Sunday, November 19, 2017

Get It Out




My rage comes in waves.


Sometimes the surface is calm and serene when I can distract myself from the tectonic shifting far below, and other times it’s a boiling morass of seething anger, spitting bile and crushing anything in it’s grasp.


It’s been turbulent as of late... To put it mildly. At first I thought it was just the  concussion and my usual spectrum of aggression and sadness. Now, I’m starting to realize that it’s most likely from a lifetime devoid of tangible justice.


I don’t know when the abuse actually started. 


It was that early.


I can’t say specifically when it all ended, either, or even that it ever did. What’s the difference between abusers when your childhood, teenage years and even early adult life is a series of sexual assaults and criminal molestations?


Does it ever end? Or do these scars simply reemerge every so often, only to be locked back away as I realize that my rage does me no good? There’s no solace in it. There’s no comfort to be had by exhuming the wounds of forgotten ‘instances’. What good will it do me, as a human being, to reflect on the reasons that I currently struggle with touch aversion? What benefits will possibly come from adding old trauma to the burden of the simmering rage, a barely-hidden ferocity? I don’t tolerate or respect authority as it is. I recoil from the seemingly-harmless behaviors of grown men who know better but refuse to meet even the most basic standards of decency, and I explode at the overt suggestiveness, the presumption of privilege. 


And that’s on a good day.


I could talk until I’m blue in the face to every psychiatrist and psychologist and mind reader and meditation master on the planet, and nothing will change the facts. ‘The facts’ being that my basic human autonomy was not mine... Since before I can remember. Whether it’s the early memory of my cousin’s hand down my pants or the seared imprint of ‘playtime’ with an adult neighbor or any myriad of the fucked up and too-wrong-to-write-here events, my body wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone else.


My agency wasn’t mine. My words weren’t mine. I was a puppet, existing for the sole purpose of the sick and deranged pleasures of people too obsessed with their own satisfaction to notice they were destroying another human being. Maybe they noticed. Maybe they just didn’t fucking care. 


A human blow up doll. Imprisoned by the chains of things I’d rather not think about. Stuck in the permanent feedback loop of “your body is not your own”. Living in some sort of alternate hell where every day is groundhog day and no matter where I go or what I seek, I am and always will be a caricature of the sexual possibilities. Where men ridicule normal sexuality, promote sexual objectification, endorse and perpetuate sexual assault and then legislate my sexual healthcare, all while discussing how the victims who are coming forward decades later about the abuses they’ve suffered are liars and opportunists.


I’m not a person. We are not people. We are a headline. We are tragedies on a television and in a newspaper, someone else’s problem. Because ‘thank god that wasn’t my husband/brother/father/dad/me’ (this time)... And then abuse is normalized, equated into something uncontrollable. 


Maybe the rapist was raped as a child. 

Maybe the molester was molested.

Maybe the groper was groped.


And slowly, the same line emerges — they are without fault. And nothing is actually done. And the abuse continues. And we’re left to deal with the ashes of the rage that burns silently until we just combust and start cutting off dicks.


But then we’re the ‘crazy ones’. Not because we’ve been abused and gaslighted and brutalized until everything is on fire, but because blind rage finally takes over and there are visceral repercussion that have lasting consequences.


“All I got from the Circus in Hell was this shitty t-shirt and a really fucked up sense of humor, (along with a few deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms and rage issues).”


But I’m writing this. Which means it’s not too late.



Get It Out




My rage comes in waves.


Sometimes the surface is calm and serene when I can distract myself from the tectonic shifting far below, and other times it’s a boiling mass of seething anger, spitting bile and crushing anything in it’s grasp.


It’s been turbulent as of late... To put it mildly. At first I thought it was just the  concussion and my usual spectrum of aggression and sadness. Now, I’m starting to realize that it’s most likely from a lifetime devoid of tangible justice.


I don’t know when the abuse actually started. 


It was that early.


I can’t say specifically when it all ended, either, or even that it ever did. What’s the difference between abusers when your childhood, teenage years and even early adult life is a series of sexual assaults and criminal molestations?


Does it ever end? Or do these scars simply reemerge every so often, only to be locked back away as I realize that my rage does me no good? There’s no solace in it. There’s no comfort to be had by exhuming the wounds of forgotten ‘instances’. What good will it do me, as a human being, to reflect on the reasons that I currently struggle with touch aversion? What benefits will possibly come from adding old trauma to the burden of the simmering rage, a barely-hidden ferocity? I don’t tolerate or respect authority as it is. I recoil from the seemingly-harmless behaviors of grown men who know better but refuse to meet even the most basic standards of decency, and I explode at the overt suggestiveness, the presumption of privilege. 


And that’s on a good day.


I could talk until I’m blue in the face to every psychiatrist and psychologist and mind reader and meditation master on the planet, and nothing will change the facts. ‘The facts’ being that my basic human autonomy was not mine... Since before I can remember. Whether it’s the early memory of my cousin’s hand down my pants or the seared imprint of ‘playtime’ with an adult neighbor or any myriad of the fucked up and too-wrong-to-write-here events, my body wasn’t mine. It belonged to someone else.


My agency wasn’t mine. My words weren’t mine. I was a puppet, existing for the sole purpose of the sick and deranged pleasures of people too obsessed with their own satisfaction to notice they were destroying another human being. Maybe they noticed. Maybe they just didn’t fucking care. 


A human blow up doll. Imprisoned by the chains of things I’d rather not think about. Stuck in the permanent feedback loop of “your body is not your own”. Living in some sort of alternate hell where every day is groundhog day and no matter where I go or what I seek, I am and always will be a caricature of the sexual possibilities. Where men ridicule normal sexuality, promote sexual objectification, endorse and perpetuate sexual assault and then legislate my sexual healthcare, all while discussing how the victims who are coming forward decades later about the abuses they’ve suffered are liars and opportunists.


I’m not a person. We are not people. We are a headline. We are tragedies on a television and in a newspaper, someone else’s problem. Because ‘thank god that wasn’t my husband/brother/father/dad/me’ (this time)... And then abuse is normalized, equated into something uncontrollable. 


Maybe the rapist was raped as a child. 

Maybe the molester was molested.

Maybe the groper was groped.


And slowly, the same line emerges — they are without fault. And nothing is actually done. And the abuse continues. And we’re left to deal with the ashes of the rage that burns silently until we just combust and start cutting off dicks.


But then we’re the ‘crazy ones’. Not because we’ve been abused and gaslighted and brutalized until everything is on fire, but because blind rage finally takes over and there are visceral repercussion that have lasting consequences.


“All I got from the Circus in Hell was this shitty t-shirt and a really fucked up sense of humor, (along with a few deeply unhealthy coping mechanisms and rage issues).”


But I’m writing this. Which means it’s not too late.



Tuesday, October 17, 2017

You're Not My Real Dad

It's been an interesting week. 

Maybe it's been my focus on other areas of my life before now (namely moving, racing, not dying) that has kept me from recognizing a certain pattern amongst a certain demographic in my audience or maybe it's a newer phenomenon as I navigate the abrupt changes in large areas of my life and talk more about these changes, but I've noticed something. 

Older men sure seem to enjoy telling me what to do. They also really like to hand out unsolicited and often cliched advice, and then react when I say "Nah, we good."

Now, that line may set you back on your heels a bit. It sounds weird, right? It's a bit like 'wait, what did I miss?', almost as though you've walked into a movie halfway through and have no idea who is who or why anything is happening. 

Imagine my confusion.

I mean, I made it to 30 pretty unscathed. Well, let me rephrase that. I made it to 30. I survived. I have a lot of scars and some solid lessons but nevertheless, we're here. I got through some school, built a couple of businesses, coached and raced and trained my way into being someone that other people follow on social media (don't ask me why), but we're here. There were some speed bumps, a few life flights (3, to be exact) and more than a couple of near-death experiences... But I'm here. Learned a lot of stuff, failed a whole bunch, had a kid, almost went to prison, faced 'The Big C' twice and feel as though my adventures have molded me into a pretty well-rounded and humble person.

I'm still overly curious and probably ask way too many questions, but that's better than being braindead, amirite? 

So. Back to this really weird phenomena. I mean, is it new? Nah. Have I noticed it before? Sure. Has it gotten more concentrated? I honestly have no fucking idea. 

But this thing has been sitting on my brain for the last couple of weeks and as I've started calling it out, the results of my attention have been... 

Expected. 

Yeah. I kind of expected it. To be honest, nobody likes hearing "Yeah, dumbass, I know." Then again, nobody really likes being told "I know you. Let me tell you how to ________ the right way", either.

So let me be clear:

Fellas? You don't know me.

You don't know what I've experienced, what I have a background in, what I've been through. You don't know shit about my education, my childhood, my travels. You don't know what my deepest motivations are, where my psychological makeup came from, or how and why my brain instantly recoils the moment you start spouting off some of that precious, sage wisdom of yours. [Eyeroll.]

Now, a few of you have approached me on Facebook in the comments sections of my posts, trying to read between the lines. Some of you deeply internalize my Instagram captions or get all het up about my tweet threads. A few of you actually read this shitty blog or, god fucking forbid, have combed through every word I've ever put on the internet. 

But somewhere along the line, y'all decided that you know me. 

You've decided, in fact, that I'm a precious young thing who needs the guidance and direction that only you can provide in your infinite wisdom as A Dude Who Has Seen Stuff. A few of you have even decided that I'm a cross between an adopted daughter and that cute athlete you sorta 'look after'.

I'm not. 

Example: 



Here's the thing: those kids you mentioned, ALAN? THOSE are YOUR kids. If you're telling them to enjoy the good parts of life, it's probably founded in some semblance of observation about their day to day. Again, they're your kids. 

However.

I am not.

Another example:



Yet another one:






These are all from the last three days. 

THREE DAYS.

I'm a stranger on the internet who you presume to understand well enough that you're not only offering up advice, but getting seriously offended when I don't take it or when I call you out on the sexism of your assumptions. I'm a thirty-year-old who has seen many, many, many sides of life you likely can't even fathom and who has gotten to the ripe ol' age of 30 on much of my own steam, work ethic, instinct and survival. I was here before you found me on twitter or Facebook, and I will be here after I block your idiotic ass. I have existed before you knew of me, mister white guy who wants to take on a parental role, and I will continue to exist and thrive without your cliche, deeply sexist and ill-timed 'advice'. Why?

You don't know me from Adam. I'm literally a stranger on the internet that you (and multitudes of dudes just like you) are hurling advice at every day. But it doesn't stop there: you all demand that not only should I take your advice, but that I be grateful you offered it in the first place based on your entirely myopic and inaccurate assumptions about me, a person you absolutely don't know. You know your kids (or your friends or family or S/O). That's great. But you don't know me outside of what I've put on the internet -- you don't have a full picture of even 5% of a full picture. Not only are you comparing me to your teenagers and infantilizing and dehumanizing me based on your wrong assumptions, but you're assuming you see 100% of everything I've ever done and learned and know. You're assuming that you know more about me than I know about me. Yes, you are.

That's condescending as fuck.

It's also reductive to the point of negating all of my experience as an athlete, a coach, a businesswoman and a human. All of it. 

Here's the thing: I have an entire support system of people who do know me. People who know me intimately, who know me not-so-intimately, people who have literally taught me lessons I'll carry with me for the rest of eternity... And even they don't know all of me. It's impossible to know another human completely and for you, a stranger, to assume that you know more about my training program, nutrition, bike setup, physicality, emotional state, employment, finances, attitude, mental acuity, work background, education or ANY of that is wildly fucked up. 

To assume that you know what I like or need more than I know what I like, need and want is so egregiously narcissistic and blindly misogynist that I cannot even comprehend what a complete fucking prick you are to the people you've actually met in person.

So when I say "don't tell me what to do", it isn't because I'm some rebellious teenager who's striking out against a parental figure. It's because you literally have no idea of who I am and you have ZERO right or reason to be doling out advice based on your own emotional need for validation and acceptance as an authority figure of legitimacy.

That's called 'projection'. It's a pain in my ass.

Besides: if your advice is so good, why aren't YOU taking it instead of bothering me with a constant barrage of bullshit?

Don't tell me what to do. Go do your own thing and I'll keep doing me, mmmmkay? I'm good here. 

Thursday, September 7, 2017

For The Love Of Bikes

For a long time I laughed at the idea that fatbikes had value. I kind of scoffed at the claim that riding one was fun, that they opened a lot of different avenues for fun. I remember, on multiple occasions, making comments about how they're overrated and another stupid invention that would die out and that anyone riding them probably has too much money and too much time on their hands. 

These are all things I've said.

Even after testing a few, even after grudgingly admitting that maybe they have a place in the bike industry, even after having fun, I was still stubborn and kind of grumpy about it. I just didn't get the point.

I wish I could claim that I gave them a fair chance before deciding all of that. I really wish I could. But I can't. I made this uninformed, really dumb assumption that fatbikes were lame and then I stuck with it because... Because of what? Because I'm a jerk? Because everyone needs something to hate on?

Honestly, it's a funny thing. My change of heart didn't come overnight. I wasn't suddenly less of an asshole downhiller who hated change and I certainly didn't immediately embrace the culture surrounding fatbikes. 

I think what changed was my perspective on bikes as a whole. I've preached a lot about acceptance inside of the bike industry and inclusion, but I still kinda held those weird biases and grudging assumptions. 

What shifted for me was a slow realization that two wheels are rad and anything and anyone on two wheels is cool. 

It was this system of beliefs that sort of softened and then melted away the more time I spent on two wheels and the less time I spent talking about it. I got a beach cruiser for my birthday last year and then literally picked a city bike out of the garbage. That's what I trained on last fall, mostly... Seriously. I put that trash bike to work and when the weather got too cold, I put it on a trainer. At that point, I was just riding anything I could get my hands on and then my good friend Jonah hit me up about Growler and their new carbon bike. They called me and asked if I'd be willing to help them promote the bike and I sort of laughed at the irony that now I'd get to promote something I was vehemently against at one point, but agreed. 

I don't think I understood what the bike was going to do to all of my misconceptions. I was certainly more open to the bike and to spreading love and acceptance, but I had  no idea what I was getting myself into. And then it showed up and suddenly, I had all of this access to places that previously, for six months out of the year, were almost completely inaccessible to bikes. The idea of that to me was huge. And the more I took it out during the cold days and the further I rode it, the more I understood why this was a thing. I mean, anyone who love bikes enough wants to ride bikes year round and in the sand and in places that bikes don't really do well. But fatbikes are sort of the go between and when I opened my mind, I learned that there were a lot of skills-related aspects to it as well. I'm a terrible rider in the wet stuff. I've blown it pretty consistently in wet riding conditions and struggle to handle anything that's not silty, dry moon dust. But fat tires... Fat tires and no suspension will teach you how to ride a bike. Your brain has to figure out how those side knobs are gonna tuck into that icy or snowy turn and you have to compute how you'll stay up in softer stuff with enough speed but not too much, you know? It teaches a rider how to predict what mud is going to do, how a wider footprint is going to slide and stop. It also made me feel like a champ --  I'm not gonna lie, some of those technical and rocky climbs I've always struggled with were easy peasy on that rig. I mean, having a lightweight bike helped a lot, but when we're talking about 36 inch wheels, that's practically a monster truck. That confidence helps. Confidence always helps. And as I built more skill and improved my ability to read the differences in what these fat tires are doing and what those smaller tires would do, I got better at reading myself. Our brains adapt to demand -- the more we use them, the better they'll work. And jumping from a regular city bike to a solid MountainBike and then to snow and ice and sand and my usual local trails on a fat bike, my brain was on overload. And for me, that's interesting. It made everything more interesting. More of a challenge, more of "can I hit that, will I make it" question? And yeah, that makes riding more fun. Feeling those differences, sliding around some turns, feeling trails in new ways... It's almost like learning to ride again. 

The thing about fatbikes is that they're fun. I mean, I'm not doing backflips on it or even riding the usual downhill tracks, but they're a different kind of fun. Simpler, I guess? They're more of this "let's get on it and go out and see what happens" sort of fun, and that's what's fun about all bikes. Fatbikes helped teach me how to just roll with it, that not everything is a training ride or a race or even an over-the-top speed chase with friends. It's this sense of freedom in that we're not limited by stuff that used to shut riding down completely. Snow? Mud? Super sandy and cactus-filled trails? Nah. We can ride it all and the scope of what we can explore gets even wider.

Fatbiking, trash bikes, beach cruisers and pretty much anything are a few of those things that you don't even know you're missing until you try one and then you can't imagine how you didn't realize what was missing all along, you know? At least... That's what they are to me. They represent the best parts of riding a bike: two wheels, no limits and a whole lotta laughter.

I feel as though much of the bike industry is a bit too focused on the next best thing, the latest and greatest and even the best-fitting or best-functioning kit or gear or ________. It's not. Sure, innovation is great, but when it comes to adapting to a changing market, ultimately, we either adapt or die. People are tired of the rat race. Humans are exhausted with the burden of living. I know because I'm one of them. I get caught up in the bullshit, in the bills, in the broken car and the medical problems and the boyfriend nonsense and the worry about whether or not I'll be able to buy groceries next week or next month.

But it fades away the moment I throw a leg over my bike. It all disappears when I ride hands free across an overpass with a looming storm and the wind is ripping through my hair. Nothing is more present and more real than the moment my lungs feel as though they're bursting and my legs can't stop spinning. That is freedom.

The freedom to escape into something. A thing that is good and pure and magical. A thing that is healthy for us and healthy for our planet. A thing that makes us smile and want to spread our wings. The freedom of leaving at sunup and arriving home only after the streetlights have come on and the stars are beginning to show... Or not. The freedom of not being limited by day or night or cold or heat. The freedom of two wheels underneath us as we experience our own mortality, our own humanity.

A bike doesn't protect you during a high-speed descent. It won't save your life when you miss a turn or a car misses theirs. There is no sound dampening, there is no insulation against the weather, the smells, the sights of life. There are no guarantees.

To walk that fine line is to take our existence into our own hands and release it into whatever may come as we make a pact with the universe that yes, we acknowledge this risk. That yes, we're exchanging safety for something far greater and far more beautiful.






Wednesday, September 6, 2017

Seeking A Friend For The End Of The World

There's a movie out there somewhere that I think I watched a few years ago with Steve Carrell (perhaps?) where he's actively searching for someone to love because... Well, I can't really remember why or what or anything that happened outside of the basic premise of the movie, to be quite honest. But I remember the title which means my brain isn't mashed potatoes quite yet. 

For the record, I am not seeking anyone to accompany me into the very-near-future apocalypse.

It's an interesting topic, that idea of 'company'. It's a weird drive humans have. I left the house this afternoon, in fact, with the sole intent of subjecting myself to the random and strange traditions of the homo sapien in order to dissuade my subconscious from becoming any more hermit-like as that's what I'll eventually become when left to my own devices: a hermit. It's a real risk now that I've moved house and am living in a new city in a different state without any housemates or forced 'companionship'. I'm a bit worried that I'm comfortable going days without wearing pants and that, despite the curtains being open, i have no qualms about brewing coffee in the nude.

Did I mention that I'm 30?

This is not normal behavior. I haven't started talking to myself as of yet (yes you have, you liar) but when the apocalypse does arrive thanks to the psychopathic megalomaniac at the White House, my skeleton will probably be unearthed by future life forms clutching my bikes without any remnants of sanity or clothes to be found nearby. 

I've gone caveman status.

On the plus side, moving to a new city has a certain.... Anonymity to it. Nobody here knows me or the havoc I can wreak, no one will stop me at the grocers (aside from the produce boy concerned about the lady staring at the ceiling) and no one shows up at my door unannounced. I can wander through my days untouched by humankind, entirely unaffected by forced social interaction and simply live

Except I cannot because everyone here is simultaneously just as weird as I am and unendingly friendly as well as curiously fascinating to my Utah-deprived brain. I want to talk to everyone. I want to find out why they're here, who they are, what they think about the meaning of life and how they stay looking so impossibly young. For the first time in a very, very long while I'm driven to grin at strangers and cheerfully bid a "good morning" to anyone I pass.

I did that. This morning. On my run. I was fucking running  and spent air wishing someone else a beautiful day. 

Something in the water here has fundamentally altered my DNA.


Welcome to New Mexico.