Pedaling a Pooch in a Pannier

            Many life lessons are learned on a bike, and last Friday’s ride reinforced a common theme: you may start out expecting one thing and find that life has something entirely different in store for you.  I’m still in Minneapolis, and accompanied my cousin Miriam to her weekly yoga class – a strength-building vinyasa-based session at the Center for Performing Arts, taught by Arles – a skilled and permission-giving instructor.

            In the late afternoon, her partner, Amy, and I biked to Minnehaha Falls – the area I’d gotten lost in three times on Wednesday. With Amy as my Sherpa, we easily found the falls, following the Minnehaha trail for an easy 5-mile ride. Amy filled me in on the local history: tributes to the poet Longfellow – whose epic Hiawatha was reputedly inspired by the falls and, in turn, was incorporated into Dvorak’s New World Symphony. The steps and stone walls that facilitate viewing of the falls were a 1940 Works ProgressAdministration project – a reminder of the many useful government-funded efforts of days gone by.

            After viewing the falls and some surrounding areas, we were heading home, riding a somewhat deserted section of path along Hiawatha Avenue (also known as I-55) when we spotted a small white dog scampering in the grass. There were a few parked cars, and I assumed the dog’s owner was watching it. But Amy, wiser and more compassionate than I, insisted we investigate. In fact, the cars were empty, the dog had no collar, and there were no people around. The friendly little fellow was only too happy for us to scoop him up and go for a ride in Amy’s pannier.

            But the afternoon was hot and, after a couple miles, the little white dog managed to jump out. We called Miriam and asked her to meet us at a designated point where the bike path intersected the road. For the next mile or so, Amy cradled the pooch in one arm, and impressed me with her ability to ride one handed to the pick-up location. While Miriam drove the lost dog home, Amy and I stopped to pick up some dog food and enjoyed delicious homemade ice cream cones from GrandOle Creamery.

            Back at Miriam and Amy’s, we were quickly besotted by “our” new dog. We tried to figure out if he was a Bichon, or a Malti-Poo, or some other breed. He appeared to be well taken care of, but Miriam’s daughter, Rhea, gave him a bath with Aveda shampoo and we pulled out an assortment of toys left over from their departed dog, Yofi. The plan was that, in the morning, Amy would take the dog to a vet to see if it had a microchip, and call local animal shelters to see if there was a missing dog report that matched his description. However, I think that everyone harbored a secret hope that he would become part of the family, as he was a delightfully charming, affectionate, and well-behaved little fellow.

            I went up to bed around 10:00 but my concern about the dog was nagging at me. I pulled out my I-pad and did an online search: “Minneapolis lost small white dog” – which quickly took me to Craig’s List. Less than 2 hours earlier, a listing for a “multi-poo,” lost near the Minnehaha dog park had been posted. It included a photo of a dog named Cooper, clearly the same little fellow who had so quickly won us over. With some sadness, but knowing it was the right thing, we called the number – which turned out to be the owner’s irresponsible girlfriend who had been caring for the dog. We said it was too late to pick the dog up that night, but arranged for the owner to call early Saturday morning.

            Miriam and I left Saturday morning to take a workshop on “Writing Family” at the Loft Literary Center where she studies. Thus, we missed meeting Cooper’s daddy and the bittersweet goodbye to the little charmer. Amy reported that Cooper went wild with glee when his dad arrived, so we rested assured that we had performed a mitzvah – a good deed – by rescuing Cooper and finding his rightful owner. He turned out to be a Maltese-Shitsu-Poodle mix, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some similar dog eventually makes its way into Miriam and Amy’s home.

            Miriam and I both enjoyed the workshop, ably taught by Laura Flynn and then walked around the neighborhood, in which I saw many people on bikes. Minneapolis is clearly a very bike-friendly community. We went into the new Guthrie Theater and walked out onto the viewing area to see the “endless bridge” which crosses the Mississippi river and is closed to automobiles, making it a lovely crossing for pedestrians and bicyclists.

            This morning the rain has begun, and thus, I may have taken my last bike ride in the Twin Cities, for now. I will enjoy just hanging out with family for the last full day of what has been a wonderful visit. But I look forward to future trips to Minneapolis, and the chance to explore more of the city’s beautiful bicycle infrastructure.

Twintastic Bike Cities

            

 I’ve read about Minneapolis being one of the most bike friendly cities in the U.S., so I was eager for my visit to the Twin Cities and the chance to explore on two wheels. The first step was to check out my cousin Miriam’s neglected bike, which was hanging from a hook in her garage, waiting patiently for someone to ride it. It’s a perfectly good bike, but it needed air in the tires and a quick stop at their local bike shop, Charlie’s Tangletown Bikes, to tighten up the seat and lube the chain. The shop featured an enticing selection of nutcase helmets in the front window and Charlie himself fixed up the bike for a very reasonable $5.

            
My cousin and her partner, Amy, took me for a little tour (in the car) of the bike paths around some of Minneapolis’s many lakes. The first thing I noticed was the luxury of paths that are separated for pedestrians and cyclists. Many of the local paths are split and clearly signed, so these two very different types of users don’t need to compete with each other. I have never had this luxury and it felt like bicycle heaven. On a Sunday afternoon the bikers were out in force, but the most unusual rider was the fellow pictured below, who sported a white dove perched contentedly on his shoulder.

            
Monday evening Amy and I headed out after dinner – the temperatures still warm and humid, but not bad compared to D.C. – and the sun was almost setting, so the ride was shady. We could get on the Minnehaha Trail just half a block from their home and rode it 2.5 miles to Lake Nokomis. It’s another two miles to ride around the entire lake, making for an easy, flat, seven-mile ride.

The sun made a brilliant red circle when we got to the lake and the ghostly half moon was midway up the sky ahead of us. What a perk: biking around Minneapolis’s lakes allows the rider to go swimming if s/he gets too hot. There are many swimming beaches on the small lakes, and plenty of folks take advantage of them.

But my big adventure was planned for Wednesday, when I had a meeting with my long-time colleague, the director of the Minnesota AARP office, located near the state capitol in St. Paul. I scoped out the 13-mile route, following the Minnehaha trail to the Mississippi River which I would cross into St. Paul. From there I would go north to Summit Avenue, a shady residential street with bike lane the whole way till I was practically downtown.

The trip went smoothly. I missed my river crossing closest to the Minnehaha, but rode north along the river to the next crossing (Marshall), which only took me a few blocks out of my way. Because I planned to get to the office around noon, I was riding in the heat of the day and – yes – even Minneapolis is having a 90+ degree heat wave. I took a water break on Summit and decided to try out using the GPS on my I-phone, as there were quite a few twists and turns from the end of Summit to my destination. I stopped when I got a view of the capitol building and using the GPS worked well. I arrived just in time, thirsty and drenched in sweat. After a quick clean-up in the restroom I changed into the work clothes I’d carried in my backpack (no rack/panniers on my cousin’s bike). My colleague, Michelle, took me out for a tasty Japanese lunch (vegetarian bento box with spinach, miso soup, salad, tofu, rice and pickles…yum!!!) and we spent four hours talking business and catching up on our personal lives.

I’d originally planned to just put the bike on the bus for the return home, and had mapped out a good route. But, for some insane reason, I decided to bike home. I wanted to try a different path – in part because I’d missed seeing Minnehaha Falls on my way out (because of the missed turn) and thought I’d try the river route from St. Paul instead of the city route. And thus began my long, hot, thirsty voyage during which I got lost many times and had to depend on the kindness of strangers to find my way back. Fortunately, other bikers generally tend to be helpful , and it’s true that Midwesterners are especially friendly and glad to help.

            My first wrong turn came at Fort Snelling, where I missed a turn and ended up on a path that took me along I-55, where I made a long crossing of the Mississippi. I know I shouldn’t go over the river again and, indeed, I had to turn around and do it again, but an especially nice cyclist went out of his way and guided me to the spot that would lead me to the right path. However, once I got to Minnehaha Park, the intersection of several paths was very confusing. By then, I’d been riding 2 hours in the extreme heat and had consumed every last drop of my water – probably losing half my body weight in sweat. So when I saw a Dairy Queen, I went in for a mango smoothie and 20 minutes of air conditioning. Even so, I got just as confused at the intersection, and ended up on the wrong path, going north when I wanted to go west. I recognized my mistake pretty soon, but – rather than chance a third mistake at the dreaded intersection – I decided to take the easy-to-navigate city streets to a place that I could see would make a clear connection back to the Minnehaha trail that goes to within a block of my cousin’s house.

           
 I was desperate for salt by the time I reached my destination, and fortunately my cousin had a jar of pickles – the cycling yogi’s remedy – of which I consumed many, including a glass of the salty juice!

            But – on the positive side – I saw many parts of the twin cities and found an amenity that the DC-region should embrace. There was one section of trail that required going down and then up a long flight of steep stairs for making a bridge crossing. As I was about to lift the bike and carry it, I noticed a steel bike ramp which I was only too happy to use. Despite having good bike maps for Minneapolis and St. Paul, as well as an I-phone, my lifelong struggle with directional challenges made for a very long bike ride home in the hot sun. On the other hand, I felt the accomplishment of navigating an unknown city, and my physical stamina was more than up to the task – the only real challenge being dehydration and heat.

            Today will be a day of rest, or swimming, but another bike adventure is in the works for Friday, which is predicted to be cooler. Even more important, I will be accompanied by Amy, who will be my trusty bicycle Sherpa!

"Biking" in the Water

            I couldn’t get the hang of kayaking until I applied my biking skills. You might wonder how a predominantly lower-body activity could inform one that uses the upper-body – but it was the feel of cycling that helped my body “get” the rhythm and movement needed to kayak.

            I’ve been vacationing north of Minneapolis on a lake that shall remain nameless – lest its pristine beauty become overrun by tourists. My host, Ruth, wanted to show me Cuyuna recreation area – a series of six interconnected lakes that were created from extinct iron mines.

            We headed to Cycle Path & Paddle to rent kayaks. While waiting to be transported to the lakes, I explored this very friendly store – which also (as you could surmise from its name) rents bikes. I spotted a couple Surly bikes with the most enormous tires I’ve ever seen on a bike, and was told they’re good in the snow – of which Minnesota, of course, gets plenty.

            I also was intrigued by the T-shirts sporting “Shred the Red” slogans. The mountain bike trails around the mine lakes are called “the red” because of their color – derived from the iron-rich earth. So mountain bikers who tackle the 25-mile trails around the lakes are said to “shred the red.” The tires of the rental bikes showed plenty of red residue ground into them.

            But this was to be a kayak adventure. I have kayaked only occasionally – each time feeling clumsy and awkward, if not downright incompetent. Ruth tried her best to instruct me (as others have tried in the past) but my body just couldn’t seem to get the hang of it. And then I took a few strokes and said – with revelatory joy – “It’s like riding a bike!” More like a hand-cranked bike, but that body connection was all I needed to begin gliding gracefully along the water. As the day progressed, I had some moments that felt full of ease and with all the pleasure I get from riding fast on a bike or swimming with flippers: movement, momentum, freedom, joy.

            We paddled through several of the lakes until we found a peninsula onto which we could pull the kayaks. The day was breezy but quite warm, so we were eager to dock the kayaks and swim. The water was perfectly clear – its temperature refreshing without being frigid. There were multitudes of small green fish – two to three inches long – that we glimpsed through the lucid water. I picked up a few iron-rich rocks from the bottom near the shore (which then dropped off quickly to deep water). The rocks instantly stained my hands a rusty red from their iron.

            After swimming, we ate our picnic lunches and reminisced about long-ago boyfriends, our conversation meandering aimlessly like the lakes through the forest. We swam again before getting back into the kayaks to return to our starting point. Despite my improved kayaking skills, paddling into the wind was not easy! But I felt the satisfaction of good exercise and was happy to return to the cottage for a quiet remainder of the afternoon.

            To our surprise, the cottage had lost power – perhaps a casualty of the gusty winds. But it stays light here until nearly 10 p.m., and by the time it’s dark I’ll surely be ready for bed.

(Postscript – my blog was handwritten to preserve battery power in my laptop. A few hours later, power was restored and we were able to cook our dinner and flush the toilets without having to haul buckets of water from the lake.)

What's the Connection Between Cherry Pie and Biking?

This blog has nothing to do with bike riding, unless you count the fact that I whacked out my back yesterday and, consequently, would do no biking today (no great loss, given the 90+ degree heat and humidity). But I also did not feel up to teaching my usual Sunday morning yoga classes, which was a great loss, especially since it was the first week of the summer session, and I hate to miss the first week. But I’m leaving for vacation on Wednesday, and wanted to give my back another day to recuperate so that I’d be in good shape for vacation.

The result was that I decided to treat myself to the Sunday papers – NY Times AND Washington Post, since my Sunday morning teaching schedule ordinarily leaves me no time for what once was a cherished ritual: Sunday papers in bed with coffee and (if I was lucky) a love interest. Going out early for the papers meant walking past the Westover Farmer’s Market and, wouldn’t you know – it happened to be that tiny window during which sour cherries are in season.

Even though I’ve been totally off sugar for over a month, making fresh cherry pie once a year is a must. Maybe it’s the memories of climbing the sour cherry trees in my grandmother’s back yard, picking the tart fruit for her to make pie. Besides, the fellow I’ve recently started dating made the most extraordinary statement after we’d watched the fireworks together on the 4th. He said he’d observed that women our age (early 60s) who are too thin look bony and haggard – not sexy. No one would accuse me of being too skinny, and his statement made me feel very good about my well-toned, NORMAL-sized body. And, therefore, I will eat a piece of cherry pie this evening without a shred of guilt!

So, here follows my cherry pie making technique, honed over years of experience and experiment. I hope there are some pie-lovin’ bike enthusiasts out there who won’t mind hearing about pie instead of bikes for a change.

My generous quart of cherries numbered 156 and took about 14 minutes to pit, which, using my great computational skills, I figured comes to about 11 cherries per minute…or just over 5 seconds each. After years of overly runny filling, despite trying every technique in several books, Internet sites, and word-of-mouth, I now prepare a baked pie shell and cook the filling on the stove.

And, after years of failure, I have mastered the baked pie shell. After forming my all-butter crust in the pie pan, I prick it all over with a fork and freeze it for at least a couple hours. Indeed, it makes a difference to bake it on the top shelf of the oven (at 450 degrees), and I check it every 3-5 minutes (more frequently at the beginning) to make sure it isn’t puffing up and threatening to slide down the edges of the pie plate…giving it extra fork-pricks if needed. For this morning’s pie, I decided to make a top crust by using cookie cutters to make shapes for the top.

 The filling is simple. The cherries and their juice go into an enameled, cast-iron pot with a cup of sugar and ¼ cup of cornstarch. A dash of salt and the juice from half a lime give a little extra zing. The filling thickens up in less than 10 minutes, and I add a few drops of almond extract. After it cools a bit, into the shell it goes, to be decorated with the top crust.

I had enough crust to make a mini-shell, so I cooked up a couple peaches for the baby pie, grating in a bit of fresh ginger. Peaches and ginger are so lovely together.

I went for a nice swim this afternoon, loosening up the back, and now look forward to this evening’s pie delight, and with luck, at least one good bike ride before I head north to Minnesota for my vacation.

More of a Writerly-Yoga Blog

Today I rode my bike to Missionhurst, a hidden retreat in the midst of Arlington, hauling yoga supplies on my Burly trailer. Up and down the hills of 26^th Street I arrived sweaty for my first-ever silent meditation retreat…about time!! The day was structured with periods of sitting in guided meditation, sessions of very slow gentle yoga, and walking the verdant grounds to contemplate as each of us desired.

Thanks to my dear teacher goddess friends Jackie and aLex for providing exactly the respite I needed. And here are a few of my observations and reflections:

Birdsong and insect twitter, the lullaby shusssshhhshshshsh of leaves in the breeze, and maybe a crunch underfoot. And then the surprise of wind chimes hung from a tree, their lovely tones in the air current.

           

            Amazing – it is so easy to slow down and find this restful space. No hurry. No stress. Just thoughts and observations, and feelings in my body and in my heart and on my skin.

            The shady outdoors is perfect – not too hot, or humid: nature’s palette of greens and browns. The green tones are so similar, but the diversity of leaf shape and pattern are astonishing. Things to see only when I’m slowed down enough to look. Doing Natalie Goldberg’s “slow walking” – so nice – not impatient with it. There is nowhere else to be. Nothing else to do. But feel, and let the thoughts filter through. Not drilling into them, just letting them float up, be considered, float away.

            Thick tufts of grasses – in clumps, sprouting up from the soil. A hosta – leaves broadening out to a pointed tip, lines along their length as though, while moist and unformed, someone drew a comb through each. Rounded heart-shaped leaves of violets. Clumps of bamboo-like grasses.  A weaving of English ivy – contrasting vein running to each pointed tip of the leaf, miniscule stars of spreading moss, and interspersed a more spiky moss – looking soft and cool. Bright shamrock leaves poke out. All peacefully coexist. And the splendid ferns, each thread extending, so fragile, yet somehow strong enough to support a spray of delicate leaves. And some other fern, with larger, sculpted leaves, smooth and broad. There is plenty of brown earth, and little rocks and pebbles, tree roots bulging up, fallen twigs and dead leaves.

            I don’t know what trees I’m seeing – cedar? Black walnut? As I walk along the path I come to groves of bamboo – and it’s cooler – instantly, and quiet. I grab the shafts of two bamboo poles – so green and smooth – one in each of my hands, small flies dot their segmented length, unmoving, even as I undulate the bamboo stalks, whose tops are stuck on the adjacent deciduous tree. And there, near the ground, one lone sprout of a holly bush, its waxy leaves shiny, each one ringed with a delicate pattern of sharp barbs, shouting DON’T TOUCH. 

            I see the sun shining through the leaves, the one leaf casting a shadow on another. There’s a moment of illusion, as though I’m looking through a green window. I see delicate maples, and ancient oaks, and a monstrous silver maple with it burly rough bark. And the towering giant of a tulip poplar that would dwarf dinosaurs, leaves the size of dinner plates fallen on the path. I caress the leaves of the cedar (if that’s what it is) and a small tough berry lands in my hand. I carry it as I walk, rolling it between my thumbs, strangely comforting. I grasp a wet drooping hydrangea flower – magnificent in its blue contrast to the quieter surroundings, and rub the damp residue onto my face and arms, leaving little specks of its pollen on my skin.

            Some troubling thoughts emerge, but I let them drift away and return to simple observation of tree branches shifting and bobbing – leaves quivering and bouncing, sun brightening patches of green, shadow darkening others. I’m looking now at the patterns of tree bark – the vertical lines up the cedar trunks, horizontal patches on some other tree that I can’t identify. And another trunk – rough all over, looking whitish and grayish, and another tree whose lower branches have all been cut off, leaving bumpy, painful-looking stumps. Does it still hurt? Did it hurt? There are three crumbling cement steps off the path, leading nowhere. A tiny white insect lands on my arm, content to rest there, but when I examine it, it flies off.

            A small black insect trundles along the ground, its back sleek and smooth, shiny and straight. I’m surprised I don’t see more – insects – but grateful that they are not buzzing around me biting and ruining my enjoyment of the outdoors.

            I see two white moths chasing each other and some insect flying…could it be a precious bee? What will we do if we lose our bees? The lunch I just enjoyed with such sweet strawberries and watermelon – their shades of red – the strawberries shiny and pocked everywhere by seeds; the watermelon, like a full sponge, and the small yellowgreen slice of avocado whose creamy smoothness I sliced from its bark-like skin with my teeth. And bright orange carrot soup – so sweet – it must have had brown sugar, but also a hint of spicy, and the crunch of some almonds…such a lovely lunch – filled out by warm cheese, on French bread (yes, ok, white bread) with the contrasting sharpness of Dijon mustard.

            During our final meditation, Jackie suggests we consider all that we know and all that we don’t know, and helps us realize that, of course, all we don’t know is so much vaster than what we do know. And she encourages us in our meditation to resist the pull of what we know – the recurring thoughts and patterns and daily concerns – and instead, allow ourselves to open to the unknown, an invitation I eagerly accept,

            I have absorbed the green energy of the day, and find myself relaxing into the present – whatever it is, whatever it is, whatever it is. 

ISO - Bicycle Sherpa

Sometimes riding a bike feels like climbing Mount Everest: not because of the steep climb, but because navigating the route is complex and unpredictable. When you get lost in a car, you might drive in frustrating circles and waste gas, but when you lose your way on a bike, you pay in muscle, breath, and sweat. But it’s all part of the journey, and often the only way to learn a new route is by trial and error.

For months, this weekend has been marked on my calendar as the high point of my summer writing: a two-full-day workshop with the extremely likeable Kathleen Flinn, food writer extraordinaire. Okay, I haven’t actually read her books, but they’re now on my list.

Traveling from my home in Arlington, Virginia to the Writer’sCenter in Bethesda, Maryland (the workshop’s location) is inconvenient by any mode of transport. Driving entails either going around the dreaded Washington beltway or through the traffic-clogged streets of D.C. It could take anywhere from 20 minutes to over an hour, depending on traffic. Taking the Metro entails two trains and two walks, and on a weekend one must expect it to take well over an hour, and possibly much longer due to frequent weekend track work. The best option (as usual) is to bike – a 10-mile ride – the same distance I regularly ride to work.

But there’s a difference. When I ride to work, I know where I’m going. At any point in my ride I know exactly how much farther I have to go, where the hills are, where the traffic is bad, and so forth. But I’ve only biked to Bethesda occasionally, so it still feels like uncharted territory.

My plan was to take Arlington streets to Chain Bridge. From there, the Capital Crescent trail runs to within four blocks of the Writer’s Center. This route entails riding up some of Arlington’s biggest hills, but they would come early, while the temperature was still cool. And at 7:15 on a Saturday morning I wouldn’t need to worry about getting whizzed by cars approaching Chain Bridge on the narrow, shoulderless road.

The biggest hazard is the required stretch of the C&OCanal Towpath. This route was not designed for bicycle convenience. After crossing Chain Bridge, a ramp descends to the Towpath – a rough and rocky unpaved trail that I find hazardous with my skinny tires. One must ride about a mile the wrong direction down the Towpath, which, for me, is slow and nervous-making, leaving my wrists and arms aching from their death-grip on the handlebars.

But it’s worth it, because the lovely Capital Crescent is a summer delight – the most thoroughly shaded path I get to ride in this area. While it looks flat, the path is, in fact, completely uphill from D.C. to Bethesda. Still, the grade is low enough that it doesn’t feel challenging.

The workshop was engaging, but the day was long, with too much sitting. So I eagerly anticipated my bonus ride home, knowing I’d get that rare treat of an eight-mile slide down the gently sloping trail. And what a treat it was. Shady, gliding effortlessly, I rode to Georgetown, over Key Bridge, and took the bus home the final uphill stretch.

This was a completely new route for me, which is why I ended up thinking a bicycle Sherpa would have come in handy. As I approached Georgetown, there was a set of cement steps, with wide curbs, presumably for pushing up a bike. It was a steep push, but I made it to the top, disappointed to see that it took me back to the rough Towpath. But I could see Key Bridge in the near distance, and didn’t have to ride it nearly as long as I had on the segment from Chain Bridge. Again, I saw a cement stairway – this one with no way to get a bike up but to carry it. I don’t have a problem carrying my bike up stairs, but this ascent was unusually steep, with a sharp turn halfway up. Luckily, it took me just a few feet from the entrance to Key Bridge – success!

The colorful view from Key Bridge

So while it ended up being a personal navigation victory, it saddened me that there was nary a trail marking. Surely this is a heavily traveled route, and perhaps there’s a better way that I have yet to discover. Would it really be that difficult to have a sign here or there, pointing the way to each trail or to the bridges?

Many boats on the Potomac

If there’s an enterprising and intrepid bicycle Sherpa out there, give me a holler. I’ll be your next customer.

Biking in Moosconsin

When my daughter was young, she called the state of my origins “Moosconsin.” One need not travel far in America’s Dairyland to encounter bucolic pastures populated by Holstein cows and, to this day, I continue to hear her little voice saying “Moosconsin” when I go for a visit, as I did over Memorial Day weekend.

I was worried the trip was off to an inauspicious start when I discovered that Paul Ryan was sharing my flight from D.C. to Milwaukee. This photo shows him insisting that they move him OUT of 1st class and into a coach class seat. I'm sure someone on the packed flight was happy to switch. I was just relieved that we weren't seatmates, as it might have gotten me thrown off the plane (in mid air).

I was too close for comfort

I arrived in Milwaukee for my sister-in-law’s art show and book signing at the Grand Avenue Club – a community that provides support for people with mental illness. Located downtown, I booked a room at the Metro – a beautifully renovated art deco hotel that I chose online because it offers its guests FREE BICYCLES to use during their stay! As I was arriving just before the show and leaving early the following morning, I didn’t actually get to use a bike – but I let them know that the availability of bikes was the determining factor in my choice of their hotel (and it also was walking distance from everywhere I needed to go). I wouldn’t say Milwaukee’s streets were clogged with cyclists, but I did see plenty of folks riding the city streets, despite the absence of much in the way of biking infrastructure (at least that I noticed).

See the Milwaukee cyclist obeying the red light signal, despite nearly no traffic

The next morning I walked to the transit station to catch a bus to Baraboo (home of Circus World Museum and proximate to Devil’s Lake StatePark) where my mom and stepdad live. My 86-year-old mother planned in advance, and had borrowed a bike from one of her younger (~ 65-year-old) friends. It looked like it had NEVER been ridden, so I felt I was doing the bike a favor to take it out for a spin each morning. It came complete with detachable basket, rearview mirror, lock, and helmet.

The "granny bike" by the Baraboo River path

The weather was cool and drizzly, but I was able to make a pleasant 5-mile round-trip ride each morning, taking Baraboo’s very own multi-use path that runs along the Baraboo River. I heard more birds than I saw, but did manage to catch sight of a lovely pair of goldfinches and a majestic great blue heron. I had aspirations of biking to the state park, but the weather was iffy and the hills a bit daunting (especially on the “granny bike” I was using). So a bike trip to Devil’s Lake will have to wait for another visit.

Look at the edge of the river between the 2 trees to see the heron

No matter how old I get, there’s a certain regression that overtakes me whenever I visit my mom. Upon entering the house, I check the contents of the refrigerator and the kitchen cabinets. She always has favorite snacks, homemade cookies, and Wisconsin’s signature product: cheese curds. I take afternoon naps and pretty much just laze around. We went to the Saturday morning farmer’s market, where they had rhubarb that my mom used to make strawberry-rhubarb pie and blueberry-rhubarb sauce (which I sampled over both plain yogurt and vanilla ice cream…delicious with both).

I love rhubarb!!

After four days in Baraboo, my folks drove me to Madison, where I caught a flight to Las Vegas for a short business trip. The Madison airport featured an ample cooler filled with cheese products and the bathrooms offered free tampons and sanitary pads. Go Madison! Even though I’m well beyond the age of needing these products (the tampons, not the cheese), I still appreciate places that give them away free of charge.

Cheese choices galore

And free tampons

Las Vegas is not exactly a bike-friendly city and thankfully I was there for just one day of work. I was put up in the fancy Aria casino/resort and, because of the time difference, was up early to enjoy a lovely 2 hours in the fitness center/spa before my meeting. The workout with a full array of weight machines convinced me to join a gym on my return to D.C. as a way to get my final bit of shoulder rehab accomplished. The Aria also had a “meditation” room on which you could lie on heated granite slabs while serenaded by soft music and another room with walls built of salt blocks. In the salt room, large leather divans vibrated to the rhythm of the gentle music. I don’t know whether there’s any science behind breathing salt air or lying on heated granite, but I felt quite blissed out by the time I left. My favorite treat, however, was using the large eucalyptus-scented steam room, which I could alternate with a plunge in a cold soaking tub. Heaven!

Dancing fountain at Bellagio in its final orgasmic splendor

 After my workday was over, I decided – well – Vegas – might as well take a brief foray into the casino. In four rounds of roulette I came away $150 richer, winning money by placing chips on my daughter’s and my birth months. Fortunately I know how to walk away while I’m ahead, figuring I’d done well for my 10 minutes of gambling. After a long, cramped plane ride home the next day (thanks United – NOT) I went for my first post-surgical swim – delighted that I can still do a mile and the shoulder felt great!