Marshmallow Chicky

My five-year-old's very first word this morning: "Easter!"

Can we fast forward to the chocolate bunny part? I'm struggling with the other celebration traditions.

A very good friend came over last night, and we ate grilled asparagus and lamb and artisan cheese. When they weren't playing hide and seek in our dark back yard, her two boys joined my three children in an intense Pokemon swap-a-thon. The grownups opened a second bottle of very good wine.

"He's not answering his phone," my friend wondered about her husband, who had left in a huff upon their arrival at our house. "When do I call the police?"

Wait, what? When Doug and I argue, which of course never happens, and one of us goes for a long walk to cool off, the other's first impulse isn't to dial emergency services. Speaking of skipping ahead.

"Maybe his cell battery is dead."

My friend gathered her sons and headed home to see if he had called their house. He hadn't.

But the ER had.

Her husband had been beaten up and was in intensive care. And guess what? This isn't the first time she's taken that call.

He has terminal brain cancer, and the tumor is slowly destroying his judgment. He doesn't understand why the owners of antique cars get upset when he tries out the front seat. He likes to visit the house he used to live in; the woman who now owns it pressed charges.

This morning, my friend's children were unhappy that mom didn't have a chance to hide the eggs like she promised.

Cue slow speed train wreck. While my friend deals with the news that there is more bleeding on her husband's brain, wrestles with whether to authorize surgery again, I'm ironing button down shirts and hunting for dress socks.

Irreverent, I know, but I am so not in the mood for resurrection-new-life-hallelujah anything.

I really just want to ride my bike. When is my next race, again?

Mountain bike racing is pretty silly, isn't it? What I spend on electrolyte powder would feed a Haitian family for a month. What is the point of sausaging oneself into Spandex and riding in circles?

Because it IS a closed loop. The course is marked. There are no forks in the road to contemplate, no chance of being lost or confused. Marshals keep dangerous traffic off the trail, and obstacles are clearly marked. Racing a single speed bike simplifies life even further. Pedal, don't pedal, can't pedal.

Best of all? There is always a finish line. And I always, always know how far away it is. Stop here, you're done suffering. Applause.

The lure of racing is precisely that arbitrary stop of the clock. When I'm concentrating on not falling on my head, or chasing someone up a hill, nothing else matters. That endorphin fortress is impenetrable. I invite you to try it.

Willow Koerber posted on her FB page this quote: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

My own quote: "Brave never feels like it at the time."

I wish my courageous friend could get off this crazy thing, but she won't be done for quite some time.

My next race, by the way, is in a week, in Santa Ynez. A pretty big deal event, a US Cup race offering both Kenda qualifying and California State points.

I wasn't going to go; too far, too costly.

However.

In a week where my friend gets the worst possible news, I get some of the best. After five years of paying race fees out of the milk money, I've been picked up by a sponsor, 3dyn, llc, who is going to help with some of my costs.

Road trip!

3dyn makes stuff. I don't quite understand what, but it has to do with carbon composite products that go in airplanes and submarines. Perfect match for a single speed racer: strong, light, and unyielding.

Please celebrate with me, and while you're at it, lift a glass for my friend.