The Suck

I used to think I had things to say. Looking back I probably didn't and I certainly don't now. How that switch came about I'm not exactly sure, but it's probably having to do with my expectations of what is interesting.

Mostly I find I bore myself when I write. I try to have interesting thoughts and ideas to write about but...there's nothing.

Where was I going with this?

I can't remember but there's a quote, this quote by AJ Jacobs - whoever that is: Embrace the Suck.

Not the suck like "I suck"...

Sucks to suck, Eric

...but the hard uncomfortable stuff, the boring stuff that brings about results that aren't boring - the 4:30AM wake ups, going to the gym where you don't have any friends, eating the spinach, not eating all the things that you want to eat - all the things! - running when it's 5 degrees, going to bed early. Those things...they suck. They are gritty and beautiful and satisfying but then I'm like "It's Thursday and I DON'T WANT TO DO THAT. Any of that. I want to eat bread and chocolate and binge read fiction books and online shopping and not do anything at all on my To Do list. Sometimes I basically go to my Do Not Do list and do all those things - every one of them - because I look at that and I'm like Look at all these great things! and YOU CAN'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO and then I'm like WHY DO I SUCK MY LIFE IS FALLING APART and it's like Yeah well they were on the Do Not Do list for a reason and now you're sad and chubby. Should have listened to your rational self who wrote the Do Not Do List in a moment of clarity and ambition.

My life.

So yeah but what AJ was talking about was the gritty stuff, the stuff that only sucks when you're thinking about having to do it right now, but once you start you're exhilarated and once you're done you're happy and healthy. Those are the things I'm trying to do.

Who knew?

Embrace the suck.

I don't know if it ever stops sucking, but eventually you give up arguing with yourself about it, which really is the exhausting part, and don't even acknowledge that there is another option so it's no longer "This sucks" it's just "This is what I'm doing now". Wish we could just skip to that part. But that beginning This Sucks phase is part of the suck that must be embraced and so can't be skipped. At first my whiny side is all You want me to do what?! Don't be ridiculous! Have a nap, you're clearly unwell. Eventually, if the rational gritty self wins out enough, the whiny side tries a wheedling But...but...but...naps! And pastries! And eventually it just gives a perfunctory No but already knows the battle is lost. Or won. And my bad ass self is like YEAH SUCK IT.

Also, I really miss riding my fucking bike (swearing is on the Do Not Do list but pretty sure it's the only thing on the list I haven't accomplished yet today and I like to be thorough). And I miss being at the point where I was fit enough that riding was fun. But anyway it's snowy and I don't have a fat bike and all my friends who ride are in another town so it's all beside the point. Moving is disruptive, everybody, I don't recommend it unless you're an adultier adult than I. Which is likely, let's be honest.

OK. Tomorrow I'll try to accomplish the other list. ONLY BEGIN. It's the only hard part, truth be told.

Embrace the suck! Be all THIS SUCKS...yeahhhhh, isn't it great?

And it was happy

There is an old fashioned and unremarkable magic about Galena.

It never fails to provide a refreshing elixir of simplicity, nonsense, community, acceptance, laughter and all other such things. TV doesn't play in the background because there isn't a TV. No one is huddled in exclusive seclusion on the couch engrossed in their phone because there's no cell service or WiFi. That leaves so much room for engaging with one another. That's all there is, really. Everyone there is everyone's priority. What a strange and wonderful concept.

Snapshots from the last day of the year, in no particular order and with no great quality:

Ryan and I weren't quite as thrilled about the special New Year's drink as some of the others. We sipped bravely until the countdown had passed and then abandoned ship.

They were huddled together engrossed in wedding pictures and memories, so I said "Hey look at me".

The important thing is that I was included.

It was after midnight when Rob and Seth were animatedly discussing something in the other room, and I said to Ryan "How can they still have so much to talk about this late into the night??" "Who knows," he shrugs, and then we returned to our own animated discussion about books, the irony escaping us. There's always something to talk about in Galena.

Looking in,
windows of warmth.

Looking out, pipe smoke on the porch in the woodsmoke tinged cold.

That interesting picture.
Look at it.

The most magnificent god-awful white elephant gifts. They will be conversation starters forever now.

We made it until 1:30AM. We were all fading and sleepy but ended up congregated in a circle around the wood stove, loathe to leave the warmth of the conversation and fire for the cold bedrooms. But by and by we bid goodnight. Gwen had gone up earlier and turned on the electric blanket on my bed so it was warm and ready and I drifted off cozy and happy.

In the morning everyone wandered down, one by one. Coffee percolated on the stove and after good mornings we each ended up picking up the nearest book to hand and reading in quiet companionship, sometimes making remarks or sharing something we found interesting. When coffee was ready and passed around and everyone was more awake, conversation picked up...

...of books and anarchy and old family recipes and how people in Spain have a different concept of time than we do.

And that's how I welcomed in the new year.
That's pretty alright.

Hope everyone's was as happy, in their own way.

January is coming

The cold days, the dark days.
It is, to borrow a line from Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, "A kind of nowhere, famous for nothing at all and has an appeal because of just that."

It's always the culmination of a story and a goodbye session and hope.
There are so many 4:30AMs in January.
I'm rather looking forward to it.

A beginning

Once upon a time I lived in a small town called Spearfish. When I left there I went many places and saw many things and this and that happened and yadda yadda until one day, many years later, I came back to this small town. It was the same and maybe, for all the years, I am too.

I find myself moving into a loft-like studio apartment - which I, in all my shining ingenuity, am calling The Loft - in a nice and, moreover, convenient part of town, a block from the bike path and park and three blocks from the Blackbird coffee shop (where I am now).

Blackbird

I've been staying with some (new) friends in Sand Creek, in a pretty little guest cottage where the sound of the creek lulls me to sleep every night. Although it's been lovely, I'm very much looking forward to moving into town and settling into a place of my own, even though the loft doesn't have a porch. About which I'm trying not to be bitter. Bitter, party of one!

Moving, albeit exciting, is always unsettling and I'm finding my bearings in this new life while trying to enjoy the process and reminding myself it can be anything I choose to make it. Moves are good for fresh starts and new beginnings and first impressions. What do I want to be? I ask myself. Kind. I want to be kind, and adventurous, and to do whatever I do with all my heart.

I haven't done much so far since the move but here are some quick snapshots of the company I've kept and the things I've done:

Me and Mom - she helped me settle into the cottage and generally kept me company that first night and day. Thank goodness.

Me and Jesus: roommate at the cottage

Me and Cows:

Me and Spearfish Canyon:

...which lead me to Me and Pancakes:

And I'll just leave you with this video.
I know things here will be OK because how could they not with people like this in my life:

The other side of the counter

I'm wearing dirty, holey jeans, work boots, and a worn out thermal shirt. It's raining to beat the band. I drive up 9th street and out of habit unhesitatingly go straight at the light, toward the back parking lot of the place-formerly-known-as-Bully Blends. I chuckle, a little sadly, and whip a u-ey and park in front of the shop.

Inside, the new owner greets me and introduces me to the baristas, saying "She worked here for eight years!" as though it's something. It was nice of her to do that.

Pete waves from the kitchen, grinning, happy to see me as though it's been a year instead of a day.

I place my order, and take a loyalty card.

There are a few long standing Bully Blends customers there, and I go to say hi. They are adjusting to the changes, too, and it's surprisingly hard for some. Some people have hung out at the Blends every day for years. They ask me about things, and I smile brightly and talk positively about the new changes and new adventures. They look at me with wide eyed compassion, seeing beyond the smile the raw side of goodbye. I smile bigger and look away, their understanding making it harder. I loved mornings when I would walk into the shop and know by name every single customer there. Most of the time I knew their stories. Sometimes I had their numbers in my phone.

Pete follows me out, and we chat a little out under the awning as the steady rain listens in. "Don't be a stranger!" he calls after me as I go, "Come by the house!"

When I left the shop the day before, the last time as an employee, it felt as you'd imagine and I was lost and sad. On my phone I had a text from a friend asking if I wanted to ride. So we did, and as usual riding saved the day and I was OK.

But that was Thursday, and on a rainy Friday I started a new job, a new chapter.

Things feel strange, unreal, unfamiliar.
I'm a little adrift, like I'm doing things but not for any particular reason.
Not unhappy. Transient.

I joined Tim - new boss, old friend - for lunch at the place formerly known as Bully Blends. He sat in his usual spot at the bar, where he has sat every day for years. Usually I stand on the other side of the bar chatting. Some days all the stools would be full of guys I knew from riding. Some of the employees called it "Jaralei's fan club". Now I sit next to Tim, having soup and coffee, same as he, part of the bar lunch group. I'm part of my own fan club.

What will I do?
I don't know.
I don't know what I'll be doing in June.
Or in the fall.
Or next year.

But - that's OK. It's OK. I'll figure it out.
And I'm always up for an adventure.

This ephemeral life

(Conversations at work, March 2011
Me: Look, Pete, I tidied the baking area.
Pete: Looks great! Now it'll be hard for anyone to find something to bitch about, though. I think I'll just urinate on the floor. Someone will say "It looks like someone pissed on the floor in here!" And I'll say "Don't be ridiculous.")

Goodbye, Bully Blends

I'm sitting in a dark and empty Bully Blends, long after closing time, as I have countless times throughout the years. I've always liked being here - and in our old building - alone after hours. Something about the quiet that contrasts, yet echoes, with the bustling camaraderie of the day that I always found appealing. 

It's the last time. 

Mostly I don't want to write anything at all. What to say about eight years? There's nothing that can commemorate. I remember that cold November night I walked into Bully's with my application in hand. I remember what I was wearing, and that Pete and Aida and I talked in the tea room, and they hired me on the spot.

"You know," Pete said last week to me, "other than Aida, I've spent more time with you these past eight years than anyone."

Yes. I know. Me too.

They were never just employers.

On the last day, we all laughed, and if it was a little louder than usual, no one seemed to notice.

I walked slowly beside the shelves of teas, trying to decide which of my favorites I'd like to take. I know them all by heart, like old friends. Funny to feel the need to say goodbye to jars of tea.

I've met some of my dearest friends because of working at Bully Blends, which has lead to some of my most amazing experiences. Customers, coworkers. Friends I'll have for life. Our Bully Blends motto is "Meet your friends at Bully Blends!", and it's been that for me - a place to meet new friends.

It was never just a job.

Bully's has been such a haven for me - friendship, color, laughter, family, coffee, belonging. It's hard to say goodbye. It's time, it's not that it's wrong or bad in any way. But it's hard. There will always be a little Bully Blends spot in my heart.

I wish I knew how to write to capture all the memories, all the faces through the years. The shared pots of teas, the inside jokes, the quiet mornings chatting over cups of coffee. We always had things to talk about every morning, even though - how much could possibly have happened since yesterday? But there's too much. And I'll just have to be content to know it happened, and to savor the memories.

Memories, now. Remember that one time I worked at a coffee and tea shop? Remember how we laughed? How we knew all the customers by name, knew their stories?

The end of an era. This bright little world becomes another chapter ended.

(As Pete leaves at the end of the day he often calls out Let's do this again real soon!
Tomorrow? I respond. Same time, same place?)

Goodbye, Bully Blends.
Thanks for everything.

Dennis and Kiki To the Rescue

The morning had started out so promisingly. It was chill - there was frost on the ground, on the autumn leaves. It was still dark when I set out for my run, and the stars were stark and bright, gleefully disregarding the sliver of moon's eager but diminished glow.

Anyway nevermind all that. Before long I pulled a muscle in my calf and walked home.

After work I decided to go for a road ride to make up for the morning's unsuccessful workout.

I realized I'd forgotten my saddle bag with my road tools in my friend's car on my last road ride. I didn't want to take the time to go to the bike shop, as light fades fast these days, and I thought I could chance it because probably I wouldn't get a flat, right? But then I decided hope for the best but plan for the worst, I'd rather take 10 minutes to swing by the bike shop than have to walk-a-bike ten miles.

As it turns out it didn't matter because when I got the flat I looked at my CO2 cartridge only to discover in my haste I'd grabbed one with the wrong head - it wouldn't fit on my valve. Turns out that's an important detail. Who knew.

So there I was. On a beautiful Black Hills back road on a golden autumn evening with a broke down bike being scolded by a squirrel for loitering beneath his tree can it, squirrel, it's not like I stopped here on purpose. As you seem more mobile than I at the moment, why don't YOU move or come down here and help. Then he was all no YOU move and I was like YOU and so it went until someone pulled over and was like "Um can I help you?" and I was all I'M TALKING TO THIS RIGID SELFISH SQUIRREL DO YOU MIND and the guy looked concerned and mildly frightened as he pealed away. The squirrel snickered and I threw my tire lever at him and he sniffed, affronted, and finally scampered on.

Jaralei 1, Selfish Squirrel 0. Boo ya.

Then I realized I'd have to buy another tire lever and also maybe I'm not getting enough sleep and how long has it been since I've had a day off, again? Too long. Also evidenced when earlier in the day a customer had said "Have a great weekend!" and I was like "HEY F*CK YOU, BUDDY!"

OK none of that happened but I was stranded alongside the road with the starburst sun setting and an evening breeze cooling the sweat on my skin when a couple stopped and rolled down the windows of their beat up SUV and asked if I needed assistance. "As it turns out, I do. I have the wrong air" I said, which wasn't really what I meant to say and the guy was like "Really? What kind of air d'you need?"

They had a big dirty dog in the back but said if I'd wait they lived just up the road they'd unload the dog and the groceries and come back for me. "I'll be here", I said. "We'll come back," they said, "we will."

They were plain, scruffy, homely, simple backwoods true blue South Dakotans.
You know the type.

I put on my jacket and sat aside the bike and occasionally cars went by and most of them stopped to ask if I were OK because it is, after all, South Dakota. For a moment I thought I could hop in with anyone but then the first two might worry. Because I knew they'd come back, like they said.

For a moment I thought about being upset, about my trying hard to get into shape and being thwarted on my run that morning and thwarted now on my ride this evening but then discarded that as a useless line of thinking and besides the evening was lovely.

When they did come back we loaded up my bike and I climbed into the back and we chatted about the nice fall weather for a minute or two and this or that and how much we all loved the Black Hills, in any season. And then the man said he'd lived in Hill City all his life and how he'd hiked everywhere. Dennis his name was, Dennis and Kiki, was her name.

When Dennis talked he sometimes turned all the way around to look full at me, for much longer than I was comfortable with him taking his eyes off the road. But I suppose when you've driven that road for your entire life you just know the way, taking the turns by feel.

In his enthusiasm, which was a great thing to behold, Dennis didn't just nod his head, he nodded with his head and his shoulders and his entire torso, up and down up and down he bobbed "Absolutely! Absolutely!" he'd say.

We got to talking about the mines when I said I enjoyed hiking and finding the old mines and he bobbed up and down and up and down and said "Absolutely!" and Kiki agreed and for every mine I mentioned that I knew, they knew two or three I'd never even heard of, or called by name ones I'd come across that I'd always wondered about. And when I said I liked Ingersol, that it was one of my favorites, Dennis bobbed and said "Oh yeah, I used to visit my Dad when he worked at that mine."

(this one, the Ingersol:)

"What?!" I exclaimed. "What?! You were at the Ingersol when it was operational?!" I couldn't believe mine ears. "What...what was it like?" "Big," Dennis said, "big and loud."

And when I asked about Lou, the last gold panner in the Hills, they said yes they knew him and that all that stuff Lou had had, the old mining stuff he'd "acquired", they had now. "You mean...Lou's dead?" I asked. "Yes," they said. "He died a month ago. Very sad."

(This one - Lou, the last gold panning miner in the Hills):

RIP, Lou, I regret not going back to gold pan with you, as invited

And they talked about the local calenders and coins they had from 1923, and the mining equipment and rocks all around their property, and how much the Hills have changed over the years.

By the end of the twelve mile drive back to Keystone we were fast friends and exchanging phone numbers and promises that as soon as I get a day off I can call them up and they'll show me all their old treasures and take me exploring.

All in all it was a great break down. I texted Tim while I was sitting there by the road and later told him it had all worked out for the best because I'd met some great people and he said "You always seem to do that" and at first I wondered what he meant and then I remembered Lusk and smiled to think how my "disappointing" break downs do seem to have such refreshing endings.

I can't help but think how fortunate I was to break down on Old Hill City Road today, and that of all people at all times these two happened by. I can't wait to hang out with Dennis and Kiki and hear more of their stories of these Hills I love and the way things used to be.

Stay tuned, I'm sure there will be further posts in the Dennis and Kiki adventure series.
I hope.

Maybe I should break down even more often.

36 Hours Later

Dirt Baggery in the Desert, Pt. 3

Chronologically, this post comes after 37 miles from nowhere.

See also Dirt Baggery in the Desert, Pt. 1, and Dirt Baggery in the Desert, Pt. 2.

After this there will be one more post, the one of Moab. And then I'll be all caught up and... ready to go back!

36 hours later I woke up in the back of my car - the back of a stranger's car, the one I borrowed for 2,000 miles. It was cold, and out the windshield the sky was lightening in shades of pink that told me east was over there. There was a strange tree silhouetted against the pink - pinyon? I think so. I can't believe I'm beholding a pinyon tree. Edward Abbey described them so many times. It's how I imagined it.

I'd wanted to camp for free in the wilderness - why pay for camping when there's free solitary camping to be had? - but when I mentioned this to Pete in passing while telling him about the sun shower I meant to buy, he said nonchalantly "Oh sure, a woman alone showering naked in the wilderness. What could possibly go wrong?"

So, I decided to forgo that plan out of consideration of my friend's concern and my mother's mental health.

After leaving Lusk the morning before, in the Camry which a wonderful woman - the friend of a friend of a friend - loaned us out of the goodness of her heart in a gesture that single handedly restored my faith in humanity, my Mom and I met my cousin in Denver. Mom and I said goodbye  as she drove off with my cousin and I continued on this adventure on my own.

I was suddenly more nervous than excited.
I had butterflies in my stomach.

For a mile or so I followed my cousin's car down I25, then they continued south as I headed west.

The mountains were there, to the west, with solitary snow storms hanging low over some peaks, and as I drove toward them they grew closer and larger quickly until suddenly I was amongst them and they were sucking me in and I was quickly gaining altitude. The trees were covered in freshly fallen snow, the sky was low and heavy, the mountains were overwhelming, intimidating and so big, with a pristine, aloof beauty that left me feeling breathless and somehow frightened and so very small and alone.

Forgive the quality, these next few shots were shot through car windows while driving

But soon I settled in and my spirits rose to the occasion and soared again on the wings of adventure, listening to my audio book and completely enchanted with the passing landscape: frozen blue waterfalls cascading unmoving down rock ledges, picturesque little towns nestled into ravines and gullies, towering peaks, quaint ski chalets.

And then I was over the mountain's summit and heading down, and as the sun started sinking to its home in the west the landscape changed swiftly and I left the snow behind and the mountains became foothills and the trees thinned and became red rocks and sage. I soaked it all in to my very soul, as the road took me ever westward, to the desert. The terrain flattened, sunset came and went, dusk settled in and I ran a losing race against darkness.

I pulled into Fruita sometime after 9PM and made my way to the campground up outside of town, parked the car, climbed into the backseat and fell asleep.

Now, this pink and chilly morning, I layer up and go outside to survey my surroundings. I'm on top of a plateau, surrounded by a deep canyon with red rocks and sage, and with a view of the Fruita valley and the surrounding Book Cliffs. I'm in a campground, up and up a sinuous road, in Monument park. No showers, but bathrooms with - very cold - running water.

I ready my bike, my riding gear, my water - hard sought, as it had been too cold for the campground to turn their spickets on yet - and food for the whole day, then head back down that road into town, out of town, a few miles down the interstate to the Kokopelli trails, where I'm meeting my companions for the next three days.

All day the wind blows and the clouds skitter grey above this landscape I can barely tear my eyes from in order to focus on the instructor and our drills.

Where we hung out the first day

For three days we listen and question and discuss and do drills, up and down that gravel road and the next two days in a parking lot in town.

It was... crazy, amazing to be focusing on mountain biking all. day. long. Talking and learning and showing and trying and ... just mountain biking, it was the thing, it's what we did, three days straight. It was a dream.

And in the afternoons... then, we'd ride.

For three days, me and these four guys shared laughs and stories and donuts and water, cheered each other on, offered encouragement and advice, chuckled together at riders wearing skinny jeans - no lie - and watched and judged other riders ride poorly over sections we'd just learned to clear.

Andy, the instructor, was an exquisite, beautiful rider, so much finesse and ingenuity.

Such beautiful landscape. Such good companions. Such a time, those days.

At night I fell into my sleeping bag, dusty and cold, exhausted, my head full of information and my lungs and soul full of fresh desert air. I slept as the raging wind from the canyon rattled the tent and lulled me to sleep. I didn't think or dream.

I was happy, content to be there, content to breath, to sleep, to exist, knowing that somewhere up ahead was another tomorrow filled with more ...being.