What would you do if...

* This blog is about Dan, but this picture really has nothing to do with it. It only shows his rockin' stache from our trip to St. George. (This picture was taken after Dan built an amazing unicorn pinata)

* Dan deleted the original picture I chose for this entry. Therefore, please enjoy a wonderful picture of Dan at Pearl Harbor.

I don't know why I haven't blogged about this before, but my husband loves to play this bizarre game of "What would you do if...?" This game can range from: "What would you do if you found out that I was really a woman?" to "What would you do if you came home and I left you a note saying 'I had joined the circus?'" To be honest, I don't know where this game came from. It's not like we were on a long road trip and started asking each other all these thought provoking questions, while watching the sun set, and the game just continued. Instead, I think this game has evolved more into a bizarre interview Dan has been conducting with absolutely no goal in mind and no end in sight.

Therefore, I have resigned to the fact that I have two choices of action. One, I can, slap him every time he presents one of his ridiculous situations. Or two, I can take the higher road, and explore these intriguing questions. For example, I can ask in return, "Now that you are a woman, will you have our baby?" Or when he asked me, last time we were at the beach, what I would do if he disappeared swimming and then called me ten years later and told me he was really in Canada the whole time - I could ask, "Why did you choose Canada? Why not swim somewhere warm?"

So, I know what you all are thinking. Yes, I'm a lucky girl. And, yes, I'm prepared for anything that might hit my marriage because we have literally talked through every situation. Dan now knows my limits and my reactions, and that is through simple communication. Come to think of it, without Dan's constant and loving inquiries we might not have the honesty and trust we have in our marriage.

So, I encourage you, next time you are with someone special you ask them this: What would they do if you murdered their brother or what would they do if, while they slept, you tattooed their face with a giant pirate. Not sure how they would react? I know what I would do. Come on people, start talking and listening.

Ruthie

Six years ago, while I was in Mongolia, my Grandma Frost passed away. For my entire life she lived more than 2,000 miles away, and yet, I always felt like we had a very close relationship. She was a woman with a great sense of humor, a great style and unlike most old people, she smelled amazing and probably drove faster than I do right now. As a little kid I loved visiting their old home in Kaysville, Utah. It was always stocked with licorice, coke and all kinds of treats.

When I was a young girl I remember she came to visit and we had a "just for girls" tea party with coke and cookies. I remember watching the sparkle in her eye as she toasted my tea cup and proclaimed being with the girls was always the best time.

When I was born my parents decided to honor my Grandma by giving me her name of Ruth as my middle name. For some reason I never liked that name. It always seemed too old fashioned to me. However, when I got to college my teammates decided (because they were too many Kates on our team) that I would go by Ruthie. At first I tried to fight this decision, and then came to love my new nickname. For four years, I only answered to Ruth or Ruthie or BabyRuth on and off the field.

Sometime during college I got in a very strange game with my Grandma. We started to play a game of flipping each other off. I used to love to see her roar with laughter as I would show her different ways to give the bird. I think her favorite one was when I would blow on my thumb and my middle finger would appear. You haven't lived until you've seen a woman in her eighties give you the finger from across the kitchen.

Lastly, I remember my Grandma always being so interested in my life. She was there when I first entered the world, she comforted me when I said good-bye to my first crush (this should be a whole other entry..."When Kate thought she met the man she was going to marry at 18."), she was one of the first people to say I could do it in Mongolia, and I know, she was there when I did marry the love of my life a year and a half ago.

She was an incredible woman, and I will always try to honor and live up to her name. I miss you Ruthie.

A Weekend With The Family

Last night we returned from a fun filled weekend with my family. As always an extra hour was added to our trip because of the Fruit Inspection Station. I'm sorry, I absolutely despise this place, and I swear, I will one day get out of my car and sucker punch one of those idiotic attendants. I mean seriously, if this inspection station was stopping people from bringing in different forms of cancer or radioactive meat, I would fully support it and wait patiently in line. BUT, to be stopped just so you can be waved through...frustrates me beyond words.






Anyway, (sorry for the outburst) I would have to say the highlight of the weekend was watching my sweet mama conquer The Narrows at Zions National Park. Prior to entering the trail I think my mom was a little nervous, but by the end she was an absolute pro. Here's some pictures of our adventure.
Here's Barb entering The Narrows.
Three generations of Soulier Women. (From left to right) Annie, Elisa, Kate, Mom
It looks like I'm helping her...but, really I think I've fallen in The Narrows about a 100 times.

My second favorite part of the trip was this...a picture really does say a thousand words.
My third favorite of the trip was hanging with Baby A. (Who is actually sponsored by Nike...yes, everything she is wearing is Nike)

Excuse Me

Alright I'll admit it, I've been listening to the first book from the Twilight Series. And, I sort of like it. At first it was just an easy thing to listen to on my way from Salt Lake to LA, but then it became something more. So, listen up Emily Madsen because this is for you: I like the teenie bopper love story between a conflicted vampire and a misfit girl from Arizona. I like how the worst swear word to be muttered by Bella (yeah that's the protagonist) is "crow," and how there is a lot of hand holding instead of gratuitous sex scenes. I like how I can guess what is about to happen and the vocabulary used is not to difficult to understand. And, YES I read all the Harry Potter books! And, YES, I watched The Hills premier, and yes, I'm excited for the new 90210. And, YES, I sat through the entire movie of Catwoman, and yes, I still listen to Janet Jackson's Rhythm Nation and find myself dancing in front of the mirror, and yes, I cry every freaking time they unveil the new home on Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and yes, I think that Step Up 1 had better character development and writing, and yes, I still think Dirty Dancing is the best movie ever made, and yes, I floss every night, and yes, I wear my retainers still, and yes, I thought the Youth Conference during my 14th year was one of the greatest weekends of my life, and yes, I will probably read the other Twilight books. And yes, I'm voting for Edward.

So, yeah, I'm 29, and I have some guilty pleasures. Can we still be friends?

The Monkey or The Ring

As I mentioned before, recently, I made a huge step in my marriage by taking my husband's name. For this kind, though slightly late, gesture, I have asked my husband to return the favor and get a wedding ring. Well, this has actually been an ongoing request, but I think the name change has finally given me some leverage.

It's not that Dan has never owned a ring. For the first six months of our marriage Dan sported a stylish wedding ring from Walmart. (A day before our wedding we realized in the craziness of getting married we neglected to order or find Dan a ring. Therefore, while running errands we made a fateful detour into Walmart, and after refusing to get a ring with the Mexican flag on it, we chose a simple symbol of our love. Unfortunately, six months later, while surfing, Dan's ring came flying off. He claims he was bringing things full circle because he was surfing where we went before we got engaged. What can I say I married a sentimental man?

Anyway, now more than a year later, I can't get him to get a new ring. First, it was we were saving for a boat. Then it was the fact he likes to, "keep his options open when traveling," and then he was thinking of investing in a lucrative talking monkey. (Okay, I made that last one up, but I'm sure he'll use it at some point.)

So, the other night I finally made him look at rings online. Here gives you an idea of what I'm dealing with. This is the ring he liked because he said, "I have a heritage to represent." (For those of you not of the Scottish background, these rings are from the Celtic line.)

Oh and he wanted to engrave, "Are you happy now?"

...The Scottish can be so stubborn.

Barbara and Mike

So, today is my parent's 42nd wedding anniversary. 42 years ago my mom, a young girl from Kaysville, Utah, got on a train and followed my dad west to Chattanooga, Tennessee. I wonder if they had any idea what their life was about to become? Did they know they would live back east for more than 35 years? Could they picture their first child would be a blonde boy named Jason, and their second son named Matt would struggle with health concerns? Did my mom know her wish of having daughters would come true twice...at once? Did they envision their white home with black shudders surrounded by trees? Or could they see that far off into retirement, impending marriages and little grandkids? Probably not, but I'm sure glad my mom got on that train.

Congratulations you two romantics.

Who Ya Gonna Call?

So, I'm pretty convinced that we have a ghost in our apartment. No, I'm not covered in green slime, or have I seen a floating woman in our kitchen, but something very strange keeps happening. On each side of our bed are these awesome touch lamps. (You know the kind that you touch to either brighten or turn off). Anyway, lately, while we are asleep or away from the apartment, they turn on by themselves. It completely freaks me out to come home and see the light on, or wake up in the middle of the night to this mysterious lamp. The other night I woke up twice to this eerie light and eventually had to pull the plug...oh, and sleep with one eye open.

I know what you are thinking...it's not a ghost, but just an innocent malfunction. I wish I could agree, but among the many abnormal things about me, I also have a very acute paranoia in regards to anything supernatural, anything fictionally displayed in a movie, any article I read about a real murder, anything terrifying I see in a trailer for a movie, any story I invent when I see a crazed homeless person outside my home, any scary story told around ANY campfire and every comment Dan makes to scare me. I'm utterly a little girl when it comes to anything borderline scary.

So, say what you will, but I'm convinced. Dan agrees with me. (Or is just trying to play on my abnormal paranoia...)

Mrs. Hick

After approximately 559 days of being married I am now officially a Hick. As I was sitting in the social security office I started to think about what took me so long to make this official change. Did it finally take me this long to conclude that I could still love Dan even though 4 out of 7 days he leaves his towel on the floor in the morning? Was I just really attached to a last name people mispronounced for 27 years? Or was it something deeper? To be honest, it was two things. One, I'm just lazy. Two, about three years back I got a really good picture on my license. I know it sounds ridiculous, but this doesn't happen very often.

I remember my first license picture in good ol' Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. I was 16 years old and I think I was wearing a Grateful Dead T-Shirt. (Not sure if that detail is relevant, but more a random memory). Anyway, I had nailed the written exam, paralleled parked and was about to be granted my plastic certificate of freedom...when I completely froze in front of the camera. I remember I was torn between a big smile and a serious face. I just wanted to find the right balance that would say to the first cop, that pulled me over, "Don't write that ticket, I was speeding because I'm rushing to do my community service." Unfortunately, my indecision resulted in a mug shot of a misguided, drug addicted 16 year old, who was wanted in three states for either murder or fleeing an accident. (I just couldn't pinpoint the exact story based on the semi curved lip and beety eyes)

I remember when the DMV worker turned the screen so I could see the picture and asked, "Do you want me to take another one?" Again, I was torn. Did I want to take another picture? Absolutely. However, I also didn't want to come off as a narcissistic 16 year old, so I sheepishly responded, "No, looks great."

There are few days I regret, and this would definitely be one of them. Do you remember when you finally got your license, and everyone asked to see yours? Yeah, I didn't pull mine out much. I remember the one day I decided to chance my friends' charity and pulled out my disgraceful license. Instantly, everyone started to laugh and asked if my picture was also posted at the local post office. Kids...so cruel.

So, when I went to the DMV in Salt Lake, a few years back to get my new license, I was prepared. I was tan, I had just got my hair done and that morning in the bathroom I had perfected the right balance of "not trying too hard, but keeping it real." Consequently, I finally possessed a respectable license. I just couldn't give this up. Can lightning really strike twice?

Dan, the sacrifices I make for the marriage...

A Tenth of a Point

Last night Dan and I watched the preliminary round of gymnastics. After watching a few routines of puberty stunted girls, flip around and fall out of bounds I thought about a couple of things. 1. Who decided that turning children into muscle mutants would be a fun sport to watch? 2. How come they still have to end an even bad routine with their arms up in the air? Can't they just put their heads down in shame and walk away? 3. Shouldn't the US Gymnastics Association (USGA) send out a pamphlet right before the Olympics explaining what constitutes a "good" job vs. "bad job? I mean, in my estimation if they land on their two feet at some point after doing two twists, a flip and a cartwheel that should be "okay." 4. (This is really the thought I fixated on the most) How do the announcers do it for gymnastics? When initially a girl falls, they are completely silent and then they'll say something ghostly calm like, "Hmm...falling on her back and breaking her spine will definitely cost her a tenth of a point." I couldn't do it. If I saw a chick, bedazzled in a colorful leotard, falling to her death while trying to reach for an uneven bar, I would scream out something like, "Holy crap, I think she's going to die." Or "Son of B. Don't look America." Or make some semblance of sounds like, "Ca, Ca ga AHHH," while gripping the arm of my co-host. (That's basically what I do when I watch it with Dan) I just don't know how they stay so calm and callous.

Also, I would not only yell out things, but I would probably have to take it a step further. I would probably say something like, "Poor Chelsey. Did you know her parents sold their home, quit their jobs, put their other children up for adoption and moved to Texas so she could come to the Olympics? I wonder what they are thinking right now watching their child add more chalk to her hands after falling off the balance beam for the second time? I bet they are thinking, 'Yep, hon, it's just a little more chalk that's going to bring our home back.'" Too much? Okay, so I won't be calling the next gymnastics competition.

Great Legs, Bad Fashion Sense

Do you ever have moments where you wonder where you came from? You look at your parents and think, "Their genes are running through me?" Well, I had one of those moments a few weeks back. Fortunately, I had my camera. I will say, for 67, the man still has great legs...just really bad fashion sense.

The Barnyard Game

For the past two weeks I've been running lacrosse camps in Utah and California. It always seems like a good idea, and then about the third day of camp you find yourself thinking of ways to discreetly kill off a couple of campers. I don't know what some parents are thinking. In their hearts they must know that as a child they themselves were not coordinated, and therefore, the chances of passing on a dominant gene of "motor skills" to their child is probably slim to none. I just don't understand how some parents can have such blind faith in their children. I think I told one girl the same thing for three days straight, and not once...no not once...did I actually see her make the change I recommended. I did, however, receive a lot of nods and looks of understanding right before she went back to the bad habit. It took everything I had inside of me not to pull her aside and tell her to count how many four leaf clovers she could find in the grass until the end of camp. Camille, or Camille's mother, if you are out there, please let the lacrosse dream die. It ain't gonna happen.

Of course, there are some great kids that come to camp, who you love and mold and coach and mentor and blah, blah, blah. But...while you try to enjoy them...the coordination deficient kids make you just question your existence. Therefore, as coaches, you have to think of subtle ways to get back at these kids. I know, what you are thinking, this doesn't sound like what Gene Hackman would say in Hoosiers, or Kurt Russell in Miracle or Terrence Howard said in Pride, a compelling story of black swimmers (I'm trying to relate to all my readers). But, it's the truth.

Therefore, bring on the Barnyard Game. This is both a wonderful and demoralizing game at the same time. I recommend playing it with any co-workers, friends, neighbors or acquaintances who severely bother you. By the end you'll have the last laugh and that's really what life is all about.

First, place all your annoying counterparts on a line and give them different animals. I recommend using: horses, cows, cats, dogs, pigs and sheep. (Make sure no one finds out what animal their neighbor has...this creates the fun.) Now, here's the most important part of the game. Seek out the individual you can't stand the most. The one person you could condone being beaten by a crazed homeless person, and give them the prized animal of donkey. (Do you see where I'm going with this?) Now, place all the people on the ground randomly around a field. Tell them to get on all fours, close their eyes, and in order to win the game, they have to find their fellow animals by making the sound of that animal. Nothing brings more joy to me at the end of a long camp than hearing a bunch of kids snort like pigs and bark like dogs in order to find their partners. Oh, and watching the one donkey roam around, sounding like a complete a##, trying to find no one.

This game is for all ages and recommended at all times.

I'm Not Working Today

At the moment I'm staring at a floor covered in what I like to call "our weekend." Whenever we return from a weekend away our front room becomes a landmine of clothes, laundry, cameras and shoes. Typically, I have the energy on Monday morning to put all this chaos away, but today, I only feel motivated to lay on the couch and sleep until Dan gets home.

The reasons for this extreme case of lethargy are due to the after effects of coaching a lacrosse clinic on Thursday, biking 4o miles over two days, surfing on Saturday morning and filming my sister-in-law's wedding. (Oh, and eating everything that wasn't nailed down).

Here are some shots of the lovely bride and me filming her in my awesome dress. (I've filmed weddings before...doing it in a little black dress and heels, now that was a different experience.)












I finally put on shorts after flashing most of the wedding party and unsuspecting kids at the beach.

I would also like to thank Dan for being patient with my constant, "Danny...over here."... You were a wonderful grip.

Tales of Commuting

I've noticed that individuals commuting on bikes fall into three categories. 1. Homeless 2. Young people trying to be "green" 3. "Spanish speaking people" Fortunately, for me I've had some pretty cool run ins with each of these groups.

"The Homeless Encounter"
1. While parking my bike outside of the grocery store a homeless man struck up a conversation with me about my brakes. He told me that while riding from the shelter in Venice he finds his brakes take a while to start working. He then asked me if I knew the shelter on Sunset Blvd. For a moment I thought, "Does this guy think I'm homeless too because I'm riding a bike?" or "Does he think I'm homeless because I didn't shower that day?"

"The Green Encounter"
2. While riding to get some dinner Dan and I passed a biker wearing a fluorescent green jacket (with reflectors all over it), a white helmet (with a headlamp around it) and a flashing red light on the back of her bike. When she saw Dan and I riding with no reflectors or helmets she yelled, "You are both going to die. Helmet, Helmet. You are going to die." I wanted to thank her for the warnings...but I just couldn't see her.

"Mi Encounter Loco"
3. Yesterday I rode my bike from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills to get my hair done. While waiting for a light to change at the intersection of Wilshire and Rodeo Drive a group of Spanish speaking men rode up. Their faces looked absolutely shocked to see me on a bike. It was like they all were thinking, "Senorita, this is our mode of travel not yours." (Well, they probably thought the whole thing in Spanish, but "senorita" is the only thing I can remember from high school).

All I can say is again, get out on your bikes. You never know what you'll see or who you'll meet.

My Top 5

Monday night's concert of Coldplay got me thinking about all the concerts I've seen in my lifetime. I think I've seen almost forty different bands in concert. They have ranged from Metalica (which was disturbingly awesome) to the Dixie Chicks (which was the pre-Hate Bush Tour...so don't get mad Mom) and Wyclef Jean (which was a free concert I worked at as "security").

To non-music lovers, spending money on concerts may seem like a pointless activity. However, for me, a concert is a time when I can fully immerse myself in the beauty of music. (Well, not in the case of Wyclef. That was more an experience of shock watching a man rap to a mostly white crowd at Duke about the hood and pot).

Anyway, I've decided to list and describe my top 5 concerts.



1. My number one would have to be U2 at the Delta Center almost three years ago. Outside of The Who, I had been literally raised on U2. I can still remember my Dad taking my brother to his first U2 concert in Philadelphia and hearing about how Bruce Springsteen made a guest appearance. I remember the Joshua Tree Tour t-shirt Jason used to wear with a crew cut and camo pants, and I remember hearing all the details of when Matt touched Bono during the Zoo TV Tour. When I was 13, Matt offered to get me a ticket for a show in Philly, but my dad said I was too young...do you see where I'm going...I waited a loonnng time for this event.

Though the sound was slightly deafening in the Delta Center, it was absolutely amazing. I sang every word, danced every beat, and will forever be grateful to Jason for getting me the best seat in the house.






2. Without a doubt number 2 would have to be Guster. Now narrowing down which Guster concert was my best, that's a little more difficult. I have seen Guster 4 times and every time I walk away loving them even more. I think my favorite time seeing them would have to be at UVSC in Provo, Utah. This was the first time my friend Emily Madsen had ever seen Guster live and I made sure she fully enjoyed it by acting out and singing every lyric for her. Thinking back I'm surprised we are still friends. (Picture going to a concert with a really loud mime.) Anyway, with Guster you are guaranteed a very fun night of dancing, ping-pong balls being thrown on stage, covers of Violent Femmes and good one liners from Ryan, the lead singer.











3. Number tres...this is harder than I thought it would be. Hmm...number three would have to be Rusted Root at a little theatre outside of Philadelphia. I remember thinking I had never seen such energy on a stage before. There was literally twenty people on stage either singing or playing an instrument. Every song had this pounding African beat that shook my body. By the end of their set my knees were completely bruised from banging against the seats in front of me while I tried to dance. Probably the second coolest part about Rusted Root, was that they were the opening band for Toad & the Wet Sprocket. When Rusted Root finished, Toad came out and said the obligatory, "Hey, how about Rusted Root?" To which the majority of the audience responded with, "Better than you guys," and then walked out.









4. Number four would be Mr. Vaaann Morrison. Never in my lifetime did I think I would see this legend perform. However, sweet Danny got us tickets for my 27th birthday. The concert was held at the Hollywood Bowl, which is this amazing outdoor amphitheatre. I think I mostly listened to the concert in a state of shock that I was actually hearing one of my favorite performers of all time. The other cool part was that we were about ten feet away when Van Morrison came out and got in his limo. What did I do? Hmmm, only harassed the man by yelling, "Mr. Vannn Morrison." (Someone in Van's band kept announcing that during every song. It got slightly annoying, so I decided to do it one more time.)










5. When I was a sophomore in college all my friends decided we needed to kick off the start of school with a little outdoor Dave Matthews concert. For almost three hours Dave played, I think, every song he wrote and any song he's ever heard. I don't know if I was high from all the pot in the air, but I remember we all were dancing with each other and then we started to dance with complete strangers. As the concert went on, the entire lawn of the amphitheatre became this giant dancefloor. It was so much fun to dance with everything from red necks, to little frat boys from UNC.

So, there you have it. My top 5. I suppose there could have been some different entries had my strict father let me attend Janet Jackson when I was ten and Blues Travelers when I was 15. Oh what could have been...

Viva La Coldplay

Last night we attended the opening night of Coldplay's World Tour. (It was my birthday gift to Dan...and a little birthday gift to me). To be honest, I didn't know what to expect with this concert. Apparently, a few weeks ago Coldplay held a free concert at Madison Square Garden, and according to the reviews, they were not only at times out of tune, but appeared unrehearsed. Fortunately, for us this was not the case. For 90 minutes Coldplay put on an amazing concert. They rocked their hits, scaled down some songs for more intimate versions, and even ran up the aisle to a little stage located in the "cheap seats" and played an acoustic version of "Yellow." The sound was great in the Forum (even though the parking cost us 20 bucks), the band was gracious and the stage effects made the show. I have to say concerts can be very telling - you can either leave a concert hating a band or loving them. I think I'm now a lifetime fan of Coldplay.

Side thought: On the way home we were cruising down the 405 when all of the sudden we saw this cop come flying down an on ramp. He started to swerve back and forth along the lanes. Consequently, everyone slowed down and waited for either this drunk cop to pull over and give himself a DUI test or hit a median. Apparently, this pace car was getting traffic to slow down for on-coming construction. I like the drunk idea better, but Dan said if I didn't tell the real reason the cop was swerving he would expose my embellishment. Happy Dan?

Self-Mastering

(Pictures of me surfing will come. As for now, enjoy this hot surfer.)

This summer I have made many declarations. For example, I've been heard saying: "It's a no car summer," and "I'm going to start giving motorists the finger more often," and "I'm going to take my vitamins everyday," and "I'm going to kill Mary Murphy," and most recently..."I'm going to master surfing this summer." Master. Yep, I too immediately recognize how misguided that word is. I should of set myself a more attainable goal of, "I'm not going to die this summer while surfing." or "I'm going to wait thirty minutes after eating before I surf." Or "I'm going to learn how to communicate in Chinese."

On Saturday Dan and I went out to "master" the surf. As we pulled up to the beach, that I had experienced surfing for the first time at, I thought it was going to be a masterful day. The waves didn't look too crazy, and the water seemed a little above freezing. As we entered the water, my confidence began to grow. I felt like a pro jumping on my board and beginning the paddling process through the crashing waves. As my first wave came, I instantly "pearled" right over my board. (For those non-masters of the surf) pearling means your board goes down into the water and you go over. It's a wonderful sensation of getting knocked over and then having your leash yank your ankle a few more feet.

As I came up and pulled my board towards me, my confidence was slightly bruised, but not defeated. It wasn't until I got caught in the middle of a break and couldn't paddle my way out, that I heard myself saying, "Sonaof a B, I suck at surfing." For the next ten minutes I tried with all my might to get around the break and to my patient husband, who kept motioning for me to come to his calm waters. (Cue gospel application) Finally, I got around the break, and while laying on my board, I told my husband that I didn't think I was going to master surfing this summer. It was a sad moment, but I had to face reality. I had been surfing for almost an hour and a half, and unlike the little kid WITH A CAST ON HIS ARM (who had not only caught every single wave, but was paddling with one arm), I had only quasi caught one wave, paddled for almost an hour, rode one wave on my butt and drank most of the ocean. I was exhausted, defeated, and quite frankly, slightly whiny.

So, I'm now making a new declaration: This summer I'm going to attempt to surf and keep a positive attitude about things I'm not very good at, eventhough I'm typically quite coordinated, and there must be something wrong with surfing that doesn't allow for incredibly gifted people to excel at it. Yeah, I feel good about that.

Take That

In my life I have had many dreams and fantasies. When I was a little girl I wanted to be a professional tennis player, and then I went up to a tournament in Philadelphia and lost in the first round, 6-0, 6-0, to a grunting Asian girl and I no longer had that dream. When I was in high school I wanted to marry a guy named Mark Williams, and then I kissed him with my braces and I sort of lost respect for him. (What was an eighteen year old guy doing kissing a 13 year old with braces?) When I was in college I wanted to become a writer, but then I realized I had another undiagnosed learning disability. I was a "write-tard." Definition: Someone who takes an abnormal time to write a paper.

Actually, come to think of it, this was diagnosed by my very caring teammate Claire Sullivan. One night she saw me in the library writing a paper. In the midst of stacks of books and notes, I had only two sentences written on my computer. The next afternoon she found me in the exact same spot, and during that time, I had only produced two additional sentences. While shaking her head she declared, "Ruth (my nickname in college) you are a freaking 'write-tard.'" Those words convinced me that writing was not my destined profession.

Now, please know that at the same time I've also seen many dreams come to fruition. For example, on the way to LA from Las Vegas all cars must pass through a fruit inspection station along the highway. This is typically manned by California's finest deputies of fruit, who's main job is to cause a massive traffic jam while they sit there and wave cars through. I have literally sat in my car for hours waiting for the perfunctory "stop and wave through" of these morons. It makes absolutely no sense, and I have vowed one day I would burn this structure down.

Yesterday, while driving from SLC to LA, I didn't light a match to this structure, but I was able to get one point in the game of "stop and wave through." Before I left, my mom had given me a bushel of bananas. (is bushel right?) After about eight hours of driving, traffic began to slow. It was only four thirty in the afternoon and I was still in the middle of nowhere. Instantly, I knew. I was coming upon the Fruit Inspection. As I pressed my brakes I began to think of how much I loathed this tiny stop. I hated how these lazy individuals would only open two booths at a time. My blood began to boil as I thought about the "official" uniforms they wore to simply wave people through. Did that make them feel important and powerful, I thought? I wanted to ask them what had possessed them to create this colossel nuisance, but didn't want to waste my time to get an answer. As I finally saw the structure, I realized I hated everything about the Fruit Inspection Station.

After waiting fifteen minutes in line, my turn came. A very official man stuck his hand out to stop my car and asked, "Do you have any fruit?" Do I have any fruit? For a moment I was caught in a moral dilemma. Do I tell the truth and let this inspection station take my fruit? Do I let them win after all the torture they have put me through?...No, I thought. Not this time. With a smile on my face, I replied, "Nope." I was then waved through.

I'm not sure I'm even going to eat these contraband bananas, but I will cherish them. They helped me accomplish a very important dream...a dream of sticking it to the Fruit Inspection Station.

My Danny

Today is Danny's Birthday. Therefore, to honor my dear hubby I have decided to make a list of some of the reasons why I love this man.

1. He not only watches "So You Think You Can Dance," but actually loves the show. (And yes, ladies, the man is as straight as a pencil.)

2. He calls me "Cub Master"

3. He lets me dress him.

4. He is more ticklish than a little girl.

5. He can't go to sleep until he scoots over and touches my foot with his foot.

6. He always has two helpings of whatever disaster I make.

7. He listens to all my stories, and lets me freak out, be in a funk, be wound up or just quiet.

8. He calls me about five or six times a day and says, "I want to come home and see you."

9. He knows the craziest fun facts. Like what is the price of oil right now in Korea.

10. His legs. (For those of you who don't know, Dan won "Best Legs" in 1995)

Happy Birthday Danny.

Finn

This weekend was an absolute blast from the past. As I mentioned before, on Friday I hung out with my old teammate Ashley, who may be back with Mr. Eckhart - sooo, I still might find the answer to my burning question about Godly Sorrows. Also, after I saw Ms. Wick, my best friend and teammate, Finn, happened to be in Santa Monica as well. Therefore, after a nostalgic run with Ashley, Finn and I hung out and she finally met my Danny.
Finn, like Ashley, is another fascinating person from my past. I first met Finn on my recruiting trip at Duke. I remember talking to her about how much alcohol they were probably going to make us consume that night, while we sat and watched the football team get destroyed. I think I told her I didn't drink so she offered me her lemonade. (I guess she figured I was going to be dehydrated that night). Anyway, over the next four years we became extremely tight. She helped me through some very difficult times and made me laugh more times than I can count.

My favorite time with Finn would have to be the last night we were together as roommates. It was an extremely depressing time because the previous day we had not only graduated, but we had lost in the second round of the NCAA tournament. (This could be an entirely different blog entry, but take my word for it, I've been heartbroken only a couple of times and this was definitely one of those times).

I remember we were sitting out on our porch for the last time, and again, going through the miserable game. Underneath our apartment lived two men lacrosse players. I had known these morons since I was a freshmen and I held absolutely no love for them. The night before our game and graduation these rocket scientists had thrown a party that went until the morning. I remember looking out my window at about three in the morning and seeing a bunch of guys with no shirts on throwing a keg over the fence. I think it was some kind of ritual to show how gay they were? (I'm rusty on my ritualistic practices). Anyway, that night we didn't sleep a second, and I still believe, they were responsible for our demise on the field. I know I should let it go, but I still hope they all die. (too much?)



Anyway, as Finn and I were discussing the game, we could hear underneath us another party beginning. After an hour of drinking, dancing, wrestling and shaving a couple of heads, the party moved to another house. All that was left was a skipping CD playing "Brown Sugar" by the Rolling Stones. As we heard the door close Finn and I got up, went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk, a bottle of wine, some ice cream and pickles. We then went downstairs to break into their apartment. Unfortunately, the door was locked, but we could see their patio door was open. So, we walked around the complex and from the woods we threw the carton of milk, the bottle of wine and the ice cream into the apartment. I can't describe the pleasure and joy I felt as I heard the milk splash onto the floor. Sort of like when a child laughs - It was beautiful. We then climbed into their apartment and emptied the rest of our contents onto the couches, beds and kitchen counters. We then found eggs...eggs can be so much fun. For the first time since losing our game I couldn't stop smiling. Finn and I were absolutely out of control. I think my favorite scene of all was in the middle of this disaster Finn walked over to the CD player, pulled out the CD, broke it in half and while screaming, "You A-HOLES," flung the CD into the kitchen.

The next morning, our landlord came over to check our apartments. Surprisingly, those guys didn't get their deposits back.

My Ordinary Friend

So, last year I had this teammate who was dating Aaron Eckhart. Mr. Eckhart (some fun facts for you) used to be Mormon, was in my brother's mission, starred in one of my favorite movies of all time, Godly Sorrows, left the church, starred in Erin Brockovich, Thank You for Smoking and the new Batman movie. This guy is a big time actor, and how did I find out my friend was dating him? Oh, you know, saw her at the Golden Globes with him.

Anyway, because I have no pride, I called her up and said, "Um, Ash, are you dating a movie star?" She, having more class than I do, nonchalantly said yes, and then said that she was coming to LA to visit him and wanted to know if we wanted to get together for dinner. Dinner with an old teammate? Uh, yeah sounds great. Dinner with a freaking movie star? Tell me where.

We ended up going to this awesome restaurant and the entire night I kept wanting to ask him one question. No, not what is Julia Roberts like, or how much money he's worth. But, I wanted to know what was the sin that caused them to call off their temple marriage in Godly Sorrows. As missionaries we always speculated, but never knew.

Anyway, now a year later, my friend is no longer dating Mr. Eckhart and she wants to get together tomorrow. Is it bad that I'm not as excited as I was a year ago? Does that make me a bad person? Do you think I should ask her if he ever told her about the secret contained in Godly Sorrows?

How Come...?

Lately, I have been having an eery feeling that I'm surrounded by morons. Not Mormons, but morons. I just got back from trying to get an Odometer reading so I can buy my car. You would have thought I was asking for the cure of cancer. These "leaders of the pack" kept asking me if I needed a smog check. I guess I should give them the benefit of the doubt - odometer and smog do sound a lot alike.

I apologize for the sass, but lately I keep finding myself saying out loud, "What is wrong with people?" At first this was more of a rhetorical question, but now I really want an answer. What inspires morons to blow a blow horn at a biker? What drives a woman at 11 at night in the grocery store to start yelling at people for not following the right lines? (that wasn't me) And what possesses a person to bend over and not be somewhat aware of the massive thong riding up their back? Come on, I really want an answer.

Below are other questions I want answers to. Feel free to add your own. Actually, I encourage (again I'm pretending I have a wide readership) no I'm implore you to write your own list on your blogs or any other publication. Maybe if we ask enough times, we'll start getting some answers.

For example:
1. How come no one speaks English in California?
2. How come some people make it their mission to sit in the left lane with no intention of speeding up?
3. How come the bank I go to (that is notoriously slow) always has one person standing in line muttering to no one in particular, "I swear this is the worst bank." How come these people don't go to another bank?
4. How come the people, who don't live in our building, always park in the good spots?
5. How come some people think their children are cute...when they aren't?

That's all I got for today. I could get into why the trial run every month when we aren't planning on having kids for another ten years? (Or 19 years in my case.)

My Limit

Mom, I love you, but you might not want to read this entry.

Over the past five years I have ridden thousands of miles on my bike. I've weathered snow in Idaho, rain in Hawaii and the sweltering sun in Utah. I've been stranded in West Jordan with a flat tire and no cell phone. I've flipped off the front of my bike after almost being hit by a car. I've been thrown down into a railroad track after my wheel got caught, and I've fallen at the intersection of 4th South and 1300 East when I couldn't clip out in time. In all these experiences I kept my cool. I dusted myself off, cleaned off the blood, pimped myself out to get a ride home from West Jordan and called it a day. No cussing. No birds. I was restrained and I was in control.

However, Saturday I fear I finally reached my limit.

This weekend Dan had to work, and so I decided to go out for a ride alone. I chose a route I've done many times and set out to enjoy the day. After twenty miles I turned around and started to head for home. I was cruising down a hill at about twenty-five miles an hour when a truck flew by and blew a blow horn right next to me. The sound absolutely scared the crap out of me and set a jolt through my body. Once I got a hold of myself I instantly thought, "Now, this was a perfect opportunity to give these guys the bird and AGAIN I hesitated." I know, I know I've been discussing the pros and cons of the finger for way too long. (I suppose this blog will have to be re-titled "The Assessment of the Middle Finger (Colon) It's Complicated" - that was a reference to The Soup - one of the best shows on TV).

Anyway, once I stopped my inner discussion on the finger, I looked ahead and saw the diabolical (I love that word) truck ahead of me stopped at a stoplight. Instantly, I decided these guys didn't deserve the finger, but a good ol' tongue lashing. Immediately, I tucked down and sped to the stoplight. (This is where I would say I sort of "blacked out" because I'm not sure what happened. From what I can gather from the horrified faces inside the truck I must have been pretty "angry.") I remember screaming something like, "Are you kidding me? Are you trying to kill me? Do you think that's funny? Are you both complete idiots?" All my questions were met with a very sheepish 18 year old muttering again and again, "I'm sorry." I think this is sort of where I went a little too far. As I was screaming the stoplight changed to green and they started to inch forward while closing their window. Ahead was a carnival so they had no where to go. Therefore, I took this opportunity to pound on their window and scream, "I'm calling the cops right now and reporting the both of you!"

Now, for those of you who really know me, you know I suffer from a very acute learning disability. Okay, this actually hasn't been officially diagnosed, but I'm terrible with letters and numbers. I just don't remember them and I don't hear them. One summer, as an intern, I had to answer phones for a PR department. People would rattle off their names and numbers and I would write on a piece of paper, "R-O-3-8." (Of course that would be "Rob" "383-6115") Anyway, again this learning disability struck at a very inopportune time. As I was screaming that I was going to call the cops and report them, I was trying to remember the numbers and letters on the license plate. All I had in my little brain was 89B. DAMN YOU UNDIAGNOSED LEARNING DISABILITY!!

Eventually, the truck was able to escape and all I could do was hold my phone out and pretend I was calling the cops. (yes, I was typing 89B). I'm such a loser.

Fortunately, the ride did end on a good note. As I was riding through Venice, I got stopped at a stoplight. While waiting on my bike, a black guy holding a cigar/cigarette (I wasn't sure - It was brown and had a little "mouthpiece" on the front of it) came up to me, and while his girlfriend/wife (with the coolest hot pink extensions I've ever seen) waited, asked, "Hey do you have a light?" A light? Um, yeah, I just lit up a few lights back...hold on a second.

So, friends, I ask: Do I go with the finger or the maniacal ravings, and do I start carrying a lighter? Help a sister out.

SCHWINNNNGGGG

I have officially declared this summer to be a "No Car Summer." I hereby declare that I refuse to get in a car unless I'm going to church or anything beyond 20 miles of my home. For those of you not from California, gas prices are drawing very close to 5 dollars a gallon and I'm havin' nothing of it. Now before you get worried this is not going to turn into political diatribe because, let's be honest, unless the government takes away my DVR and my Russian music site, where I buy songs for 20 cents, I'm pretty much apolitical. Yet, as apolitical as I am I'm also deeply frugal, and therefore, I'm riding for the rest of the summer. Therefore, my new friend is my new commuter Schwinn bike. It absolutely rocks. I love riding it so much I even signed up for doing some service for a girl in my ward just so I could fly by traffic and ride to the other side of town. Heck, I might even do my visiting teaching this month.

Come on people - get on your bikes!! And email me if you want to know the coolest site for downloading cheap music. (I Heart Mother Russia)

Darn Postal Service

Remember how thoughtful my Dad was on my birthday? Remember when I called him and he didn't wish me a Happy Birthday until I told him today was my birthday? Well, my Dad had another moment of love.

Sunday was Father's Day. So, like a good daughter I called my Dad and wished him a heartfelt Happy Father's Day. He was suffering from some food poisoning, and so after a report on his latest up chuck, I told him to have a great night. Yesterday, he called me and said, "Katherine, I need to apologize." I then responded, "What did you do?" He then said, "Yesterday, I was mad at you, but then today I got your Father's Day card and so I'm not mad at you anymore." I then said, "Um, sorry I couldn't get the card to you on Sunday...you know that darn postal service." My Dad then said, "Yeah, maybe next year. Anyway, thanks."

No Daddy...thank you.

Karma Can Be a...

For the past four days, I've been down in Orange County living large with Dan's family. This forced vacation has been great because I haven't been able to work a second and managed to ride over 85 miles. However, the real highlight of this trip was the fact that I was able to accomplish a major goal I set for myself. A couple of entries ago I discussed the disappointment I felt in myself for not being able to properly flip someone off while riding my bike. I then set myself a goal that the next time a motorist harassed me I would properly give them the bird.

So, on Friday I was riding along the beach, listening to my Ipod, minding my own business when a van passed by full of high school boys. As they rode by one stuck his head out the window and yelled...(Okay to be honest, I don't have a clue what he said, but I'm sure he was trying to be funny and yelled out something derogatory - Or at least, I hope that's what he did because, without even thinking, I looked up at him and gave him my best middle finger. Now looking back I fear I might have been a little too overzealous to accomplish my goal. For all I know he might have been yelling, "Hey, watch out there's a murderer behind you!" "Hey, you look like a great rider!" "Hey, I hope you are having a great day!" At any rate, I did it. Someone yelled and I flashed them my best finger. Mission accomplished.

The only problem from this was that as soon as I gave him the finger my confidence started to waver. I'll admit it's fun to give the finger and then drive off in the opposite direction, or jump on a plane. It's another thing to give the finger and then continue in the same direction as the person you just flipped off. For the next ten miles I kept waiting to see some van pulled over to the side and a bunch of high school students, with brass knuckles and baseball bats, waiting for me. Fortunately, nothing of the sort happened, but the following day karma cashed in its chips.

While riding again, in the same spot as the previous day, Dan and I went to make a left hand turn through a busy intersection. Because I love my husband, and I promised not to say anything, "something" happened and while muttering a choice word I went straight down. As I laid there, still clipped into my bike and praying that on-coming traffic would notice my mangled body, I had a thought. Accomplishing goals are very important, but I think I might be giving the finger a rest. I don't think I can handle the universe's response.

Sister Soulier

If you look closely you will see the name tag does indeed read, "Sister Soulier." I would like to say that this picture was taken after I was dragged into an alley and severely beaten. However, to be honest, I think I remember thinking I was looking particularly good this day. I was going home in two months and I think "looking good" had become a relative term.

Anyway, I post this deeply revealing picture for two reasons: 1. There's a very funny story behind it...

So, I was sort of starting to date Dan and I hadn't met his parents yet. At this time, his dad was working at the temple with a couple who had served in Mongolia. They got to talking, my name came up, and a couple of days later, this delightful picture was sent to my future father-in-law. He like, any smart individual, decided to use this picture to his advantage. He wrote Dan and said he had a girl all lined up who he wanted Dan to meet. Dan said he wasn't interested, but his Dad kept talking up this really "accomplished" girl. Therefore, to appease his dad, Dan said to send on the picture of this "amazing girl." Dan's dad then sent on this infamous picture, and Dan had to study it for awhile to realize it was indeed the girl he was dating. I guess the only thing that is good about this picture is that no matter what I look like in the morning I still can't look worse than this picture.

The second reason I post this picture is because my sister just forwarded me a couple emails I had sent her while I was on my mission. They are in one word completely "manic."

Below are a little snippets of my delirium:

"Well, I had better close. I have neglected to write anything spiritual. In about two weeks I get to train for the first time. I’m so excited. I’m going to teach her how to do snot rockets, (completely allowed in this country) and throwing food out the window when the investigator isn’t looking) other than that, I’m not sure what I have to give."

"I got a huge package from my coaches, mom and dad of course came up big with hot chocolate and pretzels. (you know your life priorities are all out of wack when all you wanted for Christmas were pretzels, hot chocolate and a book on the temple)."

"Alright let's stop talking about this, well, actually here's another funny story. i was teaching the law of chastity to this woman. she is a single woman, with the craziest child in the world. at any rate my companion first teaches, and says from now on she may not sleep with anyone. she gets all scared, and says, "but soul, i really want to. i mean i miss it." i get completely awkward, and tell her it's okay. but she won't stop. she starts to ask me about it. i'm like, "hello, lady, read the tag!!" this job. oh man."

A Lesson Learned

Saturdays...they are by far my most favorite day of the week. They remind me of P-Days on my mission because they are not days to be wasted. Every moment is planned and every food craving is fulfilled. I wonder what kind of missionary I would have been had I planned the other six days like my P-Days? Oh well...no need to dwell on the past.

Anyway, this past Saturday was another great one. It started off with a delightful sleep until ten in the morning and then a drive to the store to get breakfast (with no bra on - I don't know why I love just putting on a sweatshirt and walking around in public. It totally reminds me of Freshman year Calculus. I don't think Noble and me ever wore anything but a "sweatshirt.") Anyway, after consuming a bowl of cereal and some waffles we started the mad dash to buy a bike for Danny. (With the prices of gas becoming completely ridiculous we have decided to invest in bikes.) For the past month we have been searching craigslist.com for a deal and finally at about eleven we found one. The bike, like usual, was a little worst off than the description and picture led you to believe, but after a little negotiating we still ended up paying the asking price. (That was supposed to be sarcastic - we aren't exactly great "negotiators.")

So, now that we had a bike for Danny we got suited up in our matching Duke kits and headed out for a ride. At about mile 25, while we were riding along the beach, a man yelled from his car, "Nice matching outfits you homos!" Homo? I just got called a homo? I just looked at the guy as I was riding by and tried to give him my most, "seriously?" look. As I continued to ride I got more angry about the situation. 1. I was really upset that he was making fun of our cool outfits and 2. that he called me a "homo." However, as I thought about it longer I was most upset at my reaction. This guy deserved the finger and all I gave him was a LOOK. I was disappointed and embarrassed with my actions.

Dan, on the other hand, is someone to be admired. This man, who I love, can be talking on his cell phone, eating a sandwich and down-shifting on his bike AND still manage to get his finger up in a beautiful salute to obnoxious drivers. Unfortunately, in this case he didn't hear the "homo" part, but I know, if he had, that guy would have been properly dealt with - not just looked at. Geeeeez, I'm still embarrassed.

So now, from this experience I'm setting myself a goal - next time I'm honked at, yelled at or almost hit I'm raising that finger with not only confidence, but with conviction.

No Thank You Service

I come to you all in a very heighten state of utter frustration. Since I can remember I have been taught the principle of service. I have been taught to help those in need, lift up the weary and feed the hungry. However, today I learned another part of service...the part they don't really teach you in Relief Society.

Yesterday, after talking to a girl in my ward, who has had a very rough month, I decided to make her dinner tonight. Being the suspect cook that I am, I decided on an easy recipe of homemade mac and cheese and set off to change the world. After screwing up the recipe (mind you this recipe is for idiots) and dumping the entire thing down the drain I should have known this was not going to be a good idea. Finally, after a quick restart, I dumped the concoction in a pan, covered it, wrote a nice note (yes, I'm amazing) and set off to...well, change the world.

As I was pulling out of my driveway (which has a slight incline) the concoction started to seep out of the pan and into my car. Now this is the only part I'm proud of...I didn't swear. Not even one word. (That will actually come later). I did scream and beat up my steering wheel - but no choice expletives. Now that my car was smelling like cheese and milk, I pulled over, pulled the pan out of the car and took it back into my apartment. Because I was dropping it off I didn't cook it all the way (hence, the seepage) and so now I decided to cook it so it would be easier to transport. Thirty minutes later and slightly deflated, I packed the pan up again and headed off to her house.

After a "quick" stop to pick up a chicken at the most geriatric store I've ever been in (I swear every person in there was buying prune juice, depends and using every coupon they had found in the Sunday paper). Anyway, with the chicken in my car, the warm mac and cheese in my pan I thought I had finally done it. I pulled up to the compound (Dan and I's nickname for the place our ward lives) pulled out my goods, walked up to her apartment and knocked on the door. Here's the best part: she wasn't even there. I called her about ten times on the way there, when I got there and when I was pulling away...nothing.

In desperation and anger I called my busy husband and told him of my predicament. I asked him (as my last ditch effort) to check the address and make sure I had the right one. When he said, "201" that's when I finally cracked and said, "Shit, I'm at the right address."

So, here's what I learned today about service. Not so cool. Not what it's cracked up to be. And I don't know when I'll be jumping on the next service bandwagon. Amen.

The Shuffle Function

It's one in the afternoon and I've been working since nine this morning. Well, if I'm honest, it hasn't been a real "productive" four hours. While trying to edit fifteen interviews into one story I have IM-ed my best friend in D.C. about her man troubles, talked to my mom about my sick husband, looked on craigslist for a forsaken bike, talked to my sister about becoming a mom, heard a rather lame joke from my dad, talked to a man called my husband, who I think came home last night at two, and snacked on every carbohydrate that isn't nailed down in my house. It's been a remarkably busy and unproductive morning. (And I still have no replies to my inquiries on craigslist.com)

During this exciting morning I have had my Ipod on shuffle. I think the function of shuffle is so interesting. After four hours I have come up with the following conclusions and questions:

1. It literally takes you on a roller-coaster of self-esteem as some songs make you feel instantly cool for having such great taste, and then in a second exposes you as a total dork for bobbing your head to "Gettin' Jiggy With It."
2. Some days it seems like your Ipod is mad at you and insists on putting together the worst shuffle. The other day I was caught in a 10,000 Maniacs, John Grisham book on tape and Aerosmith mix. It was awful...and I had no one to blame but myself?
3. Only the very confident can have their Ipod on shuffle around other people. I have tried this a couple of times and after apologizing with the phrase, "Ha, ha...this is a guilty pleasure," too many times to count, I have stopped opening myself up.
4. How come your shuffle seems to always play the same songs? My Ipod is in love with "Tripping Billies" by Dave Matthews and this battle song from the "Braveheart" soundtrack. (don't judge)
5. Lastly, I have found that shuffle is a magical function. I can't even explain how many times I have been listening to my Ipod and some song comes on I have never heard. It's truly magical.

Okay, I'm getting back to work...after one more bagel. I heart carbohydrates.

LOTOJA...the untold story

I know this looks like a shameless attempt to celebrate myself - but I just found these pictures on my madre's computer and decided to document them for all posterity.

In 2004, I decided to ride LOTOJA. According to Wikipedia LOTJOA is: "...one of the longest single-day road cycling races in North American, if not the world and is the longest race sanctioned by USA Cycling or the United States Cycling Federation." The race is always held on the second Saturday of September, starts in Logan, Utah and finishes in Jackson Hole, Wyoming and travels 206 miles.
I started the race at about 7 in the morning. The skies were very overcast and after about ten miles it started to rain. After about fifteen miles it started to downpour. What you see above is all I was wearing when I started the race. After about forty miles I thought I was going to die. I remember coasting into the first feeding zone and finding my sister. I was shaking horribly from the cold and I kept saying, "I can't do this. I can't do this." My sister, being the absolute bad ass that she is, just replied, "Shut up, and get back on your bike." Which I did. As the ride continued, people started to drop out, and I started to steal clothes.
This poor guy rode with our group. He took a wrong turn and rode an additional 30 miles to get back on course.
The entire race is sort of a blur. If I wasn't freezing, I was having to pee from drinking so much water. I remember one time my sister pulled up next to me. I was about ten miles away from the next feeding zone and I thought my bladder was going to explode. She tells the story that I was almost crying and saying, "I have to pee so bad." I typically deny this story, but now four years later, I think there might be some truth to it.
My sister was the absolute reason I finished this forsaken race. At every feeding zone she had peanut and butter sandwiches made, she would rub my legs down, got the most amazing chicken McNuggets in all of Wyoming, and would constantly say, "You are going to finish this race." I have never been colder in my entire life (Mongolia included) and yet, her words truly made me go forward.
This was one of the last feeding zones in the race. In order to move on from this zone you had to be checked for frost bite and hypothermia. I remember some lady grabbing my face and watching my eyes. I was shaking so bad, but held it together as she examined me. She then said, "If you are crazy enough to go - I'll tell you that the next pass is snowing. It's up to you." Again, I don't know what I was thinking, but I shook my head and clipped in.
This is me at the top of the last mountain pass. I look happy because I thought Jackson was only twenty miles away. (My odometer shut off after hydro-planing down the pass into Montpelier, Idaho...so I was guessing based on my watch). Unfortunately, I had about forty miles to go and the sun was setting.

After riding in the dark for about two hours I crossed the finish line. Again my sister saved me. I remember she followed me with her car so I could see the road and blasted Bruce Springsteen to push me the last mile. As soon as I crossed the finish line they took down the sign and started to pack up. Unfortunately, for the 300 or so riders behind me their times were never recorded. I ended up finishing in a little over 13 hours and was 1 of the 13 girls who actually finished.

The legacy of this ride: 1. I hate riding when I have to pee 2. My knees have never fully worked since 3. I still want to go back and do it again...even though Dan won't let me.