Motorbikes by the Light of the Moon

The Afghan boys took me out tonight, the dark night lit up by the full moon that hit the night before.  I borrowed a baggy hoodie and wore loose pants to look a bit more ‘manly’.  Parweez and I drove out ot the airport road in his car and Hamid and Shams rode their bikes.  The three vehicles played cat and mouse all the way there at speed a bit too fast considering no one was wearing helmets or seat belts.   Hamid and his friend goofed off on the bikes– having a blast in the quiet night.  We are riding at night for three reasons; to allow me to practice without drawing too much attention, to keep the fact I’m a woman on the down low, and to avoid the worst of Kabul traffic.  Keep in mind, this is a country where most Afghans have illegal licenses.  Very few actually LEARN to drive.  Fifty US dollars and you got yourself a license.  Couple that with the lack of any street signs, lanes, or rules, and you’ve got yourself a hell of a demolition derby.

We go out to the long stretch of empty road near the airport with a pedestrian land, and switched up the riders.   The lights were turned off on the bikes to keep our profile as low as possible.  Hamid took my scarf and wrapped it like a men’s turban, leaving one tail loose to draped across the lower part of my face, leaving just my eyes and nose exposed.  He smiles and says, “that’ll work.”

We took out the Super Kabul instead of my bike (the Desert Eagle) as my clutch is very tight and the bike itself is bigger.  The Super Kabul is perfect to learn on (and its got a cool name), except for the loose chain that makes every shift sound as thought I’m leaving part of the bike behind me on the road. But its easy to handle.

Hamid jumps on the bike with Shams and they pace beside me, shouting instructions periodically.  After a few runs, back and forth, with the other bike pacing beside me and the car riding behind us lighting the way, Hamid took over the second bike and Shams jumps into the car. I  follow him and mimic his swerving, downshifting, and practice taking on the numerous speed bumps, and potholed roads.   I started to relax, its hard to do something brand new in front of audience.  Harder still when you are woman doing something no other women do in front a group of men.  There’s a lot to prove!

Twenty minutes later, it was unfortuantely, out of gas.  With no gas meters, its a crap shoot as to how much petrol is in the tank.  Typically you gently rock the bike back and forth and listen for the slosh.  Needless to say, this happens more often than not.  Yet you can find a shopkeeper, stall, or tent, with at least one can of petrol and a funnel, with minimal effort.  In this case, it took less than two minutes.

Refueled, Hamid decides we’d do a few more runs and then head home.  Eventually we stop and he says, “follow me, we’re going home” and I tuck in behind him to follow.  I ride home, with no problems, even over the 4×4 demolition road by their house – a dusty dirt ‘road’ strewn with rocks, deep holes and ruts made by the tracks created in the mud every winter, and potholes from rockets and explosions.   I can see an upgrade to a dirtbike in my future.

Each night we go out to ride, but leave the car and the Super Kabul at home and upgrade to my Desert Eagle.  It shifts much smoother, and thus is actually much easier to drive.   Each night I get more confident negotiating the streets and traffic.  I try riding with a passenger, Parweez jumping on behind me.  I ride with the boys to dinner.  I met the crew at the local petrol station, who are all smiles when I pull down my face scarf.   They’ve seen me on the back of the bikes before, but a woman driving one is a novelty.

The point of all this being, that the bike provides some freedom and transportation.  Both sorely needed here.

The Muslim Bike Conundrum

So of course, as a Western woman who regularly rides a motorbike in AFghanistan, just purchased her own in Kabul, and has started riding her mountain bike in the mountains of Panjshir – the question comes up… can muslim women ride a bike?   I am a Western woman – obviously so, tall with blond hair and an athletic stride.  Afghan men will be surprised, even shocked to see me on two wheels with or without an engine, but many will accept it as a crazy Western thing.

As a good friend in Kabul put it when I first asked the serious question of “What is the worst that could happen?”, he replied, “You have to understand, its just that it simply isn’t done.  You will blow their minds. But many will tolerate it, you are Western.”  When I asked if I was an Afghan woman would it be tolerated?  ”Nope.”

That said, I still try to avoid attention.  When I ride, I wear a men’s kaffiyeh scarf around my head like a turban or a full face helmet with my hair tucked into a hoodie.  I wear baggie clothes, gloves, and a big men’s jacket.  Just because many will tolerate it doesn’t mean everyone will.   And its interesting that while a Western woman would be tolerated in many cases, an Afghan woman would not.  A woman is a woman though, right?

I have yet to see an Afghan woman drive a motorcycle or ride a bicycle herself.   The few Afghan women I’ve seen riding as a passenger  sit side saddle.  I can barely hang on behind sitting astride the bike, not sure what these Afghan women do, superglue or velcro their backsides to seat?!

So where does it say that muslim women can’t ride bikes?  and why?

I found a website that acts as an online Q & A for Muslim/Islamic questions.

One woman posts:  “Can a Muslim woman ride a bicycle?   I have read many fatwa’s on the subject.. Some say “yes” and others say “no”. The main reason for saying no is because the wind may cause her clothes to form her shape.. But if that is the case then shouldn’t it also be forbidden for women to leave the house on a windy day?  I mean my husband has taken me out to dinner and to the park on windy days.. whats the difference?   So anyhow Can a muslim woman ride a bicycle or a horse as long as she is covered and nothing is showing.. Of course I wear pants underneath my abaya.. so no worries about anything showing.”

One man replies: “Something I got from a scholar.”   ["As regards riding bikes by women we'd like to state that riding bikes, cars and other means of transportation is in itself permissible. In the pre-Islamic era Arab women used to ride camels. The Prophet (peace and blessings be upon him) said: "The best women who rode camels are the women of Quraysh. They are the best to show affection towards children and to care for their husbands' wealth."]

Another man replies:  “Even Prophet has running race with Ayesha r.a  i don’ think there is any reason to stop you from riding if you can safe your self well,  there is no verse in quran or hadith to stop you.  many of woman do ride horses and camel..and Prophet never forbad them…so according to me..there is no harm…if you keep your self well hide unger gaurments.”

Not all of the replies were positive of course, but when negative responses about fatwas and being a bad muslim woman were posted, several men hit back with postings like these two:

“what kind of fatwas were they? I mean come on, riding a bicycle has NOTHING to do with Islam and DOES NOT interfere with our religion whatsoever. Were bicycles invented when Islam started in the first place? I don’t think so.  I’m an Arab guy, was born and brought up in the Middle East, I have read the entire Qur’an six times and have never ever heard that riding bicycles is haram for girls!!! Some parents are just worried that girls might lose their virginity on whilst cycling, that’s all.”

“Of course you can!   Otherwise you can never walk even on street when there even a little hard blowing wind.  Those scholars simply keep issuing useless fatwas. Just dress modestly. Thats it.”

So its interesting that the modern discussion allows for the discourse on women riding bikes, but still no one does it.

Yet.

Desert Eagle – Afghan Bike Shopping

The time has come for me to have some transportation in this town.  I don’t want to be dependent upon taxis, drivers, or friends to get around Afghanistan

So – its time to buy a motorcycle.

The decision made – time to think about logistics.   How does a blonde woman purchase a motorcycle in a country where women don’t ride bikes?

You ask two Afghan flatmates to pave the way.  Parweez and Hamid went down to the shop and talked with the guy.  I already had made the decision that were looking at a Chinese bike, a small 150, called Desert Eagle.  So they were there to haggle the price and set the story that the bike was for Hamid and his ‘boss’ was coming down to pay for it.  Queue the blond infidel.

I walk in and they’ve already secured the price of $700.  Brand new Chinese bike – not exactly high quality, but perfect for learning the streets of Kabul on.   Once we hand over the money then they put some fuel in the tank, check that everything is working.  Immediately fuel starts leaking out of the bottom of the bike.  No worries they just didn’t have the fuel line connected to the engine.  The battery was installed.  Twice.  Then a variety of tools came out to tighten down lugnuts and connections or simply bang a few things into place.

I step back into the dark shop to sign some papers and get the registration type stuff to show ownership, etc.  I have my first experience with using my thumbprint as my signature on official papers.  The owner is starting to suspect that the bike might be for me rather than Hamid, but he plays along since he’s making a sale.

Everything finished, another guy takes it for a quick spin to make sure everything is working.  Ironically, the only thing NOT removed is the plastic coverings over the headlights, seat, and handlebars.  This is a real Afghan thing.  The plastic stays on to show its new.   Even the bubblewrap around one turn signal would typically stay.  I find it safer to have my headlights and turn signals fully exposed, so I removed it all.  Although as I do, I start to wonder how much of the plastic is also to keep things held together?

This bike for example, is Chinese made, brand new for $700.  Working backwards that means that if the shopkeeper has a 100% markup, he bought it from the importer for about $350-400.  The importer has the same mark-up, so he got it from the factory for $150-200.  Which means the factory made it for around $100?  THAT is high quality Chinese craftsmanship at its best.

Hamid is driving it back to complete the ruse, but before we leave, we must give the customary “chirany “ which is a very bizarre Afghan concept.  When we left I had to give a ‘gift’ to a few members of staff there.  And it is expected that when I arrive home that I bring candy for the two guardsmen.  So we have to make a stop at the market to buy several bags of candy.  Sure enough, we pull up with a new bike and the first words out of the guards mouth is “where is my chirany?”  So Afghan.

I sit on my bike with a glass of whiskey and toast the boys – grateful for their help, bargaining skills, and guidance.   Tomorrow we ride!

Kabul Shiner

This morning, I woke to the call to prayers at 5am but then remembered, “I’m deaf in one ear!” and promptly rolled over to, heard nothing but a dull hum, and slept for another two hours.  Bliss.

Thursdays are half days in Afghanistan – all offices close early so, the by afternoon it was time to hit the bike assembly.  I brought my mountain bike to Afghanistan this trip in hopes that as a woman, I could successfully ride my bike here, thus becoming the first woman to do so.  I packed up my Niner singlespeed back in Colorado, thanks the bike mechanical ‘angel’ that made me disassemble and reassemble more than once to make sure I’d got it down and which tools I’d need to bring with.  The hope being, that I can ride in the mountain province where we want to look at building schools, thus connecting the projects and potentially getting some exposure for the work I’m trying to do here.

I know that many think this is crazy, dangerous, and frivolous.  But I am mountain biker.  I also am the founder of a non profit that focuses on women and children and risk in Afghanistan.  The two are not always mutually exclusive.   The fact is, riding my mountain bike here is the same thing as me riding a motorbike around Afghanistan, or walking through town by myself.  If no one ever does it, then things will never change.  If Afghans see Western women (which they will accept breaking cultural norms, unlike my female Afghan counterparts) then eventually that starts to seem more acceptable.   I’m not advocating that I should ride my bike through Kandahar, but in the safer areas, why not try to break barriers?

My flatmates, Hamid and Parweez, were incredibly curious and helped pump up the tires and watched the assembly.  We discussed the components, the tools, and what did what.  Neither ride bicycles, but both ride motorbikes, and we talked about my plan to ride here.  Neither understand per se, but both are supportive, and we discuss potential obstacles and how to dress.  The  beauty of where I’m staying is that its a private home with a walled courtyard so I can take off my headscarf and dress as western as I like when I’m here.  And so, leaving on my dress and bluejeans, I pull on my bike cleats and take the bike outside to see if my re-assembly was adequate or I had forgotten something important.

The courtyard is pretty small, and it houses two raised porches, a car, and three motorbikes, and one frisky stray cat.  So it was a bit like a small BMX track course, for 3 years olds.  My handling skills are poor at best, I’m good with tight corners, so this is actually a challenging environment for me to ride in.  I soon realized, I need more air in my front shocks and my rear tire, my seat was too low, but other than that…I actually did a damn fine job.  This coming from a girl that rarely washes the mud off her bike and her only maintenance is occasionally remember to oil up her chain.  Very occasionally. Hell, I’ve been known to bike in gloves that reeked of rancid milk because I had spilled chocolate milk post-ride and forgot until a couple weeks later when I found the gloves at the bottom and figured, well, they’re just going to get more muddy and sweaty anyways, what’s the harm in wearing them?  It wasn’t until I realized it was like a whiff of smelling salts everytime I wiped snot from my nose that I realized some clothing maintenance was in order.

I digress…

More importantly, I found that I could, in fact, ride in bluejeans and a skirt.  Not ideal in the heat, but rideable and socially respectable.  So that’s a start towards figuring out cycling attire over here!  So I continued playing around, coming up with a little clockwise circuit, round the garden, through the carport, under the clothesline, over the grass, up the concrete porch, and down the other side.  I got more confident and picked up some speed.  The trouble came as I reversed direction, not paying attention, I rode towards the carport opening gap between the pillars that supported the clothesline I had been ducking under.  From this angle I could get more speed but also had to go up the curb rather than down, I rode towards it, focused on the curb and lifting my bike up it, completely forgetting about the clothesline which cut me right across my right eye and the bridge of my nose, as well has whipping back my head with enough force to leave with whiplash for several days.  “F@*#!!” I shouted – to myself for forgetting the damn string of death.

It was official.  I had injured myself in my desire to be the first woman to mountain bike in Afghanistan on day one, in the private courtyard, by a clothesline.  It sounded like a game of Clue… My guess is: Ms. Galpin died in the courtyard by clothesline.  Supid is as stupid does.

My eye hurt, but one of the other flatmates, Najib. was on the porch watching so I got off my bike and chatted with him for a while.  My eye starting to throb, I excused myself and Najib said, “Oh yeah, your eye is bleeding quite a bit, you should go clean that”… ah, thanks.  How about telling me that 10 minutes ago when I was trying to pretend that I’m okay and have a coherent conversation.

I go upstairs to take a look and sure enough – gashed the bridge of my nose and my eyelid open and it was already swelling.  Damn damn damn

I grabbed some ice, put my bike away and decided that was enough for one day, hoping it wasn’t a sign of Afghan bike karma still to come.

Birthday Wishes in Afghanistan

Saturday.  My birthday.  Kabul.

Slept through the 5am call to prayer, woke up at 6 and enjoyed lazy dozing until 7.   Since its my birthday and we are headed to the Panjshir, we decide to go via motorbike rather than drive. Yippee! Only problem is Hamid doesn’t have a bike and we need him with to translate in Dashty Rewat. His is broken, ironically it happened when I was here in the spring on a group ride to Panjshir, and its yet to be fixed.  I call up my previous fixer to see if he can find us a driver.  He calls back to say that a driver who had driven me around in Kabul last year is available.

Shah Mohammed is thrilled to to see me…big smile. Unfortuantely, its soon very apparently that he should not be driving outside the city, in fact, probably shouldn’t be driving as a profession AT ALL. Hamid sits next to him in the front and it was soon apparent that he couldn’t see the numerous speed bumps. The ancient Toyota Corolla is not meant to take on these things at high speed, yet Shah Mohommad couldn’t see them till it was too late. It came to a head, so to speak, just around the corner from Massoud’s Tomb in the Panjshir – rounded a bend, the car was suddenly careening towards the cliff and the cement/rock barriers that border the road. Luckily these barriers are solid, we broke a huge chunk away and thus slowed the car down enough to stop before following the rocks tumbling down the cliff side. In typical Afghan style, Shah Mohommad quickly reverses to drive off. We shout for him to stop and check the car, the barrier, and collect ourselves. It was truly inches from death and it was interesting to have that near death experience and realize that your life doesn’t flash before your eyes…you just internally think, “fuck”.

The ironic part is that Toyota Corollas are resilient as hell. Proof in point, take out a concrete barrier, get a crowbar out to pull the fender and the wheel panel back into place and we’re off. No harm no foul. Other than the kid that came running down the street to tell us we needed to pay for the barrier.

Just an hour or so before that fateful accident, was the highlight of my birthday. I became the first woman to mountain bike in Afghanistan. We saw some goat trails and a truck path across the river, we kept our eyes out for a bridge (few and far between) and directed our near sighted driver through the village to cross the river and give it a go. We pulled the car over and unloaded. Travis went up the road and perched himself up on a small hill. I assembled the bike and gave Hamid my camera so we could get some decent stills. Now the question – bike helmet over headscarf? No headscarf? How to do this with the least amount of offensiveness. It fit over the headscarf, which I pulls down and wrapped around my neck and tied behind my neck – checking the length of drape behind me so it didn’t kill me Isadora Duncan style by getting caught in the wheel behind me. All good. Glasses on. Bike gloves on. A healthy crowd of men that stopped work so they could better watch the proceedings with curiosity.

The light was perfect, a stormy gray sky rolling in, but with the sun staying clear. I got the signal from Travis to give it a go and off I went.   And, viola.  I’m riding my bike.  In Afghanistan. On my birthday. HUGE grin!  Even though we started out on a relatively easy double track path that trucks can take, it was rocky as hell – it was essentially a river bed… rolling path that crossed the river run-offs a few times. We played around while the light was still good, just playing and seeing what the terrain was like, how it felt to ride it, and what sort of reaction were we getting. We were pretty remote, but there were men working throughout the area, some shouted, “Salaam” but mostly watched with curiosity. We did a couple shots back and forth along one section and I noticed a mother and young girl sitting under a tree watching us. As I rode back I waved and they both smiled and waved back…I couldn’t help but think of me and Devon.

I arrived back at the car, muddy, wet feet from the river crossings, and hot under the layers of clothing but pretty damn pleased with life.  We packed up the bike and talked to a few of the locals that had gathered around.

Clouds were rolling in hard and we headed to our village destination.  We drive unknowing that we’d be colliding with a concrete cliff barrier in less than an hour, and then continue a couple more hours down a pretty dodgy dirt road.  It was around this time that Mohammad starts bitching. He wasn’t happy he had to drive so far, on such bad roads, etc. etc. Hamid took the brunt of it. About 15 minutes from the village, Mohammad actually tells Hamid he wouldn’t go any further. It turned into a bit of kerfuffle and I said I wasn’t paying if he turned around. We said we had hired him for the day to go to Panjshir, if he had a problem with how far, or the roads, etc. he should have said and we would have hired another driver.  He continues to complain but keeps driving.

Travis and Hamid found this village on their two attempts of the Anjuman Pass by motorbike with their mate Jeremy.  They had randomly stopped to ask if they knew of somewhere they could stay and Idi Mohammad immediately offered his home.  Turns out he is the principal of the village school and Travis told him about me and the work I was looking to do with Mountain to Mountain.  They returned a second time a few weeks later to complete the ride and again stayed with Idi Mohammad’s family.

As we pull up, the village looks the same as any of the other villages we’ve driven through. The only distinguishing feature is its remoteness and the new building of mud being built on the left side of the road. A two story building with two men on the roof. One is Idi Mohammad, in a Panshiri hat (the type favored by Massoud). Turns out that this is to be a guesthouse, and his family’s home is directly behind. He was all smiles when he saw Travis and Hamid.  He comes down from the roof while we walk around back, gathering a crowd of children and men behind us.  I am introduced and find myself, once again, mesmerized by the handsome features of Panjshiri men. Idi Mohammad is genuinely happy to see the guys and asks how their motorbike trip went, he was worried about them.

Hamid explains that we wanted to stop by so that they could introduce me, but that we have to go back tonight, especially as our driver is being such a pain in the ass.  Idi Mohammad looks concerned and unhappy that we cannot stay the night. He offers a second time, and we explain that our driver is the main issue, but that we will be back next week and will stay longer.   We take a seat on a stone wall overlooking the road and the valley.  It turns out that he was a teacher, and spent many years as a Pakastani refugee. When he returned to his village he started up a school with a couple other teachers to teach the children. It expanded and they now have a school that services all the way through high school. He is the principal and while they have a school, and teachers, they are lacking in supplies. This is something I can help with this trip. We discussed the need for stationary (paper and pens) is the biggest need. Ironically it’s the reason many children do not attend school. Their families are simply too poor to afford the 20 cents for a notebook. The school houses 600 students on average. Amazingly, the other need is computers. I was surprised, and asked why they felt computers would be a necessary component of their school.  Idi Mohammad explained that it connects them to the rest of the world and allows their remote village to provide better education for their children. They already have a teacher qualified in computer sciences so its simply a matter of machines.

I also ask Idi Mohammad about neighboring villages that don’t have schools. Would he be able to direct me to others that are lacking schools entirely. He agrees to come up with a list before my next visit.  He also mentions that up on the mountain behind the village is a small community of fifty families. Their children make the long walk to attend the school at the village, but that the young ones (grade 1-5) are unable to attend school during the winter due to the snow. They are simply too young to make that walk. We discussed building a primary school there so that they can attend their classes year round and stay with the same coursework as the larger school and when they are old enough they will graduate into the village school to finish through high school. It would be a simple project , a few classrooms only. We talk briefly about construction and logistics and Idi Mohammad looks at me with all seriousness and says that if necessary he will oversee the construction himself. We have ourselves a school, a computer lab, and a project manager. As well as a solid contact for reaching out and making first steps in other villages.

During the last few minutes of the talk, a loud repetitive banging is heard, I look behind us to the street to see Shah Mohammed banging away at the front fender with a crowbar. Passive aggressive behavior or does he really think it will fix the wheel?

Back in the car I’m positively giddy. This has been the best birthday ever, bar none, even better as no one here knows. This wouldn’t have been possible without the previous visits and cups of tea drank by Travis and Hamid – opening the door for me to step in with solid connections already in place. I thank them both and sigh with contentment as we begin the long drive home, dusk already settling in and Shah Mohammad bitching to an uninterested Hamid, who continues to play his role as seeing eye dog, and pointed out the speedbumps, upcoming curves in the road, and reminds SM to slow down. Strangely enough, Shah Mohammed is now wearing a pair of glasses….perhaps they could have been of use a few hours ago when we nearly died? Just a thought.

SSWC 09 Antics

SSWC09 ventured into my proverbial backyard when Durango won the honor in a well played game of bowling at last year’s SS Worlds.  How could I not take part?   Never mind that my work in Afghanistan makes it very hard to keep in race shape, each trip requiring a month to regain the basest of fitness levels – much less that which is required to push my single geared steed up one of the toughest race courses I’ve yet to encounter.

The fact is, SSWC  is perhaps the best showcase of people who love riding bikes for the love of riding bikes.  The only requirement (aside from the entry form’s coloring contest) is a love for riding your bike with only one gear.  Leave your gears and your derailleurs at home sissies…THIS world championship is for those in love with a single cog.

One thousand riders, nearly two hundred of them women, dressed in all manners of drag, tutus, onesie’s, and even a few speedos ala Micheal Phelps with an oversized bong in their camelback. Nurses, cheerleaders, and frisky frauleins frolicked at the start line as we got ready for a mass start up down Durango’s Main Street.  And that was the men.  Our racing group of three lined up in front of a guys in hot pants and security uniforms, and more than one person was heard commenting that perhaps this was the coming out party for Durango’s gay pride movement.   Our support crew, aka: ’sexy cop’, a red-headed Dorothy, and Elvis worked the crowd, perhaps enjoying the start line all the more knowing their only requirement for the next few hours was excessive drinking.  Sexy cop ‘arrested’ a Micheal Phelps look-alike, wearing nothing more than a speedo, goggles, and a giant bong in his camelback.

Okay, so the course may have been shorter than any other race I’d done, and the atmosphere more akin to a cruiser bike pub crawl, but the course was brutal.  The first hike-a-bike was a couple miles out of town.  Winding singletrack so steep and narrow we had to dig our cleats into the hillside to keep from sliding down into the hundreds of riders below us, calves cramping with the effort of avoiding the dreaded domino effect.  Looking above, racers snaked their way at a turtle pace up to the rideline….a dispiriting sight.  Luckily, in the spirit of SSWC, the surrounding banter was side-splittingly vulgar…men dressed in all manners of tutu’s and pink knee highs, shouting profanities at friends, teammates, and strangers above and below as we inched our way painfully up the hillside.   I searched the switchbacks above for my boyfriend wearing a silver 1970’s girls blouse that could reflect the sun back into space, yet I couldn’t spot him.   I looked below for the third member of our racing trio, dressed in a skeleton unitard (yes, unitard) with the tib/fib cut off to stay cooler.  Nothing.

Feet blistering from the extended climb in bike cleats, we crested the ridge for the first of many impending beer stops.  Cold cups of Dales Pale Ale were handed out by cheering spectators.  Never has a beer tasted so refreshing, and I needed a little courage in a cup  to get me through the next few miles of  technical rock ledge ‘riding’.  Riding?  More like a combo of one-legged skateboard style coasting and endless dismounting, till finally the crowd thinned and the riding began through seriously hairy ridge riding towards a wicked descent where you could hear hundreds of spectators cheering below in a wild beer filled party.  I was greeted by a large, shirtless man who jumped in front me, thrusting a can of Old Chub in my face, demanding “chug it!”.     Thrilled to have made it off the ridge relatively unscathed, I happily obliged, smiled and sped off for the second half of the race.  Passing by our riotous support crew, made up of ’sexy cop’, ‘redheaded Dorothy’, and one hell of an Elvis, passing out jello shots they made at the condo the night before.  Grabbing a jello shot, I asked if they had any water, my water bottle was already empty and I couldn’t see a water station anywhere through the sea of drunken supporters and keg stands.  They didn’t, I’d have to figure it out on the way.

I knew the second climb would be tough after the hike a bike, but I didn’t how much that took out of me…I’d been hiking/riding for two hours and was sorely wishing a grim death to that stupid girl with the nalgene full of white wine had told me I could have a drink of her water, then laughed as I gulped, then spewed out the offending drink in horror.  The rest of the course passed by as a series of beer stops, whiskey shot stations, a bacon stop, and even a twinkie stop by literally hundreds of supporters who littered the course; cheering, shouting, taunting, and proferring up all manners of alcoholic drinks and junk food.  Three hours in, and desperate for some actual hydration, I asked one group if they had any water at all…alas, they were out.  But they did have a cooler of melting ice that had played host to several cases of beers a hour earlier.  Eagerly I unscrewed the cap of my water bottle and dipped in, avoiding the worst of the floaters.  I drank it down to the ice, and refilled, thanking the angel of mercy for his mucky cooler water and sped off to finish the course, knowing one last hike-a-bike was in my future.

This climb was as brutal as the first.  Unending switchbacks where  I hopscotched with a fat man in a pale green tutu and afro, and a local girl with white angle wings who knew what was coming next and enjoyed shouting back, “just a few more switchbacks to go”, a bit too gaily.  I thought about ripping off her wings and shoving the down her throat, but realized that would simply waste too much time.  After the second whiskey stop near the top, I thought, “F this…I’m faster than a fat man in a tutu!”

I spent the next few miles why the race course organizers hated bikers so much…until blessedly, I passed a woman who shouted, “One more mile to the finish and its mostly downhill!”  I nearly got off my bike and kissed her.   Instead, I shouted my excitement, wiped the dried drool from the corners of my mouth, and sped like a banshee to catch that chick with the pom poms I’d seen on the ascent a few hours earlier.

Boyfriend, Sexy Cop, Dorothy, Elvis, and more beer greeted me at the finish line.  Gratefully, I allowed my trusty tangerine single geared steed to be taken from me, and led to the sidelines to watch the rest of the mayhem.   More men in drag and tutus, women in skirts and hot pants, it was like Halloween on bikes.  With beer.  Lots and lots of beer.   Finally the fat man in the green tutu finished and we started to wonder when our skeleton teammate would be joining us.  We heard the last riders were coming through – hundreds being turned around at the time cut offs, or having already quit.  We knew in our heart of hearts it was Skeleton-man!  We waited, we drank beer, Sexy Cop ‘arrested’ more scantily clad men, and still no Mike.  Then finally, the motorcycle sweep came towards the finish line with one lone biker behind him – it was our guy!!  We hollered ourselves hoarse, jumping up and down as he made his way up the final stretch.  He was the last rider, he made the 5 hour cut off, he was officially DFL!!  (Dead Fucking Last)   OUR GUY made DFL!!!  WAY cooler than of us winning!  We laughed and celebrated as he tried to sit down and not puke.

Unfortunately, our celebrations were cut short by the asshole on the unicycle.  Nuff said.

Niner Logic

Pedal Damn It!

I am an hour into my most recent mountain bike race, this one at Winter Park.  By my estimates that puts just under halfway.  There is one female singlespeed racer in front of me and a few more chasing behind.  My mouth open like a bass out of water gasping for air, I look down at my bike wondering if there is a way to drop out without losing all respect for myself.   My bleary eyes focus down on three words screaming back at me, “Pedal Damn It!”, from the stem of my tangerine Niner.  ”Okay Okay” I scream back inside my head and drive the pedals down determinedly.

This internal screaming match is matched only by the deadened wails of my quads wondering aloud why I insist on putting them through this.   Every race it is the same.  Its what makes an afternoon solo ride so much more enjoyable than racing.  Racing hurts.  It is not just a group ride with a number plate and a startline.  Competitiveness, and a little bit of ego, kicks in and you ride faster and harder than you want to – because you have to.  Because you can’t get to the finish line with any gas left in the tank or its a complete waste of time and money…not to mention a waste of the ritual pasta breakfast.

Yet, it IS a choice at the end of the day.  I could spend race day whizzing around singletrack closer to home, with no entry fee, no pre race jitters, having a grand ol’ time.  None of the sport men behind me would be closing in, riding my back wheel, shouting “On your left!”.  I wouldn’t be fixated on the 29′er in the Chipotle jersey that is daring me to keep off my brakes on the rocky descents.  Instead I’m hosting an argument with my lungs and quads on my side and my bike and ego on the other, with at least an hour and some change left in the race.   Why?  What makes riders like me come out and race?  There’s no money to be had in it.  Maybe a podium finish with medal and t-shirt.  Surely I could do without a medal that no one will see but me, and I could buy a t-shirt I’ll actually wear with a lot less pain and suffering attached?

Logic says, stop pedaling when it hurts so bad that you SWEAR that THIS is last race you’ll EVER do.  Promise.  Niner logic tells me, “Pedal Damn It” over and over…ever time glance down in fatigue.   Had I realized my Niner would be so demanding, I may have considering buying a Trek frame instead.  Yet, perhaps its just the kick in the proverbial bike shorts I need.  It may hurt, but damn I feel alive.  And strong.  And ready to kick some ass.  Racing is my challenge to myself.  It strengthens my resolve to ride through the pain, to ride through the doubt, and to ride through the logic.

Screw logic, my Niner has it right.  On I pedal…..

Election Season

This year three key elections are taking place, following in the footsteps of our own recent history making election that resulted in a liberal, black man, taking over the office held soley by white men since the inception of our country.  I voted early as I was scheduled to be flying to Afghanistan on election day.  I watched in Dubai as the results came in and arrived in Kabul to the news that Obama had been declared the winner.   Never had I been so personally invested in my own country’s electoral process and outcome. 

The first of the three key elections of the year, possibly the decade, came last month in Lebanon – the democratic and multi-cultural jewel of the Middle East.  A country that has work steadfastly to put together a patchwork representation of its diverse religious and ethnic foundation.  Shite, Sunni, Maronite Christian, and Druze all hold political positions.  Different factions within that including Hezbollah run for office, despite being labeled terrorists, because they are allowed to take part in the process if they play by the rules and those that support them will cast their votes in their favor.   Conflicts and 

With a 54% voter turnout, Hezbollah lost the election and the pro-Western Hariri’s coalition claimed victory.  Did this cause Hezbollah to denounce the elections and cry foul?  Quite the opposite.  Having won 58 seats, Hezbollah’s leader, Hassan Nasrallah graciously accepted defeat, and congratulated the winners in both the majority and the opposition.  Would the West been as accepting had Hezbollah come out the victor?  

Next up was Iran.  We find ourselves in the middle of history unfolding as this country’s citizens dared to make themselves heard despite crackdowns in free speech and media.  This election did not go as smoothly as Lebanon’s.  When Ahmadinejad was declared the victor in a landslide victory, fraud was called and supporters of the opposition took to the streets demanding    What began as stunningly moving peaceful and silent demonstrations have turned violent as the clerics move to silence the opposition and when that didn’t work, to take aim.  Literally.  Now we are looking at full scale demonstrations and violent clashes that leave innocent men and women gunned down in the streets while they give their voices to change.  

Stories and photos of a young woman, Neda Agha Soltan, have flooded YouTube and the web after she was shot clean through the heart by Iranian militia.   She has become the poster child of the opposition movement and humanizes the opposition to those following the demonstrations in the West, as the heartbreaking video flooded the media.  One innocent among the many that died a senseless death simply trying to speak out.  www.bloomberg.com

Today’s headlines turned my stomach when I read how another nineteen year old boy, Kaveh Alipour, was shot in the crossfire over the weekend.  Upon learning of his son’s death, the elder Mr. Alipour was told the family had to pay an equivalent of $3,000 as a “bullet fee”—a fee for the bullet used by security forces—before taking the body back.   www.wsj.com

As one Iranian stated, “Democracy is a long way ahead. I may not be alive to see that day. With eyes full of tear in these early hours of Tuesday 16th June 2009, I glorify the courage and bravery of those martyrs and I hope that their blood will make every one of us more committed to freedom, to democracy and to human rights.” 

All of this sets the stage for the elections in Afghanistan this fall.  An incumbent in the form of Karzai, deemed corrupt by the citizens, and catering to the ultra conservative Islamic vote, despite coming onto the world stage as a moderate, modern thinking leader supported by the West.  If the elections do happen, will they be free of corruption, will they move Afghanistan forward, will the results be respected by the people and by the international forces that influence the country?  Will the people of Afghanistan that have endured over thirty years of conflict have a say in the course of their country’s destiny?  Only time will tell, and as we continue to watch Iran’s election results unfold and hope that those that wish for peace, and hope for freedom, can find both in the upcoming years.

Bliss at the Balthazar

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hi pressure steam hisses, glasses clink, voices murmur, each adding their own notes to the French jazz playing over the speakers.  I sit back with a grin and a bowl of cafe au lait, content to stop racing around the streets of Soho and be transported back to my previous life.

Its been five years since I returned to live in the country of my birth after a ten year absence.   I spent my entire twenties living in Europe and my return has been dotted with visits to work in Paris, Beirut, and more recently Afghanistan.  I decided to move back to the States on the condition that I could move to the mountains.   I love the laid back lifestyle of mountain living.  Globally minded communities with small town neighborhoods.  No need for wearing make up and the abundance of hats means I can leave the house without using a mirror – something not advisable in Paris and Beirut.  I have incredible views everywhere I look.  I run and bike endless trails that crisscross the mountains that surround the town.

But my little mountain town is missing something integral to my happiness, and the Balthazar makes me acutely aware of that void.   Espresso.  The common thread that weaves through all the places I’ve called home since age nineteen is espresso.   Creamy, rich, caramel colored espresso.  It is at the heart of many of my best memories.  As someone who links her travel memories and nostalgia to the tastes and smells of the food around her, espresso is the only constant.  

I remember the thinnest pizza margherita in the hole in the wall in Rome, the freshly breaded Jagerschnitzel and pomme frites at the little hut at the top of the tobaggon run in Austria, the chewiest brioche au chocolate in my neighborhood bakery in Paris, the steak and ale pie with homemade crust in the village pub outside Coventry, and the first time I tried sushi in Amsterdam, the risotto nero turned black from squid ink in Croatia, and the falafal stand I stopped at on my to work every day in Beirut.  

I’m notorious for ordering the same thing at a particular restaurant, once I find a favorite I stick to it – and looking back it probably works to solidify my memories.  My best girlfriend in Darmstadt still emails me to remind me of our evening strolls together to my neighborhood turkish kebab shop despite neither of us having lived there for six years.  This is a kebab shop I snuck out of a hospital to visit when I was desperate for some real food (luckily for me the hospital was only three blocks away).    I returned to visit Darmstadt three years after I had moved to the States to visit old friends.  I arrived into town at 11pm and the first thing I did was drop my luggage and walk into town – making a beeline for the kebab shop.  It was the same guys working the counter when I lived there and when they saw me, they placed my kebab order as if I had never left.  

Yet despite all these tastes and memories that transport me back to my favorite places, or perhaps helped create my favorite places in the first place, espresso was the one thing that was enjoyed in nearly every city, town, and village I’ve visited.  Espresso, cafe au lait, cappuchino, latte…each drink signifies slowing down and the enjoyment that comes from just sitting, watching, and taking in a place.  I found enjoyment in my own company when I moved to Europe and discovered the contentment of sitting alone in a coffee house reading the paper or simply watching the world pass by.  Its something I’ve never outgrown and even now, given a choice, I’ll spend my free time with the New York Times and a coffee in a cozy coffee joint with a view to the world outside.   A morning stroll to a coffee shop to linger over a giant bowl of cafe au lait is pure heaven!

The Balthazar brings that all back.  The whole deal – the smells, the sounds, the taste.  I’m transported back to every delicious cup of goodness I’ve enjoyed.  Foreign cities.  Strange languages.  Meaningful conversations.   The fact is, whether its the lack of patience, the lack of knowledge, the lack of desire, or simply the lack of oxygen – I’ve yet to have the creamy, bliss in a bowl, coffee experience in my entire five years of mountain living.  You will still find me at the coffee shop, but now its more for the atmosphere and the community connection than for the actual enjoyment of the caffeinated beverage itself.  For THAT, I need the Balthazar.

 

photo by Christian Ghammachi

Motherhood’s Catch 22

Mother’s Day today – which to a four year old means very little.  Thus, the day was spent like any other – hanging out with the elephant princess while squeezing in some productive work on the laptop.  She is busy creating her own elephant sign language which keeps me on my toes considering I’m trying to find time to learn Dari and some basic human sign language.  

Yet this Mother’s Day made me think about my role as mother, not because the Hallmark holiday hit me harder than other years, but this year Mother’s Day coincides with my return from 3 weeks working in Afghanistan.   Being a single parent that shares custody of a child is difficult and frustrating.  Decisions regarding what’s best for the child are shared, but shared with someone you’ve chosen to break ties with, and in many cases don’t like.  In my particular case, the fact that I have chosen to make my work in Afghanistan is a sore point.  To the extent that I am labeled a bad mother due to increased travel and the particular location I am now traveling to.  

Yet I find myself pondering for the first time in my life, “if I was a man, this wouldn’t be an issue”.  It wouldn’t.  Fathers travel for work all the time.  Fathers often make their careers the priority over family.  My ex travelled extensively and for long periods of time from the moment our daughter entered our lives.  This is forgotten four years on when I took my first extended trip away for work.  Taking my second trip away was selfish and inconsiderate of my daughter’s well being.  Nevermind that its my work.  My life’s work no less. Because it was a choice, and because its something I love, it doesn’t count.  Its not ‘work’.  Its play, or its a selfish pursuit of one’s passion, or its simply a folly.  Certainly not something worth taking time away from one’s child.  

This coming from a father than has spent four weeks already this year on vacation away from the same child.  This coming from the father that has another two week vacation coming up in a month’s time.  

Breathe. 

Yet, if only it were him that thought this way.  I know that he’s not.  I know that many will look at what I am doing, and where I am doing it, and consider me less of a mother.  I, as a mother, am now not allowed to take risks apparently.  

But where in the motherhood manual does one find these rules?  Where does it say that I am not allowed to embrace my true path in life?   Where does it state that the best role model you can be is to suppress who you are?   

Those who know me well, see the opposite.  That by carving my path I am doing my utmost to raise a daughter that will have the confidence in herself to find her own and courageously follow it to the bitter end.  They know that my daughter is the prism in which I measure the risk and the time spent away.  Her needs remain the priority and that tempers my choices.  Putting her first in the heavy list of priorities doesn’t replace my needs, wants, desires – its simply bumps them down the list, not off the list entirely.  

As a mother, my daughter comes first.  As a woman, I must remain true to myself and the things that are important in my life.  Let’s not forget that one must work in order to provide.   Men continue to work, often times men we view as ‘heros’ are so at great sacrifice to their families.  My own father owned his own business which meant long hours at the office and travel away from us.  It wasn’t viewed as selfish.  It was necessary.  It was work.  Why then the role reversal?

Why Afghanistan?  Why take the risk?  Because my daughter is born in a country that ensures her right to choose.  She is insured an education.  She is can ride a bike, ski, or simply walk down the street with little risk other than that which she causes herself with the genetic clumsiness she inherited from me.  She can choose when, who, and if she wants to marry.  She has every opportunity thanks to the genetic passport she was gifted at birth.  I had and have those same rights and realize how lucky I am.  Young girls in Afghanistan shouldn’t be afforded less opportunity just because of where they live.  If there is anything I can do, I must.  I can only hope my daughter feels the same way as she matures into the woman she chooses to become.  

If that’s being a bad mother, I guess I’ll have to accept it and hope that my daughter forgives me.