fake fist fight

These were taken awhile back. A long while back. When Grant still had braces.
All punches and photos courtesy of Bennett A. Spengler.

The Color Pink

I have reconciled myself to the color pink. This pink. My new bike pink. The color my hair might be in a few weeks, if I can find the right shade of pink. The color of Olwyn's pink tiara I wore at my Done With Chemo Party. The Pink Brick Box my boys bought me for Mothers Day.

The bike is a new cruiser, fashioned to look like an old one. I drove past it every day on my way from school to radiation at the end of May. Finally, one day, I stopped. Test rode (this pic). Bought. No deliberation necessary.

It makes me happy to ride it. Happy to go at the speed of one speed. Happy to be a Rose Parade, with myself as the only entry. Happy to throw everything into the front basket (purchased later) and just go.

Today, I filled my basket and headed out to do some errands at about 4:00 pm. First stop, the post office, where I mailed my husband's 12-inch braid to Locks of Love. Two nights ago he let me cut it, and shave his head with the 1/2 inch attachment. Wow. He's had that hair for 20 years. Now he has hair that looks like mine.

While at the post office, I left the bike unlocked, but it was out of sight. A real lesson in trust. I only got out of line once to check on it. But I refuse to lock it up everywhere I stop, because it's impractical! Especially if I've got four or five places to get to before dinner.

Next stop: The Medicine Shoppe on Colorado Ave. I parked my bike out front (it has a kickstand!), and carried in my wallet and new scrip for Tamoxifen I had gotten from my oncologist earlier that day. While waiting, I decided to browse The Bookman. The pharmacist said the bike would be safer in front of his store, and he could watch it for me. When I came out of the bookstore and looked towards the pharmacy, my bike was nowhere to be seen! For a brief nano-second, I feared the worst. But when I looked in, there it was, parked in the middle of the pharmacy. The pharmacist had brought it in! I love my neighborhood.

I placed the bottle of pills in my basket, as well as the book I had picked up for Bennett for two bucks, and rode off towards the garden. We have a small but useful plot in the new Old Colorado City Community Garden, which is about six blocks from our house.

At the garden, I discovered new locks on the gates, and it just didn't feel quite right. They were definitely not Locks of Love. They felt like locks of exclusion. Even though we've got a deranged crazy lady roaming through, picking onions, and calling people names, that still didn't seem like reason enough to put locks on all three of the gates. Anyway, after calling Elise and getting the combo, I went in and picked some spinach and some greens, which I placed in a plastic container I had brought with me. Again, in the front basket of my unlocked bicycle. Needless to say, the salad I made for dinner, with some boiled eggs on top for protein, was second to none.

Baskets on bikes are not "cute"; they are PRACTICAL! It's so easy to just throw in what I need, and pedal out the driveway. No special shoes or dorky neon shirts with pockets in the back. I prefer skirts.

At some point in our recent history, "biking" became a sport, and not a way of life. I hate exercising, but going to the post office, the pharmacy, and the garden (I was also going to return a book to the library, but my neighbor I stopped to talk to was on her way there and said she would drop it off for me) on my new pink cruiser is just fun. I look for a reason to ride it every day.

I have a lock for it, but I lost the directions on how to set the combo. At some point, I will call the bike shop and have them help me figure it out. I will most likely use it if I park downtown and have to leave the bike for a few hours (yoga, for example). Until then, I will continue to roam the Westside lockless. With love. Like my husband.

The only thing that Bennett wanted for Christmas this year was a sled. A real one. Made from wood and metal, with a steering mechanism. He didn't beg for Pirates or Pokemon or Playmobile.

Santa was kind, and brought him exactly what he wanted. For two weeks after Christmas, the sled lived in our living room. Bennett pretended to ride it: face first, on his knees, on his bum, all the while making swooshing noises and fake screams. Sad thing is, it hasn't snowed enough here this winter to do much of anything........
Until now.

On Friday of Spring Break, after the infamous "Blizzard of '09!", we met up with several friends for a spontaneous sled-fest. In the words of John's immortal grandfather, "You can't beat fun!"