People who don't wish me any specific harm

I biked 100K (65 miles) today out in the Livermore Valley, an all-women organized ride called Cinderella Classic. I first rode it in 1991, the 15th ride, and this was the 50th. I'm proud of my collection of patches, one for each year I did the ride.

It was beautiful out there! It's been rainy, so the hills were green, and we rode past farms and ranches. We rode on some of the rural roads I remember fondly from past rides, and avoided a lot of the annoying suburban riding with long traffic lights. There was a dog-leg out to Sunol that I had never ridden before that was gorgeously tree-lined and empty of traffic. There weren't even any cyclists around while I was doing that part of the ride.

I'm slow, but I get there eventually. I caught the first BART train of the day at 6:39am, started the ride at 7:30, and got back to the starting point at around 2:15. I chatted with other riders at the rest stops, and even rode with people for a while.

One woman said I was amazing because I and my bike were all kitted out for rain (fenders, rain pants, boots rather than cycling shoes that clip into the pedals) and still doing the ride. When we were going uphill into the wind I got in front so she could draft behind me, and she was very grateful. It felt good not to be the slowest rider on the road.

One of the nice things about an organized ride for just women is that it's less competitive, and women who don't ride as much and aren't as strong feel safe to come out and try it. It was my first long organized ride back in 1991.

We had clear skies and sun for the first couple of hours, to where I was regretting my wool socks. But then the dark clouds rolled in and we had intermittent cloudbursts for the rest of the ride. I was glad for all my gear! I got home just before the skies opened up here and it poured down rain for a couple of hours, with some rare lightning and thunder.

During the ride, I was focused on weather, physical comfort, looking at the pavement for directional arrows, and looking around at the scenery. The state of the world and the state of my personal life didn't cross my mind.

The miles added up surprisingly quickly, and I wasn't worried about being able to finish the ride once I got started. Even though I carry my own food and only get bananas at the rest stops, organized rides are still fun. The route arrows, the volunteers directing traffic, the camaraderie, the string of colorful riders ahead all add energy. For the Cinderella ride, lots of women wear short rainbow or pink or orange tutus over their bike shorts, and/or tiaras and flowers on their helmets. I had forgotten about that part!

And I almost forgot to include the Lemon Drop Man. He used to be at the top of the only major climb on the route, but since it got rearranged I thought we would miss out on that tradition. But toward the end of the ride, on a random suburban intersection, there he was. He put 2 lemon drops in my outstretched hand as I rode by, and I happily popped one in my mouth. It seems to have been gluten-free, whew, but I wasn't going to stop and quiz him about ingredients, and the nostalgia was worth the risk.

Only one thing was crystal clear: nobody, absolutely nobody, was coming to save us. by Paul Cantrell, thread on Mastodon about living in Minneapolis during the ICE invasion.

( Nobody is coming to save you. The choice is ourselves or nothing. The moment you believe that, that you •know• it in your bones, is the moment the work truly begins. )

All I can tell you is this:

You have to know, with total and completely clarity, that nobody is coming to save us.

And knowing that, you will feel lost — but strangely clear.

And suddenly the work will be on you.

And you will do it, because that is •just what you do•, because you •know• that nobody else is coming.

And you will still have no idea what to do, even as you are already doing it.

( It is either the beginning or the end )