Easter Eggception

Saturday night, we got home late and I was trying to hustle Laurèn to bed, when I heard Yohannes call out.

“Mom, can you come say goodnight to me?”

“Mmmm….hmmmm” I responded, walking into his room. “Hey buddy.”

“Hey,” he murmured, sleep still claiming him.

I ruffled his hair, “Have a good sleep.”

I turned to leave.

“Wait….Mom?” he called.

“What?” I said.

“Tomorrow is Easter, right?”

“Right.”

This time when I left, he remained silent. Instead of heading to bed, I tracked Laurèn down in the kitten room; she was having a final cuddle with our six-week-old fosters. It was almost eleven o’clock. Ward had already fallen into bed, and was softly snoring. I gently nudged Laurèn towards bed. I walked down the hallway thinking about Easter. With sadness, I realized that it is no longer a religious celebration for our family. Sigh! What happened? Oh yeah—a church that we felt pushed out of, or simply no longer “fit” inside of, and then a life so full of challenge and chaos that the moments to decompress, re-group and be still are few and far between.

Easter in our house is about family time, and the epic Easter egg hunt. Traditionally, my witty, sleuthing, husband has orchestrated clever clues and rhyming riddles that had the kids running, pell-mell, from one riddle to the next, collecting chocolate. I knew that was what Yohannes was referring to. I also knew that the Easter Bunny (EB) wasn’t coming to our house this year. Well, not the EB that our kids had gotten used to. I had unilaterally decided that the EB had earned a break. Moreover, our kids no longer believed in the “actual” Easter Bunny; it was time to transition to something different. We were done. So, this year, I hatched a different plan—a simple, meaningful, gift.

On Easter morning, Yohannes saw and ignored the small box sitting outside his room. He walked by it three times without bending to look at it. On his third pass, he came to me, “Mom, do you think there will be an Easter egg hunt this year?”  “No, I don’t think so,” I replied.  “Oh.” His eyes fell and he sauntered to his room, dragging his feet across the floor as if they were too heavy to lift. He walked past the trinket that I had lovingly assembled and closed his door.

Tears sprang into my eyes. Transitions are hard. I doubted my decision. It wasn’t about the Easter Bunny; it was about creating magic in my kid’s lives. I had let them down.

 ...

Yohannes’ disappointment is palpable. Ward is sick and has gone back to bed. I have filled a mug with coffee, and am sitting in the quiet room ready to write. Yohannes, who had been lying woefully on the couch while I cleaned the kitchen and made coffee, has followed me in. His agitation floats in like an outhouse stench. My body stiffens.

“Can Fraser come over?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I answer.

“Later?”

“I don’t know—but, I doubt it.”

“Why?”

“Because your Dad is sick and we need a quiet day.”

“Can Jenna and Uncle Douglas come over?”

“No. They are busy today.”

“What are they doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why can’t they come over?”

“Because they already have plans today.”

“How do you know!? You just said you don’t know what they are doing!”
“Hmmm… I don’t know what they are doing—that is true. I do know that they aren't coming over here.”

“Why not?”

“Yohannes!”

“Can Jenna come over then?”

“No, Jenna can’t come over.”

“You’re so mean!”

Pause.            Breathe.

“Yohannes, I am gong to sit quietly now and write, you need to go and find something to do.”

“Can I watch TV?”

“Not right now.”

“Why not?”

“I am enjoying the quiet, and there are many other things you can do.”

“Like what?”

“You can eat breakfast. You can go and read. You can draw a picture. You can walk the dog. You can go back to bed.”

“Can I take this blanket up to my room?”

“No, you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I am using it right now.”

“But I WANT TO HAVE IT!”

“I know you do.”

“You’re so mean!”

Finally, Yohannes goes upstairs. I turn to my writing.

Three minutes later, he is back.

“Can I call a friend today?” he asks.

“I don’t know.” I answer, without looking up.
“What can I do?”

“I have already given you lots of suggestions.”

“Ammffttgg…..”

Pause.            Breathe.

Yohannes sits in the chair beside me, fidgeting and swiveling it around, knocking the table between us, and sending a spray of coffee all over the place.

“Yohannes!” I say, jaw clenched, “I am really in need of some quiet time right now. So, I would like you to find another place to hang out.”

“I’ll be quiet.” He kicks back in the recliner. “I want to sit here.”

Pause.             Breathe.

“Yohannes, I am curious about why you are not able to do what I have asked. Is there something that you need from me right now?”

He sits, staring at his feet and clutching the red heart-shaped pillow to his chest.

I continue, “Okay, if there isn’t anything that you need—I want you to think about doing what I asked.”

“I don’t want to.”  He shifts the recliner back to a sitting position.

“I know.”  I keep writing, knowing that if I say anything or demand that he go—he will react and the situation will escalate.

He sits for another minute.

“Can I call a friend right now?”

“No.”

“WHY NOT?”

Pause.             Breathe.

“Yohannes, have you eaten breakfast?”

His answer is an indecipherable grunt.

“I would suggest that you have some breakfast.”

He sits still for another minute or two. I keep writing and coaching myself internally not to engage with him. He gets up, goes to the kitchen and paces. He kicks a cat toy around. I hear the cupboard door open and close. I hear the fridge open and close. And then he is back in the quiet room again.

“Can I do some stuff—and then watch TV?” he asks.

“You can definitely do stuff—but the TV is not going on right now.”

“Why not?”

Pause.             Breathe.

He goes back to kicking the cat toy around. He gives it one good kick and then walks by me, heading for the stairs.

“Yohannes,” I gently say.

“WHAT?”

“Breakfast.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”

“Well—I’m not!”

“Your body hasn’t had any fuel all night. You need to eat within a half hour of getting up.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.”

I study him as he stands at the bottom of the stairs, facing away from me. His body moves to some internal rhythm. I can tell he doesn’t want to listen, and I can tell he knows he needs to listen. He simultaneously needs to connect with and oppose me. It is a phenomenon to behold. He lacks the ability to inhibit his thoughts, emotions and behaviors. And, if I do not give him what he wants, or we do not agree, his attachment system gets activated. It is very difficult to manage this unique need.

He walks to the front door, opens it and walks outside into the still-frozen spring morning—barefoot. About twenty seconds later, he comes back in, closing the door a little harder than necessary. He stomps into the house, past me, and into the kitchen. He opens and closes the fridge. He opens and closes the cupboards. I can hear the repetitive crinkle of something that I can’t distinguish, but there are no other breakfast-producing sounds. He is fully stuck.

I am conflicted. I want to write and ignore him, but I know that he is not going to be able to get himself out of this emotional spiral without my help. Moreover, there will be no peace for me while he is in this space. I sigh, and put down my pen. I pick up my coffee and head into the kitchen. I start pulling things out of the fridge, talking out loud to myself, “Well, I think I will make an omelet…let’s see…cheese, eggs, onions, peppers, tomato…Mmmm…that should be good. Yohannes…do you want an omelet?” Nothing.

While I am cooking, Laurèn wakes up; she goes outside to check the weather. She comes back into the kitchen and says, “Mom, what are all those plastic eggs doing in the yard? Are they for us?” Distracted and confused, I say, “What? Plastic eggs?” “Come,” she says, and runs to the front door. I follow, and Yohannes gets up and joins us.

There is a meandering trail of bright plastic eggs. I am completely stumped.

“Are they for us?” Laurèn asks.

“I…I guess so,” I say, and then mutter, “I wonder where they came from?”

“Maw-om,” Laurèn says, giving me a we-weren’t-born-yesterday look.

“Seriously…I don’t know where these came from.”

“Dad?” both kids chime in.

“Nope. Dad is sick in bed.”

I head back inside and the kids gather up the eggs and bring them in. For a moment they are occupied, mesmerized—unpacking and counting the chocolate treasures from each egg. I marvel at the timely delivery. Who could have brought them? The hair on my arms stands up, and I shudder. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that neither Ward nor I placed these eggs in our yard. It seems that the world still contains a bit of magic.

"Not cool, Mom"

We climbed into the van; Laurèn and Yohannes stashed their backpacks and got their seat belts on. 

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Good,” said Yohannes.

“Okay,” said Laurèn.

I backed up and joined the line-up to get out of the parking lot. We sat.

“I’m hungry,” Yohannes said. “Did you bring any snacks?”

“No,” I answered.

“Awwwww….. I’m so hungry. Why didn’t you bring any snacks?” he whined.

“Because it is only a three minute drive home, and you can get a snack when we get home” I said.

He moaned. We sat and waited.

The car in front of me moved, and I rolled slowly forward and stopped again. 

"Hey guys," I interjected into the silence, “You know what makes me sad?”

“No, what?” said Yohannes.

“Well…” I sighed.

“WHAT?” said Yohannes.

Laurèn, who was in the front seat next to me, stared sidelong at me.

“Well,” I started again. I huffed. “You guys don’t think that I’m cool anymore.”

A pause. I knew what they were thinking; we never thought you were cool Mom.

I slowly inched the car around the first corner and continued to talk. “It’s just that when you guys were little, you used to think that I was cool, and you thought that I had all the answers… You know what you said to me once, Yohannes?”

“What?”

“You said, ‘Only computers and moms know everything, right mom?’ and I smiled and said, ‘You might be right.’”

“Mmmm…” he answered, and I could imagine his eyebrows rising in agreement.

Laurèn, who was still studying me, said, “What’s wrong mom?”

“Oh, nothing, it’s just that you used to love it when I sang and danced; you used to clap your hands, and join right in.”

“Weeell, I still love your singing” she said, her voice rising at the end.

“Mmmmm, but what about my dancing? This morning when I was dancing around the bathroom, you backed away from me, with your hands up in front of you?”

“Mom. You still have a lot to learn about dancing”—spoken like the 12-year-old expert that she is.

“Really!?”—I glanced at her, “Really?”—a little softer, “But, I have my own funky style—nobody dances like me.”

“You got that right,” she quipped.

I reached over and pinched her, which just made her giggle.

It was my turn to make the left hand turn out of the parking lot, so I pulled into traffic and the conversation was left behind us, like exhaust.

It is stunning to me that these people—who once thought me to be everything: funny, smart, pretty and (yes!) cool—look at me with different eyes. I didn’t even see the “rose-colored glasses” come off. Without thought or intention, on their part, I have become an embarrassment. They no longer appreciate my random singing and break out dancing. As soon as the first note passes my vocal chords, or the first rhythm quivers through my body, they scatter like flies swished away. However, they always hover in the distance, gathered together, peeking around a corner, grabbing onto each other and watching me. They point at me, and say things like, “O-Mi-Gawd” or “Can you believe her?” or “Look at that!” And most of the time, their expressions of embarrassment are accompanied by full, and melodic belly laughs. So, as long as I am okay making a spectacle of myself (and I am, if the groove is in me), I am still bringing great joy to their lives—they just don’t know it!

Drive me crazy!

I filled a tumbler with ice; I free-poured raspberry vodka, and then mixed in soda water. After two sips, my stomach, which was tied in knots—seized. I poured out my drink. I sighed. I mixed another. This time Grand Marnier and Amaretto on ice. I let it sit on the counter, staring at it, as the two syrupy liquids blended and danced together to form a soothing amber liquid. I licked my lips. I took a sip. And another. Within minutes, instead of a heady wooze, I felt a rapid breathlessness. The alcohol vapor had caused my smooth and sleek tunneling-airways to turn into rumbling ramps. My breath tumbled chaotically, causing me to cough and gasp. I went to get my inhaler. Even at drinking—I was a failure!

Parenting certainly didn’t look hard…when I was a kid. There was nothing to it.

Call the kids in.

Feed the kids.

Wash the kids.

Let the kids watch Disney on Sundays.

Put the kids to bed.

My mom didn’t seem to be troubled by it at all—not from where I stood (in the back porch with my jacket dripping and my boots caked in mud.)

Nor did parenting look very hard from the sidelines, when my sister and then my friends started to have kids. I was (for a time) a favorite aunt. Not hard at all (tiring—maybe—but, not hard). No one warned me about the emotional investment a mother would make in her kids. No one!

My husband had left for a work-related trip to Saudi Arabia. I was going to be alone for six days (and nights) with our three kids. I cried myself to sleep the night before he left. He was jet setting across the world and I was juggling balls with amputated hands! I was a little off my game.

Still, I don’t know what possessed me to let my almost-twelve-year-old daughter drive the van into the garage that day. The thermometer had plummeted to the minus thirties, and stuck there, day after agonizing day. It was brutal; breathing became an occupational hazard, and ice formed underneath boots just as they hit the pavement, rendering us all ice dancers. My daily walks were out of the question. I think we were all going a bit stir-crazy.

I dunno…is it crazy to turn the heat up to 27°C (80 F) and fill Rubbermaid containers with water and pretend we’re having a pool party? Is it crazy to roast marshmallows over the gas stove while singing campfire songs? Is it crazy to take the mattresses off the beds, and use them as super slides down the stairs?

Yup, I was going bananonkers! Something had to give.

My husband was gone. My kids were pushing my buttons, like I was an old-fashioned typewriter. I wasn’t getting a full night of sleep (on account of the six-week-old puppies we were fostering). And we were sludging through the frozen landscape of our lives. We pulled into the driveway after an emergency trip to the pet store for puppy pee pads. I needed to move my husband’s car out of the garage, because my stepson and his girlfriend were coming over to vacuum out her car in our garage. After I had moved his car out, I looked at Laurèn and asked her if she wanted to pull the van into the garage. “Really?” she asked. “Sure” I said—my frontal lobe clearing going off-line.

She got in. She buckled her seat belt. She struggled to reach the pedals; I tried to coach her on how to adjust the seat forward. Instead, she went up and down, giggling as if riding one of those dollar rides at the mall. I got out and adjusted it myself. She looked at me, with a hands-in-the-air expression that said, how was I supposed to know? I got back in, and told her which was the brake and which was the gas. She lurched forward. She slowly picked up speed. “Okay, a little to the left,” I instructed. She went right. “Left!” I said. She continued right, so I grabbed the steering wheel and cranked it in the opposite direction. “Oh!” she said, as if we weren’t speaking the same language. She confidently moved forward, and when Yohannes and I realized that she wasn’t going to stop, we simultaneously yelled, “BRAKE!”

We hit the garage wall with enough force to cause the contents of the shelves above to rain down onto our hood. My mouth gaped open. (What have I done?) Yohannes jumped out of the van to survey the damage, “Oo-hoo-hoo”, he sang. I got out. The bumper seemed to be detached from its clips, on the passenger side—I attempted to ease and then bang it back into position. (That bumper was already partly damaged, I consoled myself.)

“Laurèn, honey, why didn’t you put the brake on?” I asked her.

“Well…I thought that if I took my foot off the gas, the car would just stop,” she said.

She smiled.

I put my hand up to my head.

In her defense, her last driver-training lesson had taken place at the Bumper Cars.

Next, Yohannes wanted a turn. I couldn’t say no—that wouldn’t be fair. So, I let him try driving, (not into the garage this time, I’m not a fool!). He pulled my husband’s car into the driveway. When he is particularly pleased with himself, but doesn’t want it to show, one side of his lip curls up and his eyebrows arch in anticipation. That was what I saw when I looked at my eager ten-year-old boy. He carefully eased up and over the curb and into the driveway, his concentration fierce. And then as he moved toward the brick wall, framing our garage, he slammed his foot on the brake so hard that my clavicle compressed and crunched under the pressure of the locking seatbelt. The airbags quivered.

“Pretty good—right, Mom?” he said.

“Yes, pretty good,” I answered.

“Better than Laurèn?”

“Mmmmm, well, you didn’t hit the wall.”

We laughed.

When we walked into the house, Faven was quite distressed with a bloody nose—damn dry climate! While she had been stuck in the bathroom, the six-week-old puppies pooped on the floor in their pen, and then shredded the newspaper that served as their potty, into a million tiny pieces. I stared, horrified. It was if they had been doing paper-mâché, and the gummy poop was their glue. In the midst of this mess was the puppies—passed out, bellies up, and covered in “glue”. Even the twenty-four scented candles I had burning could not pull that smell out of the air. I donned my rubber combat gear, and went in.

I have been thinking about that ridiculously irresponsible decision for a few days. One has to acknowledge that it was a bit of old fashioned fun, but more importantly, it is easier to deal with physical mishap than mental and emotional calamity. We are no ordinary family; our creation—an enigma, and our kids all blessed with special needs. We have so many diagnoses in our family that we pretty much have the whole alphabet covered! Our family slogan is, “Better living chemically!”

I don’t think there is any way to describe what I was thinking in the moment that I moved out of the driver’s seat, and gave the wheel to my daughter. There are simply times when the living becomes overwhelming, and we need some levity. I could not have predicted how much we would later laugh over the van crashing into the wall, or how proudly my kids share this story with others.

Giving up is simply not an option that I can negotiate into the current “contract”. There are many days that I would love to throw in the towel—but I don’t (yet) have a full load.

Held in the hands of another

Today—of all days—she wouldn’t get up and go to school. There is nothing particularly special about today, except that my tank is empty, and my day is full. I have no space for her, and yet, here she is.

To say that I want to give up is an understatement of such grandiose proportions; it feels like a whisper into the wind. I don’t want to give up on everything. Just her. Just now.

As I grasp my warm cup of tea, I hear her laugh behind the closed door. I sigh. It is good to know she can still laugh, still be cared for, by someone who is not me. But even that moment of goodness is tainted with bitter sadness—why not me? With back-to-back-to-back indescribably tough days, I was at a loss. I didn’t know what to try next. She refused to talk to us, her parents—God-given—not hers by birth. The part that feels crazy is the situation: we have either asked her to do something benign, like clear the table, or she has witnessed an interaction between us and our other daughter. In the brief moment that it takes to switch from one slide to the next, she ricochets “madly off in [another] direction”.

Earlier today, I sat picking through my salmon salad, my body defeated by an exercise class and my emotions weighty after days of emotional battle—with her, and with my own gremlins. Anxiety coursed through my body with a current that made me quiver. With brain vessels clogged by confusion, and the skin of my living stretched so tight I felt paralyzed; I chose the unthinkable. I picked up my non-school-going defiant daughter, the one who had been calling me names for days, and took her with me to my massage. I needed her to be with me, so that she couldn’t refuse to come to the appointment we had at her school, with the principal and her teachers later in the day. I gave up my much needed and highly anticipated massage.

Maybe, I rationalized, she needed it more than me. Maybe, I needed to do this for her. Maybe…I was crazy.

I allowed, even encouraged, her to climb onto the massage table. The table that had been prepared for me. The one with the mock-sheep-skin heated mattress pad that was draped with supremely soft flannel sheets. The table with the form-fitting pillows that I could sink into as if I were embraced by a cloud. The table that perched at the hip of Linda—my caring and attentive massage therapist—a deep and wise friend, mentor and healer. I watched her undress, until she got down to her skivvies, and then she asked me to turn around, modest, as if we had become strangers overnight.

Now, I am cradled in the waiting room chair, like a mound of clay, eyes closed, listening to the calming chimes in the water bath, as they are pushed toward and away from each other rhythmically. I hear again, her laugh pulsing through the door, as she relaxes in the embrace of my Linda. She, who had yelled and screamed and pitched things through space and time at me, and my husband. We, who had adopted her, were left to answer to the sins of others. Sins we could only imagine or suppose as she had locked the events and circumstances of the past, in a trunk called “forgotten” or perhaps “forbidden”.

She suffers from past ghosts and traumas in indescribable ways. How could I ever make right what had been done wrong? How could I show up for her when she pushed and shoved me away, if not with arms and legs, then with words: “I hate you”—“Leave me alone!”—“You’re not my mother.” How could I pick myself up, after being knocked down? How could I stop the internal bleeding from so many emotional jabs? Where did her feelings end, and mine begin?

When she snaps back to that unseen place, I am surreptitiously cast as a villain. She rails and fights me as if her life depends upon it. At first, unaware that I had been recast from mother to villain, I watched, with horror as she transformed. Once started, I have no influence or ability to thwart an episode. I am unable to comfort, soothe or communicate with her at all. There, we circle each other, like two wrestlers on a mat; we warily dance, with muscles tense and sculpted in perfect symmetry. Her, with eyes glazed and shrouded in fear, in a state of fight or flight, and me—with fear and compassion and bewilderment—arms open, hoping to scoop her up and protect her.

The failure I feel is pervasive, the anguish pulling at my insides like cords tightly woven…and then sliced and frayed. At times, giving up seems like a good option. But, I will gain strength from author Krissi Dallas’ words, “There is no easy way out of our circumstances…Sometimes you stick it out even when you want to give up because you know that on the other side is either a better situation or a better you”.

So, as she relaxed enough to laugh on the massage table, I would not allow myself to think about the meeting that lay ahead, or her inability to handle her emotions. Or the basketball game that she would not be allowed to go and watch, or the fact that she would rail against me again when I said “No”, and try and jump out of the moving van. Right now, I would take this opportunity to rest my soul, knowing that she was being held in the hands of another.

No SAD in SoCal

Remember “Alexander, whose not (Do you hear me? I mean it!) going”? In that children’s book (by Judith Viorst) Alexander’s family is moving a thousand miles away, and there is no way that Alexander is going to leave, so he refuses to pack. That is how I felt all day long. It is my last day  in sunny Southern California. We spent the morning walking on the beach, with the sun warming our backs, and the soothing pulse of the surf pushing us on. I am not leaving. We spent the afternoon having a picnic on the beach at La Jolla Cove, along with dozens of seals and flocks of majestic yet cumbersome-looking California Brown Pelicans. There is no snow here. I am not leaving. It is warm (although the locals are wearing ski jackets and beanie’s). I have no responsibilities here. I am not leaving. I have time, for a few days on this trip, to be…a wife.

I am away from my kids, but that is not the whole story behind my yearly trips.

It is difficult for me to leave my kids. The volume of their need for me—as a stable base for their emotional expression—is so high that when I am not with them, I worry for them. Of course (you might say), it is good for them. And you would be right. But more importantly, it is good for me. My mothering roles and responsibilities are emotional and intense. I am highly sought out and in demand whenever my children are home. This is both a blessing and a burden.

Therefore, the break is rejuvenating for me, but draining for my kids. Life has a little less predictability when I am away. Surprisingly, not everyone knows the way that Mom does it! When I am away, my tank fills a little each day, and within days it is full, and I am able to gloriously march to a beat all my own. As soon as I tune into this rhythmic and peaceful melody, I am also aware of the chorus cutting in (every day) when I pause.

I miss you Mom.

When are you coming home?

Soon.

Seven more sleeps.

Four more sleeps.

Though my family does not usually accompany me on this annual trip they are never far away. I talk to and see each of them daily on FaceTime. With Faven, I deal with moods and emotions and her general dislike of school. I help Laurèn out with school projects and the occasional overwhelm that creeps under her skin. Facetime with Yohannes is a whole different experience. He makes me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (and then cry). As you know, on Facetime, both Yohannes and I can see him—so he tends to try different things, until something ends up being funny. It is kind of like making shadow puppets with your hands, you have to keep on experimenting. One day he turned his head sideways, and in true Pac-Man-style he went across the screen and “gobbled” up all of the lights. Another time, he put the camera right up to his nostril--and then stuck his finger in! And the grossest one: he created balls of spit at the edges of his lips, and then came close to the camera so that I could study it, like it was under a microscope. Yum. When Ward was still home, watching him on Facetime, he said (somewhat exasperated), “Yohannes, why don’t you just talk to your mom?” He confidently answered, “Because Mom likes this!”

So I am not really alone. Besides that, I have these gremlin voices that seem to follow me wherever I go. I am often halted by these disagreeable gremlins, who say things like: How could you leave them, and What is wrong with you anyway?

What is wrong with me? Being affected by seasonal affective disorder makes it more difficult in the winter for me to parent. I simply manage better when I take this seasonal break. The dark season wears me down. And all of those people who love me, are dragged down with me. I don’t like that. I am, in all seasons, the emotional barometer of my family; there is no way around it. I need to take care of that barometer.

Yes, there is much that I can—and do—do for myself during this season of darkness, but nothing charges my battery and fills my veins with happy-go-lucky, like day after day of blessed sunshine.

I am not leaving.

But please send the kids.

Ready, Set, Go

I could hear them breathing as they rolled to a stop behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. We were lined up at the red light, 1-2-3-4. My husband up front on his dark red Classic Comfort Cruiser, me bumping up to his rear tire, on my bright orange City Commuter, and them—one, two—bona fide racers. They were sporting aerodynamically designed helmets, bright cycling apparel and ergonomic clip in shoes. On their faces - pure determination. They weren’t out sightseeing.

I faced the light and smirked to myself. We got this, I mused. My husband didn’t even know they were there, so when the light turned green, he smoothly glided away, without a backward glance. I fell in behind him. About twenty seconds into this leg of our ride, I wondered how far back our competitors were. I glanced over my left shoulder, and they were right there—drafting me! The nerve. A moment later, as we entered the bike lane on the side of the highway, they geared up, and passed us both within three pedal strokes. They flew by us as if…well…as if we didn’t have throttles. How could they? They disappeared down the highway faster than invisible ink. I was dumfounded. But, it wasn’t really a fair competition because they had big, undulating muscles, while we had big, battery-laden bikes.

I stared after them in complete and utter awe. The equipment, could only take you so far!