Frenchman on a Hybrid

It happened again today. I "raced" another unsuspecting middle-aged cyclist. We had a brief encounter when I whizzed past him on a downhill, me tucked into my aerobars, him coasting on his hybrid. I said a quick hello and he raised a hand in response.

Given his pace at the time I passed him, I was surprised when he caught up to me at the light at the bottom of the hill. "You have a very nice bike. Cervelo, very nice." He smiled. His accent was distinctly French. He asked how I liked my bike and I gushed briefly before the light turned green. As I looked down to clip into my pedal, I took inventory of my appearance - Sidi shoes, Pearl Izumi jacket, Rudy Project sunglasses. Oh no, I looked like one of those spoiled Americans with expensive toys and clothes that I really don't need. I realized that if the Frenchman passed me on the upcoming hill, on a hybrid for godsakes, he'd have all the proof he needed. So, I bolted ahead, heart rate soaring immediately.

It wasn't long before I realized that the cold and, more recently, stomach bug I'd caught left me without much time to train over the last month. I was out of shape and the Frenchman was gaining on me. I could hear his wheels behind me. Suddenly my little neighborhood hill felt like Alp Duez. My lungs burned. The top, at last. I caught a glimpse of him as I made my turn. He was about 100 yards back, barely breaking a sweat. My victory was bittersweet. I am one of those spoiled Americans with expensive toys and clothes that I really don't need. And I love them. :)

Senora, Pee Pee!

At last, a story! It's from my trip last month to Surf Las Olas, a surf safari for women on the Pacific coast of Mexico. I'm belated in posting the story due to a nasty respiratory bug that wiped me out for more than three weeks and coincided with a break-up with my boyfriend and return to piles of work at the office. Needless to say, it's been a rough few weeks. Fortunately, it always brings a smile to my face to think back to one particular afternoon on the trip.

My mother/travel companion had been talking about going horseback riding since we'd arrived in the small village of Sayulita. We'd arranged a small outing with some other Las Olas girls the evening of our day trip to Punta de Mita. The trip had involved several hours of surfing and sunning, followed by an incredibly strong pina colada consumed on the van trip back to Sayulita. I'd been coaxed into the drink despite my protests ("I just took cold medicine," "I'm a lightweight," "it's a bumpy ride!"). It was explained that the extra drink was free and I was obligated to partake. It tasted like rum with a spash of coconut.

We arrived in Sayulita with only a few minutes to change before meeting the horses and our guide, Juan. I realized as I mounted my steed that I was a wee bit intoxicated from the potent drink. I looked over at my mother negotiating her horse and giggled. She'd sworn she'd ridden before and wasn't afraid of horses, but she was clearly uneasy in her saddle and had somehow communicated to Juan, whose English was on par with her Spanish, that he should hold onto the rope attached to her horse. He obliged her and rode slowly in front of her, pulling her lazy horse behind him. Neither horse nor guide seemed pleased, and my mother narrated the situation with "whoa's" and "easy now's."

Half an hour later, while some of us enjoyed a gallop along the beach, Juan dismounted his horse, tied my mother's to a tree, and began to walk away. I approached the scene to observe my mother, somewhat panicked, question him about where he was going. Clearly she could not understand his Spanish. Finally, he hollered, "Senora, pee pee, PEE PEE!!" and took off into the woods. My mother still looked befuddled. "Mom," I said, "the man needs to take a piss."

I'm sure the alcohol made the scene ever so much more funny for me, but I still find it amusing. My mother is the kind of travel companion who is up for anything, but often isn't sure what she's getting into. It always makes for a good story.