Hell On Wheels

Uncoordinated. Disoriented. Unbalanced. Anxiety-ridden. Injured.

These are just some of the adjectives that can be used in concert with the thought of Ashley on a bike.

Saturday was a day of miserable chores and errands and accomplishing things…everything that a Saturday shouldn’t be. So to get work-happy Boyfriend to let us stop raking, I knew I had to find something ultra-fun and wacky. I suggested a bike ride. It might not seem wacky to the average human, but to those who know me, suggesting physical activity is seriously out-of-the-box for me.

I donned my newly-purchased helmet (which I have contemplated just wearing all the time) and hopped on my sister’s bike (which I stole) and we were off. Well…Boyfriend was off…it took me awhile to get going. We took the back roads as long as possible…but the moment came where we had to ride along the busy street for like a block and a half. Illegal or not…I rode on the sidewalk…because I don’t have a death wish and prefer to live thank you very much.

TEN MOTHER-EFFING MILES LATER…we returned to this busy section of road on the way home. I cautiously led the way along the sidewalk, trying desperately not to fall as I bumped over the canyons that city officials would call sidewalk cracks. I looked ahead and noticed that the sidewalk narrowed in front of me as there were a bus stop. I started to “eeeeeee” quietly in a high pitch to myself and tried to focus on going straight. Just then, a beastly bus jumped out of nowhere (well…not nowhere…he was slowly pulling to curb for the last block…but scared the poop out of me nonetheless). I visually measured my handlebars. I visually measured the sidewalk between the bus and the bus stop…and with my constant swervy path, I was not going to fit. I stopped quickly as I sidled up alongside the bus. But when I went to set my left foot down I tipped and stepped off the curb. Simultaneously, I attempted to throw my other leg over the bike to steady myself. But my foot (those of you who know me also happen to know that I have very large feet that are a huge tripping hazard in the most normal situations) got caught on the center bar and I turned toward the bus to catch my falling self.

The resultant position involved me, one leg off the curb, the other folded up under me, with my knee wedged between the bus and the bike, both hands slipping down the side of the bus while my face (and particularly my nose) smushed against the window.

Needless to say…it was neither comfortable nor fun. What it was…embarrassing…as the passengers gawked at me and the driver asked me if I was ok.

Yeah…I suck at bikes. Boyfriend and I are going to stick to places from now on where I can’t run my face into parked buses.

P.S. I realize that my description may be lacking, so I drew a little illustration to clarify. Enjoy.

My Arms Might Fall Off

No…its not the leprosy. I went snowboarding last weekend.

There finally was enough snow…just as I was beginning to panic that my season pass was going to be utilized by going to the resort and building mudmen.

The slopes were in pretty good shape for the first big weekend, but my physical condition…that is another story.

I learned to snowboard last season…not well…but well enough to not fall down every five feet. So apparently snowboarding is not like riding a bicycle.

You might wonder how a person’s arms would hurt from snowboarding. “Don’t you use your legs?” you might ask. “Well, yes you do,” I would respond. “But when you fall down you have to lift your fat ass off the snow…over…over…and over...your arms begin to tire.”

So yeah…I have also disproved that rule about only hurting for a couple of days after using new muscles, because it is Wednesday and my arms still feel like death.

But I have a pretty new snowboard and I just bought this hat which fills me with much joy and anticipation for its arrival.

Hot Minivan!

In high school I was playfully called “Soccer Mom,” mostly because of my protective nature, my sweet ’91 GMC Safari, and the fact that all my friends decided to wait until age 19+ to get their drivers licenses. I never actually played the game or ever even really attended one back in the day.

Boyfriend decided to join a soccer team…not because he is particularly skilled in the game of soccer…more because he just likes that whole team thing. I like it too…but with my spastically horrific physical talent, I would merely embarrass myself and all those who might join my team…so instead I have taken on more of the cheerleader role…oh who am I kidding…I’m not perky or small enough to be a cheerleader.

I am a soccer mom and I embrace it. I am totally psyched about designing jerseys for “The Ladybugs” (how fierce could those be?) and I am fully planning on orange slices and Capri Suns for the team next game. Who cares if they don’t win, (cause they haven’t) they are my team!

I Can Think of Nothing Worse

Do you remember that horror movie? The one where some guy is walking to his car and there is a bad guy lying under the vehicle who slashed his Achilles tendon? It was a sucky movie…don’t even remember which one it was…but that scene is etched in my mind.

Kinda like the scene this weekend.

Boyfriend and his brother-in-law join a soccer league. Woo fun! They aren’t very good yet…but most of them haven’t played since high school…so they will get better.

Anyway…I was watching* from the bleachers, at least 15 feet from the sideline. And about three quarters of the way through the game, Boyfriend’s bro goes to start running and I hear a SNAP, CRACKLE, POP. It was more just a pop…but it was freaking loud. At first I thought he kicked his cleats together…but then he went DOWN. The man severed his mother-effing Achilles tendon. WTF? He was just running? Can that really happen?

I got him ice and touched the back of each ankle…left side normal…right side…holy squishy grossness Batman!

Stuff like this is the very reason that I avoid physical activity. My ankles hurt just thinking about it. I think I am going to get me a rascal and just forgo the possibility of injury altogether. You never know what risks will arise as you walk…anywhere.

*I don’t play…apparently I never learned to run right. No seriously…apparently this freak doesn’t know how to do the thing that every moron with legs can handle. I am working on this…but with my whole hatred of physical exertion, it is kinda hard to work on my running technique since I kinda like to stop and rest after 20 feet.

A Sandy Beach…In Your Pants!

Pismo was great fun…once you got past the rain, the fog, the cold and the hurricane-strength winds. Other than that (and the sand-filled orifices) it was super fun.

The one thing that never ceases to amaze me are the differences between male and female motor skills. Not motor skills like moving fingers and toes or speaking…but skills involved in motor vehicles. I am not saying women are inferior drivers…actually in many cases I could put together a pretty compelling argument to the contrary. What I am talking about is more the style and aggressiveness of male verses female drivers.

Is absolute fearlessness in men an inherent trait? Cause I don’t know about you, but when I sit atop of mountain of sand with nothing but air below me…the first thought that comes into my mind isn’t, “hey lets jump off this shit!” That might be the last thing from my mind actually…but inexplicably, there are boys blowing past me, leaping off this sand cliff.

“If they can do it, I can do it.” I tell myself. But regardless of my inner monologue, I am not loving the idea of the images in my mind of all the things that could possibly go wrong…mostly involving limbs flailing and skulls cracking.

I finally mustered the courage…and I did it. It wasn’t bad. But that didn’t make me ready to dive off every crazy dune I came across for the rest of the day. The boys can be crazy…I’ll stick to the path with least risk…that nice sloping one.

Help! I’ve Fallen and I Can’t Get Up!

I seriously think I might be in the market for one of these bad boys.

This morning I went to take my shower like usual. I shampooed my hair like usual. I looked down at my beastly unshaven legs, and while I contemplated just letting my inner tree hugger out, I decided to tackle the task at hand. I bent down…bad move. My muscles went into immediate spasm*. The ouchiness forced me back up, but a little too quickly because I bumped my head on the shower door and took a slight step back.

soapy foot + wet tile + sleepy disorientation = bruised tuchis

I lay there for a moment…on the shower floor...trying to decide if I should just go back to bed, because there is no way that a day that starts out like this one could be good, right? But on the other hand, it can only go up from here, right?


*The cause of my muscle problems is not sheer weakness and out-of-shapeness (although those are definitely contributing factors and I would not be surprised if I fell down only on account of those) but it is because of my heroic physical exertion over the weekend. Ok, it might not be heroic to most people, but I was my own personal hero…so that is good enough. I ran 2 miles on Friday, ran/walked 2 miles on Saturday (hey, I was tired…you try not running for 7 years and then going 2 miles…it will kill you), and took a 2 mile hike on Sunday. All of these places were hilly and I didn’t puke or pass out! Yay me.

Athletic Ashley

-Excerpts from myspace-

For those of you who have witnessed my athletic prowess over the course of my incredibly physically active life, (insert chortle here) you will be surprised to hear that I have become quite the sport-o over the past few months. Ok…fine…my 84-year-old grammy could probably kick my ass at bowling. And I think I was up at bat at softball for a good 10 minutes yesterday while I swung at pitch after pitch after pitch while the creepy catcher whispered sweet nothings in my ear like “choke up on it,” “wait for it to come more inside your body” and “spread your legs a little more.” (heeby-jeeby) But I have to tell you…once I came to terms with the fact that I am possibly the most uncoordinated person in the world, it was a lot more fun. Less trying more laughing…that is my game plan.

But sports isn’t really the topic of this blog…it is more about perception. When I was at the tender, freakishly-tall age of nine, I got the basketball question. Like height automatically means I can jump high and toss a ball into a basket? I think not. It was annoying then…but as of late I have found perceptions to be more perplexing.

I was at a party on Saturday night and I mentioned that I played softball on Thursdays. My conversation partner looked me up and down, sizing me up, and said, “Oh, you look like a softball girl, did you play in college?”

Um…I don’t know about you, but when I think of girls college softball I envision large-calved tom boys with anger issues and nasty bruises. Is that what I look like to people? Maybe I should start wearing dresses…Thoughts?