Monday, April 11, 2016


Spring in Utah always comes as a surprise, like a best friend your haven't seen in ages showing up to a party unannounced; shock, surprise, and joy overcome you. The days begin to wax with sunlight little by little, pushing out winters long nights in favor of evening spent on the patio and on the bike.

Spring nights are what I fall in love with, year after year. On the first few warm nights the smell of bbq grills and fire pits fill the air, regardless the day of the week. The scent of hickory and charcoal seem omnipresent. Then the flowers on trees begin to bloom and every day ride through the city is filled with sweet aromas of tree blossoms and sunshine. What was frozen in winter begins to warm and decay, filling noses with the sweet smell of decaying organic matter and the base of trees, where fall leaves were left to feed earths cycle.

Late night rides through the city are filled with the stories of spring being whispered throughout every neighborhood via scent. The smell of fabric softener from a dryer vent mixes with scent of glowing coals from a fire pit. I inhale deep, like testing the smell of clothes from a campfire the day after. As I pass main street I notice the hemlines and shirt lengths have become shorter, a stark contrast to the apparel found on the average bar goer in Salt Lake in December.  I get a waft of garlic as I pedal past a home, wondering what their dinner was. The delicate smell of plants in bloom weaves itself through the ride till I arrive home. I take in one last breath before I go inside. A smile overcomes me and I am reminded that all is well. 

Friday, March 6, 2015

Why I Ride

I could see from the look on my teachers face, she was worried about me riding my bike home in the dark. I've seen this look on many people before. The making of the worry face is usually followed by questions like "How far are you riding again?" "Are you SURE you don't need a ride?" "Are you going to be warm enough?" I've been asked all of these questions many times over the last 10 years, and I always respond the same, "I'll be warm enough, it's not that far, and I'm positive I don't need a ride."

There is a sharp disconnect between people who ride bikes medium to long distances, regularly, and people who might jump on their cruiser bike once a year for a bar crawl or trip to the ice cream shop with the kids. The disconnect makes the annual bike riders (who are mostly car drivers) think that those who ride regularly, and in all weather must be out of their damn minds. We aren't out of our minds, we just know something you don't; a knowledge of how the city is laid out for the perfect ride home and intimate details of every neighborhood we ride through.

    Tonight was the first time in a while I've done a ride longer than tooling around downtown Salt Lake to get errands done. Six miles to class, seven miles home, for a grand total of a 13 mile day. It felt great. No... it felt absolutely fantastic. Zipping along 300 East on my way to my Thursday night class allowed my mind to wander, my legs to get into a rhythm and for my heart rate to elevate a bit. The sun was just starting to set over the Oquirrh Mountains, casting shades of pink and orange across the sky. I don't ride south much on 300 East, so the architecture and styles of homes along the way caught my eye. They reminded me of the Harvard/Yale neighborhood, but without Mercedes in the drive ways. 
     When I got back on the road after class, the roads were quiet. The sounds of car stereos played late night jazz on KUER and the beats of ethnic music. As I passed over State St Davey Davis passed by on the opposite side of the street, and we hollered out to each other. The familiar smell of laundry in the dryer and someones late night dinner filled my nose. I'm experiencing snippets of other peoples lives in the few seconds it takes for me to ride by their house. 

 These experiences are what keep me riding a bike. I miss them when I'm in a car. Never are we so intimately acquainted with a city as when we are on foot or by bike.

Monday, January 12, 2015

The word for 2015 and why I'm reviving this old bird

My friend Jessica has ignited a fire in me these days. I sort of want to just word vomit this all out, but I'll try to make it clear and concise.

Jessica is a lifestyle blogger, skier, inspirer, and graphic designer, and all around good soul. She was telling me that in the bloggesphere, bloggers will pick a word every year and meditate on it, try to live their life to include that word in it. I like this challenge. It makes you think about what word you want to live your life more centered around.

I joked with Jessica that my word was 'bird' because "Bird is the word, is the word..." is the worst.joke.ever.  After a giggle and inspiring session talking with Jessica I was meditating more on what word I would want to live more for everyday this year and I chose 'kindness'. Not like 'random acts of kindness' or being sweet to little old ladies. Just not being a jackass. I can be a pretty visceral person. Get me on a toot about something and chances are I'll end up insulting your dead grandmother and not apologizing for it.

    I want to live 2015 dedicated to having the patience to choose kindness when being mean and spiteful is easy. At the times when the internet has torn my personal image and business to shreds, I want to ignore these people and choose to be kind to them, if they ever rear their heads out of their mom's basement to come get kombucha from me (hah! I kid!).

   I want to be kind to my body. Treat it with respect by moving it everyday and shaking out the dust that seems to settle in my joints all to frequently as I age. I want to live a more kind diet that is good for my body and the planet. I also want to be kind to the planet. The place that sustains human life, gives us our life force, and keeps us breathing. I want to drive less, bike more, use my transit pass, and not bitch about traffic. And I want to be kinder to my brain by writing things out and publishing them here. I'm never going to share a single fucking link to this on Facebook, but it will be here, lurking, and so will you, creeper.

   So here's to a kinder 2015. May we reflect the intentions we present to the universe. 

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

These days

These days I find myself opening up to the world more. Letting myself be vulnerable to what is out there and exploring the world through the lenses of the internet (when I am stuck in the office) or observing the daily happenings around the city.  I've always really enjoyed getting older. I feel like my mind is opening up a little more, I'm a little less ideal and a little more realistic. But with all of this comes the need to accept what I can't control. What is up to the universe to decide. And I hate it some days. I hate that I can't stop someone from getting cancer. I can't bring back the people I've lost and I can't stop loving the people I some times shouldn't. I always thought that letting go was easy, but it isn't when you just want that person/ thing/ animal/ t-shirt/ favorite pair of sneakers back in your life.  These days it's a person, but some times it's a place and time I want back. Even if just for a minute. What if it all worked out like we had planned. What if we never gave up and instead we gave in to each other? Would we still be 'we' and not you and me?

I wouldn't take back the past 12 months of my life if I was paid to. They have been the most painful, heart wrenching, laughable, encouragable, and educational 12 months of my life and this I am thankful for. I am thankful for every reminder to keep moving forward, keep fighting for what I want in life, and for not giving up when I wanted to the most. I have so much gratitude to the universe for everything that has happened in my life. For every step I've taken to keep this ball rolling.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Mother to Son

My mom gave me this poem when I was in high school, doing a presentation on Langston Hughes for my AP History class. These days it's more of a daily matra.

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

Friday, December 28, 2012


The problem with wanting to write creative works is when you can't find the words to say what you need to in a timely manner. so often I find myself stumped to tell the story I want to. My word choice isn't right, the sentence structure doesn't flow, and the story is choppy. I find myself trying to please to many people with one story, instead of trying to tell it to a single audience. This usually related to when I am writing about bikes. I want to inspire everyone to try riding a bike. EVERYONE. So instead of telling the story of how I came in 5th in the women's C category at the CX state champtionship to an audience that does CX, I end up explain it like I am telling the story to a classroom of five year-olds. You can't please everyone with what you write, and I should probably stop trying.

Thursday, December 6, 2012


The cold, gently breeze danced across my face for most of the night as the moon light beat into my eyes. I should have known better than to not bring a tent, but I never mind sleeping under the stars. I pulled the hood of my down jacket over my eyes and pulled the edges of my sleeping bag closer to my body.

Sleep was a vague memory by the time I figured out the morning light was no longer the full moon, casting a shadow of the juniper trees over my eyes. As the morning quickly began to break I realized this was the only time I would have alone that day. The rest of my time would be filled with navigating trails, and as it turns out, pulling an armada of cactus spikes from my right knee. I hurried and unzipped the bottom of my sleeping bag, shoving my feet into my green and black approach shoes. As I stood up remnants of the previous nights poor decisions tumbled around in my stomach. I bee-lined it for my Nuun tablets and a water bottle.

As two tablets of lemonade Nuun dissolved in my water bottle I parked myself on the bench of the picnic table, facing east to watch the sunrise. I came to the desert for this moment. To watch the sky change from shades of dark blue to azure, briefly settling on cyan with hints of coral pink against the white clouds before the sky burst with light. In the city I can watch the sun rise, but the sound is different. The sounds of nature are muted by the low growls of moving vehicles and a high pitched laughs of children walking to the elementary school across the street. I came here because I wanted to remember what mother nature sounds like when she wakes in the morning, and what it feels like to be pushed awake by her  gentle force.

As the sun began to rise higher in the sky my ride mates shook themselves free of their tents and hammocks, dressing in their ride clothes before we took to the trails before breakfast. The stillness of the morning broken by the sound of Chris King hubs and the whirling of our drivetrains.