On Vikings and Loneliness.

So, despite being no longer jet lagged, my room at the otherwise lovely hostel is situated right above a pub which at about midnight turns into a bacchanal. Apparently this is where the (by day) mild-mannered introverted Osolites come to drunkenly sing along with one another way past my bedtime. Also, there is a great deal of horn honking that goes on precisely when I'm trying to sleep. It's absent during the day, but at night, oh boy, people are trying to go places I guess.

All of this is to say that while I am no longer feeling the brunt of jet lag, I didn't sleep a wink last night (my second night in Norway) so I'm not in the best of spirits. 

Anyways...

A run down of my journey here:

• 19 hours spent in an airplane/airport, not including the travel to and from the respective airports.
• 6.5 hour layover in Munich, which was the most pleasant airport I have ever been in. Quiet, with delicious food.

When I arrived in Oslo, I was so tired from my journey that navigating the subway system with my enormous bag and figuring out where to go from the subway station was a bit of an ordeal. I took a wrong turn out of the station and had to haul my enormous bag up about a mile long stretch of one of the steepest hills I think Oslo has to offer. 

Anyways, I passed out hard my first night here. My first day (yesterday) I emerged and decided to go see the Nobel Museum & Vikingmuseet and just do some wandering.

 The Nobel Museum was a bit of a dud honestly (no where near as nice as the Stockholm location) and I cruised through it super fast so I would be able to catch the ferry out to Bygdoy, where the Vikingmuseet was located. Oslo is situated on the Oslo Fjord, which is a gorgeous natural juxtaposition to the city.

The Vikingmuseet. I may try to squeeze in another post with more photos and details about this place, because it was pretty impressive. But know that I was in my nerdy element, and freaking out about the age of the artifacts in front of me.

I am pleased to report that since being in Oslo, I have successfully navigated the following forms of public transport: bus, subway, and ferry. The hostel I am staying at is right by a major transportation center, as well as the Royal Palace, which looks especially pretty at night.

What do I think of Oslo so far?

This is my first (long awaited) experiencing traveling abroad alone and it has put my singularity-- that is, my being solo-- into an interesting context: what is being alone? What is the dividing line between solitude and loneliness? I am an inherently solitary creature. I crave, and require, alone time, yet I simultaneously desire closeness and connection. I have felt intensely alone since arriving in Oslo, and it is both comfortable and uncomfortable, in ways I am continuing to suss out.

As for Oslo, I like it, but I am ready to get out of this particular city. I take the train northwest to Bergen on Monday morning (I'm hoping getting to the station and getting on board the train is a seamless process) and I am really looking forward to it. I am trying not to compare Oslo to my experience in Stockholm, because there really is no comparison to that trip: I was abroad for the first time, in my ancestral land, with my grandmother. But I will say that Stockholm is a FAR more beautiful city: you simply cannot exceed that city's gorgeousness, with its body across islands and water everywhere. Oslo feels a little grimier, a little more industrial, a little less charming. However, I am having a blast. I just want to sleep.

Hallo from Norge.

I am writing from the bowels of jet lag.
In my first experience of this condition, I am riding waves of nausea and extreme fatigue peppered with an exacerbation of spastic tendencies with my motor control, and a complete degradation of my problem solving and common sense.
However, after a long journey here and a spicy evening involving some challenges (that continued into this morning and will be addressed, I suppose, later) I am here, safe and sound.

Three Months, oh my!

April 29th, my last update.

And today, almost exactly three months later, there are two weeks left before this internship ends.

I'm trying to spin these numbers, this anticipated and yet terrifying demarcation of time, into words that do service to what I feel as this ending looms.

But first, let me encapsulate the last three months for you:

- bike wreck kept me off the bike for TEN (binge-eating, self-loathing) WEEKS.

This may be surprising news, due to my rather cavalier relating of this tangle with gravity, but that's because it was a surprise for me too.

 Here are the events exactly as they transpired: I was on a group ride out of the shop right by my house, something I had been really, really looking forward to since I had just signed up for a huge race and was really craving getting into a good riding routine. 

The folks at the shop had been plenty nice, but there was a certain... condescension I felt from the guys, that is no doubt familiar to my fellow lady cyclists. The result was that I wanted to shred super hard on the ride-- like, my legs felt like they were on fire and I wanted to be in the front of the pack: not the middle, not chatting with the really nice but totally chill-pace keeping ladies, but IN THE FRONT. And I was! Until my ego caused a spectacular implosion in the sort of karmic retribution/lesson that seems to be an inevitability in my existence. 

Basically, while cranking as hard as possible after topping out on a ridge, there was a little dip with some rocks. To the right was a drainage ditch thing, with a steep 6 foot or so drop off, with more rocks. This is where my desire for... dominance? Respect from the local cadre of dudes? had far-reaching consequences, for while I am unsure exactly what caused it, in a split second, I was over my handle bars at the bottom of the drop off, tangled in my bike and contorted all crazily. The impact had been breath-taking enough that I remember thinking, for a second, that was bad. My immediate concern was that somebody had seen this mishap: after instinctively leaping up, disentangling myself, and frantically lugging my bike out of the ditch, I hopped back aboard and kept pedaling, without the next guy back catching me. The whole event, from crash to extraction, didn't take more than a minute. When I caught the leaders at the top of the next climb, they greeted me with concerned expressions: did you crash? Figuring they were being douchebags, I assured them that while I had, I was fine. 

Meanwhile, I began to feel little twinges of pain: my shins were sporting the beginnings of goose-eggs, and my neck and shoulders felt really tight. We had another 6 miles or so to go before returning to the cars, and I was irrationally rabid to keep riding. In fact, in a zany way, the crash emboldened me. I was at the very front of the pack for the next several descents, whipping my bike around corners and little rooty flights with a ferocity that even I felt, in a strangely detached way, vaguely impressed by. That's when I reached up to wipe sweat off my chin, and upon pulling my hand away, observed a prodigious quantity of blood all over my white gloves. Shit. I thought. Shit shit shit, because it was actually a lot of blood and I had wrecked miles ago. Had I been bleeding profusely out my face for twenty minutes unaware? Looking like a maniac? Deflecting questions of concern? 

When we crossed a road, I pulled up to a parked car and surveyed the damage. It was gross. There was a small yet deep crater of flesh missing from my chin, with the skin hanging down in a flap. It wasn't the most egregious wound in history, but I knew that it needed a stitch or two to close it up and avoid scarring. I finished the ride, and embarked on a frustrating tour of Little Rock's medical facilities as I attempted first urgent care centers (all closed!) before grudgingly trekking to the ER. There I sat for two hours, feeling like an asshole in a million ways (I brought fucking hummus and carrots to the ER since I didn't have time to eat before going) before realizing that, in a midsize city with a robust violent-crime rate, I would not be receiving "a stitch or two" in a timely manner. I went home, slathered it in antibacterial shit, and thought the whole wreck business was a wrap.

As it turns out, it was not. Basically, because of the showiness of the bloody chin action, I did not realize at the time of the wreck that I had hurt my left hand. It took days for me to process that my hand was not just sore, but actually injured. It can be best described, I guess, as a sort of soft tissue injury that only time off the bike can heal. I was incredibly frustrated, and kept prematurely trying to ride-- there was definite cognitive dissonance between my hand looking okay and feeling mostly okay, and then trying to ride and being in pain. I didn't go to the doctor (which may or may not have been smart, who knows) because I had enough mobility that I knew nothing was broken. However, the place of the injury (right where the hand, thumb, and wrist converge) meant that until it was healed, mountain biking was off the table.

After about ten weeks off, I finally felt okay to ride a little over a month ago. I feel like a brat when I say it's been hard, because in the scheme of things, I know this was a nothing injury. I know plenty of friends who have suffered injuries that required painful surgery, and multi-months of bike-less heal time. What I went through is pathetic in comparison. But, it has opened my eyes to just how dependent upon riding I have become for my wellness. Physical, mental. Balance. And how difficult it was to be without it. I am trying to approach my health with gratitude, and view riding for what an insane privilege it is-- something not to be taken for granted, but to be respected, cultivated, and treasured.

- wrote more things for the Arkansas Times and the Oxford American's website

- begun building a personal website (including a super fruitful photo shoot where I look baked in nearly ever shot).

Exhibit A.

- obtained an iPhone and got an Instagram

What's next has been giving me heart palpitations. I really don't know, is the truth. 

Better left for another entry.

But I am alive and shall endeavor to refrain from such prolonged bouts of radio silence.

xo

M

Of new facial scars, nascent musical journalism, and Arkansas not sucking.

I guess I should kick things off by saying "sorry Mom" regarding this new acquisition for my personal  Permanent Markings Museum: the Facial Scar collection. This little crescent-shaped gouge was sustained in the alluded-to bike mishap of a couple weeks ago, and though it currently borders on cute and could perhaps contribute to an aura of mystique, I did seek medical attention in an attempt to stave it off. However, Little Rock emergency rooms have bigger fish to fry, what with all the shootouts, robberies, and attempted homicides, and so after sitting in the ER for a fruitless yet certainly people-watching rich 2 hours, I called it a night and went home. Though I plan on Mederma-ing the shit out of this one to bring down its volume (right now it is downright loud in noticeability) I will say that I adore facial scars on other humans so I'm learning to love this latest addition.

In other news, I have been writing for the Arkansas Times and loving every moment of it. Those of you who know me are aware I am something of a curmudgeon regarding late nights and sleep requirements. I have, historically, been a wet blanket when it comes to any engagement that may encroach upon my preferred sleep quantities, and furthermore, that I have a very low tolerance for bar environs, drunken carousing, dude bros, and what most people my age regard as 'fun'. However, I am also equally notorious for my enthusiasm for bands I enjoy and dancing. So, even though it requires me to skimp on sleep some nights, I am finding writing for the Times to be both great fun and an excellent conditioning exercise. First of all, my editor is awesome, encouraging, completely open to my ideas, and really easy to work with. It makes the process in and of itself absolutely effortless. Second, this process is really helping me loosen some of my control freak tendencies regarding my writing and helping to familiarize me with the editing process, tight deadlines, and writing purposefully. Third, it has been super fun to wear the "Press" hat at these events. I am able to be a chameleon and observer in a really awesome context, as it allows me to positively harness these qualities a very tactile, immediate way. It is amazing to not just be taking notes and channeling stories (something I do 24/7 anyways), but to have them go somewhere-- to be purposeful, intentional. This role enables, empowers, and challenges me to publicly present myself-- and own up to this assertion of identity-- as a writer. I am seeing stories everywhere all of a sudden, and realizing that if I write them, I can find a home for them. I have set something into motion with these small steps and I feel that larger forums, stories, and challenges are within my grasp. And also, it should be mentioned, I am meeting SO. MANY. PEOPLE. through this! Potential friends, curiosities, story subjects, artists I respect, fellow media lackeys... I am loving the momentum this has given me to interact.

And so, in conclusion, I feel an official pronouncement must be made. Arkansas does not suck. I am feeling stimulated, challenged, and fully engaged by the life that I have built and am continuing to construct here. There is so much I want and need to do each day, I am struggling to fit it all in (and am waking up at insane hours- before 5 AM today) and that is an amazing feeling. The lethargy and malaise I was indulging when I first arrived has dissipated, and though of course I miss my home, family, and friends in North Carolina and scattered all over the world, I am feeling like my present is leading to a future that is dizzying and heart-quickeningly gorgeous and vast in its possibilities.

This is a great feeling, and space, for someone who is prone to living inside her own head to have and inhabit. I feel like instead of wondering and asking and thinking, I am just saying yes, accepting, and doing. 

Perhaps it's elementary and maybe asinine, but another pronouncement needs to be made. I am really happy and I love being alive.

Regarding Juggalos

Please read about my time amongst Arkansasan Juggalos, and an allusion to a near fatal mishap involving being crushed betwixt many of these sweaty obese personages, here.

Also, please take note how amazing my hair braiding skills are.

I'm going to go ahead and toot my own horn on this one. It's a crowd pleaser. People of all races, genders, and ages are united in their approval of this milkmaid derivative hairdo. Women I do not know have bowed their heads towards me and indicated they'd like me to give it a whirl on their scalps. I will also add that black ladies in particular are wowed that a girl of my apparent stone cold whiteness has such braiding capabilities.

I went on a long run (for me) today as I continue nursing my bike crash wounds and I realized that even though I was hounded by a litany of bummers I have previously billed as justifiable run killers (my iPod was dead, I was wearing shorts that were creeping up my butt in a very distracting and persistent manner, etc) I was grinning like a maniac and waving (!!?) to my fellow running compatriots of the evening hour without even willing it or being conscious of it.

Working on some really exciting schemes, hustles, and grand designs.
Stay tuned.

An ode to gravel

All smiles on a gravel-centric ride in Ouachita National Forest

(Perryville, AR-- right outside of Little Rock)

I must admit to a somewhat surreptitious love affair: I adore gravel. In the realm of mountain biking, this is a minority position and a polarizing declaration, to say the least. I know many, many riders that will do whatever is in their power to avoid setting wheel on these backwoods roads. They speak of gravel with a head shake, and a facial expression conveying enough distaste and revulsion that I know it is advisable to keep my enthusiasm under wraps. And when the inevitable bashing following an ab-clenching gravel climb occurs (a requisite debriefing in my experience), I try to dim the wattage on my manic smile and nod, head down. But the truth is: I love gravel. And lest you brand me a repressed roadie or a training zealot (gotta get the miles, man), allow me to illumine my gravel-loving worldview.

1. Gravel, at its essence, is the chillest medium of mountain biking. On a long ride interspersed with single track, it provides the chance to unclench, spin, and zone out to the prettiness of the day. You can (possibly) recover. You can chat with friends. Or you can just shut up and get into a really direct rhythm. I love its straightforwardness. 

2. Gravel climbing is fun. Unlike technical single track climbs (which I also enjoy) you can dig in, set a pace, and just move. In most cases (exception: we've all been on gnarly, rutted, pot-hole studded gravel roads-- or, ones with ridiculously large rocks) technique and bike handling are not on the forefront-- rather, just pedaling in a sustainable way is. I find the satisfaction of approaching what appears to be a really steep, demanding climb and grinding to its conclusion to be exhilarating. Its simplicity is rewarding.

3. Gravel flats are fun. Even if I'm exhausted, gravel flats perk me up. Again, the simplicity of the process is enlivening and rejuvenating. If you're with a friend (or a few), it's soo fun to throwback to the childhood years and crank and race each other. Who hasn't done this? It's awesome!

4. Gravel descending is fun. Long lines of sight? Check. Easily attainable high speeds? Check. Sunshine and wind in your face? Maybe a butt-clinching, life-affirming spin out here and there on some loose corners? Check and check. I love hauling ass down gravel! Sure, it's essential to ride in control and defensively, anticipating cars around every corner. Stay on the right side. Don't ride on your buddy's wheel. Corner competently or you'll have a bad time. But if you're obeying the basics and not riding like a dingus, gravel descents are amazing. I would also argue that approaching gravel descents with more confidence and speed has made me a stronger rider, improving my cornering, balance, coordination, and stopping ability. There is something just so literally sweet feeling about dropping down thousands of feet on a fast, curvy, gravel road with the wind in your face and your stomach close to your throat.

5. Gravel rides are fun. Okay, this is where the real heresy is committed. But I love gravel so much-- all its parts-- that I am unopposed to and welcome solely gravel rides. Now, I would never choose gravel over single track. But, when the trails are in shitty condition, the weather's dicey, time is tight, or injuries are being nursed, gravel is a good friend. You're outside, in the woods getting an infusion of that which all of us mountain biking weirdos are obsessed with: sweaty, sunny time on two wheels. 

All of this build up is to say: I love gravel. And yesterday, I went on an amazing gravel ride with my new friend Cliff, of the local bike shop Spokes. I am recovering from a really impressive crash sustained on the Wednesday group ride out of the shop and was wanting to get in a solid ride despite not being ready to tackle trails. Cliff suggested a 30 mile loop out in the Lake Sylvia area of Ouachita National Forest. So, we drove the half hour outside of Little Rock and sampled a rolling, glorious cornucopia of gravelly loveliness.

A beautiful day! (Not a shabby view, either)

I will be competing in this race in mere weeks. 

Over and out to dive into another gorgeous day.