The search is over! My vintage mixte comes home

When I woke up yesterday, I never dreamed that my three-year search for a  upright mixte commuter bike would be over. But here she is, in all her fire engine glory, and she's mine.

She's a cute Schwinn Traveler III with ten speeds and original everything. That means paint, seat, tires, grips, and even the dear little bag strapped to the seat. It's a bit scratched and rusty, but it's in far better shape than many vintage bikes I've seen, especially for $90.

Those of you who have been reading the blog for a while know that a couple of times a year, I get a hankering for a dedicated commuter bike. I get tired of making do with my road bike or simple hardtail for errands. I've looked at a lot of different commuter and cruiser options, but the vintage mixtes make me swoon, especially when they're restored by someone like Velouria from Lovely Bicycle!

For years, I struggled to believe there was an upright step-though with more than three gears that could handle the demands that my mom life can dish out. So I've kept one eye on eBay, used sporting goods stores and bike shops, hoping the Fates would smile in my direction.

They unleashed their grin when I walked into a used gear shop nearby, hoping to check out the Terry bike saddle I'd seen there a few days ago. I chatted with the owner about his new snow/beach bike (now on my fantasy bike list), then headed to the bike section. And stopped dead in my tracks.

Upright handlebars? Yes.
Step-through frame? Yes.
Great color? Definitely.
Lugs? Simple, but yes.
Good condition? Oh, yes!

I held my breath during the test drive, figuring that some glitch would appear, and I'd have to walk away from a dream bike. Again. But everything checked out, over and over again.

Now it's all mine! I'm completely reveling in the joy of having a simple bike with such lovely lines. It's always ready to go! No special shoes, no fancy clothes. I love the upright position in traffic, and the bike is so nimble!

What I didn't expect was the magical sensation of being transported. As soon as I hopped on the bike, suddenly I was a young girl again, cruising along in flip-flops, with the sun and wind in my hair. No pressure, no appointments, no grown-up fretting. Even watching Dragon Boy take a turn on it immediately brought me back to my grandparents' lawn on summer nights, where my cousins and I hitched along on impossibly big bikes.

Bike therapy comes in different shapes and sizes. When I need to fly above my everyday life, I have my road bike. For gettin' dirty on gravel, my chunky-tired Wahoo fits the bill. Now, I have a bike that moves at an easy, civilized pace where beauty flows by.

Some thoughtful readers who know goo-gobs more about bikes than I do may feel the need to point out that this isn't a high-end bike. Please don't. I'm completely okay with my fun, girly play bike. Since it's not a collector's item, I'm looking forward to accessorizing and making it mine.

Charmingly distressed bag

Photography assistance generously provided by my dudes

First morning ride

Bike shop sticker shock goes to gratitude

All tuned up and ready to go! Love the new handlebar tape.

I'm pretty sure that if my bike was a child, someone would have called Child Protective Services on me long ago.

Don't get me wrong. I adore my Felt, which fits me oh-so well and has carried me on therapy sessions, taken me to bike nirvana, and played a starring role in some fantastic family outings. But I have a chipmunk brain, and as soon as I'm off the bike, I'm on to other things. Mud and grime get caked on. The chain gets rusty. I literally ride it hard and put it away wet.

I'm such an ingrate.

Hot Husband, ever the go-getter, suggested that since we were leaving town for a week, it was a perfect time to get the bikes in the shop. Yes! Of course! Make it so! And off went his Motobecane, my Felt and Monkey Boy's bike.

I thought nothing of it until after we returned, and I was pining for a ride. We were in the very bikeable cities of Minneapolis, whose bike path system makes me swoon, and Pella, Iowa, where my sister lives. It's a charming place that pretty much looks as it did in the 1950s. Pella has a sweet downtown square, tidy lawns, and Dutch architecture that just lends itself to pedaling. But I never got the chance to ride.

When I got home, I reached for my trusty Felt, there was only my Gary Fisher Wahoo, which is dependable, but much heavier. I had a need for speed.

Because I'm the one in the family with the flexible schedule ( I will be your Sugar Mama someday, Sweetie!), I had to pick up the bikes. All of them. We have a bike rack that carries five bikes, which is something of an anomoly. It's more than a wee bit fiddly, but I got it on the truck solo, with only a minimal amount of cursing.

Really.

I sashayed into the bike shop, proud of my technical skills and can-do attitude and claimed my bikes. How much, I asked the cashier. Which were your bikes? Oh, yes. Three hundred (freaking) eight dollars, please.

Yes, it was for three bikes.

Yes, they did significant work on my bike, which dearly needed some TLC.

It still stung. I stood up a little straighter and handed over my credit card.

In that moment, logic completely failed me. I was stunned, as I always get when I have an unexpected expense over $100. The past year has been a series of financial dings -- some large, some small -- and for a couple of minutes, this felt like one more time where someone could reach into my bank account and just take what they wanted. I was supposed to be a good little girl who didn't whine.

Take heart, bike wrenchers. This is not a rant against what you charge for the care and expertise you offer. It is a reminder for me to be pull out of my funk and breathe. And wait for the ending, which has always surprised me.

You see, in spite of the financial roller coaster we've been on for the past year, the money has just worked out. No matter what drama my frantic calculations predicted, we've been able to cover the expenses that cropped up and have a bit of fun, too. Time after time after time.

When I finally got on my tuned-up bike for a date with Hot Husband, I was grateful for every penny spent. The bike was so very clean. It shifted smoothly each time and pedaled like butter. It was a joy to ride.

So thank you, every one of you bike mechanics who worries over the details, checks all of the parts I can't identify, and makes all of the little adjustments that make my rides pure joy.

Come to think of it, I should probably bring my bike shop buddies a few cookies and some cold beer. 

Thanks to Ecovelo for this great how-to on keeping bikes beautifully clean. Love his site.

Oh, the places my bike takes me!

Getting my groove back: run, bike, yoga

Biking in Glacier! No cars! All bikes!

June has arrived.

The flip of a calendar page has a different feel for me these days. As I've said before (and before, and before), the change of one year to another and the inescapable pressure of resolutions really gets to me. I'm beguiled by the idea that I can remake myself in a few short months and exit a year as a better, stronger version of myself. But I'm frustrated by that nagging implication that a resolution says, "You're not good enough."

When I saw this TED Talk on 30-day challenges, I knew I had an out to my dilemma. I had a complete do-over on the striving each and every month!

Now the start of a new month means yes to new adventures! Yes to crazy ideas! Thirty days? No problem. Away with the long, slow grind toward year's end, filled with guilt and self-loathing over not being enough in the oh-so-sexy categories of willpower and discipline.

My slacker heart has still found its loopholes with this concept, so April and May were pretty much, well, challenge-less. My Michelle Obama arms idea fizzled. After a week, Spanish lessons flopped. There were bright spots, but oy, what a grind.

Now I'm back in action, juiced up from a week spent laughing with my sistahs, getting off the schedule treadmill, spending time in the sun and generally looking at my life from the outside for a few days. The only downer was not having my therapy couch along.

Before trip? Couch-sitting. Lotsa blahs. Comfort food cravings. After trip? It's like I got a metabolism transplant. I racked up three bike rides, a run, and a little brain yoga in less than a week. Booyah!

Yes, I'm back to the formula that works best for me: run, bike, yoga.

Running is so simple. A pair of shoes, a road and 20 minutes, and I can get in a decent workout. Love that. What I love even more is the silence of my inner critics as I am in the midst of doing exactly what they insisted was impossible, or at least extremely inconvenient.

Biking is my bliss. I don't understand it, but I am happiest on a bike. I never grow tired of the feeling of flying along, free and graceful.

Yoga expands my awareness and balance. It replaces "slouch" with "strong." I lean into the permission to be powerful without the pressure to be an ultra-marathoner.

I'm amazed at how many times I have to repeat the forget-relearn cycle, but I try to look at it with a sense of wonder. "Oh, look! I get to be reminded of what's best for me. That's so kind." I love that compassionate part of my typically snarky self.

The trip also reminded me that eating low-carb is completely right for me. Three of my immediate family members have lost about 30 pounds each by trading grains for veggies and meat. I don't have that much to lose, but I haven't been trending in a postitive direction.

I decided to take the hint and go Primal! On June 1, I gave my usual carb-heavy comfort foods the boot, and it's going really well. Of course, it's no magic bullet, but I'm more alert, more eager to exercise, and some weight is disappearing.

Am I telling you to run, bike and yoga?

Am I promising that a low-carb, paleo diet is your fitness salvation?

Nononono. I have no idea what's perfect for you. I'm just getting a good handle on what's best for me! This is simply a big, fat permission slip from me to you to experiment. Remember. Fail. Try again. Go another direction.

Do whatever it takes to listen to your body and find your own bliss.

No one shrunk the kids. It's an 8-foot folding chair!

Bike share stop at the Walker Art Center

Boy pile!

Fun with cousins