the kind of guy that makes me wish that I were straight so that he could be my boyfriend. He's just got such a great head on his shoulders, and we have so much fun together. Before I'd left Boston we'd risked our lives on the Zipper, which hadn't seen a maintenance man since 1926 and screamed like little girls as the door moved noticeably and our weight (way more than most middle schoolers) caused our cart to flip and flip and flip. This time before I came out he had texted me to see if I liked to play catch and would I climb the Agrocrag with him? (Who thinks of these things?!)I rented a Camry (as you do) and drove the hour out to his grandparents' house on the edge of a golf course in the middle of the desert, where we got directions to the mountain. We were going to pick up lunch on the way, but we just didn't pass any restaurants in the desert. Finally we saw a sign off the freeway that said, "Four Peaks" and an arrow. I pulled off. A giant pick-up full of angry looking Mexicans was headed straight for us. "OH MY GOD, THIS ISN'T IT! This is private property and they're going to shoot us!" Flipper yelled, mostly to get me flustered. Much of this was reservation, and they could have been Indians or Mexicans, angry or bored. So we got back on the freeway. Flash forward about 20 minutes; no, this was definitely the turn."No! Don't do it! They'll kill us! They probably have guns!" Flipper seemed semi-serious, but when he saw a Vietnam vet bumper sticker he said it would be okay to talk to them. Yes we were on the right trail, and the trail head was several miles up.
The Corolla was starting to slip on the sand as the trails got steeper and narrower. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" I asked. "AAA will never come out here, and even if they could, how would they turn around once we got hooked up. I haven't had anything but a Starbucks muffin since 2:30 this morning (Starbucks, please sponsor my blog), and by the time we get to the trailhead, hike 5 miles, and get back to civilization it'll be 7 at night." And still we went on. "I'm getting really worried," I said a bit later. "I'm such a bitch when I get hungry, you don't want to be around me. I usually keep at least some Chewy bars or something around so I don't starve." Flipper broke out some grapefruits that he'd picked in his parents' yard and started peeling them, throwing the peels out the window as we ate them like oranges. "You expect me to live all day off of grapefruit?!" I asked. Now my phone was dying from searching for a signal.We passed Pathfinder coming in the other direction at a wide point in the trail. "Is this the way to Four Peaks?" I asked.
"Sure is, but it gets pretty slippery up there. Do y'all have a cell phone, because you're going to have to call for help if you get stuck."
"Flipper, that guy said we're going to die. Can I please turn around now?"
"No, come on. It's just up the road. I'm sure there will be food."
"There is no fucking food, Flipper! We're 10 miles out in the desert!"
"I've got a survival book about edible roots of North America!"
"Fuck you."
Finally, finally we found a trailhead and pulled over. A few minutes later the Jeep pulled up. "Y'all giving up so soon?" one of the vets asked us.
"You mean this isn't it?!" I asked.
"Nah, it'd be a long hike from here. If you're looking for the 5 mile hike around the amethyst mine, then you still have another 5 miles to go."
"How far have we gone?"
"About 13 miles."
When they were gone I turned to Flipper. "I'm done," I said. "We've seen lots of scenery, and I don't feel like getting stranded in the desert at night and it's going to take us almost another hour to get up there and then hike, and then we're going to have to drive back down. I'm sorry, but I'm turning around." He gave me shit, but I think that he was relieved that someone had done what we both wanted to do.
As we were finally approaching the freeway again, I saw something sticking out of the dirt on the side of the road. "Flipper! It's a Chewy bar sticking out of the ground!"
"What are you talking about?" I kicked the car into reverse and backed up about 100 feet. "Oh my god, I see it!" he said. There, half buried in the hard dirt that was piled at the side of the trail was a Chewy bar sticking straight up out of the ground. "See?" Flipper said. "I told you that there would be food in the desert."
"Don't touch it," I said. "It's a booby trap. They'll probably shoot us."
Saturday: Nothing
Sunday: Nothing
I got back into San Francisco at about midnight on Saturday, which canceled out any chance of me getting out for an early workout. Then I had to go into the City to do a health fair at work. Then I still had all my Sunday chores. Yeah, there was no way.
3 comments:
annie is the best isn't she? she raved about you. glad you guys had fun. she wants me to come back out there with her to visit you.
and im not mad you were so mean to me on FB just now.
bitch.
kidding.
(my word verification is "saine". :)
Re: the car. Friends of mine in Philly (where everyones car always got broken into) would just leave their car doors unlocked all the time. As long as you don't keep any valuable shit in there, they can take loose change or stuff you don't care about without breaking a window to get it. Don't know if that means crackheads would sleep in your car, but it worked for them and they never had another broken window.
Well glad you didn't die in the desert. Especially when you're seeing posses of angry Indians/Mexicans and bullet riddled cars.
I just started doing these sufferfest spin classes, I think the first one I did 2 weeks ago was the first time I nearly puked on a bike since the was 7.
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