Bike Battles

 “Okay, I say we have a nice picnic and then turn the bikes in,” Cain proposed.

It was 11:30 a.m., and we had rented bikes for a half day of exploring the Durango area. Before we left the bike shop, the employee, still attractive despite his tattoo-covered body and earring gauges, came around the counter to suggest a route off of the four by six foot map framed on the wall of Pedal the Peaks, Inc.

“If you go all the way down on East College Drive, take a right onto East Eighth Avenue, and head on for another three blocks, there’s a great trail head on the left. It’ll take you up into the mountains and you’ll see some pretty incredible views.”

Alright, I think. This sounds wayyyy cooler than the Animas River trail. Some real mountain biking! Heck yes.

“Okay, so how much uphill is that going to be?” my mother asks with hesitation.

“Aw, probably a straight thirty or forty minute climb at the beginning,” Mr. Earring Guages responds matter-of-factly.

“Are you out of your mind?!  We are from the lowcountry. We’re not doing that. Tell me more about that paved river trail.”

“Haha, okay. Well we’re right in the center of it, so you can take a right and…”

My heart sinks.

I take back what I said in the last post about coming to terms with the pace of Compton adventures. I still have a long way to go to ever really be content. I know I should be grateful that we’re biking at all. But these are the moments that derail my patience and good-spiritedness – the ones where I am so close to real adventure, literally only a few miles away, and yet, I remain inhibited by the limited abilities and desires of my family. Yesterday was full of such moments, and hour by hour, it’s as if the gas was slowly increased, turning simmering frustrations into a raging boil.

I make some guttural heave of exasperation after Cain’s proposition. “I swear I’m not from this family sometimes.”

“Well I definitely know where I’m from,” he chirps.

“That’s my boy!” Hoffa concurs.

Two hours into the rental, the rest of the family had managed to bike a whopping five miles. Once we started out on the Animas trail, snaking along next to the river, I relinquished the prospect of mountain biking, satisfied with the still-gorgeous panorama views, but I replaced it determined to bike all fourteen miles of the trail at a speedy pace, gliding along the path’s curves and hills. When I got to the first end of the trail, I waited for the others to arrive. After five minutes, no one had come. I decided to kill some time riding around the parking lot and ensuring this was indeed the end. It was, I returned, but still no one arrived. I sighed and began peddling back up the trail.

A couple miles up, I found everyone at the Durango BMX training course. They called me up, and we all tested out the hills. Well this isn’t something you find in Mt. Pleasant. I thought. Not bad. Pretty cool, actually! Honestly, peddling off the ramp for that first round through kind of scared me. But the adrenaline which quickly began pumping through my veins propelled me to try again. With each attempt,  I improved a little, gaining what felt like feet of air but was probably only a few inches on some jumps and getting the hang of the ten small, consecutive rolls in the track.

…Until I didn’t. Round four, halfway through, I ate it. In an instant of wrongly shifted weight, I was flat on the ground, forearms burning, as I sneezed through the dry clay swooshing up into a mini tornado around me. Ow. I cautiously stood up and examined the damage: scratched up knees, raw pink scrapes just under my elbows, and another on my hip bone. 

I dusted off and biked through the course again, both to finish off on a better note and to assure my concerned mother that I was okay.

After the course, there was more fast biking along the trail (now with stinging arms), and more waiting. Then the call-it-a-day picnic proposition, quickly turning to reality. I tried to counter my dismounting family.

“Y’all. It’s not even noon yet.”

“Well, Jessica, you can go bike the rest of the trail. We’ll be sitting right here leisurely enjoying our picnic until you return.”

I know Hoffa was being facetious, but I gladly took up his suggestion. As my family rolled their bikes onto the grassy knoll, I threw my pack down, probably with a tad bit too much force.

“Sounds good. Y’all enjoy your picnic,” I responded bitingly, and then I was off.

I confess, I almost immediately got lost (only someone who inherited Mama’s sense of direction could manage that on a paved six-foot wide path), but I eventually found my way back on the trail, and it felt good to be independent for forty minutes, off exploring by myself, messing up, figuring my mistakes out, and re-discovering a little bit of freedom. And Hoffa was right. They were sitting there – lying, rather – totally content to just chill until I returned.

By the official end of our biking an hour later, I had pretty much progressed to full bi-otch mode. I knew it, but at that point I honestly could not help it either. As Rosa Marie, Cain, and I waited, Mama and Georgia joined us, but no one knew where Hoffa was.

Cain called him to investigate, reporting that he had been enticed by the free iced tea sign and entered a café along the river. You have GOT to be kidding me.

“You know what annoys me?”

“You’re annoying. No one wants to hear the stupid things you complain about anymore” Georgia snapped.

I clenched my fists and sighed. “I understand that. And I even am fully aware of the terrible mood that I’m in.” My voice rose as I gestured to the direction of the trail where I expected my lagging father would mozy along in another five minutes. “But I can’t help but be frustrated when Hoffa does stupid…”

 I sucked in a breath, but I began to giggle, a growing guffaw that does not complement the ability to explain very well. But I could not contain it: my terrible attitude, the meager distance we actually biked, the accident, the fact that my father has no regard for time. The whole thing is so ridiculous, and they all begin to laugh with me. I try to finish, slamming my fist downward onto an invisible table.

“…when Hoffa does stupid-ass things like get a freaking glass of iced tea while we’re supposed to be biking!”

It is not that I was actually outrageously mad yesterday. I can laugh, I can roll with the Compton family mishaps. After Saturday evening Mass, I apologized to everyone for my poor behavior, and they graciously forgave me. Yesterday reminded me how flawed I am and how selfish I can be, but also how I crave a more authentic form of adventure. I needed to get banged up on that bike course. I will be sporting these strawberry scrapes for a while, and I admit it – I am a little proud of them. I feel a teensy bit more B.A. displaying some wounds that testify to getting out and trying something that can cause injury, even if they are only there because I am terribly klutzy.

Most of all, these scrapes are a semi-painful reminder that all is in good time. Those more daring experiences will come. There will be more trips, more adventures, more opportunities to bike thousands of feet higher than Mama will ever be willing to go. But for now, even as I write and feel my raw skin rubbing against my shirt, these scrapes are a reminder to be present. Here, I am with my family, and at least they like to be outside and active. My frustrations do continue – I really want to climb Engineer Mountain, a hike with 2,400 foot elevation gain over a 2.5 mile span, and no one else is too enthusiastic about joining me on that venture. But as long as they are not lounging around the house all day (they have suggested it, and I have declared I will hike Engineer alone if that day comes), I choose to be with the Compton Clan, pursuing the quality time we have together over the next great excursion.

Summer Growing Pains

This morning, I decided I wasn’t going to work until I had done all the things I wanted to do. I went for a run, I had an extended quiet time with Jesus, I read chapters of To Kill a Mockingbird and A Reason for God. And now, in an eerily empty, calmingly still house, I am writing. Finally. Ideally, I would do all of this every morning before my day really began rolling. Alas, it’s already far past noontime, and I am learning that it just isn’t realistic for a day-to-day regimen.

I’m always excited to return to Charleston, and more importantly, to return to the people I love the most - the Compton Clan. While most people find authentic friendships and discover their identity in college, I struggled to replicate at Roanoke something I already knew intimately in high school. When Roanoke was hard, I used to crave time back at home. I needed it to replenish me and to assure me that I had real roots and community. But when I packed my belongings in D.C. over a month ago, it was the least eager I’ve been to come home.

What?! Jessica, the girl who obnoxiously talks about “the best city in the world” didn’t want to go back? I know, I know. It wasn’t because my love for home had lessened. It’s just that I have had so many enriching experiences – traveling, working in a professional environment, not living in a dorm room or depending on a meal plan. Somewhere in this past year, I grew up. I think like an adult, I work (kind of) like an adult, I interact with other adults…I am an adult, and that’s a good thing. But I am currently living in the house of my childhood, and after a year of independence and freedom, not responsible for anyone else’s schedule or needs other than my own, living with my family has been a rockier adjustment than I anticipated.

It’s still a cheery, bustling mad house here at 964 Tall Pine Road, but I, in the egotism and amnesia produced by years away at college, had forgotten what that was like. My tactic to make a daily list and knock it out bullet by bullet has proved frustratingly unproductive. Focus is unattainable and distractions are incessant; despite the numerous rooms in this house, there is no quiet abode. My stuff is never where I put it, hurricanes destroy anything I clean, and I feel like I can’t get a lick of personal undertakings accomplished.

What happened to the regular blogger? The disciplined student? The task oriented worker?

She gave herself up for her family. It took a few weeks, but I have re-learned family life. I needed to return to Barney’s preschool lessons of sharing and sibling kindness. I was no longer living amongst the polite formalities of platonic, respectful roommates. I am with my family - not just any relatively normal American family, but the Comptons, whose sharing policies are borderline socialist.  My clothes, my hair brush, my face wash and purse and even underwear are no longer mine at all! I go shopping in Georgia and Rosa Marie’s closet, and they check out mine.  Cain drives the Jeep, and I am without a car. Hoffa will mow the lawn at Sugah Cain for hours, leaving Mama with...pretty much everything else. So much for personal schedules; I must let go and move with the natural ebb and flow of Compton life. I am stretching, rediscovering the flexibility I must practice in a large family.

Last semester I learned what life as a young, single professional is like. The day is full, but it's not too complicated, and you're aware of all that must be done. Now I am experiencing a different kind of "internship" altogether. Ultimately, I am my mother’s apprentice. I am learning how to juggle a full work week, my own interests and to-do’s, and the needs of five other autonomous individuals. Some days I work at Old South, other days I help Mama with house projects. No day is ever the same, and you can't prepare for the left field curve balls. Motherhood, even when all of the chickadees are pretty much grown up, is damn hard. Mama is the most giving, sacrificial person I know, and I am trying to emulate her. In some ways, I am doing alright.

But I’m 21, and I can’t break my self-centeredness. Aside from things that must be done - the Fulbright and Rotary scholarship applications linger, English Seminar summer reading is rather lengthy, and I haven’t even begun the TEFL online class I plan on taking– there are still things I really want to do this summer for my personal development and enjoyment. Train for a half marathon, pleasure read, swing dance, rock climb, serve, hang out with friends…

What has perturbed me the most is my inability to sit down and write. At the end of the IJM internship, we did a values seminar and took a ten question speed quiz in efforts to reveal our most immediate values. Two of my answers stood out to me:

1. You are covered on the front of a magazine. What does the title say?

Travel Writing Teacher Covers 6 Continents

2. If you had two extra hours every day, what would you do with those 14 hours a week?

Write.

How is it that this summer, with oodles more margin in my schedule, I have only written two blog posts? I like writing, it's evidently a value I esteem and want to do, and I’ll only become better with practice. I have so many stories to share; writing about backpacking consumed my thoughts on the trail, yet have you heard about my trip? I so often want to apologize for my inconsistency to you, readers, but really I should apologize to myself. I think the reason I haven't written more is that writing, real writing - descriptive, riveting, polished – is hard. It is a craft that requires discipline and concentration and rather significant chunks of time. I have prioritized my family, work, and friends over it, which are significantly easier to allocate time to.

Today has been so rejuvenating, and it has reminded me of the importance of taking time for oneself. Myers-Briggs once reported that I am half extrovert, half introvert, and I have been doing myself a disservice lately by neglecting the time I need by myself. Boundaries must be established. I’m still not certain how or where to redraw them, but time rations will be changing. Despite my "family first" mentality, these interests of mine deserve a high priority, too. Somewhere in the stretching, between the demands of home life and the discoveries and adventures of young adulthood, I will find what fits.

An American in Italy: Laundry

            I thought I was prepared. I knew that water was not free in restaurants. I was warned not to order a cappuccino after eleven a.m. I made sure to pack Ziplock bags in a variety of sizes, a reusable shopping bag, and a set of customary measuring cups. Italians, I was told, do everything at a slower pace, and I was ready to embrace that. Or so I thought. The truth is, no one can actually prepare an American for this reality permeating every facet of Italian culture. While I enjoy the relaxing two hour meals, I never anticipated the two hour, methodical process of washing and drying my clothes in America would become a forty-eight hour ordeal on the other side of the Atlantic ocean.

I am not exaggerating here. When I return to America, doing laundry might become an enjoyable chore. I know, dear American mothers, the trouble you go through to ensure your family is looking presentable in their best clean clothes. I remember the pain of continually filling hampers, the unceasing cycles of sorting and switching and ironing and folding you endure. Enjoyable?  Such a statement hardly seems feasible. What’s the secret to an enjoyable laundering experience? Move to Italy. All of a sudden, doing laundry back in America becomes a breeze.

Every few days, I don my Nike athletic shorts and a color-coordinated quick dry shirt, enduring an hour of stares in the city streets for the sake of a little exercise. When I first came to Italy, I began to conclude that I lived among a whole society of people that do not run. I was wrong. They do run, just not in the streets. Italians go to parks on the outskirts of town and run (if you can call it that) in glamour, without a drop of sweat or an increase in heart rate.  It’s miraculous. Okay, there are a few men putting in some genuine effort, but the women might as well be on a runway model. With my waterfall of sweat and clunky Asics, I know I already look like an American on these streets, so I continue on and hope the Italian street chic forgive me. But I digress. I tell you of this taboo practice of mine because from it I amass an impressive pile of sweaty, smelly clothes in need of a thorough washing. I wasn’t a huge fan of doing laundry before I came to Italy, and nothing has changed. So I let them fester, procrastinating the inevitable laundry day until I run out of underwear.

            Eventually, I do run out, though, and I must face the first challenge of the laundering process: the washing machine. Italians, while looking twice as fashionable, own about a fourth as many clothes as Americans, and their washing machines reflect this proportion. I want to get through this ordeal as quickly as possible, so I disregard the sorting rule and opt for a single load, throwing everything in at once. It’s only economical and energy efficient, after all. When I must finally face the blasted machine, the possibility of fitting my week’s worth of smelly clothes in the bin my head will hardly fit into is seriously questionable.

            An Italian washer machine, though small, is not a complicated mechanism. There is a plug, a spin cycle and power button, and a knob of numerical temperature settings. It doesn’t seem like something that could easily malfunction, but I must have the perfect touch. One time I loaded it up, pressed the on button, and… nothing. I ensured it was plugged in, kept up trial and error for a while, and gave up, reporting a broken washing machine to maintenance. An older man named Paolo stopped by later that afternoon. He hobbled into the six by six foot closet otherwise known as our laundry room and spent all of thirty seconds tinkering before the washer was functioning perfectly. Exasperated, he walked out. I think I heard him mutter, “Americana,” under his breath before facing the three flights of elevator-less stairs outside of my apartment. Apparently, there is a light switch next to the plug that turns the electricity on and off. Well, that’s embarrassing, I thought.

After waiting an hour and fifteen minutes, I open the door, ready to get on with this chore. I pull out a shirt. It is soaked. Not just damp like you expect clothes to be after a normal wash. I’m talking sopping wet. The spin cycle, even though I always make sure I don’t press the button to omit it, is cantankerous. Sometimes it works, other times it leaves my clothes, which at least don’t smell anymore, in a pool of undrained water. Lazy and frustrated, I run the load again, hoping for a different result. Sometimes, they turn out okay. Typically, though they remain drenched. If this is the case, it is necessary to individually ring out every article of overstuffed clothing. Your fingertips will assuredly wrinkle like prunes, and your arms will have no need for dumbbell exercises.

Because the washing machine normally works for my roommates, I have recently developed a hypothesis as to why it has a personal bias against me. I think the spin cycle may be running after all, but the water can’t drain because I have stuffed too many clothes into one load to begin with. I have not been able to test this out yet. The very fact that it has taken seven weeks to realize this is frustrating. Why can’t it just work like a good ol’ large, trusty American washing machine?

On to the dryer. Oh, wait. Italy is indeed a first world country, but due to high electricity costs, the dryer is a rarity, and my apartment certainly doesn’t have one. There was a time not too long ago when I thought the dryer was a loud, bulky lint collector. I have seen the light. Actually, it is a glorious piece of equipment conveniently placed right next to the washer, not only drying your clothes, but making them warm and soft too. While that nonna hanging her sheets out to dry on the balcony does look picturesque, my situation is not quite so appealing. We – my four apartment mates and me – compete for the two seven-foot fold out drying racks to hang clothes on. It’s the only thing in Italy that is not small, almost matching the size of my runt “twin size” bed. Rather than being tucked away in some nice, nonexistent corner, these giants consume the majority of the living room floor. Back in August when the weather was warmer, it wasn’t too bad. Clothes dried overnight. They’re always stiff and starchy feeling, but at least they were dry then. Creeping into the fall, clothes stay out two full days and are still damp. What with the way I procrastinate laundering, the underwear supply really does become critical at this point. I may have substituted my bikini bottoms – or even, I confess, nothing – once or twice.

My nemesis

As for the other loads that did not go through a spin cycle, all I have to show for my great efforts to ring out the water by hand is a large puddle of more water equivalent to the size of the mammoth drying rack. As I mop up the tile floor, I dream of large washing machines and the dryers by their side, relishing the day when doing my laundry will be a pleasurable experience. In the meantime, I will be an American in Italy – running in the streets and waiting for my clothes to dry.

Writing

Walking With Jessica is only half-a-year old now, but I have loved being able to share my experiences with readers. I only have one major beef with my new hobby - life keeps going, and the blogs are not being written. Playing catch up is overwhelming to me. Compared to my packed college semesters, I have exponentially more free time in these lazier August days of part-time work, fruit smoothies, books, and Charleston humidity. With an abundance of fun opportunities or the companionship of a summer page-turner, I also have less diligence. Almost daily, instead of actually sitting down and writing, I find myself thinking, “Dang it’s really been a while since I blogged.” I have experienced so many adventures and revelations this summer that I have wanted to process and tell you about. Instead I have delighted in my alarm clock-less mornings, grownup play dates, and hours of reading.

I once read that “You’re only a writer if you write every day.” Though I enjoy writing, I don’t call myself a writer – not yet, anyway. Still though, I initially disagreed with the argument. Every single day? That takes some serious diligence. And, come on, everyone needs rest. Teachers take the whole summer off, but they still call themselves teachers. I’ve realized that the quote is only wrong when taken literally. What it’s really pushing for is consistency. Writers, like athletes and musicians, must be dedicated to practicing. You have to be willing to do it even when you are not in the “mood” for it.

I already try to do this with two other disciplines: exercise and quiet time. I may not run or go to a gym class every day, but it’s rare that I’ll spend more than two or three days without physical activity. While I gain strength and feel good now, it’s also the best health insurance policy for the future. Sadly, my morning time with Jesus is not quite as regimented, but it is never altogether abandoned. Studying scripture, listening to the Lord, continually getting to know His character and unbounded love for His children – it’s always rewarding.

I want writing to be the same way. I want to improve, and that takes practice, which, logically, requires time I must carve from my life. I want to do it consistently so that I’m not guilty about missing opportunities to relay a story or lesson. Selfishly, I also want  to remember what has happened in my own life. This isn’t torture for me; writing is something I enjoy. The most I have ever written in a short time period was during the travel writing May term in Cambodia. It was a lot of time in front of the laptop, but my writing drastically improved. With daily practice and peer review, the words I wanted came faster, and I began really playing with language and rhetoric.

If you have visited this blog hoping for a new post lately, sorry to disappoint. But sigh no longer, for consistency is coming. I’m not guaranteeing a post or two every week, but I’m aiming for it. Besides, I’ve got plenty of topics. Allow me to momentarily utilize my love for lists.

Jessica’s Unwritten Blogs

• Pillow Fight
• Guacamole Lessons
• Cove Creek 2013
• Sheep
• It’s Here! Elizabeth Ervin Website
• Thirty Years of the Red Sash
• $250
• Waiting
• Beneath Your Beautiful
• Unbroken: Dignity
• Mountain Biking
• So Long, Sister
• Internship: To Be?
• My Secret to Productivity

I doubt they’ll all be written. Hopefully posting these topics holds me to some accountability, though. If you’re particularly curious about one, let me know, and it will have a higher likelihood of coming to Word document fruition.  Also, I leave for Italy in a little over two weeks. Eek! This I do promise – I will include you on my study abroad adventures. No half-month MIAs. Get ready. First post, "So Long, Sister" will probably be up tomorrow.

~JComp