Baristas are not neutral

Have I mentioned that I totally *heart* baristas? Of course living in Seattle if I didn't love them, I'd be reducing my community-love options by about 60%, so it is rather a necessity of life here. That said, I choose to love baristas. It is not about the coffee...though coffee does rock. My love is deeper than the bean....my love is about the art of barista-ness.

On the surface one might think that being a coffee barista is simply about the taking of orders and the delivering of the coffee service. Wrong! Being a barista is much more complex and sophisticated than all that. A barista must not only take the order and serve the coffee, but in doing so said barista is interacting with people in need. I'm again, not talking about the coffee. Sure, we all WANT the coffee....who doesn't want the coffee? The needs brought into a coffee house by the masses of mocha drinkers are plentiful and unspoken. The barista must intuit these needs...and the barista as artiste and humanitarian does just that.

This morning, for instance, I went into Cafe on the Ave..because I love their coffee, but I heart one particular barista who talks with me every time I get my 16 oz. iced americano with room. I didn't walk up to the cashier and say, "i'd love a 16 oz. iced americano, some compassion, and a little inspiration." No, I just order the coffee....and a cookie. Anyway, this particular barista asked about my weekend. You know how people ask about your weekend in the elevator or other moments when we feel awkward and don't know what to say? Well, this wasn't what she was doing. Now maybe she didn't really care what I did this weekend...but in true barista artiste form....she really seemed like she cared. So, I actually answered.

I am not a big fan of small talk and even a smaller fan of big talk about myself...so usually, I just mumble something about being busy or not remembering what I did and move along. Today, I was in need of connection, to myself, to her, to the world...to something...and my barista friend in her truly most soothing and therapeutic tone asked me about my weekend. So, I shared that my partner and I are training for an Ironman so we biked super far and ran 19 miles. She did the low whistle that people do when you tell them you are doing an Ironman and said, "wow, that's great." I heard this as "wow, you are ok." And it was just the message I needed from the world this morning...that I'm ok.

But, the interaction didn't end there. 16 oz. iced americano already in hand, she could have just turned her attention to the next coffee order, but she asked "when is it?" I heard, "you look like you are having a tough time. you are ok. when is it?" Projection? Transference? I don't care what you call it...my barista friend was meeting this unspoken need.

"September 7th," I replied. She said, "Oh, that gives me goosebumps. How exciting." I heard, "oh, that gives me goosebumps. how exciting." She reminded me of my own excitement about the event and how events like the ironman are inspiring for others. In that moment I remembered how I watched the ironman on television when I was a tweenager and how I thought it was impossible for me to do such a thing...even as I longed to be one of those athletes. I remembered Julie Moss ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tRB1p89k7_I ) running, walking, stumbling, and finally crawling across the finish line. I remembered how I cried then and how I cried two nights ago when I watched that finish again on youtube. Sassy Femme wrote about this today...it is not the ability of a human to swim, bike, and run that makes me cry, rather it is the love, spirit, and connection to life that is made visible in these moments.

I mean really, who gives a hoot if I, Cookie the Monster, can swim, bike, and run? That really isn't the point. The point is about connecting to something within myself and others that isn't simply physical or mental...but really is a demonstration of what can be felt and done...and not by just the individual. In fact, naming ironman an individual endeavor completely obscures the privilege surrounding most of the athletes participating. Queer Corn and I are privileged with family who love and watch our little girl while we train. We are privileged with enough economic resource to join a gym, buy nice bikes, get good running shoes, go to physical therapy, eat healthy organic foods, purchase entrance into the race....the list goes on. Let's face it, there are significant economic and social barriers to participating in events like triathlons.

I sometimes feel ashamed about all that privilege....all that access to resource that allows me to do this inane thing. But, my barista friend, a friend Jenn B., Sassy Femme, the Olympics, and remembering that white guilt or any other kind of guilt associated with privilege is really rather unproductive, have all reminded me that i can inspire myself and others to connect to that deeper love and spirit, something I believe our very young country needs desperately right now...and that is nothing to be ashamed about.

So you see, baristas are not neutral...none of us really are. And, none of us are truly disconnected from any other one of us. Every person in my life is in some way contributing to my ability to do this triathlon...have a baby...get a phd...think, feel, live. And hopefully in doing this little big race I will connect with that deeper love and spirit and send it back out.

Thank you baristas everywhere for delivering me with life's blood...coffee, connection, and love.

While the race hasn't happened yet....thank you to all of the folks in my world and beyond my immediate world who have made this possible: meg, lucy, zia, otter, jen, trina, mom, dad, robert, aline, pig and petey, the entire extended Reichenbach fam, bob, lois, meghan, gita, ramona, peris, morna, mary, charlie, doug, michelle, sam, everett, number 3, uma, jenn, jeannette, brook, baristas everywhere, the roadrunner, cookie monster, grover, ducky, jamie, kelsey, erica, the women of raising in the rain and first weeks, abba (yes, that abba), john denver (yes, that john denver), the Q Center students (www.qcenter.washington.edu ), the dixie chicks, regina, bell hooks, patricia hill collins, all women and gender queer athletes, judith butler, carla....and the list continues...more later.

Just when you think you can't...you know what?

You can! Or I can! You saw my last post...I was wondering if we were there yet. Well, this week's workouts (minus the heinous 13.25 mile run) have been awesome! Yesterday, I ran 5 miles at 9 minute mile pace (OK you speedsters do not snicker...this is fast when your legs resemble balloons the like of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade...without the strings and helium of course).

Anyway, then I went to an hour spinning class where we did speed workouts at some ridiculously high resistance. But did I cry? Well, a little....but I also rocked my workouts. And then today, after one little piece of feedback from my fabulous partner the Stingray swimmer....I knocked off 2.5 minutes of my time for the 2.4 miles in the swim! This was my best swim yet as I grew stronger and faster over the course of the mileage. And, (again, speedsters no snickering) I came in at a strong 1:12:00....very psyched about this.

I am still super tired...my legs are still edema-ed...and I'm still cranky and dizzy (but that has nothing to do with this training), but guess what? I again believe that I can do this silly thing called Ironman. In fact, today I thumb my nose the the general direction of Ironman and chortle in that stupid US American-mocking-the-French laugh. I love finding hope in the depth of despair...and really, this is a silly little race we're talking about...but the learning is still so very applicable. As my friend reminded me...what we do, how we are on the yoga mat so too are we in life. Well, today I rocked the mat!

Seattle to Portland...merely a training ride: In three parts

Part I: The Ride


Meg and I rode (with our friend Meghan...see side bar) the STP in a day. This is a ride from Seattle to Portland and folks can do it in one day or two. We opted for the one-day version, a total of 205 miles...twice as long as my furthest ride and quite possibly my longest workout ever...perhaps with the exception of ultimate frisbee tournaments. But frisbee tournaments are always punctuated with short breaks, slamming oranges and bagels, and smoking pot, so the two really don't compare unless you count the pot part. I'm kidding...I never ate the bagels.

Anyway, there was no pot...we were definitely feeling the pain, after mile 150 anyway. Up till then, Meg, Meghan, and I were just zipping along (avg. 17.0 mph for the entire 205). We felt good, we took turns leading our pace line of 3 and joining on to others. It was really fun and great to be riding with two women who are competitive with themselves but are not about beating others. Just great! Meghan is a hell of a climber...kicking our asses up every hill. Meg is rock steady and is truly the energizer bunny....in fact I think she is still riding between the two cities. I'm not clear why...but I felt like a mother hen protectively watching over my chicks...sometimes riding in the back of the pace line to make sure all was well...that and that I got the best drafts of the day.

I joke, but I really did want to make sure my besties were not being hit by all the riders (sorry fellas...but mostly you guys) who would pass within inches without so much as a chortle. ON YOUR LEFT....say it with me boys...three little words that could mean the difference between a great day riding and a traumatic head injury. I see you all Lance-Armstrong-wanna-live-strong-and-be-like-mike-boys trying to win a ride that a) is not a race; and b) did I mention it wasn't a race? But really to what end are you passing so closely and saying so little?


We rode strong and finished strong...if a bit snarky and a tad nauseated. But, 205 miles in one day....that my friends is 93 more miles than race day. I feel a distinct psychological advantage!



Part 2: Lessons from the Road


1. We learned something about our need for better hydration...but we aren't sure what we learned

2. Chamois butter (aka butt balm) is an ointment of the gods

3. Training for the event is better than not training for the event

4. 4 hours of sleep for 4 nights in succession may have a biblical ring, but it makes for a long ass bike ride

5. Chip seal sucks

6. Real food is better than fake food

7. 205 miles is 130 miles further than anyone really needs to ride in a given period of time

8. We are rockstars

9. The STP really only needs to be done once ever

10. We googled it (not from the road....but we thought about it there)....people actually compete in things called Enduroman competitions....these are Ironman x 2 or 3!! Seriously...look it up.

Part 3: Jen gets on her social justice soap box...again

Enough of the complaints....at least about the riders. I'm unclear as to why...but there is an ongoing conflict...war is too strong...perhaps an ongoing "police action" between cyclists and motorists....as if the two are mutually exclusive. I don't know about you, but I also use a car as do the majority of cyclists. There are some folks who do not...and bravo to you I say! Anyway, most of us cross-over and can really relate to the frustrations of sharing the road from both points of view. When I'm driving...I sometimes don't see the cyclists at night...or if they run a stop sign or if they are just doing everything right and are in the bike lane. Then...when I don't see them and I nearly hit them I feel scared and want to lash out...at them...as if it is their fault that I nearly killed them. When really, I didn't see them and am blaming them for my mis-step. Bad form, Jen.

When I'm a cyclist...I couldn't be more irritated with the honking, the yelling, the gestures, the fake "loss-of-control-and-now-i'm-in-your-path," the speeding, the opening of car doors to scare you, the not seeing you and then blaming you for not seeing you. These things bother me. So you see...I understand the tensions...but really, is there a need for a battle of the roads? Can't we share? With the price of gasoline bicycles will soon be all any of us can afford anyway.

To add insult to injury...some (a small minority) of young white men seem to think it is their right, ethical duty, job even, to yell obscenities and threats at women cyclists. These are the same characters who likely feel that women's bodies are theirs for consumption. And, sometimes they combine the two beliefs and yell things like, "I can see why you are riding a bike fat ass" (white male yahoo as conveyed to me on STP, 2009).

Now as my partner said...this is a bit like going to the Ironman and yelling at the women competitors..."You should be swimming, biking, and running you fat ass." Doesn't make much sense now does it? Let's see....I'm swimming 2.4 miles, biking 112, then running a marathon and you are doing?? Oh that's right...NOTHING.

But, it doesn't stop the sting to have critical consciousness and an ability to outhink the yahoos, and some seriously snarky comments, does it? No...the sting of that sexism and the women-body-hating misogyny is no less...because the targets of forms of oppression end up doing some of the oppressor's heavy-lifting...by internalizing the narratives. I've written on this before....and you know that I am the owner of 38 years of anti-women's bodies narratives....all of which I resist and attempt to overthrow....and then a yahoo yells at me, and I am a pudgy 12 year-old believing that her very physical existence is an assault on what women "should be." And, I even hate that pudgy 12 year old, and then I feel guilty for hating her, and then I hate myself for hating myself, and then I hate myself for hating myself for hating myself...and the spiral continues until my head explodes.

When this kind of stuff goes down it makes me want to hole up in the house with my girls and listen to Free to Be You and Me until...you guessed it...my head explodes. That the yahoos of the world can still reduce me to a pudgy 12 year old who didn't deserve the shit she got in the first place...first pisses me off, then just saddens me. She was a cool kid...a smart kid...a great athlete who struck out all of those boys who called her names and had a hanging jump shot by the time she was 14. My body has worked for me...and it did again on Saturday and it will again on September 7th.

To all the yahoos: My body is not yours to consume for so many reasons...but mostly because you can't f*cking catch me!

Week 11...13 More!

So excited to be blogging! Today Meg and I had a fabulous workout...a mini-triathlon in and of itself. We started with an hour swim.

Now recently my swims have been feeling great, smooth, fast, tireless, and other great swimming adjectives. Apparently, however, that was so last week because this morning I had forgotten how to swim. My head was moving all over the place, my hips (which you should know are made of stone) were not even rotating as miniscule-y as they normally do, my hands were entering at bizarre angles, and I kept getting other people's hair caught in my nose clip (yes people, a nose clip...i keep all the orifices plugged during the swim). It was really just wrong. Meg and I were splitting a lane and I kept thinking, "she's kicking my ass, swimming like a freaking sting ray (you thought I was going to say dolphin...but that was just too obvious). Anyway, 30 minutes in we decided to do some 50 meter sprints. This seemed akin to asking our 5 month old to do a series of crawl sprints given that she doesn't even turn over yet. Remember, I had forgotten how to swim!

The sprints went well, I remembered how to swim, yada yada yada, we got out of the pool. Yeah, I know, a lot of story build up for a really awkward and disappointing punch line.

Next we were off to our 1 hour spin class...with Jeoff (clearly a gay boy because what straight boy spells Jeoff with an O?). He was AWESOME! It was seriously like Queer as Folk meets American Flyer or Breaking Away (whichever 80's cycling movie you prefer) meets A Chorus Line! This is the only spin class with three acts, people! This guy is a true performer and a kick ass trainer. And, let me just share that the class was full of all his wanna-be 'fag hags' (which i say with all the love, respect, admiration, and campiness that both fags and hags deserve)...so much fun! Anyway, he was as you would expect of a white, gay boy trainer in his late 30's....super-buff, cut, tan, fun salt-n-pepper spiky hair, great dancer, and high high energy! The music was great...Cher (of course), club music (unrecognizable to this 38 year-old once-lesbian-identified queer girl and mommy), and a sweet 80's rock mix. He began the class, or should I say his opening number, was dancing through the rows of the 20 of us, bouncing up and down, and pouncing onto his spin bike with the agility of a puma, and then proceeding to pedal in a way that can only be compared to the blurry circle that is the Roadrunner's legs.

And with a Meep Meep....we went from 0 to 'oh-my-god-i-fucking-want-to-die-but-he-is-so-fun-that-i-want-him-to-like-me-and-be-my-best-friend-so-i'll-keep-pedaling-even-though-my-power-bar-is-going-to-make-an-uncredited-appearance' in 60 seconds. The class was great...I left wetter (from sweat) than I was when we were swimming. And, then came our mistake. We thought that his performance meant he was nice, kind, perhaps humble and would maybe even be polite to someone paying him a compliment. What made us think this? We are part of many queer and straight communities....we've seen boys like him before. He was performing, performing Jen...and now the performance was over, AND SCENE! He could not have been less interested in our feeble attempt at becoming his best friend and the worst part is, I (a pseudo-intellectual, doctoral student, with a penchant for words) said "funnest" in a sentence. All we could do was shamefully leave the spinning theater and hold onto the genius that was his performance.

Then we ran for 20 minutes....no great stories...I partially blame Jeoff for my lack of creativity during the run.

Tomorrow....we rest...actually Meg works, I take care of Lucy, and the parents arrive on the scene. Until then...