The bicycle debacle (or an utter lack of planning on my part).

So, I've been doing some walking lately. It's only 2 miles a day, but considering my heretofore sedentary lifestyle, it's a jump in activity. Walking is certainly not difficult, but I have learned over the past few weeks one thing: walking sucks. It's boring, it's slow, it totally sucks in every regard. As far as modes of transportation go, it's one of the least efficient. It takes me 15-20 minutes to go one mile. ONE MILE! That's nothing!

I decided that what I needed to complete my life was a bicycle. I used to ride my bike everywhere as a kid, to the point where I actually rode a dirt course with jumps and everything. It was a blast, and a decent mode of transportation. Bicycles are: fast, simple, fun. Walking: sucks. So, I pulled up my local craigslist and the search was on. My budget is not infinite, that's for sure, but in a college town with lots of people coming and going, surely an inexpensive bike wouldn't be hard to find, right?

I found several in my price range and sent out e-mails. I was antsy. I wanted to get a bike NOW, not tomorrow or a week from now. So, when someone did finally e-mail me back, I practically bought the bicycle in my head. He asked if I wanted to come see it, and I was like, "Uh... Yeah! Good idea!" I told him I'd have to stop by an ATM to get some cash out, but that I should be there within half an hour or so. I got in my Nissan Sentra and headed out.

Now, it would be an understatement to say that I'm frugal. I'm chintsy, I'm cheap. I don't like spending money. I buy generic, use coupons, shop sales. I have a deeply-rooted problem with fees such as ATM fees or night club covers. ATM fees because why the fuck should I have to pay you to get my money (my money that you loan out to others at exorbitant interest rates, I might add); club cover charges because why the fuck should I have to give you money to give you money? I want to come into your establishment to purchase some alcoholic beverages at an already ridiculously marked-up price. Take your cover and shove it.

Now, I bank with a credit union. I have been with this credit union since I was 16 and got my first job. I love their service. Through our eleven year business relationship, they have taken very good care of me. I've had three car loans through them (on my third now), a couple of small school loans, and of course they carry my checking and savings account. Though my credit isn't fantastic (I have some revolving debt that I can't quite pay off at this juncture, though I have never been late on a payment or anything like that), they gave me a really great interest rate on my most recent car simply because of how long I've been with them and my good history with this one company. Unfortunately, my credit union does not have a branch where I live now (in fact I think they only have branches in San Antonio and Austin). So, there are no free ATMs in my area. This isn't normally a problem because I can get cash-back at most places. Most. Places.

I needed gas, so I figured I'd stop by a gas station and fill-up, and get my cash-back there. It was Sunday but for some reason the gas station was very busy. I waited about 5 minutes and then saw a spot open up that I could get to. I looped around the pumps and headed towards the pump at the same instance that a woman showed up out of nowhere to take it. We were both pointed the same place and stopped short. Now, I had already been waiting and she had just pulled into the station. One of us was going to have to be the jerk. Either I let her be the jerk and I don't get what I want, or I be the jerk, and get what I want and have already been waiting for. So, I was the jerk. I didn't cut her off or anything, we had both stopped, but the choice came and I made it. Besides, the pump next to that one opened up, so I figured she would take that. She didn't, and instead pulled up behind another car. She rolled down her window and delivered a very sarcastic "Thank you" to me, which I completely ignored. I wasn't in the mood to argue, anyway.

So, I got gas and went to pay. The attendant told me they didn't do cash back. Great. I decided I'd stop by the grocery store across the parking lot and get a pack of gum or some trivial item (at least then I get something in exchange for the money, instead of paying $3.00 for nothing) and get cash back at the register. Apparently there was a football game going on later that afternoon, so the grocery store was packed. I waited in line about ten minutes, thinking the whole time that I would pay $3.00 to avoid all this hassle. When I finally did get to the register, I realised I'd left my damn wallet in the car. Irritated, I headed back to my car to find an ATM machine. I drove to the closest bank (some no-name local branch). I stuffed my card into the machine and put in my PIN. I requested cash and then... the transaction was declined. I can't adequately tell, in mere words, the emotion I was feeling at that moment.

There was a Wal-Greens across the street and I figured it'd be my last shot. I knew there was money in my account, I just had to GET to it, dammit. The transaction at Wal-Greens went flawlessly. There was no one in line and in fact I didn't see another customer the whole time I was there. I got a pack of mints and paid, the transaction was approved and I got $40 cash back (two twenties). I happily waltzed to my car, thinking of all the fun I'd have with my new bicycle. I hopped in the car, reversed out of the space and almost got completely out of the parking lot when I realise the seller of the bike would likely not have change for a twenty. He was asking $35 for the bike and I had the intention of asking if he'd take $30 instead. I would need change. So, back to Wal-Greens.

Forty-five minutes after leaving my house, I had a twenty, a ten and two fives and was headed to the guy's apartment complex. We met in front of his leasing office. I rode the bike a little bit to ensure it was mechanically sound, talked him down to $30 and paid for the bike. He left. I then spent the next fifteen fruitless minutes trying to get the bicycle in my car. It was physically impossible from any angle. It didn't fit in the trunk. The back seats don't fold down, so I couldn't do that and push it through from the trunk. It wouldn't fit in the back seat. The front seat wouldn't recline enough to squeeze it in there. I didn't have tools to dismantle the bicycle so that I could break it down and take it home. In short, there was no way for me to get this bicycle home aside from riding it, and I was about 15 miles from my apartment. Additionally, how the heck would my car get home?

I have no cell phone, so I couldn't call anyone from where I was at. I rode the bike to campus, where I tapped into their wifi with my iPod Touch and made a call to a friend who owns a truck. I explained to her that I was on campus, with a bicycle, and didn't know how to get it home. She asked some questions that didn't make sense to me until I realised that she was completely confused. "How the hell did you end up on campus with a bicycle without your car?!" she asked. I then explained the whole story to her, she laughed at me and finally I was able to go home. I got the bike home, got a lock for it and it was good to go.

I've been riding it to work every day which is 2 miles, total. The 2 miles I was walking. It takes HALF the time and is by far more fun. When school starts, it'll be nice to have a bicycle on campus. I'll get more riding in, too, because I will be taking classes at Blinn Community College on Tues/Thurs which is only about a mile from my house. So I envision I'll be riding to Blinn and back home, then putting the bike on my bicycle rack on my car, driving to where I park near campus and bicycling another 2 miles (one in and one out) on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and then on M/W/F get my straight two miles from my car and back. So, that's 14 miles a week, not including recreational riding. As I get into better shape, I can totally see myself hitting some biking trails. That shit is straight fun.

I believe I have discovered the lowest of lows:

Drinking $5 wine through a Twizzler.

That is all.

Conquerer of Worlds

So, this is sort of a continuation of last week's "theme" (not that we really have themes around here, but it's a nice thought). The so-called "great" outdoors have almost unconditionally ended up humiliating me at the least and injuring me at best. But recently I've been sort of looking for a hobby that doesn't involve the internet and I've been tossing a few ideas around in my head. I decided that I wanted to go fishing. Fortunately for me, my cat woke me up at 6:30 AM on a Saturday. Wide awake and with not much to do, I decided to hit up the local garage sales to see if I could procure a fishing pole. I found one and headed to a sports store for a basic, starter tackle kit and a fishing license. I came home and Googled nearby fishable waterways. By 10:30 that morning, I was on Gibbons Reservoir with a couple of beers, fishing gear, and a large plastic bucket. My genius idea was to put the fish I caught (if any) into the bucket.

The goal of this was to be as self-sufficient as possible. I would catch, clean, cook, and eat my own fish. From the water. Myself. I would be a God and the fish-people would ever-cringe at the sound of my name. Conquerer of (watery) Worlds. Let's completely ignore the fact that the last time I went fishing, I was probably eight years old or so, and my father did all the actual work. Let's completely disregard the point that I have never cleaned a fish let alone put a knife into a living thing in my entire life and in fact the very thought of merely hooking a worm makes me squeamish. I was determined. I was going to do this with little-to-no knowledge and with no assistance. I was going to kick this reservoir's ass.

So I asked the lady at the park entry where a good place to catch bass was. This reservoir is stocked with bass and catfish and of the two, I'd prefer bass. Additionally, I recall once trying to catch catfish with my father and we'd had to use a special bait and everything and we didn't catch shit, so I figured I'd be better off going for bass. The woman advised me to fish along the coastline and so I parked and found a nice spot near some guys who were fishing. I figured if they were fishing there, maybe they knew something I didn't know. I was wrong (and so were they), because after half an hour, neither of us had caught anything. I mean, it would have been one thing if they'd caught something and I hadn't or vice-versa, but not even a nibble for either of us that whole time. So, I moved further down. Another half hour passed without a catch. I'd gotten a nibble, but the fish got away with half my nightcrawler (which I was somewhat upset about because I'd just finished overcoming my squeamishness of hooking them and I was learning you really had to hook them, like several times so the hook runs all through their little wormy bodies to keep them on the hook).

It hadn't really occurred to me that I might not catch anything. I was feeling a bit let down but I decided to move wayyyyy further down, closer to the dam and try again. I thought, these fish probably ate earlier this morning and maybe they're just not hungry yet (what? I don't know shit about fish eating habits, okay?), and maybe if I'm patient they will get hungry again and I'll catch something. Additionally, I added more weight to the line so I could cast further out, and moved the bobber up so that the bait would go deeper into the water. I mean, I'm just guessing at this point and learning as I go, but I figured, "What I'm doing now isn't working, let's change things," and so I did.

It paid off.

A few minutes in I got a nibble. Then another. They were taking bits of my bait but there was still enough to cast with. So, I cast again. At this point, I could see the fish almost literally jumping out of the lake. They were snagging unwary flies who landed on the water for a drink. They were hungry. I got a bite, tugged hard and hooked a fish! I was ECSTATIC. The weight of the fish fighting against the pole was a great deal more than I'd anticipated, and my pole bowed down almost as if honoring the fish for its struggle.

I had caught a catfish! I was awesome! I was queen of the land and seas! All creatures would bow before me!

Wait. What the fuck do I do now?! I got the fish and he's struggling, he's sort of in the shallows flopping around and I'm thinking, what did my dad do? Oh yeah, we had a line. He would put them on a line and keep them in the water until we were ready to leave. Line, line, line, do I have a line? I'm searching around me and I notice in my tackle kit there's a small blue rope that's about 6 feet long and has a round loop on one end and a metal stake at the other end. Aha! I remember now! You run the stake through the gill of the fish and out its mouth, then through the round loop and then stake it into the grass on the edge of the water. Perfect! I ran the stake through the gill opening, then through the loop, and then literally had the fish on a leash. That's when I realised I was on a cement embankment and there was absolutely no earth to shove the stake into.

At the same time, I didn't want to leave after all that work with just one fish. A relatively big fish for freshwater fishing, but still, just one fish. The whole time I'm trying to figure this out I'm holding the "leash" and the fish is trying to swim away. Awkward for everyone involved. So, I filled the bucket with water and put the fish in the water. But it was really hot, and the water would get hot, so I knew it wouldn't be a good idea. I put Mr. Fishy back in the lake and then it occurred to me that the bucket was heavy now that it was full of water. So, I put the bucket in the shallows and tied the rope to the bucket handle. It worked! Totally ghetto, but effective.

I cast my line and ended up catching two more catfish. How I wasn't catching bass, I have no idea, but fish is fish! I realised that if I wanted to keep them alive until I got them home, it was time to call it a day because I was out of room in the bucket. Now, about this bucket. It's one of those big, square ones that you get bulk cheap laundry detergent in. Through an incredible lack of planning, I didn't have any sort of lid for it. So, I have this bucket that's 3/4ths of the way full of water, with three live fish flopping around in it, and I've got to get it home -- about 30 minutes away -- without spilling water or fish all over my car. I was thinking about this as I was lugging everything back to the car (a half-mile or so walk). It was a difficult walk because the bucket & fish were quite heavy and on top of that I was carrying a small ice chest, a tackle box and a fishing pole.

Anyway, the most satisfying part of the day was when I was walking past the guys who I'd been fishing near originally. Here I am, a girl by myself who hasn't "gone fishing" since she was a child, learning the fine art of fishing as she goes. And they're three dudes who have expensive fishing poles and tackle gear and probably years of hobbyist experience. They hadn't caught shit. They asked me if I'd caught anything and I showed them my bucket 'o fish with pride. I was nice enough to not tell them this was my first time out fishing. They started asking me questions about my "technique" and my bait and such, and I tried to answer them without sound like so much of a noob (to avoid their embarrassment, not my own).

I got the fish home. The bucket fit snugly between my passenger seat and the glove compartment part of the dash, and was secure the whole way home. I covered it with a white hand towel, to keep the fish out of the hot sun and to help mitigate any splashes. At home, I carted the bucket into the kitchen, broke out the cutting board and my sharpest knife. I had read up a bit on fishing before I left the house, and many guides advised a swift blow to the head to kill the fish. I didn't want the fish to suffocate, that's unduly cruel, and I certainly didn't want to cut into them live. I have a large knife so I flipped it around so the blunt end was out. I held the fish firmly in my hand and brought the blunt edge down with a loud whack. See, I was expecting a thud, but here was a whack. What the hell?

Catfish, as it turns out, are one of the most difficult fish to clean. Their spines (?) run from their tail way up into their head and so there's bone protecting them. Or something. I don't know. All I knew was that I had a live fish and I didn't know what the fuck to do with it. Eventually, the fish did die. I wasn't tremendously happy with the way that it died, but it was dead and that was what I wanted. Now, to clean it. I looked up a video on youtube. It looked simple enough. I just wanted the filets because I'd read that the belly meat would be where all the toxins (if there were any) would be. I gripped the knife firmly in my hand, placed it against the fish, and proceeded to freak the fuck out. How could I do this? I had been steeling my nerves about this all day long, trying to prepare myself for that moment and the moment had come and I was lacking.

I paced. I pondered. Let's say I don't cut up the fish. What do I do with them? It seemed intrinsically wrong to have fished them out of the water, kept them on a leash, brought them home in a big bucket only to throw them in the dumpster or something. I didn't know anyone who could clean a fish or who would even want to try. What was I supposed to do with these fish?

No. I had to do this. I couldn't just give up. All my hard work, all for nothing? Not going to happen. I reached deep down inside and came up with some courage and I fileted the fuck out of those fish. I probably did a poor job, once I get more practice in I will be better, but in the end I got three good size filets and enough catfish bits for a meal or two. I made a fish fry with cornmeal and spices and dredged them in the mix. I fried up one filet and put the rest in the fridge.

They were delicious. Here's the bad boys in question, in order of catch:

Next up: Irate Irrelevance vs a bicycle -- HOW WILL IT END?!

Outdoors

I am not the "outdoorsy" type. It doesn't even matter how you define "outdoorsy," because however you define it, if you met me, you would know with a startling immediacy that I am not it. I don't hike very well. Jogging has resulted in no less than two of my three sprained ankles in the space of two years. Skiing? Forget the fact that I'm hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the nearest slopes, skiing is simply not for me. Same for snowboarding, obviously. Waterskiing, skating, bicycle riding, hang gliding, or any number of outdoor activities I complete with a frightening amount of dangerous incompetence. Even walking can sometimes be troublesome and before I know it, I'll end up face forward on the pavement.

I'll try to be brief, because my incredible and outstanding inability to function outdoors is actually not the point of this post, but I want to relate to you the last time I attempted anything serious outdoors. This was back when I was with he-who-shall-not-be-named II, and we thought it would be a fine idea to go camping. Camping is pretty simple, right? You pitch a tent, get a little fire going, have some s'mores, get ridiculously drunk and have rowdy sex which most certainly annoys any neighboring campers. How difficult could it be? And to top it off, it's fairly inexpensive, as far as vacations go, as long as you already have the gear. So, I borrowed some of my parent's camping gear. I was directed that it was in the family storage unit, and given the key. I retrieved everything that was available, and we picked up a few things at Wal-Mart (outdoor camping stove, metal skewers, beer, etc). We checked the weather and, though it was winter time (mid-November) found it to be favorable in the mountains of West Texas. We hopped in the car early and headed out to Fort Davis, Texas (which as you can see is in the middle of fucking nowhere).

We caught an early evening star show at the McDonald Observatory (which was amazing) and during the show we noted that it was actually quite cold. We were seated on cement benches and we were sorely underdressed for the occasion. Regardless, we left the Observatory and drove the short distance to Davis Mountains State Park. We found a campsite and, using two lanterns and the headlights of our car, set up camp. There were some problems. For example, the tent that I thought I'd grabbed (you know, the one with room for roughly 8 people if you're on pretty friendly terms) ended up being a one-person pup tent. I had inadvertently grabbed the wrong tent; I didn't even know they had more than one! If you've never been in a one-person pup tent, allow me to guide you, through the power of your imagination, into being in one. Pretend you're lying on the ground. Your arms are at your side, but you cannot move them away from your body -- there is simply not room. The roof of the tent slopes downward from the top (which is behind your head) and touches your nose. Your feet stick out the end. Now, imagine that except with two people. Even if you're EXTREMELY familiar with the other person, this is not going to be a comfortable position.

At this point, it was roughly 36 degrees. The weather had promised an invigorating but manageable 38 degrees, even in the mountains. We started a fire. I could write a blog in itself about getting the fire started but suffice it to say it was nearly impossible (even though we had lighters) and one of us got a third degree burn (not me). When we finally DID get the fire going well enough that we felt it was safe to exhale and not worry that an errant breath would put it out, the fire itself illuminated about three feet in any given direction from it. On the outskirts of that three feet were at least four javelinas. Javelinas, if you didn't know, are wild boars. Not pigs. Boars. They are not Wilbur from Charlotte's fucking Web, they are vicious animals that could quite literally tear you into pieces and would probably eat off you while you were still alive if given half the chance. So, that was intimidating, although the fire seemed to keep them at bay.

It was cold. Very cold. We had no way of knowing how cold, but we were huddled up by the fire. Despite the chill, we were determined to drink a bit and toast some marshmallows, have some s'mores, as that was the plan. We did this for maybe thirty minutes but we were quite exhausted by this point, so we decided to try to get some sleep. This would prove to be 100% impossible for me. First of all, it was REALLY cold. The ground was cold, my toes were cold, my face was cold and my fingers were cold. Second of all, we didn't fit very well in the tent, despite being okay with being completely smushed into each other. It just wasn't working. I felt a tinge of claustrophobia at being in a space so small, my arms folded on my chest like the living dead, my breath hanging in the air. I snuggled under the sleeping bag, but my breath on the bag caused precipitation to form and freeze on the inside of my sleeping bag.

I didn't sleep, and eventually moved to the car. This was not much better. By this point, my toes were tingling, my fingers were sore and my face was numb. I could have tried to turn the car on for heat, but I couldn't leave it on all night long and I'm certain the warm air would just cause more precipitation as it faded, making me even more chilled. We could have gotten up and left, but where would we have gone? We were in the middle of nowhere, and even the state park wasn't staffed by anyone this late at night. I ended up spending the next eight hours wide awake, wondering if I'd get feeling back in my toes or not.

At the slightest hint of sunlight over the edge of the west Texas mountains (the sun rises there an hour later than it does in San Antonio, I might add), with just the faintest hint of a hazy light, we were both up immediately. We didn't so much as break down camp as we tore everything down, wrapped it up and shoved it into the trunk of the car. There was no sense of care, no organisation, we didn't even put the tent back in the box, just scrunched it into a ball and tossed it in the trunk with the lanterns, stakes, cooler, chairs and anything else we had brought with us. In the three-and-a-half minutes it took us to tear down the campsite we had the car running, and jumped in, our fingers numbed. I should also add that the gallon of water we'd brought with us to drink from during our camping trip was frozen solid. We later found out that according to the weather (mind you, this is the same weather that told us it'd be a "low of 38˚") the temperature had gotten down to 22˚ that night in the mountains.

We drove to Fort Davis which was a ghost town. Nothing was open - not even the gas station ("convenience" store, my ass). We drove to the next nearest town, Marfa. It was a 35 minute drive, if I recall correctly. We were both positively exhausted. Cold, dirty, tired, hungry and grouchy, we pulled into Marfa and found a greasy spoon. They could have served us cold lard and I'm fairly certain we would have taken it gratefully so long as it came with a cup of hot coffee and was served in a heated building. We spent the remainder of our weekend vacation in Aspen, Tx which was having a pretty nice little art show in town, and had good live music at a fun little dive bar. The rest of the trip was great, and the observatory was fantastic, but seriously: fuck the outdoors.

So, that whole thing wasn't the point of this post, but I've put enough here that I think I'll save it for later. Next time: I get a wild hair up my ass and decide to learn to fish (by myself)!