sueinaz's Open Salon Blog

I eat a fuck load of vegetables

Fri, 10 Jun 2011 18:06:35 -0400

I run four times a week.

I cycle everywhere.

I eat a fuck load of vegetables.

I don't eat dessert.

My cholesterol is at a healthy low, so is my blood pressure.

I volunteer.

I sleep well.

I'm training to do a triathalon.

I do yoga.

I have good muscle tone.

I eat very little red meat.

I have a BMI of 19.5.

I can bike 50 miles then pull weeds for 3 hours.

I can still wear a bikini at 36.

I rarely drink.

But I haven't actually quit smoking like some people think... Interestingly everyone who knows I still smoke likes to remind me that it's ruining my health.

So I only sort of live a really fucking healthy lifestyle.

The end of sexy underwear week

Mon, 30 May 2011 13:05:10 -0400

So there I am not far from home, riding along thinking about the mounds and mounds of laundry I need to do. Mostly because with each pedaling motion I am reminded that I am wearing bike-unfriendly under things under my highlighter yellow jersey and attendant black cycling shorts.

Sexy underwear week was a giant mistake, propagated by laziness. It could have been avoided entirely, if only I had the energy after work to do a single load of laundry or maybe if I had not found myself painfully addicted to Oregon Trail on Facebook. Who the hell knows.

As I ride I consider the many choices that led to me speeding alond on my ultra-light-weight racing bike in a lacy thong. I slow a little, as I am approaching the driveways for the Target and a fast food place and considering the right way to adjust said errant under thing.

As I near the apron of the Target, I see this guy waving me to go. He's all smiles. Wave. Wave. So I pull through, and suddenly he pulls out right at me. In a moment I am desperately braking and trying to unclip my pedals.

I am unsteady. I tip. I see his bumper.

Unclip my cleats. Foot on the ground. And he pulls away. Not hit.

Terrified. So close I could have touched the bumper with my nose. Gold Car, it drives off. I crouch down on the side of the road, trying to hold up my bike. Maybe it was holding me. I was shaking horribly just a few feet from the apron of the shopping center.

To my right in the parking lot of Target, a man runs over to me yelling "Oh shit. Oh Shit! Are you all right?"

He's young, maybe 20, dressed in wide low hip-hop shorts. "Did I hit you?" "Oh my god!"

I don't remember what I said. I was trying to drink water, and spilling it down my face. I couldn't find my mouth. Then he just steps closer and says, "I'm so scared right now, and so sorry." And I apologized back, and tell him how scared I was too.

He asks, "Can I hug you? I need a hug to know you're ok." I don't recall agreeing, but he hugs me anyway and I notice he's crying. As he wipes his cheek, I see a massive tattoo of the Virgin Mary on this right forearm.

We both stand there and as he apologizes over again a woman in a white truck pulls up, and asks if I'm ok. She shouts out that she has a bike rack in the back if I need a ride. "Do you need a ride? I couldn't keep going after that." She comes over too, and sees nothing is physically wrong. We say some stuff to each other about biking, I assure her I'm ok. I finally get the water in my mouth.

The guy in the gold Corolla keeps apologizing. He's shaking so hard, says something about dropping off his sister for work at the Target and going to church. "My God I almost killed you. I'm so sorry." That's when the car full of old people showed up. Giant blue LeBaron: 3 old ladies and and old guy driving.

The old guy steps out of the car. "Miss. Do you need an ambulance? We all saw the accident, we were headed west when it happened." I try to say there wasn't an accident.

He looks at the man who’s still apologizing to me and says "We're calling the police." I ask him not to, trying to explain nothing happened. Something almost did, but it didn't. He doesn't seem to notice.

He talks to the woman in the white truck. They seem convinced I was hit, but I try to explain it just looked that way because I stopped badly. Undeterred, the old man talks loudly on his phone presumably with 911.

The guy who almost hit me says "I'm so sorry.” He just stands there looking helplessly at the old man. “Can I have another hug?” And this time I hug him and it felt like hugging an old friend. So I ask, "I thought I saw you wave?" And he looks down and tearfully says "I was dancing in my car to Lady Gaga."

I didn't know what to do, so I rode off before the police could come because I didn't want to have to say what really happened: infectious beats and sexy underwear almost killed me.

Fat Ladies at War

Wed, 29 Dec 2010 11:12:18 -0500

So here it is, the annual ritual when everyone starts making lofty promises about the new people they plan on becoming. New year’s resolutions make me think about how I changed.

Initially my change was about losing weight. Holy fuck was that hard. It was emotionally complex. Physically challenging. Losing weight made me feel like I was giving up one of the greatest joys in my life at the time: eating a giant chocolate sundae in the bathtub while watching DVDs. Yes, I was that person. I also hated the way I looked.

I hated my body. At 33 I looked lumpy, bumpy and unwell. My ass was actually more square than round. I couldn’t fit into any of my clothes. When I dressed in the morning it was about finding things that “fit” and “hid” me. None of my jeans fit. So I started working out, because I had to: and I resented every minute of it the first few weeks. I worked out more or less as a punishment for having gotten that way.

For the first month in acts of self-punishment and deprivation I forced myself to exercise and eat well. It sucked. In the first weeks of riding my bike on a canal path to build up my cardio, 2 old fat ladies whizzed by me. I went home and sulked. I was so embarrassed, and ashamed of how I bad I looked and felt.

But I kept going. They seemed to follow me. At least once a week I would see them on the canal path. They were so friendly and nice. They waved. They said good morning. And every time I saw them I felt a little bit worse about myself, because they had at 30 years on me and looked so happy and able while they rode. I huffed and puffed. My face was red. I coughed. And they just sailed by effortlessly.

Once a week, in addition to being taunted by the physical feats of 2 old fat ladies on bicycles I put on a pair of jeans that didn’t fit anymore. I have this very clear memory of an early success where was finally able to squeeze them over my hips and zipped them. And even though I couldn’t yet button them I was momentarily happy that I had made progress.

Little victories dotted my journey. Not long after I was able to squeeze into the pants, I paced right behind the 2 old fat ladies on my bike. I was able to keep up with them for almost a mile. A month later I could keep up with effort. At a stop sign we introduced ourselves. They were talking and laughing as I stood there working hard to catch my breath. One of the old ladies, we’ll call her Claire said, “Sue, you’re doing really well.” And she put her hand on my shoulder.

Inwardly I was enraged. It felt condescending rather than encouraging. Those evil old fat ladies on bicycles were bitches. Fuck them. Something extra-crazy in my brain snapped, and I was suddenly at war with them and their blue and yellow shiny bikes. Who the fuck did they think they were being “encouraging” to me?

I started riding twice as often. Fuck them. I was going to sail by them while singing. I was going to make them eat a cloud of my dust. I started taking a new route so they wouldn’t see me ride so often.

On my new path, every day early in the morning I would see a group of very fat people suffering through some sort of torture walk. There were 6-7 of seven of them, very obese, walking down the path. One woman who had sweat through her shirt was walking hand in hand with another woman who looked near death. When I passed them I would wave. They waved back.

I saw this group 2 days a week for several weeks. We had the same routine, I would ride past giving them lots of room and say good morning. Someone would always say good morning to me. One day we were all stopped at a light, and I introduced myself to the fat ladies walking. We all said encouraging things to one another. I rode off happily.

About a month into my secret extra bike rides I was able to easily keep up with the 2 fat old ladies on bikes. I had increased my cardio. I was focused on getting in shape. I had stopped trying on the jeans once a week. I was at war. I felt better. I was focused.

Nearly three months after the “You’re doing really well” comment. I whizzed past the 2 fat old ladies on bikes. I wasn’t winded. My lungs were filled with air and I exhaled victory.

A few days later I rode passed the fat ladies walking, I waved, and said something encouraging. On my return trip I stopped with them at the light. We engaged in some small talk and I wanted to tell them they were doing well, but instead I told them they all looked great. One of the fat ladies looked at me with pure hatred, and I suddenly realized I was her nemesis. We were at war too.

So I kept riding that path for a year, at the same time every Sunday. When I would see her I always told her she looked great. And every time I’ve ever said a nice word she made this face that looked like a mixture of hated and determination. I knew it well. I make it too.

In the past 2 years in our war there have been lots of casualties. She lost more than 80 pounds. I lost nearly 30. Occasionally we run into each other at the grocery store, and I have caught her quietly judging my selections while we chat about fitness. She really does look great, and I keep telling her that.

I wonder if there’s anyone out there who sees her on the canal and secretly is working out a little harder just to pass her by. I hope so.

Styrofoam, Plastic, Blood and Bruises

Fri, 8 Oct 2010 11:10:34 -0400

I was at mile seven of a sixty mile ride when it happened.

THWACK.

I don’t know what the hell happened. I picked myself up from the asphalt and collapsed into some grass. There was an horrible throbbing pain in my thigh. In a wave of pain I realized I hit my head hard. My knee was skinned. The whole left side of my body was red and raw.

I touched my face. Was I bleeding? It was wet. Sweat? Waves of pain and panic. I managed to get up and move my bike out of the roadway. I did a quick inventory: closed each eye. I could see. Spat onto the ground. Just a little blood, my lips tasted acrid. Breathed deeply without pain. Lungs aren’t punctured. Alive and everything hurts.

I see a wet plastic bag near where I fell. Stupid novice mistake. I should have swerved with more skill. I stand. Legs aren’t broken. I lift my bike. Arms aren’t broken either. I check my fingers. Everything bends. I don’t want to think about my face, but I touch the contours anyways looking for blood and rips.

A few moments earlier my body was an amazing machine. Shaking and scared, not far from home, I’m at the edge of a park. I see a man with a little girl nearby, and figure I should ask for help. I stand and push my bike as the chain scrapes horribly around the gears. He waves and starts walking over.

“Looks like you need a hand.”

“I just crashed, do you have any bandaids?” As I say the words I’m suddenly worried that I bashed in my face and am scarring this little girl for life. Fuck. I might be horribly disfigured.

The little girl is holding a hotdog bun, she’s smiles at me saying “I feed the ducks.” I figure my face is ok, but I hit my head so hard. It doesn’t make sense.

“Oh sure, oh sure. I’ve got my wife’s car. Baby, does grandma have booboo medicine in the car?”

She looks confused.

“Let’s go check the car, Baby come help me help this lady.”

She looks at me and says “I like to feed ducks” as we walk to the car. I fiddle with my gears, and get the chain back in place. “I’m sorry to bother you, I just don’t know what to do.”

He rummages through the car, and sticks his head out. “Sorry I can’t find anything. Can I call anyone for you?”

I throw my leg over the bike and pedal a bit. It’s fine. Nothing clunky. My knees feel capable. The crazy part of me talks.

“I think I’m ok, I’m not far from home. My husband is still asleep.” I don’t want to be a burden. No. I’m only 1 mile from a hospital and 6 miles from home. I figure I’ll find my way to one or the other.

“Wait a second. Wash those cuts off before you go.” Oh, yeah. There’s gravel in my road rash. He hands me a bottle of water. “Just clean it up a bit.” The water on my fresh wounds feels soothing just for a moment.

I thank him and as I turn to go he looks at the little girl and says “Baby, that was a good lesson. It's nice to help people.”

I pedal with my good leg. With each movement of my left knee I can feel my skin ripping even further. I wonder if I have a concussion. I just bend it and do my best to pedal a mile with the right. I stop at a convenience store, and pray they have something to stop my knee from ripping even more.

I find a teeny trial size vaseline. I rub it all over my knee, elbow and shoulder. Anywhere I can see the skin is missing.

I’m missing skin. What the fuck am I doing? But I keep going, it burns and rips a little less than before. Turn right hospital. Turn left home. I just want to go home. My hip throbs.

With every breath for the next five miles I inhaled, oww and exhaled not much farther or assorted curse words. I rode as fast as I could, as carefully as possible. When I arrived home I finally saw what happened.

I hit the concrete with my head, hip and knee. My helmet was cracked, when I took it off the super industrial styrofoam was broken. It peeled open, like taking the shell off an egg. A big plastic piece on the left side of the helmet was missing. My gloves had protected my hands. My gear worked.

Whiplash. Deep bone bruising on my hip and wrist. Torn muscles. Road rash down the left side of my upper body. This is what happened to my hip:

Day 2 - 48 hours after the crash

Day 3

Day 4

Day 5

I hit my head on the concrete with the same force as my hip - and speculate on the thousand horrible potential outcomes had it not been for a little styrofoam and plastic.

Push

Fri, 3 Sep 2010 14:09:57 -0400

A few kind souls have inquired where I've been, this is my response.

The first few miles are the hardest. My muscles hate me. My body is overtly angry with my decision to ride instead of reading and drinking coffee like a normal person on a Sunday morning. I try to keep my pace slow, maybe 13 miles per hour, as I adjust to moving, but my brain wants to go faster so I can be home more quickly to cross off everything on my list.

I think about all of the things I should be doing. I think about laundry, little twigs in the road, taking the car for an oil change and the emails I need to write. I think long and hard about why I keep white t-shirts after they have little stains on them even though I don’t wear them anymore. At some point my quads demand my attention. Focus, keep moving. My brain tells my calves to pump harder. I’m hyper-aware but all systems are a little off.

I push, around mile 7, the nagging voice that wonders if I paid the electric bill is replaced by an awareness of right now. I start paying more attention to the things around me. A corn field. Something burbling in the canal. I suddenly realize it’s rude not to smile at the other riders that pass. I say hello.

My muscles are warmed to spinning, and it’s less of a chore. I wish it felt like miles 8-15 for the duration. Happy. Light. I think less about what I’m doing. It feels easy.

Easy isn’t the point.

Breathe, breathe, Breathe. Three in the nose, three out the mouth. I make sounds like a dog. I would be embarrassed if I cared. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I sprint 20-25 miles per hour on the flat. Drift a while. Breathe, Breathe, Breathe, sprint. Push. Breathe. Sprint. Somewhere in between the breathing and the sprinting I feel this amazing sense of well being in the moment where I drift -zipping by without effort.

I start looking for water. I’ve already drank 64 ounces, time to refill. Where the hell am I?

A gas station. I pull up and quickly refill. I walk in a sweaty, foul smelling creature. I ask for water. No one ever says no. I refill my bottles. I drink standing next to the fountain. Someone’s always watching. I smile. Grab a handful of ice, before I leave. I say thank you and push on.

I wipe the ice on my face and on my arms. Then keep going. Around mile 25 I start thinking about which path to take. Should I go home? Do I push on? Do I see the house with the seven miniature ponies. Should I go until I see “Welcome to Scottsdale?” ” Where next? At what point do I head home and how many miles for a safe return?

The other me, the superstitious primal me makes those decisions. Maybe I see a fortuitous minivan or some landmark points in the direction of home. Maybe my brain finally listens to my body and says, “Yes, this is what done feels like.” I don’t know how it happens, but I always know when it’s time to head back. And I do it.

At mile 40 I lose any idea that my body and mind are separate. I’m surviving. I’m fucking hungry. I can feel every little divet in the road. Every slight change in direction of the wind. I’m motivated to finish so that I can cook a salmon steak and a baked potato for breakfast. I fantasize about tater tots and lemonade. I wonder if there are any Hershey kisses in the freezer.

I push on for orange juice and to feel clean again. The last five miles greet me with inconceivable obstacles. I’m just trying not to get hit by cars. I’m just trying to stay upright with the wind in my face and sun beating down at 110 degrees. I don’t have to power of mile 30 and crossing traffic feels Herculean. But I push.

The last stretch up to my house, I hit mile 50. I feel elated. My mind and body completely together, I drift up the driveway. I put the bike up, then peel off my clothes. I climb into the shower, and watch little brown pools of road dirt collect near the drain. After dressing and before eating I lay on the floor stretching. I sink in and feel like I could lay there forever.