In My Blood

I'd like to start by saying that I grew up on motorbikes.  I'd like to, but I can't.  Still, I think it's somehow in my genes.  My parents fell in love on a motorcycle.  Riding out to band practice.  Taking of their helmets to kiss on that first date when they were younger than my now-youngest sibling.

By time I came along motorcycles were traded for a brown Toyota with car seats in the back and an ancient pick-up to go with a budding construction business.  Five kids later these eventually turned into a stubborn minivan and "Big Red," (hint: not a bike.)

I always knew, regardless, that my parents both held class 6 driver's licenses.  At ten I had my first ride when my Dad's oldest friend brought around his cruiser.  I don't remember what it was but I remember the thrill and the wind on my arms.  I clung tight as we accelerated.  I didn't know about counter-steering and had it explained to me after trying consistently to upright on corners.

Once a biker always in your blood, so I've been told.  Once you start you'll never really stop.  When I was fourteen my parents bought a little orange Yamaha Enduro 100 from roughly the stone-age, aka the 1970s.  That's what I learned to drive up and down our lane.  With a throttle in your fist and no license in your pocket 100ccs feels like a lot of power.  20MPH feels like a lot of speed.  An old gold helmet from your parent's dating days feels pretty cool.  And it starts to get in your blood.

At sixteen I drove it on Mexican highways to neighboring villages for an internet fix.  The smell of tortillas and the muggy wind on my face was nothing but pure independence.  I wanted more.  My little brother drives it around mountain roads with his friends now.

I moved out and my parent's young family grew up enough to justify getting rid of the minivan.  They bought a Honda 400.  This time only from the Dark Ages.  AKA, the early 1980s.  It looked like this only until my oldest brother turned his mad airbrushing skills its way.  I made it past the first two steps of licensing and then life got in the way.  I still hoped for the wind on my face and a ride down the lake but my lifetime commitment of achieving my own class 6 was still out of reach.

My middle brother fixed up a Honda 400 dual sport from the same era and would take me burning around mountain trails and rock outcroppings.  I learned to manage the kick start and I'd take it out on my own.  My cousin let me take a   less-than-legal spin on his 600 crotch rocket.  It was only a matter of time.  My license requirements finally fit themselves in last year.

Here's what I'm driving these days.  Yamaha Seca 550.  Check off item 24.  Apparently we have a thing for old-school bikes.  Yes, it's also from the dark ages.  But it's still a whole lotta fun.

Judo is a Like

This is not judo,
but you probably don't know that

When I was  seventeen I loved judo.  Basically lived and breathed judo.  I found no better high then a perfect throw or a gold medal and a small town tournament.  I'd get nervous, pumped, determined.  I got in the best shape of my life.

Now I like judo.  I think.  What do I love?  I guess adult life means I don't get passionate about athletic pursuits like I used to.  I almost love dancing.  I know.  From a fighter to a lover.  Tomboy to girl.  I almost love snowboarding.  At least with that you have speed, adrenaline, challenge and a effin' cool image.  I almost love hockey and volleyball.

I'll keep doing judo.  Nothing kicks my butt like a martial arts class.  It's productive, and I like that in a workout.  Best of all, sometimes, I still get the thrill of a perfect throw.

I've learned, for myself, I need commitment.  I learned this through the times I was a complete hypocrite and got badly out of shape (I was mostly out of the country).  I also learned, though, that I'm much happier when I have a physical way to channel my energy.

What I'm saying is this.  Find something to love.  I don't know what it will be.  Maybe you're one of those freaks who gets runner's high.  Maybe you love pilates, rock climbing (this is one I want to do more of), swimming.  Basketball, biking (I do this, but only because it's practical), hiking.  Whoever you are, I'm pretty sure you can find a workout that even you can convince yourself is worth your time.  Parking on the other side of the lot and taking the stairs are good things.  But they shouldn't do more then supplement.

Trust me.  It's worth it to find something you love.

PS, I don't care how good your sex life is.  First off, It probably isn't that great if you're not into any other physical activity.  And it's not gonna make your active lifestyle requirements anyway.  Quit trying to be a smart ass.

'Cause That's How We Roll

(C-Money)

Guess what I did?

You didn't guess.

That's okay.  You wouldn't anyway.  I entered a singing contest.

It better be fun.  I managed to convince a couple friends to join me.  One of them has the voice of that's as rich and strong as hot honey.  Hearing her sing puts me to sleep.  I wish I had a recording I could let you hear.

Which means I'm not going to win, but I'll have a good time.  That's o.k.  Who enters competitions with an intent to win, anyway?  I just love music, and my voice has always been my strongest instrument.  I sing without realizing it.

So now I'm hitting up Youtube Karaoke to see what I'm actually capable of.

That's all I wanted to say and only  'cause I think it's cool.  Sorry :)

Randori, Newaza and Other Japanese Words I Don't Remember

All of me hurts.  Well, when I try to move.  This is specific to, but not limited to thighs, upper stomach, neck and upper arms.  Not to mention the bruises running pretty solid up my left arm.  Does that sound bad?  I think it's because that's the arm I usually break fall with.

Yeah, I'm back at judo. Item 46.

I might not be coming back with the obsession I had at 17.  I always wished I had a chance to start younger and train harder.  But, I've missed it.  Practicing this year will whip me back into some much needed shape.  I build muscle easily for a girl.  I miss my chiseled shoulders, and my masculine forearms.  Wait... what?

Maybe I'll fall in love with the sport all over again.  And if not I'll be able to leave some energy on the mat.  My Mom was never a big fan of her teenage daughter rolling around with sweaty guys, or the part where we try to choke each other unconscious.  But she once said it was good because it was an outlet for some of my fight.

if nothing else I'll leave healthier (unless I tear something in my knee).  Right now that's hard to remember when sitting down necessitates a five inch uncontrolled fall.  In a good way.

 

Maybe you'll see why I find judo beautiful.  This is the international competition scene, no choreography here.  I can understand why a match would be dull for someone who isn't a judoka, so feel free to check out these highlights.  Bobby says to warn you to turn on the mute.

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

Yesterday I was leaving a little later then I'd hope for what was, essentially, my second day of work.  Now, leaving a little bit later is no big deal since I make a definite habit of being ten minutes early.  I'd just affixed brand-new plates to my car, having walked in from town that morning.  I was pretty excited to have a ride again.
My car took half a minute to turn over and warm up, which was fine considering it's been parked for three months over winter.  The real problems started when I went to drive it.  It simply didn't want to move.  With a little extra persistence I managed to get it onto the driveway, but was certain, by now, that it wasn't going to drive.
Turns out the rear wheel was dragging.  Apparently the e-brake had seized on.
Ok.  Now, I drive Honda Civics which are amazingly reliable cars.  Still, there's been a number of repairs (considering the first was older then me), which I've always done myself.  What I mean by that is I always bring my car to my Dad and he sorts things out well I'm the go-for.  This car, until yesterday, only needed some body rust touch-up, which my brothers helped me with.
I have tried to create an interest in mechanics.  I really wish it came naturally to me, but apart from the fact that I acknowledge these skills as extremely useful I have absolutely no desire to learn.  Where as I wish I was more like this...

when it comes to fixing vehicles I feel more like the kind of woman that makes mechanics see dollar signs.  I probably don't actually come across as that, but mostly without my Dad or brothers I'd be entirely lost.
Working on my car always makes me feel kinda tough, which is probably not a good sign to start with.
I've learned the basics.  But I wish I knew much more.  Maybe I've just set my standards a little high comparing myself to my brothers who rebuild all their own stuff and the one who does incredible airbrush body work.
I've ground through the e-brake cable, now, and it still doesn't feel right.  I may be biking to work today.  If my Dad doesn't fix it on his lunch hour.