Back in all sorts of ways: back in LA, back "in the office", back on the bike. Well, almost back on the bike. My legs haven't been this hairy since I was 14 years old...
Last weekend we celebrated Grandma's life just how she would have wanted. The family gathered, talked a lot, cried a lot, laughed a lot and ate a lot. We were up until the wee hours of the morning most nights, and then turned around and did it again. There was definitely some readjusting to life in the days after her death too. For 67 days Mom, Dad and my lives revolved around Grandma, and we enjoyed it. It was very, very odd the first few mornings that I woke up and didn't check in on her, help her enjoy a cup of coffee, track her medicines and help her to the bathroom. That's not to mention how odd the first night of sleeping without the constant hum of the monitor was too. But, being surrounded by family and partying to exhaustion helped keep us distracted.
It was the second night after Grandma died that a long-lost feeling crept in... I wanted to start training. Rosa's analysis is probably right: I have an addictive, probably-even-obsessive personality, and it had been a real easy move to transfer my energy into helping Grandma. Then, once that job no longer required me, my mind turned to it's trusty, old, two-wheeled fix. Oh well, there are certainly worse things.
In between gatherings and services I packed my life back up into a duffel bag and a bike box for my flight back to LA on Tuesday. Bless the bike-box. If I'm going to pay $80 to bring it on the plane, rest assured I'm going to use the biggest cardboard bike box I can find and stuff it to the gills. And as a bonus, all the clothes stuffed into plastic shopping bags and packed around the bike act as extra padding. I've made three-week trips with nothing but a bike box and one carry-on.
The flight home was a bit of a pain as the leg out of ORD was delayed 70 minutes, so I missed my connection in DFW by seconds. I could still see the plane at the end of the walkway as I ran to the gate: AAGGHH! "Sorry Sir, they just closed the doors. You were the only passenger that didn't check in." Still being able to see the plane is probably the worst scenario in missed-flight history, especially if it means a 3.5 hour layover. The looooooonnng walk (I despise airport trams and people movers except when used by the injured or elderly) from A10 to D37 helped me cool off, in addition to a couple of Tecate's and my amigo Rick DeMoan "talking me off the ledge".
The final leg of the trip went smoothly enough, and since it was night it was easy to see the SoCal fires as we flew in. That was weird- just isolated bunches of orange flames dancing on the mountainside. There were also a few firefighters on the plane that were coming into help. They definitely looked a little pensive when they saw the fires.
Speaking of which... I best light one under my a#! and go exercise.
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