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.

the virtues of early mornings

So, I did it.

I pulled myself out of my malaise and treated myself to the most luscious Sunday I have enjoyed, well, since my move.

I loaded my bike onto my car and drove 25 minutes to Pinnacle Mountain. My expectations following my excursions in Allsopp, the urban park downtown, were minimal: while you can't be ungrateful for any trail-enriched green space in a city, I just hadn't been inspired by the offerings. Allsopp is a cobweb of criss-crossing, spindly trail that darts off into abrupt thickets and overgrowth, littered with broken beer bottles and the detritus of low-grade teenage hooliganism. The Allsopp system rides like the manic dream of an ADHD addled doodler, with the aforementioned incomplete offshoots and no comprehensible sense of order. I am a spoiled Pisgahn citizen, who has grown fetishistically attached to maps, multi-hour excursions, route planning. Allsopp is nice. It's convenient; an easy roll down the street. But it doesn't satisfy my need to open up, to invest completely and totally in a moment- in my breath, my cadence-- in blowing the shit out of my legs, my lungs, and coming back exhausted, sweaty, and floating.

When I arrived at Pinnacle, it was a mob scene of families with alarming quantities of toddlers, walking sticks, and knee-high white socks. I unloaded the bike, changed clothes, and eyed the paved path emblazoned "Mountain Bike Trail" with an arrogant chuckle. However, within ten feet, the path gave way to the glorious assemblage of natural materials that most brings joy to my heart: rocks, roots, and mud, all in twisty double- and singletrack. I rode for 7.5 wonderful, fast miles.

My thoughts quelled. The black torrents of irrationality gave way to being. I was not in my head or pacing, miles removed from both my body, the moment. I breathed deeply, heavily; I pulled myself up and over rocks, kept my balance in muddy slicks, and felt the sun on my skin. 

That's what I love. I love the quiet and calm I am when I ride. It's not even a feeling-- which implies an interpretation, a dissociation from the directness. It is literally what I am. I am such an assemblage of adjectives and states as to be almost embarrassingly hyperbolic to put out there. 

And, if I am frank with myself, that's where much of the negativity and fear I related in my last entry rooted from. This is an exciting transition. I am so happy, but it has come at the cost of an environment and activity that was my connection to something so much greater than exercise or riding bikes. The bike is just the medium. But what I get and access from it is something that is, honestly, sacred.

************

This morning, I pulled myself out of bed at 6.

I put the bike on the car, myself in the front seat, and drove to the park.

It was still grey. I ducked and dove, sprinted. Remembered the fast sections, the climbs. Delighted in the soaring of my heart, the meditation of moderating my breath. I came up around a corner, crested a modest hill, where the sun rose in a brash pink burst and a family of deer, startled, sprang towards dawn's stippling. These ecstatic silhouettes merged into the brightening horizon, and I kept pedaling.