Adventures Biking in Texas: Firecrotch

So for a quick forray( how the heck do you spell that?) into the now before we revisit that first fateful hondo trip: Biking adventures in Austin.

Day 1 No biking adventures happened

Day 2 So (how am I supposed to refer to him? Ex sounds a little too definitive. Friend just isn’t completely accurate. and “old boy” doesnt really fit with what he looks like…) ‘that dude I’m living with?’ went to work today and I was left to fend for myself in your typical bachelor pad. Ok so it isn’t that typical, as evidenced by the fact that he is currently mopping the floor!!! Ladies when’s the last time you mopped your floor? But the point is there is no food. Technically that is a lie: he has coke zero (which anyone who’s been on a surgery rotation knows you can survive off of) egg whites, sliced turkey, carrots, hummus, apple sauce, and string cheese. Apparently this is diet food. So I gather some apple sauce, carrots and hummus for b-fast but I’m stuck on what to do about lunch. Mind you he has a 40lb single gear bike hanging from his ceiling. hmmmmmm.

Problems #1 I cannot reach said bike

Problem #2 He has no helmet

Solution #1 He has chairs

Solution #2 Texas has no helmet on bike laws ( i think this is related to other problems they have here in texas) and I’m hungry!

So I proceed to move one of the dining room chairs to below this hanging bike, stand upon it, and lift the bike off its hangers upside down, flip it and set it on the ground. I then climbed off the chair and was off!!! This may sound ridiculous but you’d be amazed how often I’m standing on chairs at this height. Today I had to hop onto the counter top to get up to reach a measuring cup. I do not know why he has the measuring cup up that high like I’m not the only one who uses it.

I then switch my moneys and phone and all to my camera case because it’s the only thing I can strap on my back smaller than my whole back and proceed to bike it out! Now I don’t know about you all, but I have not biked anywhere important (lunch is important!) in like…8 yrs. So I take a few turns around the parking lot to make sure I don’t still need training wheels. There are a few issues that remain because he is 5’11 and I’m 5’2 but the seat is as far adjusted as possible.

I’m a bit scared to get on the roadway so I stick to the sidewalk. I immediately foresee problems because, hello, its like 100degrees outside- frikin Texas at the end of July. And I’m rocking jeans and a t shirt with slip on shoes and no socks. So like all ill fated and in this case unplanned workouts a few blocks in I’m like ‘What was I thinking?’ combined with a little, ‘Are Crepes worth all this effort?” Clearly the answer to the second is yes so I trudge along only to be met with the fated…(da da duhnnnn!) HILL. I first note there must be a hill coming up because all these other bikers on the other side of the street are flying down the sidewalk. Mind you they have on proper biking gear and are all laced up in these light-weight bikes with real brakes on the handlebars…unlike these bike ride backward brakes. WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU RODE A BIKE THAT BRAKED WHEN YOU WENT BACKWARDS!!! This joint is like, vintage. So I’m trudging up this hill and have to stay seated the whole time to avoid, shall we say, saddle injury, and I just about die. I’m huffing and puffing and – let’s be honest- praying by the time I get to the top. And so I’m sitting there looking at the turn for my crepes and just decide to turn around. I rode that bike all the way home.

So I get home and I’ve like soaked through my shirt and all my unmentionables So i decide to wash my clothes, drink some agua and sit around naked planning my next move. I open another rando cabinet only to find WHEAT THINS!!! I am saved!

Day 3 Hiatus from bike trips

Day 4 Ill-planned volleyball trip

Day 5 Bike trip #2 I missed spinning this morning because honestly, why do I even try to convince myself I’m going to wake up at 5:30 am to work out? So I decide to bike to my new gym instead later that day. Once again, I am afraid of biking on the street, especially sans helmet. The only trouble with sticking to the sidewalk is all they do to make sidewalks look pretty and separate from drive -ways. On this side of the street they have these railings that pop up for no reason to separate the sidewalk from the ever so menacing…grass. So the first railing comes up and I still haven’t got enough practice to manuever it without some difficulty. So I’m planning my approach as I see it. I first slow down with the backward brakes but then I start to wobble. I’m speeding up to regain my balance and now the railing is fast approaching. I swerve left at the last minute to avoid the first but upon seeing a second I need to veer sharply to the right. I panic. I run into the railing…thus propelling myself forward off my seat. I avoid the middle bar by awkwardly falling to my side. Obviously my first concern is – did anyone see that? But no, I’m the only idiot biking out in this heat. So I regroup and carry on.

In front of me I begin to see another ominous sign- the freeway. However, there are no sidewalk ramps on my side or the other side of the street and there is no cross walk to cross over as my side walk abruptly ends. Now I recall in my younger days being able to jump curbs on my bicycle- both on and off the curb with no difficulty. So I think to myself- it’s go time! I wait until no cars are coming, build up some speed and jump off the curb (off is the easy part) bow I’ve got some confidence and I’m headed across to jump the other. Now is the point where I begin to think, this old-school bike has no shocks, it’s heavy, and I can’t ride it standing up…saddle injury ahead. So I’m headed swiftly to the other side, give it a half-hearted jump go lift up thingamajig and once again, fly forward off onto my handle bars. This time I am unable to avoid the center bar and suffice it to say I was laughing and crying the rest of the way to the gym.

My trip back was uneventful, except for the fact that I have discovered other ills associated with leaving your bike out in the heat for 2 hrs while u work out…whole new meaning to fire crotch- hint: I’m not a red head.

I’ve just thought of a subtitle to this post: Adventures Biking in Texas: firecrotch. LMAO


My boyfriend taught me how to drive a stick (that’s what she said)

Because today has been more of a series of events, having a general plotline, I will write about what has ahppened thus far- before returning to a more in depth discussion of a discussion we had last night (are you on tentor-hooks?).

So today we got up and after much praying, reading, and stretching on my part- yoga on April’s- and idk yet on Danny’s- we walked down to the square in Tegucigalpa to get our packs. Danny and April both eventually approached people about getting a taxi. I wonder, if they, like me, wait until the last possible moment to revert to Spanish when things need to get done. I can speak it, but I am reluctant to do anything I’m not good at unless I absolutely have to. At which point, I’ve rehearsed it so many times in my head it comes out flawlessly. My Spanish is much like my experience learning to drive a stick shift:

I want to learn to do thisĀ for several reasons. One because it is useful and 2) because it’s cool. I still love the look on boys faces when I say I can drive a stick (especially when they can’t). it is one of my last vestiges of street cred (but that’s another story). So anyway, the first person to try to teach me is Jason. But then-after he tried to teach me-and that didn’t work out so well- I didn’t like learning from him so much anymore. I tried, halfheartedly, but I wasn’t good and it wasn’t the same…story of various parts of our relationship.

Then my parents bought this $500 80’s Honda. And my mom, and dad, and eventually little sister just about forced me-albeit gently- to shut up and drive (oh rhianna). I would practice whenever I came home but I never ventured into new territory. Jamilah learned faster because she was home and it was basically her care. I say this as if time is the only factor but it is more than that. Jamilah isn’t afraid to be bad at anything-even in front of other people. She’ll mess up, cry a bit, smoke and get back up. There are very few things I have failed at, even momentarily, and certainly not publicly. Perhaps this is why I’m having issues pulling myself out of a 6yr long-distance relationship that is crippled, and crippling. The words are there but I’ve got writers block and they won’t come out the way I want them to. My sister is telling me just to say what I’m feeling but I’m too busy rehearsing my arguements in my head to hear-

Anyways, one day after I’ve moved home I have to go to work. I work up a series of hills with stop signs and stop lights and the like. So I drove to work. Never stalled out. I know that will happen here in Honduras with the Spanish.

And here I said nothing happened today

P.S. I need to learn to paint. I cannot take pictures without being a voyeur (which is why i hate those double decker buses that take the rich foreigners down to view the ghetto, slums, shanty towns, or favelas). Poverty is an evil thing, and it, like jail and prisoners adn leprosy is shoven away into dark corners so we don’t have to see it, so we don’t have to reconcile our lives with these. It needs to be thrown in the face of all those who benefit from it- and this is the beauty of grafiti. The IMF needs to be tagged with altars to the victims of their violence. Not as an act of revenge, and never using art as violence, but as a means of forcing a creative and conscious connection. You should have to look into the eyes of those who benefit from your greed.

Back to the land of “flushing toilet paper in the toilet” (FTPT)

So the first thing I bought after getting back to the land of “flushing toilet paper in the toilet” (FTPT). Turned out not to a pedicure as I wanted, but a yoga class which I needed. While it’s sad that I generally have to go away, or be forced apart in order to get back to myself- I’m done being surprised by the fact. This time I went running and screaming and crying to Honduras under the guise of helping others- to remember myself.

Suffice it to say that I spent 200$ on data roaming charges and got on Gmail 3 times. It was worth it. But I was hardly likely to update my blog under those conditions so I went back to the old school notebook. Red- spiral bound, and I don’t even think it was college-ruled but there it was. Now it’s all damp and bent out of shape in my bag but I’m feeling the pull away from this computer and back to pen and paper already. Since the beginning of that journal actually started the first time I went to Honduras- I felt it apropos to start there, at the first beginning. Names and some experiences have been left out but the gist of it all is about me anyway. And there’s alot to read to make up for the slow updating since february. I feel like I’m stretching out my fingers again. My pinkies were hurting in down dog at yoga class today. Messed my vinyasa all up. But that’s ok- Don’t need those suckers to write anyway.

ho boy- I had to go through a whole lot of paper before I got to something I could put out there for the public. I recall that I was going through a break up that 1st time (seems to be a trend :/).


(my “gringoness” and all, ascribing less importance to the name of a country, a people perhaps (unless ofcourse this wa a name given. Given to a place by a people not of that place because guns, or flags, or money gave them the power of discourse-like I just did))


(to be on the safe (PC, self-righteous, enlightened/conscious) side)

Today we arrived. Among the missionaries and business men and tourists. We’re a bit of all three I suppose: too rich. It took me so long to write that because I don’t think of myself as rich. It’s like I don’t want to write myself into that “us” that is Western and American and Rich. Not to say that I am at all in a position of power within that culture and the microcosm that is America. I don’t discount, or forget my esteemed place of paradoxical outside beauty: being both female and black. But here the stark contrasts generated by abject poverty obscure the finer details of subjugation and disenfranchisement. Here I am rich (thank God) and I’m not quite sure what to say about it.