Showing posts with label bike. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bike. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Tootsie.
Tonight was a night I looked forward to all summer. After a half day of work and a nap, I headed back down town to take in Tootsie. It was the last night of the Chicago summer film festival, and there were about six thousand people there. We camped out with cheese, bread, chocolate covered almonds with sea salt (!!!), humus and veggies, and I brought the wine.
There could be no finer night. Tootsie has always been one of my favorite movies---Jessica Lange. Jessica Lange! Who knew she was from Minnesota? My heart, that's who.
I also biked about 25 miles today in four different rides. Wowza.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
Another recap.
I've been slacking on recording.
Here's what I've been thinking/doing.
1. Watching the second season of The Golden Girls. Favorite exchange so far:
Blanche: Oh, I love the rain. It always remind me of my first kiss.
Dorothy: How romantic. You had your first kiss in the rain?
Blanche: No, the shower.
Bah-da-bing!
2. Training for a sprint triathlon. I've already been riding my bike back and forth to work, about 6.5 miles one way, 3-5 days a week, and running a couple times a week. Now I'm training for a 800 meter swim, 12 mile bike, and 3.1 mile run. My friend Kaye also decided to put a relay team, so I have a built in swimming buddy (she's moving from one block to the east of us to one block from the west of us. Hurrah, Logan Square). We headed to our local pool at Kosciuszko Park. A sign instructed us to buy a lap swim pass, and a lifeguard instructed us to head to the field house.
We headed next door and were introduced to Master Chino, the man who's been running the field house at Kosciuszko for 17 years. Instead of making us pay $22 to swim for the rest of the summer season, he told us to purchase the fall swim pass after August 22 and "just mention his name" to the lifeguards until then. He called over and told the lifeguards "he was sending a few friends over." The next week, we showed up and when the lifeguard asked for our swimming cards we said, "uh...ah...we talked to Master China last week?---" and the lifeguard started waving his hands. "You know Master Chino? No problem, no problem. Anyone that knows Master China is good here."
The next time anything goes down in Logan Square, I'm throwing out Master Chino's name. I'll be running red lights and cutting in the check out line at Tony's and shouting "I know Master Chino, beetches!" behind me as I go.
3. Hosting a bunch of bodies. We said goodbye to one half of our North Dakota house guests last week, and are continuing to share an apartment with Al. He's finishing a five week internship in Chicago, and then we immediately have a friend from the music department at MSUM staying for another weekend. In the meantime, I'm heading out for two work trips. Yikes.
4. Attending a wedding. Our friends Stephanie and Andy are getting married next weekend, two days after our own fourth anniversary. When we opened up our fortune cookies today after lunch, Tim's fortune said something along the lines of "a trip to the south will bring you fortune." We're heading to Cincinnati for a work trip and then heading straight to Louisville to experience Lakeside Pool and the Bourbon Trail. Also, I've already scheduled a work meeting at Ambar, the best Indian restaurant in Cincinnati. Now all I have to do is set down with someone at a Skyline and my multi-tasking will be over.
5. Watching Shark Tank on ABC.
6. Oh yes, and I went on a bike scavenger hunt with Dana, who did a great job describing it here. What I would like to mention specifically is this:
we danced and lip synced in front of strangers wearing cooler clothes than us, I rode down Ashland avenue in a half slip, no pants, and my (extra) bra on my helmet, Dana let me cut a hunk out of her bangs and then pasted it to her arm, I named a song from the High Fidelity sound track in under three seconds, bought a 24 oz Becks to bribe the girls running home base, and Dana and I both used water guns to shoot another bike team, took a shot of Lake Michigan, and put war paint on our faces before Dana's back bike tire tragically (but sort of comically) burst in flames as she hit a giant patch of glass. All this was done in the name of garnering points being recorded via pipe cleaners wrapped around our wrists and tallies on our manifest, the list of public parks we had to hit.
AND THEN. Our third randomly assigned teammate absconded with the manifest as we walked Dana's bike back to Union Park. What the what? However, a very nice bike technician changed Dana's tire in under 4 minutes to get extra points for his team. Totally lameness of our teammate aside, Dana and I had a great time and since we've already faced our uber fit/uber stylish competition, we will not be intimidated by them! They may be five years younger than us, listen to hipper music, have amazing muscle tone and know how to change tires while wearing teeny tiny hats...THEY DON'T HAVE MBAs! Suckers.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Anti Pants Day.
To save an extra ten minutes on my commute, I ride my bike to the blue line every day. A couple weeks ago I was biking to work and my dress pants got caught in my bike chain. I parked the bike and starting pulling. Since they were relatively cheap and only about 50% flattering, I just ripped them out of the gear and ruined the hem. I pedaled on without a twinge of remorse or a sincere apology to the bike.
On Tuesday I was riding home from the train. It was a lovely day, the sky was blue, and I was done with work! Yippee! So I was happy. About two blocks into my seven block ride, my bike chain saw the window of opportunity it had been waiting for and chomped down on my dress pants again. This was a different pair, and because the too-short hem I requested from mom looks very Audrey Hepburn when I wear a button down shirt and flats, I decided I WAS NOT LOSING THOSE PANTS.
So I pulled over, just like before. Knowing that the materials was stronger (uh, more polyester, I believe) I started yanking on my pants with my right hand while still sitting on the bike. The 70 other blue ride riders walking down Kedzie were kind enough to completely ignore the grown woman trying to wrench her office attire free of a blue beach cruiser. Thanks, comrades. I got off the bike and tried pulling on my pants with both hands, but my right ankle was not going to budge, so I had no other choice than to accept defeat. For another five blocks I sat on my bike, casually dangling my right leg next to the chain guard, while leaning and scooting my unhelpful bike and trying my best to "get on my good foot."
All the way home and only one teenage girl laughed at me! Because of the pants, I wasn't able to do large pushes with my left foot (push...wheeeee! push...wheeee!). Instead I had to repeatedly tap the ground with my big toe (put put put put put put STREEETTCH put put put put). While puttering along I started using my award winning (not really) problem solving skills on the next dilemma at hand. The only way to save the pants would be to remove myself from them, i.e., be pantless. Here was my train of thought:
1. I'll have to take the pants off in the apartment
2. How do I get the bike into the apartment? I'll just carry it in, of course!
3. YEAH! I'll use the back porch, because it's so big and wide and I won't have too much trouble. Then I'll walk into the house and take off my pants. I envision myself effortlessly carrying the large heavy bike up three flights of stairs, entering the kitchen and removing the pants calmly without cause for celebration.
4. Ohhhhhh. Wait. I don't have a back door key, and Tim isn't home. I can't go in the back porch.
5. Okay, I'll just go in the front door, carry the bike upstairs, and take of my paints! YES!
By the time I got to my front door, I realized that carrying a bike that is glued to your inner right thigh is easier than it sounds. What I actually had to do was open a heavy glass door, unlock another heavy glass door within two feet of the first door, prop both doors open with my body, and turn the bike 180 degrees so I was lifting it through the entry way backwards, which meant the handlebars were swerving in every direction possible. After about ten minutes of holding both doors open, tugging at bike tires, and dodging stair way rails, I had only succeeded in the getting the bike through the front door, but not up the three flights of carpeted stairs to my apartment. Here was my next train of thought.
1. I cannot lift this bike up the stairs without damaging any more walls, banisters, or doors. And my arms are tired.
2. Currently, there are only three apartments between me and my apartment.
3. I have never seen anyone in the halls when I have come home from work.
4. Really? Never?
5. Yes, never.
6. I am wearing oddly thick nylons under my pants, and boy shorts underwears, which provide more coverage than a swimmun suit bottom.
7. My coat is long enough to cover my lady parts.
I think you can see where this is going. In a blur of triumph, I removed my shoes and pants in the entryway and raced up the stairs in my pantyhose and modest coat coverage. I did a little dance before getting all grown up and putting on pants again, like, heh, you thought you had me, bike, but I perservered. Sucker.
I was so excited about defeating the bike that I later put on my running pants inside out and didn't notice till I ran past a large window on North Avenue and saw the large white tag contrasted against the seat of my black stretchy pants.
Damn you pants! Why don't you like Tuesdays? Oh, and it took Tim 30 seconds to remove the pants from the bike, along with a 2"x2" scrap of fabric from the pants that lost the first battle of the chain guard. BUT WE WON THE WAR!
On Tuesday I was riding home from the train. It was a lovely day, the sky was blue, and I was done with work! Yippee! So I was happy. About two blocks into my seven block ride, my bike chain saw the window of opportunity it had been waiting for and chomped down on my dress pants again. This was a different pair, and because the too-short hem I requested from mom looks very Audrey Hepburn when I wear a button down shirt and flats, I decided I WAS NOT LOSING THOSE PANTS.
So I pulled over, just like before. Knowing that the materials was stronger (uh, more polyester, I believe) I started yanking on my pants with my right hand while still sitting on the bike. The 70 other blue ride riders walking down Kedzie were kind enough to completely ignore the grown woman trying to wrench her office attire free of a blue beach cruiser. Thanks, comrades. I got off the bike and tried pulling on my pants with both hands, but my right ankle was not going to budge, so I had no other choice than to accept defeat. For another five blocks I sat on my bike, casually dangling my right leg next to the chain guard, while leaning and scooting my unhelpful bike and trying my best to "get on my good foot."
All the way home and only one teenage girl laughed at me! Because of the pants, I wasn't able to do large pushes with my left foot (push...wheeeee! push...wheeee!). Instead I had to repeatedly tap the ground with my big toe (put put put put put put STREEETTCH put put put put). While puttering along I started using my award winning (not really) problem solving skills on the next dilemma at hand. The only way to save the pants would be to remove myself from them, i.e., be pantless. Here was my train of thought:
1. I'll have to take the pants off in the apartment
2. How do I get the bike into the apartment? I'll just carry it in, of course!
3. YEAH! I'll use the back porch, because it's so big and wide and I won't have too much trouble. Then I'll walk into the house and take off my pants. I envision myself effortlessly carrying the large heavy bike up three flights of stairs, entering the kitchen and removing the pants calmly without cause for celebration.
4. Ohhhhhh. Wait. I don't have a back door key, and Tim isn't home. I can't go in the back porch.
5. Okay, I'll just go in the front door, carry the bike upstairs, and take of my paints! YES!
By the time I got to my front door, I realized that carrying a bike that is glued to your inner right thigh is easier than it sounds. What I actually had to do was open a heavy glass door, unlock another heavy glass door within two feet of the first door, prop both doors open with my body, and turn the bike 180 degrees so I was lifting it through the entry way backwards, which meant the handlebars were swerving in every direction possible. After about ten minutes of holding both doors open, tugging at bike tires, and dodging stair way rails, I had only succeeded in the getting the bike through the front door, but not up the three flights of carpeted stairs to my apartment. Here was my next train of thought.
1. I cannot lift this bike up the stairs without damaging any more walls, banisters, or doors. And my arms are tired.
2. Currently, there are only three apartments between me and my apartment.
3. I have never seen anyone in the halls when I have come home from work.
4. Really? Never?
5. Yes, never.
6. I am wearing oddly thick nylons under my pants, and boy shorts underwears, which provide more coverage than a swimmun suit bottom.
7. My coat is long enough to cover my lady parts.
I think you can see where this is going. In a blur of triumph, I removed my shoes and pants in the entryway and raced up the stairs in my pantyhose and modest coat coverage. I did a little dance before getting all grown up and putting on pants again, like, heh, you thought you had me, bike, but I perservered. Sucker.
I was so excited about defeating the bike that I later put on my running pants inside out and didn't notice till I ran past a large window on North Avenue and saw the large white tag contrasted against the seat of my black stretchy pants.
Damn you pants! Why don't you like Tuesdays? Oh, and it took Tim 30 seconds to remove the pants from the bike, along with a 2"x2" scrap of fabric from the pants that lost the first battle of the chain guard. BUT WE WON THE WAR!
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