Redneck White Christmas

Due to circumstances beyond my control—namely weather and flight cancellations—I spent Christmas 2009 in Snyder, Texas with 30 people (related to each other, but not to me), most of whom I had never met before.

On Christmas Eve, I participated in their white elephant gift exchange. I soon realized that theirs was a Texas-themed white elephant and that the iridescent-glass photo frame I brought was a bit conspicuous among the other gifts exchanged: meat rub, cookbooks, BBQ grill utensils, spice racks, and greasy spoon guidebooks.

There were gifts for the many children in attendance as well, but only one that made this whole event blog-worthy. A five-year-old girl’s earsplitting squeal reverberated off the walls when she opened gift number 27. It was a Bumpits hair insert. This little girl was absolutely beside herself as she danced around the living room, waving her Bumpits in the air. How does a five-year-old even know what a Bumpits is?

I left the white elephant with a plastic trough filled with two pounds of assorted flavor pecans and an understanding about Texans. Texans are passionate about three things: Football, BBQ, and BIG hair. I think it is genetic.

But that’s just me, y’all.

What Did You Expect

My desire to ride motorcycles started with a television commercial in the 70s. The commercial showed a motorcycle traversing the countryside while some funky 1970s commercial jingle played in the background. At the end of the commercial the motorcycle skids to a stop in front of the camera, the rider unfastens the chinstrap, removes the helmet, shakes out her long brunette mane and with a wry grin, looks into the camera and says, “What did you expect?” It was brilliant advertising with a simple yet, for me, powerful and effective message…a woman can ride a motorcycle, by herself—not pillion. That commercial got a young girl dreaming about riding a motorcycle, a dream that would not become a reality until that young girl turned thirty.

In the 1990s, a few of my male friends raced motorcycles competitively in Seattle and Portland. These guys were the ultimate “bad boys.” They wore leather, rode fast motorcycles or Superbikes, and seemed completely fearless on the racetrack. I became a fan of motorcycle racing and a sort-of groupie, or track-rat. In 1995, I drove my convertible Cabriolet (I didn’t own a motorcycle...yet) to the Laguna Seca raceway in Monterey, California for the World Superbike races. I literally camped out at the racetrack. In a tent. By myself. I had a pit pass and between races I went to the pits to check out the bikes. And the riders, of course!


Starting line at Laguna Seca Sunday, July 23, 1995


#17 Anthony Gobert and #11 Troy Corser


Pascal Picotte on the corkscrew

As much as I enjoyed watching the guys race motorcycles on the track, I wanted to ride my own bike. I enrolled in a motorcycle riders training class and when I finally saved enough money to buy a motorcycle, I chose a red, white and blue Honda CBR 600.



But that’s just me.

Dating and Navigating

Last weekend I went for a motorcycle ride with a guy (Randy) that I met via an online dating service. This dating website claims that Randy and I were matched based on specific areas of compatibility. I can't be sure, but one of those areas of compatibility must be "motorcycles." Randy owns a 2009 BMW 1200RT--as do I.

While on our ride in the hill country near Austin, we came upon a roadblock in the form of 2-3 feet of fast-moving rain runoff. Luckily, Randy has a GPS on his motorcycle and quickly recalculated another route to the "biker" cafe where we stopped for lunch. I thought about getting a GPS when I bought my motorcycle but decided against it, opting instead for the cheaper, low-tech, find-it-yourself global positioning system--it's called a map.

Looking back on that weekend ride, I can see the correlation between a dating website and a GPS device. Both use technology to navigate you to your desired destination--be it a relationship, or a restaurant. When you come to a dead-end, (a washed-up relationship or a washed-out road) both rely on a vast database network to "recalculate" options to get you back on course.

Dating or Navigating? Either way, the journey is bound to have its twists and turns. As anyone who rides a motorcycle will tell you, the twists and turns are the most fun!

Get Out Alive

In August, I participated in an aviation-safety training course at the Civil Aerospace Medical Institute Federal Aviation Administration facility in Oklahoma. I learned that, when it comes to aircraft crashes, what you do in the moments before and immediately following impact, and when and how you do it, largely determine your chances of evacuating the aircraft alive.

National Transportation Safety Board accident statistics show that in 568 aircraft accidents (1983–2000), 95.7% of occupants survived the initial accident. In 26 serious accidents involving fire, injury, and/or substantial aircraft damage, 55.6% of occupants survived the initial accident. Proper brace positions and a fast evacuation (less than 2 minutes) are crucial to occupant survival.

There are two primary reasons for the brace position. One is to reduce flailing of arms and legs and the other is to reduce secondary impact (body against object). Aircraft crash-test dummy videos show a significant difference in the impact injuries that the “dummies” sustained based on seat and body position. To increase the likelihood of passenger survival during secondary impact—that is why Flight Attendants make the PA and conduct a walkthrough to confirm that seatback and tray-tables are upright and locked, and carryon items are not stowed in the seatback pocket. Flight Attendant brace positions increase chances of surviving a secondary impact. Flight Attendants should assume the position for every takeoff and every landing.

Did you know that the Over-Wing Window Exits (OWWE) are the closest exits for the majority of seats on the 737 aircraft? In real evacuations, 51% of passengers used the OWWE. This is significant information because the OWWEs are the smallest exits in the cabin and passengers, not Flight Attendants, open them. For passengers who sit in an emergency exit seat, there are three important things to keep in mind:
1. People remember more of what they read/see, than what they hear.
2. People seated at the OWWEs reported that they were more likely to read the Safety Information Card if they noticed other passengers reading it.
3. Passengers who read, see, and process aircraft evacuation/exit information are more likely to take action in an emergency.

People in peril experience similar stages of panic, and the first stage for most people is a period of total and intense disbelief. John Leach, a Survival Psychologist at University of Lancaster, UK studied human behavior in emergencies and found that 75% of people will be stunned and bewildered in an emergency to the point of non-reaction. They become docile and look to other people for decision-making and direction. This is where evacuation commands come into play. Flight Crew evacuation commands should be loud, forceful, and urgent.

Always remember, if you are evacuating an aircraft in an emergency and you feel that your life is in danger, save yourself and get out—alive.

No Sleeping Inn

I'm in a hotel on an overnight in Philadelphia. On my way to breakfast as I walk past a room down the hall toward the elevators, I hear the following:

Loud banging on a door inside of the room. A female voice yells, "WAIT A GODDAMN MINUTE!"

A male voice yells back, "IT'S NOT FAIR! I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR 10 MINUTES! HURRY UP!"

Female: "I AM CHANGING MY BRA, GODDAMN IT!"

Male: "OPEN THIS DOOR OR I'M GONNA PISS ALL OVER THE GODDAMN FLOOR!"

More loud banging and a child's shrill scream adds to the cacophony in room 1417.

This exchange is so loud that a housekeeper standing beside her cleaning cart at the other end of the hall looks up at me, shakes her head, and says, "They's all God's children, but some done lost the good sense He gave 'em."

Amen.

Sweet Escape

Allow me to introduce my new bike, a 2009 BMW 1200RT.


It is as lovely to ride, as it looks just standing still.

And this is me on my new bike in my so-bright-they-will-see-me-coming-a-mile-away—I hope—yellow jacket.

Buzzzzzzz.



My new bike and I went for our first ride together on September 25, 2009 in the hill country of Texas. It really was a day of firsts on a bike for me: my first cattle guard, first deer to jump across the road in front of me, first 10-20 mph steep grade switchbacks—which is directly related to another first—taking a corner too fast and nearly crossing the yellow line into oncoming traffic, first time riding at night, first time to drop this bike, and first raccoon to run between my wheels and narrowly escape death.







The raccoon incident played out in front of me like a slow-mo animated cartoon in which the raccoon character has dialog. The raccoon entered the road from the right side and, as though he was out for a leisurely stroll, waddled toward the center of the road. Dum-dee-dum-dee-dum. Sandy was cruising along on her Harley when the raccoon sees her. He picks up the pace and hustles across the road. This is when I imagined the dialog and the raccoon’s comical animation. Watching Sandy as she road by, the raccoon turned and doubled back to the center where he stopped and arched his back, still looking down the road at Sandy. I imagined him raising his clenched little paw and shaking it in her direction as he grumbled, “Hey lady, watch where you’re going!” He was so incensed at Sandy that he didn’t notice that I was rapidly approaching as he lumbered across the road in front of me. At the last second, he turned his head in my direction. I could swear I saw his beady little eyes get as big as saucers when he saw my front tire baring down on him. Now, before anyone gets all PETA on me, no animals were harmed in making of this fabulous animated adventure.


Morning dew hovers over our bikes and cabin just outside of Leakey, Texas.


We covered 225 miles that first day, including Texas “twisted sister” 337. The next day we logged 150 miles of beautiful hills and valleys on the other two “twisted sisters” 335 and 336. On the third day of our trip we headed back to Austin via Luckenbach for a total of 625 miles.

Instant Message

Walking home from yoga yesterday, I noticed one of those Hello My Name Is-type nametag stickers stuck onto the sidewalk. Only this nametag didn’t have Hello My Name Is printed on it, this nametag had WEIGHT WATCHERS printed in LARGE, BOLD, BLOCK LETTERS across the bottom. And the name handwritten in blue ink just above WEIGHT WATCHERS?

Colleen.

I believe that the universe will repeatedly present lessons and send us messages in various forms until we finally get it. Okay, universe, I finally got the message. Now fuck off.

Good Samaritan

A strange thing happened to me a few weeks ago while on my usual 6 mile run in Chicago. About a mile or so into my run, it started to rain. Now, for a girl who spent her formative running years in Seattle, a little rain is nothing. Unfortunately, this was not just “a little” rain. It was a whole lot of rain, buckets actually, with thunder and lightning thrown in for dramatic effect. I was soaked to the bone. Nevertheless, being the true runner that I am, I did not want to turn tail and go home. So I continued.

I finished my run and was about five blocks from home when “it” happened. Suddenly, I felt dizzy and light headed—like my body was shutting down and I was about to lose consciousness. I lay down on the sidewalk so as not to chip my teeth should I pass out face-first into the concrete. I looked through the glass doors in front of me and into a hotel lobby, hoping to catch the eye of a valet attendant or concierge. Instead, I noticed a well-dressed woman standing inside of the nice, dry hotel lobby, staring at me as I writhed around on the sidewalk in the pouring rain. Just standing and staring. When her ride pulled up in front of the hotel, she practically had to step over me as she made her way to the car, barely acknowledging me, even as I mouthed the words, “HELP ME!” in desperation.

I tried to rationalize the woman’s complete non-reaction. Maybe she thought I was a prostitute drug addict on a bad trip and therefore didn‘t warrant her acknowledgment or concern. Then again, how many prostitute drug addicts would dress for “work” in full Sugoi running regalia, Asics athletic shoes, Maui Jim sunglasses, and an iPod armband? There is a shared sense of camaraderie, fellowship, or esprit de corps if you will, among runners. Maybe she wasn’t a runner and therefore didn‘t feel a sense of fellowship or that she was obligated in any way to help me. Maybe she just did not have the time. She was waiting for a ride to take her somewhere, maybe somewhere important, like dinner, or the theatre.

I do not know what her rationale was for not helping me, a fellow human being clearly in need of help, but for a brief moment, I recognized myself in her. I recognized in her the same disregard and detachment that I have as I walk by the seemingly growing number of homeless people that sit or lie on the sidewalks of Chicago. I recognized in her the same rationale and lame attempts to justify my own disregard and detachment. And, I recognized in her the same potential that is in me, that is in all of us, to be a Good Samaritan.

(Don't) Walk This Way

Do you know what I find annoying? When people walk with their arms raised to the side at a 45 degree angle, and then move them rhythmically back and forth like they are cutting through...air. It is especially annoying when trying to walk around said person on a crowded sidewalk. You have to time the pass just right, evading their rotor blade-like arms while dodging other oncoming pedestrians.

Why do people walk like this? Balance? Momentum? Are they territorial? Defending their personal space? I don’t really want to know why some people walk with their arms splayed like rotor blades, I just want them to stop. I don’t mean that I want them to stop walking mid-stride—because that is annoying too.

Have you ever been walking behind someone and all of a sudden, apparently for no reason, they stop abruptly right in the middle of pedestrian traffic. It is annoying. Move to the side, out of the way, and then stop and stand there—stand there as long as you want to, just get out of the way. I don’t mean meander to one side or another—because that is annoying too.

Have you ever tried to walk past someone who is meandering? When you try to pass them on the left, they meander to the left, so you change course and try to pass them on the right, only to have them meander to the right. It is annoying, isn’t it?

I just have one thing to say to people who walk this way, “Don’t.”

But that’s just me.

Free (Sales) Association

The other day, I walked up to my favorite cosmetics counter at a major department store in Chicago to make—what I thought would be—a simple purchase. When I asked the sales associate for their waterproof mascara she replied, “We stopped making the waterproof mascara. Now we have ‘Superwear Longer Lasting’ mascara.”

“Waterproof” is longer lasting. In fact, waterproof is the it-won’t-come-off-until-I-take-it-off definition of longer lasting.

“Would you like that in black?” she continued.

Still trying to process the, “We stopped making waterproof mascara” statement, I stuttered my reply, “Uh, uh, no thank you. I really just want waterproof mascara.” This prompted a ten-minute dissertation from the sales associate that began with, “You shouldn’t use waterproof mascara for everyday use. You should only use waterproof mascara if you are going to a wedding or swimming.” To me this sounded like an argument my mother would make for not wearing tampons everyday during your period. “You shouldn’t wear tampons for everyday use. You should only wear tampons if you plan on going swimming or wearing tight pants.”

The sales associate droned on, “Studies prove that using waterproof mascara everyday weakens your lashes.” I did not care to hear about the studies done on waterproof mascara, but I did not want to be rude and walk away from the counter while she was still talking. As I stood there trying to think of something to say that would shut her up, an older woman dressed in a magenta-colored wool coat and matching hat walked by. A young, make-up plastered, perfume spritzer girl quickly approached the older woman.

“Would you like to try some of our new Fresh Spring Rose perfume?” spritzer girl asked.

“I just went to the dentist.” The older woman answered.

“Oh, that’s nice. Would you like a light spritz of our new perfume?”

“I don’t have any cavities.”

“Well, good for you! How about celebrating your cavity-free check-up with some new perfume? Our new Fresh Spring Rose perfume is on sale today…” spritzer girl tried to continue, but the older woman interrupted her sales pitch.

“I just went to the dentist and now I am going downstairs to have a Pepsi,” the older woman stated with child-like enthusiasm.

“Okay, but first wouldn’t you like to try our new perfume?” spritzer girl replied, her voice tainted with frustration.

“I don’t have any cavities. I’m going downstairs to have a Pepsi now.”

“Great,” spritzer girl said flatly, “the elevator is that way.”

With signs of exasperation and defeat cracking her made-up pleasant façade, spritzer girl walked away with her un-spritzed bottle of Fresh Spring Rose perfume. The older woman walked toward the elevator with a triumphant, cavity-free, teeth-baring smile on her face.

I wanted to applaud. Without being rude and with just a few seemingly random sentences, the older woman interrupted a professional sales pitch and was on her way in less than 45 seconds. I had been standing at the cosmetics counter for ten minutes listening to the sales associate ramble on about the detriments of waterproof mascara. Taking a cue from the brilliant performance I had just witnessed, I turned to the sales associate and said, “I just started my period. I am going downstairs to have a Pepsi.”

Thinking and writing about this true story (I could not make this up) brings a tear to my eye. Thank God, I am wearing waterproof mascara.

But that’s just me.