Bikes: The Ugly, the Bad, and the Good

Things have been busy.  I moved, I wrote this piece for the Baltimore Fishbowl because I moved, and then it just got hot and I couldn't be bothered to do much beyond eat ice cream in front of my AC unit.

Way back in 2002, in between training for the upcoming high school cross country season and doing important teenage things like buying $4 flip flops from Old Navy, I somehow wound up signed up to do a bike tour across Maine, starting a little outside of Augusta.  My travel companions and I were, somehow, going to bike 50-75 miles a day across the state of Maine for a week.   It also bears noting that I was 14, and that my travel companions were my lifelong friend, Georgia, and my sister, who was all of 19 at the time.

2002: Georgia and I, Summer of the Car Smush

I was down with biking, but I hadn't ever been down with biking.  I was all about the gear shifters that twisted on your handlebars, and never went more than two miles around the perimeter of my parents' house.  When Georgia and I knew we were going to do this bike trip, we began training.  We'd bike five miles.  To the nearest Starbucks, and get Frappucinos, because that's how 14 year old girls train.  That being said, it's still more training than my sister did for this ride.

We drove up from Georgia's parents' house outside of Providence, and began to realize how woefully illprepared we were the first night, amongst hordes of fellow bikers, all middle aged, and all far more in shape than we were, (rightfully) laughing at my mountain bike.

The next day ended quickly.  Within .7 miles of the trip, while we were still biking on the sidewalk of Rome, Maine, I got hit by a car while crossing a crosswalk when he had a red light.  I could not have been going more than 2 miles an hour.  He hit me, I went down, and I'm still not sure how, but the bike landed on top of me, and the pedal gauged my leg.  My sister claims that's the day I began cursing like a sailor.  15 stitches later, and that was the end of the trip.  We stupidly went camping that night, which could not have been good for my thrown-on-the-ground spine, and my sister washed my hair in the sink everyone washed their dishes in at the campground.  It was a very glamorous time in my life.  Somewhere on some 3X5 ultra glossy print from CVS, there's a great picture of the three of us at the beach, post accident.  My sister has her eyes semi shut, Georgia is posing like a teen supermodel, and I'm sticking my leg out to the side at a weird angle while its wrapped in layer of gauze that we probably reapplied in the back of the 1994 Dodge Caravan we drove up to Maine in.  Memories.

I didn't touch bikes for a while.  I was 21 before I got back on a bike again.  I was 22 before I took one on the street, and even then, it was to get groceries in college and go maybe a half a mile, mainly on campus.  The pedal going into my leg left me with a large scar that I was vainly self-conscious about throughout high school.

2005: The Leg Scar Remains
(as does my inherent awkwardness)

I still have this scar, although it's finally begun to fade.  Frequent reactions include, "Ohmygosh you're bleeding!" or "What happened?!"  The first allows me to pretend like I feel no pain, the second allows me a space in which I can create whatever convoluted story I feel is appropriate at the time.  Bear mauling?  Sure! Couldn't afford med school so I tested things on myself? Times are tough, makes sense.

When I moved here, I was still very much skeptical of bikes.  And bikes in the city?  Absolutely not.  A friend of mine was pretty involved in Bike Party, though,  and I got roped into volunteering.  Bike Party is wonderful.  After a few months of haphazardly volunteering, I finally got myself on a bike and partook back in April.  Bike Party is ideal for the faint-of-heart biker.  You travel in a pack at an absurdly slow rate, and everyone around you is supportive.  You have a space to become accustomed with biking in the street, but at 5 miles an hour with a huge crowd of happy bikers surrounding you.  It was perfect for me.

After April's Bike Party (Prom-themed, so I wore my high school prom dress with leggings and tucked it into a fanny pack), I began to warm up to the idea of getting back on a bike.  I bought myself a 1988 Schwinn Premis off good 'ol Craigslist, and through the patience of various people, have begun biking again.  Initially, just some short trips to the lakes or up through Roland Park, but as of last week, I am officially a bike commuter.

Biking to work is not nearly as atrocious as I'd imagined it would be, even with my old school downtube shifters.  Gone are the days of walking a few blocks to the bus, to wait for the bus, to get off and wait for another bus, to walk a couple more blocks to the office.  Biking time is the same as a (rare) good day bus commuting.  I no longer have to wait for 30 minute increments for the next shuttle or Circulator to come find me.  I no longer get drenched in sweat waiting to get home, I get drenched in sweat while actively getting home.  It's wonderful.  The 3 mile ride uphill going home isn't so wonderful, but the freedom from the stupid buses and shuttles most definitely is sweet enough to compensate.

So if you're new to Bmore, get out there on your bike!  Just remember that you're also a vehicle of sorts, so you, too, should be following the rules of the road.  Stop at stop signs, signal when you're turning, don't text - all those things that should be stupidly obvious, but aren't to so many.  Wear your helmet, be aware of people opening their doors into you, and forever avoid paying for parking.

Happy biking!

Bike Party!

Let's say, hypothetically, that you like bikes.  Bikes are convenient forms of transportation, they're great for your health, and the people that ride them are generally pretty awesome.  I don't bike, but I have professed my love for them and the people that ride them.  In this hypothetical where you love bikes, you also want to meet the awesome people that ride them.  It would be ideal if you could perhaps even bike with these awesome people.

Enter Bike Party.  The Baltimore Bike Party meets on the last Friday of every month at the Washington Monument in Mount Vernon.  The group gathers at 7:00p and hits the streets of Baltimore on a pre-determined, 10 to 15 mile route by 7:30p.  Afterwards, the bikers gather for a post-ride party for good food, good beer, good camaraderie, and good times.  In October, the ride was attended by 1,300 bikers, the largest group ride on the east coast.

This month, Bike Party is pajama-themed.  Show up this Friday in your best pjs to the monument at 7:00p with your bike, bells and whistles, and get ready to meet some awesome fellow-bikers.  For more information, check out their Facebook page or email them at baltimorebikeparty@gmail.com.  I'm debating whether or not to force myself onto a bike this Friday, or just volunteer for the after-party.  This month, the ride will end at Pratt Street Ale House by Camden Yards.   I am down for anything that supports my wearing elastic-waist pants on a Friday night, because I'm a classy lady.

Who Wore It Best? ... and other, far more important, things

The past week has been a whirlwind of activity.  Sadly, if you're here for an extensive(ish) write-up of something new to do in the city because you just moved here, I cannot do much for you beyond send you here.  You can thank me for the intro to the Fishbowl later.

While yesterday may have been Halloween, I spent it inside, working, and marathoning Freaks and Geeks on Netflix.  I celebrated Halloween (and my birthday!) last weekend, never once allowing myself the opportunity to sleep in.  That's for the youngins, right?  I spent Friday night setting up for and later attending (and judging phenomenal costumes) the Baltimore Bike Party's after-party (and after the party?  The hotel lobby) at Union Craft Brewery on Clipper Mill.

Saturday I went for another hike, this time to Loch Raven, with two friends and the dog.  Loch Raven was phenomenal, incredibly scenic, and the perfect fall hike to view the foliage before it all got ravaged off branches when Sandy came to town.  Little guy romped off his leash the entire five or six (purely a guesstimate here, as none of Loch Raven's trails are blazed or anything) mile hike, with only one near-submersion into the lake.  Success!

That night was another Halloween party, but at a friend's house in York, PA.  Sunday morning was the market (of course) and my birthday shindig where my wonderful friend provided me with gluten-free belgian waffle sundaes and great people came up/down/over/preposition for good times.

Then it was Hurricane time.  Sunday night, I hunkered down with the dog, Netflix, two random gallons of water, my parent's pilfered camping lantern, a constantly refreshing twitter feed, and every item in my kitchen that I could possibly remember existed, being thrown into a curry dish.  Mmmm... curried can opener.

This unnecessarily lengthy intro was to set the stage for what occurred.  After a busy, tiring weekend, Sandy came in and created the hype of Frankenstorm.  Baltimore shut down.  My office was closed (telecommuting!), public transit stopped running, my corner store pulled down its metal entry way blocking thing, ensuring that my wine stash was my wine stash, and there would be absolutely NO supplementing it.  Sandy was Serious.

Do you know what happens to people who spend entire days indoors, save for walking a dog in hurricane?  People who neurotically check their windows for leaks, with good reason, neurotically change the sopping towels on their windows, and engineer umbrellas to block the leaking rain from splashing onto you/your furniture/your electronics?  They go stir-crazy.  I worked, yes, but I also made scones.  And roasted my first chicken (with pomegrante seeds!  and help!  because nice people help you roast chickens in hurricanes!).  I also.... I also considered making a "Who Wore It Best?" for Bubba and I.

Yes.

I became that crazy woman who lives alone and has a creepy relationship with her pet.
That being said, you know you're curious.
"Who wore what best, MV?" you're asking.  "Why are you being so cryptic, MV?" you ask.  "No, I really don't care, MV.  Please stop," you implore.
Excellent questions.

I bring you two images:

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

Sound off in the comments on who makes a better hotdog, and don't let the presence of relish and extra toppings sway you one way or the other! I tried to make you folks a handy poll, but it kept linking to what I think is the equivalent of a Polish Etsy.

Finally, and arguably far more important than the fact that my dog and I both wore hot dog costumes this October, dear, amazing, witty and informative Baltimore Chop apparently nominated me for two Mobbies, or Maryland's Outstanding Blogs.  I am embarrassed because I don't do well with compliments flattered, and torn between urging you to vote daily for me or daily for the Chop.  (Lucky you!  You can vote for both!)  I really am so grateful for how much everyone in Baltimore has made me feel so very welcome in the past year, even the twitter and blogospheres.  For those of you who know me, I'm constantly talking up the Chop and how he helped me get acquainted to this city when I first relocated, and even more so, how he keeps me up to date on wonderful things each day.  Good 'ol buddy Clube can attest to this.

This really serves as a great incentive for me to keep better tabs on this little blog, and not go so long between updates.  I was so much better at being a consistent blogger when I was in AmeriCorps, so hopefully now I'll get myself back into the swing of things.  I'm still in shock that I'm up there with the likes of the Chop, City that Breeds, Charm City Cook, Pigtown Designs, the Fishbowl, etc etc.  Amazed, and again, flattered.  So, go!  Vote!

Oregon Ridge

To say I am not an athletic person would be a gross understatement.  I learned early on that sports were only fun if you had a chance of winning, and as a person with zero athletic prowess, sports were miserable for me.  I would sit on the sidelines at little league soccer games, praying my coach wouldn't put me in, so that I could continue to sit on the sidelines and eat orange slices.  Why the other kids even wanted to leave the oranges was always beyond me.  There are, however, physical pastimes I will partake in A) for my health and B) because I do enjoy them.  These include occasionally going to yoga, walking home for work/the farmer's market, and hiking.  If I can force myself to walk home from work at least three times during the week, I give myself a large pat on the back and then cook myself some bacon.

Having lived in the Blue Ridge, I have high hiking standards.  I expect panoramic views of valleys with only a farmhouse or a silo.  I expect at least a four mile hike up that includes some semblance of rock climbing.  It's almost as though, because I don't really exercise at all, that I want to push myself more when I hike.  When I moved to Baltimore, I assumed hiking was off my list of physical pastimes, and I would have to start counting taking the stairs up to my apartment as exercise (I definitely do this in the winter).

Today is a beautiful day.  It's about 73 degrees outsides, there are scattered clouds, and I couldn't spend it indoors.  At least not all of it.  After the market, I put some snacks and water in my daypack, and Bubba and I headed north on 83 to Oregon Ridge Park. I have no idea where we hiked or what trails we took.  I took one glimpse at the map that said the longest hike was 1.6 miles, and immediately decided we'd just wing it instead and get some more distance in.  This is a decision that was much better for me and far worse for a dog with tiny, stubby little legs.

Not pictured: my shooing the dog away from eating dirt.

Oregon Ridge was busy today, presumably on account of it being a perfect Sunday.  We ran into many a couple, family or solo hiker on the trails.  There were people on the beach at the lake, a million folks having picnics by the stage, and many dogs to intimidate Bubba through the entire place.  It was lovely, though.  The two overlooks we came across weren't quite as majestic as the ones in the Blue Ridge, but that is to be expected.  They were lovely in their own right.

True majesty is a basset hound.

These trails are not demanding.  I saw plenty of children on them, not remotely struggling.  Bubba maneuvered the trails fine - he just struggled with the distance I forced upon him.  Lesson of the day: when I hike without a dog, I move twice as fast.  We were still able to stop on the old ski slope and enjoy some sunshine, snacks and a book.

An eerily empty lake: the telltale sign that it's no longer summer. 

So if you're new to Bmore and itching for some nature beyond the concrete jungle, head north on 83 to Oregon Ridge.  Be sure to bring a picnic to enjoy by the lake, and a swimsuit, if it's that kind of weather.