#Running Hydration Vest Backpack

[insightcracker]

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[drinkw]

Lighten Your Load: Ultralight Sleeping Bags for Effortless Outdoor Exploration

Introducing the latest collection of drink accessories at OnTheGo Drinkware. Our drinks keep you hydrated wherever you go, whether hiking, driving, or walking. With splash-proof lids and durable materials, our bottles and cups are designed with convenience and reliability. Staying hydrated has never been easier or more stylish. Say goodbye to disposable cups and say hello to eco-friendly hydration on the go.

[thisfanisgonesorry]

in sickness (and in flames) — john price

first you get hurt, and then there’s healing; its a process, believe me

tags: kyle “gaz” garrick mentioned, angst, hurt/comfort, injury resulting in chronic pain, ptsd, flashbacks and pov switches. -> fem!wife reader but also not really an x reader fic if that makes sense? just give her a chance;; 4.7k wc

a/n: this is self indulgent "fuck off and die" fic /lh (nerve dmg sucks) but might add more to it yet, who knows

💊

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his fists periodically. The memory ingrained in his head as he ignored the figure looming over him.

Bullets whizzed past them as he barked orders, directing his soldiers through cover, to eventual evac. To safety. There were so many of them that there wasn’t time to stop and shoot, the only option was to run, sprint, hide, use cover to your advantage, don’t let them get to you. His orders filled the air and cackled over the radio as he demanded backup or some form of overwatch.

He stood in the doorway to a building, his ears ringing from the sudden outburst of violence, dust covering every position, impossible to see how many shooters were from any angle, he waved his arm, gesturing to them to rush from cover-to-cover. He kept a count of his soldiers, mumbling names and numbers under his breath. His fingers looped into the edge of their vests or backpacks like you would on the scruff of a dogs neck, heaving them into the room and pushing them past the doorway threshold as he counted.

Bravo 6-2 walked through the door and John sighed in relief, giving him a pat on the back, and he continued to lead them through the building, not giving himself a moment of repose. ‘Everyone made it to safety’ echoed in his thoughts, the only thing that mattered.

“Anyone hit?” His voice hoarse as he scanned the group. He was met with reassurance from them, everything and everyone was fine, maybe a few minor injuries, but they were okay. That’s the only thing that mattered.

He raised his hands, two fingers pointing upwards as he glanced, squinting through the dust before waving, rushing through. His mind was fogged, which he now kicked himself for. He wanted to rush this, get out as quickly as he could manage. But if he just took his time —

A loud thud as he fell to the ground, blood seeping through his uniform but his body numb and tingly. He patted himself down as he tried to figure out where he was shot but nothing, the blood was thick to cover its origin, and his eyes wide, his eyebrows knitted in focus, trying to clear his thoughts despite the heavy rain of gunfire surrounding him.

His men covered him quickly, trying to pull him to his feet, but a rough, barked. “Go!” filled the air, a demand of desertion that was swiftly ignored.

“Sir, we’re not leaving without you.” 6-2 spoke firm, picking up the fallen soldier quickly and heaving his arm over his shoulder. There was an unspoken glare between them, a silent argument. Though the soldier averted his gaze, taking his role as second in command immediately in stride.

John was silent, observing, uncontesting the willingness of his soldiers to save him. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe they’d truly leave him behind, but the quick thinking would earn some medals.

The hospital was worse than the battlefield. Half of his body was numb, though he sat there clenching and unclenching his fists, wriggling whatever part of his body could move. His voice was ragged from exhaustion, and rough from the lack of hydration. Despite knowing better, he just couldn’t bring himself to drink anything, or to eat. He simply laid there, fighting for control over his body.

The bullet was removed from his spine and laid next to him, covered in his dried blood that crusted the pristine silver, it laid idly in the metal tin, but John couldn’t help but glare at it like it offended him.

His body laid straight and flat on the hospice mattress to ease the spinal column. His eyes stayed glued to the roof, though his eyes failed him, and despite his instinct, he fought to look away from the offensive side-table.

He’d been hospitalised for weeks while the army did their last duty to support him. Nurses coming in and out to make sure he left in the best of conditions, though he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.

A letter of discharge sat on the table next to him, sided with a bottle of water and using the metal tin with the bullet as a paperweight. The victoria cross was placed formally on top of the discharge paper, gifted to him while he slept.

As weeks went on, small tidbits were left on his side table as farewells, as souvenirs, as gifts. It wasn’t long before the news of Captain John Price’s discharge made its way around the base.

His spine recovered quickly, no major damage — not paralysed permanently. Once he was able to sit up without insufferable pain, he analysed the few items that were left for him. He rattled the tin, staring down at the bullet and cursing it for changing the trajectory of his life. The paper insulted him slightly, and he dreaded the day where he’d have to sign it, he was putting it off as long as he could, doing his best to ignore it’s presence, but his time was nearing. He couldn’t stay in this infirmary forever.

The Victoria Cross, in all its glory. He picked it up carefully, treating it like it was fragile. It wasn’t his to discard. He analysed the soft red ribbon, running his calloused finger over it. Awarded for astounding bravery. He flipped it over, to find the date of such an event labelled on the centre of the cross, and one ‘Kyle Garrick’ engraved into the suspender bar.

“You’re lucky to even be able to walk.” Were words that made his eyes glaze over, and they were always met with a brisk, formal nod. How was he supposed to respond to that information? He was bombarded with information like that, how he was lucky to be able to walk, how he was so lucky that it didn’t do more damage than it did. How much luck would he have needed to not get hit at all?

So he laid there, staring up at the ceiling at the memory. Fists clenched and unclenched. “Honey?” Was called out from the dark, and he turned his head, sitting up briefly to see his darling wife. “Made you some tea.”  

The glass was sat next to him and he stared up at me like he’d seen a saint. “I love you.” He spoke, like if he didn’t say it, then there would be no way for her to remember on her own. A chaste kiss, and a reassuring palm on the back of her waist was the physical touch that soothed his mind, though he continued to linger on the thoughts.

He was tired, beyond so, a permanent scowl hidden behind his outgrown beard, he’d neglected most forms of self care at this point in his life. He’d shaved it once — the day before he came home. He stood in front of the mirror for an hour just staring at his reflection, dreading what would come next, like it would be something bad until he forced himself into maintenance.

He walked up to the doorstep, his bag slung over his shoulder and the discharge paper firmly on his hand. He presented it like a child who just got an ‘F’ on their test, handing it to their disapproving mother that expected better. The look of shame that covered his face. The pleading in his eyes. 

I carefully took the paper from his hands, confused by his expression before seeing the glaring sentences. ‘Certificate of discharge from active duty’ plastered across the top, as well as his name and neighbouring information. A mumbled ‘what?’ escaped my lips as I continued to skim, knowing few of the words, but wanting that extra confirmation.

‘Medical discharge’ stuck out awfully. There was information about the discharge scattered throughout the letter, something or other mentioning medical retirement and the permanent disability retirement list. “John, what’s this?” I asked, met with silence, the soldier continuing to stand tall. “What happened?” His heart sank, his reserve falling. God, did he feel selfish.

He walked into the large, oh-so-empty house, and he half-expected to get dragged by the ear. “Got shot.” He grumbled under his breath. “Don’t even know how it happened — it was all so fast.” His breath quickened, his heart racing at the shooting memory of the pain that slithered down his body before the numbness took hold.

I wrapped my arms around him, and he fell silent. The words stopped pouring and he slumped down, letting his large, strong arms wrap around the smaller torso, and he accepted the act of affection warmly despite the way his gut churned in disappointment in himself.

All that hard work, and for what? What did it even pay off for?

Weeks passed, and he struggled to cope with the knowledge that he’d never go back to work. The pension came in smoothly, he was given what was needed to live comfortably, they did their part to make sure he was well-cared for. Government wise or other. He was supplied for, and that left a tight feeling in his chest that he didn’t like.

He wasn’t disabled — not by a long shot. Not in his eyes. Though that fiery pain that starts in the heel of his foot and quickly strikes up his leg like lightning spoke otherwise, like an echo behind his voice that said the opposite of his words.

Once again, he laid in bed, the sheets kicked off his aching, touch-hot legs, though they stayed wrapped around his doting lover. Why wasn’t he able to support his wife the same way he did before? It twisted him up and spat him out.

“Love you.” Was mumbled into the flesh of his neck, and he gave a sharp exhale, sighing at the words and closing his eyes, basking in the moment. He held his breath when he thought about these things — holding his breath in hopes it eased the tightness in his chest. He let out a soft laugh. She noticed, of course she did.

His arms squeezed them closer together, the same way he used to. Not much had changed besides his body. The sudden ache in his muscles, the discomfort. The all-too-well known demotivation that came with upheavals of change. The only other thing that changed, a good change, was his lack of motif bred a healthy amount of weight gain.

‘Soft around the edges’ were the words of choice. They reverberated around his skull for a few days, and he sulked and sulked, unsure how he felt about it. Initially taking it as an insult before that consciousness in the back of his head reminded him that he was loved.

“Love you too.” He brooded.

“Stop thinking so much.” I hummed, letting it hang in the air the same way he hung his head in shame. He let out a gruff hum of approval, letting me know my words were heard, but he wasn’t happy to hear them.

He woke, stirring slightly and noticing the distinct emptiness in his arms that he’d grown familiar with, though it continued to be strange. His arms reached out, patting a side of the bed, before he picked himself up, opening his eyes to be met with the distinct *clink* of his cup of tea placed gently on the bedside table.

“Hate it when you do that.” Was his confession. He loathed the feeling of waking up alone, and it was salt in the wound to know that she did it for him. He always felt like it was his job to be the caretaker, the provider, so for it to suddenly be ripped away like that? It killed him. Anyone with half a mind would be incredulously grateful that their partner loves them enough to care for them back the same way, versus whatever Jennifer Tilly has going on the side. But for whatever reason, never John Price.

He wasn’t met with a response, just an affectionate smile as the day continued, not pausing for a moment, it never did anymore. He missed the closeness, the affections. More than anything, he missed the intimacy.

He was kicking himself for letting it affect the marriage, because of course it did — of course it would. He couldn’t believe himself. He managed to find someone so loving, so caring, so supportive, so radiant. So unbelievably perfect. His own bitter, brooding pushing away the one good thing he had left. 

The only thing he felt that continued to function in his body correctly was his heart.

He gave a deep sigh, his hands tightly holding onto the side of the sink as he sat in the big house alone, oh; it felt so empty sometimes. His knuckles noticeably paler from how tight he held onto the sink, analysing his face.

He picked the sleep from his eyes and ran his hands over his beard, running his nails through the messy hair. The electric razor buzzed to life in his hands, he held it to his cheek and let it remove all the excess unkemptness.

A low growl rumbled through him, his hands struggling to respond to the actions his brain told him as he tried to trim his beard, the guard pressing into the fur and trimming it as it fell into the sink. The door behind him clicked, his arm tensed and the safe-guard failed, pressing deeper and a ball of fluff falling into the basin, a small bald patch forming on his cheek.

I apologised needlessly, assuming I was the distraction that caused the incident. “I’m sorry.” — I greeted him warmly, a reassuring touch, and he scowled, though there was no frustration; only disappointment. — He sucked his teeth, moving his jaw for easier access as he clean-shaved his face, leaving his cheeks bare and naked for the first time in years.

“Not your fault.” He responded gruffly, turning the razor off and swapping it between hands, shaking his dominant one briefly before going back to his actions. His cheeks were stubbled as he tried to keep it smooth, though he was heavily limited.

The razor was placed down on the side of the bench, and he rubbed the smooth skin, feeling the dull bristles over his fingers. It took him a moment, the person in the reflection looked nothing like him, it almost prompted a double take. He hadn’t looked this baby-faced in so long but it was welcome. Maybe even the change he needed. “I’m proud of you.” He froze, nodding with a thick swallow and slight gasp of air, almost like the words itself hurt more than a gunshot.

“Thank you.”

“It looks nice.” I whispered, my palm on his strong, muscled back. “You look nice.”

He leant into the touch, his shoulders relaxing and his body untensing at the reassurance. I rested my chin on his shoulder, and ran my hands up and down his arms, taking in his beauty. He was tired, and the conversation felt like a stab in the chest. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He grumbled, shuffling from foot to foot, rolling his shoulders as a slight innuendo that he didn’t want me touching him, and the conversation ended there. His words were terse — and I pulled away slowly at his actions.

He turned to me hesitantly, breaking eye contact with his own reflection, a million untamed thoughts running through his head. “I love you.” He reassured, a soft kiss on my forehead, feeling the stubble scratch me slightly, his nose pressing into my hairline, a firm hand on my shoulder as a vague form of affection like he did to his soldiers, the ones that he misses so dearly.

The sound of dishes clinking into the sink filled the kitchen. “I’m sorry.” He spoke with his chest, all puffed like a scared animal trying to survive against a predator. The tall, strong ex-soldier was now acting like nothing more than prey. “For everything. For.. All of it.” He struggled on his words with a sigh.

“What? You didn’t do anything.”

“Don’t.” He commented, his voice low like it was a warning. “Don’t try and act like it’s nothing and don’t—” His words caught in his throat. “Don’t think you have to take care of me.”

The silence was overwhelming, consuming the room and filling the air like a noxious gas. What was I meant to say to that? I shook my head, wordless, unblinking, unmoving, unbreathing. My mouth fell open to speak, though I pressed it into a thin line, keeping myself quiet. What do I say? He noticed the awkwardness, and sighed once again.

“Didn’t mean it like that.” He admitted, the roughness to his voice like gravel, like a man who hadn’t slept in days, lying awake, memories haunting him and the rigid words he planned to say to his doting lover filling his senses, but now he was here saying them it was fleeting. “You know what I meant, just..”

“John.”

“I know that this can’t be easy for you—”

“Like it’s easy for you?” I quickly retorted and he fell silent, his eyes staring through me as his mind lingered on the next argument for him to make. Though it seemed every argument he made quickly fell to an impasse.

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me.” “I’m your wife, I’m doing what I’ve always done.”

“I should be the one supporting you.” “You’re still getting paid, aren’t you?”

“What kind of man gets like this?” “A man that gets shot in the spine, and should count his blessings that he can still walk.” “I should’ve done a better job.” “You could’ve done better by telling me you were hospitalised.”

The room fell silent after the last dry, airy comment. He felt like he’d been shot all over again. “Look.. I’m sorry for that.” He said earnestly. A pause, a beat. “I don’t think that this is what you signed up for.”

“What about ‘in sickness and in health’?” Another silence, another pause, another beat. The air felt humid, sticky with tension, like a bead of sweat could roll down the side of his forehead, down his temple and slick onto the now bare-faced man.

“Don’t twist my words.”

“I know what I signed up for.” And the argument ended there. His stomach twisted up, why was he doing this? He was once again chewing himself up. Why was he pushing everything away? Why couldn’t he just get over it.

His thoughts scurried as he sat alone, dwindling on the minor argument, a common sight now. Why did he do that? How can such a tiny piece of lead do so much damage? How can it rewire his entire life? How can it rewire his brain? He dreaded the thoughts that always came next — is he selfish for wishing it took it instead? It was never a thought that he meant. Never truly, earnestly something he meant.

He was lonely. It was obvious. He’d lost his job, all his friends and all of his connections. He loathed it, and he wanted anything to take up his time. He itched to distract himself, to move his mind away from the guilt. He was fighting and he hated it — so he walked.

Walking made his feet burn, his big and heavy combat boots never felt like such a burden. Weighing down his body as he trudged along. He continued to walk anyway, working his legs back into metaphorical shape. It was a struggle, a fight, and how he managed to do this every day of his life before was a distant memory.

The ex-soldier continued to brute force his way through the pain. He convinced himself that the pain was like a runners-high where if he pushed past it, there’d be a sudden burst of renewal, though it never came.

He pushed through the front door, heavy footsteps banging on the floor, a wince in each step. He had a tired frown, searching the house idly. He placed a bag of food on the bench, a sigh escaping his lips as he wrapped his arms around his beloved. “Darling..” His voice was gravelly from the sudden uptake of smoking and yelling. “Got us some food.” He tried to speak sweetly as a surrender, a statement that there was not an argument to be had. 

“You’re done being a baby?” I mumbled and he let out a silent grunt of disapproval, though he took it in stride. A weak stride as his chin rested on my shoulder, his beard scratching my neck as he nuzzled slightly.

“Guess so.” He sighed, earning a nod. “‘S your favourite.” His eyes drooped, peaking at what kept my hands occupied. He tried to keep his attitude light, but all attempts of talking fell flat on its face. “C’mon, talk to me.”

I slinked out of his hold, turning to face him and he locked me into place, both hands holding the bench on either side of me, his tall figure looming over me dearly, the ghost of an embrace. “This is f’you.” I commented, handing him the cup of tea. Honey, herbs, tealeaves, sugar, milk. Spice, everything nice. He smiled, half-lidded eyes. “How was your walk?” He shrugged, he took the cup, and he was less domineering as he no longer trapped me between the counter and his large build.

“Good — and good.” He nodded, sipping the tea and gesturing to it with a short lift. He adored the new tea flavours, the variation between them. He was just a bland black breakfast type of guy, enforced by the lack of choice between being a military man and living alone with no desire to explore, but he can’t say he didn’t enjoy the list of flavours being thrown at him, too many to count or remember, but he knew most of them taste amazing, but he couldn’t distinguish if the love it was made with had something to do with it.

“And you? How are you?”

He licked his lips, excess tea wet on his moustache. “Suppose ‘m good.” His eyes were untelling, keeping all the secrets he’d ever seen in his life balled up in his pocket like a handkerchief, stained with the blood, sweat and tears of the memories, the ultimate grime that got stuck under his fingernails and buried into the crevices of his brain. He noticed the way he was being analysed, scanned by those knowing eyes. “Things should’ve been different.” He eventually grumbled, caving slightly at the all-too-intimidating stare of a lover wanting the truth.

“But they’re not.” Were the harsh words that responded to him, he knew better; it didn’t mean to come across like that but with all the lingering tension filling the air like dust mites, what was he to do but take it personally? “And there’s nothing you can do about it but move forward. You should know that.” I continued, trying to make my tone more gentle but failing.

“I do know that.” He said defensively, and there was a moment of silence as the tension peaked. Another argument loomed, and he coaxed himself into relaxing. “I’m just trying to get through it.” He explained. “I think if I just—”

“You’re pushing yourself.”

“That’s what I’ve always done.” He responded dumbly. “You gotta push through the—”

“Stop.” Cracked through the air like a whip, and he tensed, putting the tea down with a clink. “Pushing yourself is how this doesn’t get any better. You need to just relax, and get used to everything.”

“You know that’s not what I’m like.” He said back like a warning, though he caught his words between his fingers before they could be twisted. “And I know I’m not in the army anymore.”

“So why don’t you act like it instead of making everything worse?”

He cleared his throat, averting his gaze at the words that made his heart sink into his gut, like he could digest it at any second. “I don’t want to fight. I never want to fight you..” He said calmly and slowly despite his tense demeanour. His tone was low and cautious like he was talking to a cornered animal. He took a step back, hands raised in defence, physically moving away for space, trying to relieve the feeling of being trapped. “I want to eat dinner with you, ‘n’ watch a movie on the couch. Like we used to, yeah?”

Part of him felt that lingering doubt. Were these arguments just misguided, misplaced care like a child forgetting their toy? Or were they a symptom of a vacant husband that for once, is finally home, and is that too much?

He watched the awkward shuffles as the figure pushed past him, inspecting the bag like he was a liar, as if he didn’t actually get his wifes favourite food. The tension was unbelievably palpable, and he watched every move carefully. A short huff, and they met glances, and he had a knowing feeling in his chest.

“Can we just pretend everythin’s fine? This.. This is jus’ a rough patch, baby.” He spoke reassuringly, trying to calm the thick air but his words were calloused and rough like he didn’t fully believe them, like how the next reaction went would define the difference between truth and wishful thinking. “Look at me.” He said firmly, interrupting his degrading thoughts. “We’ll be okay. We’re okay.”

“Are you saying that for me or for yourself?” I commented, handing him his takeout dish, and an airy silence took us before he gave a light shrug, a soft smile. He took it briskly, almost curtly, and he reached to grab mine, holding both in his large hands then deftly moving around the kitchen, swinging around to avoid any flying bullets that could fire randomly from the argument.

“Does it matter?” He answered, happily carrying both of our meals over his head, knowing I wouldn’t be able to reach him and stop him until they were placed on the coffee table with a clink of the cutlery. His large hands looked comical, his small cup of tea in one hand and his other hand carrying everything else together.

I bit back all the sardonic grumbles, slumping down with a thud onto the couch, it creaked under his large figure and we shared an expecting glance, unspoken words were beyond audible. 

“I want you to understand that I need to do what I’ve always done.” He brooded. He’d spent every other day of his life pushing himself to the limits, following orders, doing what he’s told, risking his life, everything that’s expected from a soldier. “It’s who I am.”

A silence, a distant sound of clicking of the remote skimming through the TV, trying to find some form of movie that’d fill the tremendously awkward silence. Click-click-click. What to watch, what to watch? What to relive the youth of the strained relationship? To pretend that everything is honestly, truly fine, just for a miniscule moment.

“I know this — change — is hard on you.”

There was a moment of eye contact, a look of pleading recognition, a want of his life back despite what was taken from him. A want flashed behind my eyes of simply wanting him to be grateful for what he still has, not for what he lost. There would always be that miscommunication and he knew that it would always be a critical language barrier.

“I love you.” He reminded me like there’d be no tomorrow. Like all these temporary problems would all pile up and result into one permanent landslide of a solution, something drastic, something he dared not even mention or think or say aloud, nor spell in his mind with fear of accidentally jinxing his life.

A sigh escaped my lips, and I understood, of course I did, but was this argument even worth it anymore if it created nothing but incessant guilt and paranoia? The TV flashed to life, the movie was selected as he tried to move onwards, away from the taut past. The intro sequence played out slowly, the music quiet and low in the apartment air like white noise.

“John.. It’ll get better, you know?”

[nickgerlich]

Take A Hike

It has been a rocky year for many companies, thanks to their visible support of marginalized groups of customers. In our supposedly enlightened times, there are still people who find it difficult to just overlook what they don’t like. When I saw news of REI’s recent new unisex clothing line, I knew there would be an uproar.

Not because I wanted to see one. I just knew it would happen, because the outdoor equipment and retail company used verbiage that was bound to upset some. When you use words like “nongendered,” you know what’s going to happen next.

And boy howdy, did it ever. I checked REI’s Facebook page, and there were a lot of minds exploding, people threatening never to come back, and overuse of the laughing face emoji. Cue the over-reactors, and prepare ye to duck.

Naturally, there were people who did not read the attached article that explained their rationale. It’s not like they are making the entire store nongendered. Not at all. They will still have men’s clothing and women’s clothing. But they will also have a small line of activewear that is aimed at both, not in a shoving-down-your-throat kind of way that detractors love to decry, but just simple recognition that some things truly can be unisex.

As I have made clear before, I love REI. We just shopped the Orlando store yesterday, several hours before I stumbled upon this news item. I had even remarked to my wife about some hydration running vests about why would there even need to be men’s and women’s versions, other than possibly color variations. Oh, the cultural influences here. We have color-coded so many things, but all arbitrarily.

Now before I continue, I do recognize there are numerous biological differences between the sexes, and it is possible that women, whose shoulders tend to be narrower than those of men, might truly need a somewhat down-sized running vest. I get that. The same goes for backpacks, the kind needed to do the Appalachian Trail, as my sister-in-law is preparing to do this summer. And I also know that when it comes to pants, our builds are very different.

But what if it is just running clothes, like shorts and t-shirts? REI has gone out of its way to allay sizing fears by showing on a chart exactly what each item’s size might mean if you are a man or a woman.

REI is known for its popular #optoutside hashtag, as well as being among the first retail chains to stay closed on Black Friday. It urges both its employees and customers to go take a hike or something fun, rather than dive into the stress of holiday shopping. But the chain has also faced headwinds of late, and has endured two rounds of layoffs as it battles to maintain profitability.

I love REI’s store operations. Their liberal return policy means I can return something up to a year later, even if I have used it. The 10% patronage dividend for members is a great bonus. Currently, it costs $30 for a lifetime membership to get this benefit. I have been a member since the 1990s, and don’t remember if it even cost anything to join then. I just get my annual dividend every February, and then go shopping again, which is precisely the kind of store loyalty they seek.

The takeaway, once again, from the current uproar is that no matter what you do in the digital era, it is humanly impossible to please everyone. Furthermore, since the chasm between left and right is widening, it means you are going to get some negative reactions that are just vulgar. And, that kind of hatred can come from either side of the aisle.

I wish REI well with this new line of clothing. I also hope they can survive their current problems. They are striving to do good things, and if ever I see them or anyone else doing something with which I disagree, I will lean back onto my mantra: If you don’t like what you’re seeing, don’t look.

As for the current naysayers, I think they too should take a hike. Holler at me if you ever want some company. Just leave the negativity at home.

Dr “It’s Time To Roll” Gerlich

Audio Blog

[zerokcalsugar]

in honour of me hitting 58kg, here’s a list of goal weight rewards to motivate me to keep eating as clean as possible

57 - brow gel & scissors

56 - fitly running vest

55 - running earphones

54 - salomon active skin running vest

53 - hoka arahi 6 running shoes

52 - makeup haul (blush + contour)

51 - halara patitoff pocket leggings

50 - aym rene reversible mini dress

the reason i want two vests is bc one is just meant for my phone etc little stuff & the other is much more expensive and has water flasks & more space in the “backpack” portion too. will be using the cheaper one on short runs & the better one on longer ones that i need to hydrate during

[nunez1020]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Outdoor INOXTO 12L Cycling Hydration Vest Backpack.

[biohealthly]

🎽 Are Marathon Packs Worth It? 🏃‍♂️

When gearing up for a marathon, one common debate is whether or not to carry a marathon pack. These small backpacks or vests are designed to hold essentials like water, snacks, and gear. But are they really worth the extra weight?

🌀 Benefits of Marathon Packs:

Convenience: Keep all your essentials in one place for easy access during the race.

Hydration & Nutrition: Carry water, energy gels, and snacks to stay fueled and hydrated.

Essential Gear: Bring along your phone, first aid kit, and more, without the hassle.

❗ Challenges:

Added Weight: Extra weight can slow you down and cause discomfort.

Overpacking: Too much gear can make your pack heavy and cumbersome.

Impact on Running Form: The pack’s weight can alter your posture and stride.

💡 Pro Tips:

Test Different Packs: Try various models during training to find what works best.

Pack Light: Focus on essentials to avoid unnecessary weight.

Consider Alternatives: Handheld bottles or hydration belts might be better options.

In the end, whether a marathon pack is your best race-day companion or just extra baggage depends on your personal needs and strategy. 🏅

for more details on the marathon pack see my ARTICLE: https://bit.ly/3Xdcx7

[purerunning09]

Empower Your Run: Women's Running Vests for Performance and Style

Introduction:

For women who are passionate about running, finding the right gear that combines performance and style is essential. Running vests have become a popular choice among female runners, offering a versatile and practical solution for carrying essentials during workouts. These vests not only enhance performance by providing convenient storage options but also elevate style with their sleek designs and tailored fit. This comprehensive exploration aims to delve into the features, benefits, and considerations of women's running vests, showcasing their ability to empower runners to achieve their fitness goals while looking and feeling great.

Understanding Women's Running Vests:

Women's running vests are designed to provide storage and support for essentials such as water bottles, energy gels, keys, and phones during workouts. Unlike traditional backpacks or waist packs, running vests offer a more streamlined and comfortable alternative, distributing weight evenly across the body for optimal balance and mobility. They typically feature multiple pockets and compartments strategically placed for easy access to items while on the move. Additionally, women's running vests are crafted from lightweight and breathable materials that wick moisture away from the body, ensuring comfort and performance during long runs.

Features and Specifications:

Key features of women's running vests include adjustable straps for a customized fit, reflective elements for enhanced visibility in low-light conditions, and hydration reservoir compatibility for longer runs. Some vests also come with built-in compression clothing to provide support and stability during high-intensity workouts. When choosing a running vest, factors to consider include storage capacity, comfort, breathability, and durability. Additionally, it's essential to select a vest that complements your body shape and running style for maximum comfort and performance.

Benefits for Female Runners:

Women's running vests offer several benefits that can enhance performance and comfort during workouts. One of the primary advantages is convenience, as vests allow runners to carry essentials such as water, snacks, and personal items without the need for bulky backpacks or waist packs. This hands-free storage solution enables runners to stay focused and maintain momentum without interruption, enhancing the overall running experience.

Another benefit of women's running vests is improved posture and stability. The snug and supportive fit of the vests helps distribute weight evenly across the body, reducing strain on the back and shoulders. This ergonomic design promotes better posture and alignment, leading to more efficient and comfortable running mechanics. Additionally, the compression clothing integrated into some vests provides targeted support to key muscle groups, reducing fatigue and risk of injury during long runs.

Style and Aesthetics:

In addition to performance, style and aesthetics play a significant role in the appeal of women's running vests. Manufacturers offer a variety of designs, colors, and patterns to suit different preferences and fashion sensibilities. From sleek and minimalist designs to bold and vibrant prints, there is a running vest to complement every runner's personal style. Additionally, many vests feature feminine touches such as contoured shapes, adjustable straps, and flattering silhouettes that enhance both performance and aesthetics.

Considerations for Choosing a Running Vest:

When selecting a women's running vest, it's essential to consider factors such as fit, comfort, storage capacity, and breathability. The vest should fit snugly without being too tight or restrictive, with adjustable straps to customize the fit to your body shape. Comfort is paramount, so choose a vest made from lightweight and breathable materials that wick moisture away from the body to keep you cool and dry during workouts. Additionally, consider the storage capacity and organization features of the vest to ensure it can accommodate all your essential items without being bulky or cumbersome.

Conclusion:

In conclusion, running vest women offer a practical and stylish solution for carrying essentials during workouts. With their lightweight, breathable, and ergonomic designs, these vests empower female runners to perform at their best while looking and feeling great. Whether you're training for a marathon, hitting the trails, or simply enjoying a leisurely jog, a running vest can enhance your comfort, convenience, and performance. By considering factors such as fit, comfort, storage capacity, and style, you can find the perfect running vest to empower your run and help you reach your fitness goals.

[cam5491]

INOXTO Running Hydration Vest Backpack,Lightweight Insulated Pack with 1.5L Water Bladder Bag Daypack for Hiking Trail Running Cycling Race Marathon for Women Men

[krispykix816]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: ULTIMATE DIRECTION | Hydro Skin Trail Running Short | Onyx Black.

[tamitik01]

The Athlete's Running Water Bag Backpack is a specialized sports accessory designed to provide convenient hydration and storage solutions for runners, particularly during marathons or long-distance running activities. This rehydration vest offers a hands-free and comfortable way to carry water and essential items while on the move.

[confused-stars]

Dusk is Dawn, Day is Night (Up is Down, Left is Right) - aka cloudfam au

Chapter Two on Ao3

or right here, for your convenience! (also here’s my ko-fi!)

Tenko sat atop one of the biggest trash hills on Dagobah Beach and watched the twig of a teenager try to move a way too big piece of debris. It was... kind of funny to watch him struggle, heels digging deep into the sand. But on the other hand, Tenko knew the kid had really been trying for weeks. This beach could be cleared pretty quickly if Tenko just used his quirk, but Toshi had explicitly told him not to.

But also Toshi wasn't here right now.

Tenko began climbing down the trash pile, years of practice scaling unstable debris making his movements quick and confident. He landed in the sand and pulled off a glove as he approached Midoriya. "Hey, let me get that for you."

The kid jumped, having apparently not noticed him before, but he stepped away when Tenko reached out. "Um, I'm actually supposed to be doing this for t-training..." The piece of trash - part of an old armchair from what Tenko could surmise - crumbled into dust.

"What All Might doesn't know can't hurt him." He shrugged, tugging his glove back on before he stuffed both hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Big, green eyes were staring at him in awe. "You're Dust Cloud! I've seen so many videos of your work in rescue, you're amazing, you clearly put so much thought in the way you apply your quirk, there has to be so much physics at work trying to figure out how to only disintegrate parts of a fallen building and not hurting the hostages in the process. How does your quirk work? It needs all five fingers, right? And it's more of a mutation than an emitter because you can't turn it off? Kacchan is kind of like that because his sweat is always explosive, no matter what. Oh, do you control where the decay spreads and how far when it's a large area? Is it true that you once rescued Endeavor's whole family from a villain attack? Are you-" Tenko slapped a hand on the kid's shoulder. "Please stop." He was a lot. Toshi hadn't been lying about that.

"S-sorry!" Midoriya was flushed entirely red and Tenko had to fight back a smile. He'd always thought he wasn't great with kids, but his family had left him no choice but to learn.

"Just slow down a bit if you're actually expecting answers," he suggested mildly, "C'mon, water break. I've been watching you for a while, you need to hydrate."

Midoriya made a soft noise in the back of his throat. "... you've been watching me?"

Tenko shrugged. "All Might couldn't make it today so he asked me to drop by and make sure you don't overextend yourself," he explained.

Midoriya stared at him. "I didn't know you worked with All Might!"

Tenko headed over to where the kid had dropped his backpack, Midoriya trailing after him. "I don't work with him, technically. But he trusts me." He paused. "Enough to tell me how he's planning on giving you his quirk."

Midoriya seemed to short-circuit for a moment. Tenko couldn't blame him. There would probably be a lot of that in the future for the poor kid now that he was involved with Toshi. It was just secrets upon secrets with him. Tenko being one of them.

"Are you still with me?" Tenko asked at the distant look in Midoriya's eyes as he pulled a water bottle out of his backpack and took a few large gulps. When he was finished, the kid nodded. "I just didn't... he hasn't mentioned you. N-not that there was much time to... he's always so busy, so-"

"Slow. Down." Tenko was going to get a headache. Oh, Oboro and Hizashi would adore this boy. Shouta would, too, but he'd try to deny it. And Himiko would be thrilled. Maybe they'd end up in the same class together.

Midoriya swallowed. "S-sorry."

Tenko sighed. "I'm not offended he didn't mention me. Don't worry about that. There's a lot he'll need to fill you in on, and he'll do that on his own time." Like who else knew about One for All, for instance, because it would be important for Midoriya to know who to trust. And it would be important for him to not only be relying on Toshi. As much as Tenko loved his dad, he wasn't actually a great teacher, and in his urge to do everything right all the time, coupled with years of traumatic experiences, he often forgot to consider other perspectives.

“He’s mentioned that, yeah,” Midoriya murmured, “There’s a lot more to this quirk than just… a quirk, isn’t there?”

He was clever. Good. It wasn’t that Tenko didn’t trust Toshi’s judgement, but it was still good to make sure for himself. “There’s… a lot,” he confirmed. They’d have to talk through how and when to reveal which pieces of information. It wouldn’t be fair to let the kid run into things blind, but overwhelming him was also a risk.

This absolutely could not be left to Toshi entirely. Tenko wasn’t the best for it, either. Shouta might be, his deadpan way of delivering information was often comforting. Or Oboro, with his easy empathy. Midoriya seemed like he might need someone gentle to help him along.

“Listen, kid…” Tenko cringed at himself. He wasn’t even that much older than Midoriya, it didn’t feel natural. “There’s a lot of people in your corner here. I’ll talk to All Might, and we’ll figure out how to prepare you for all this. Cleaning trash can’t be all you do. He cares about muscle a bit too much, if you ask me.” Tenko, of course, was mostly lean muscle, too, but the way Toshi used One for All had always been so reliant on strength. It didn’t have to be, though, clearly, when looking at Tenko’s grandmother. And Midoriya needed to grow stronger, yes, but it was doubtful that his fighting style would end up anywhere close to All Might’s. Tenko reached out and awkwardly put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Being a hero is about backing each other up, yeah? We’ve got you.”

___

After dropping Midoriya off at home, Tenko wandered the streets, moving in the vague direction of his own apartment. Meeting the kid had been a lot to process. Tenko liked him. He seemed like he’d make a good hero. If he’d make a good Symbol of Peace remained to be seen.

There was no doubt that Midoriya couldn’t be the next All Might. He looked up to him, but he was nothing like him. Maybe that was a good thing. A new generation always promoted change, and while the country would eventually flounder without All Might standing strong to protect it, maybe Midoriya would find his very own way of taking up his mantle.

He certainly had a lot of thoughts in that broccoli-like head of his. Hopefully he’d be able to adjust to the quirk itself alright. Toshinori had his plans for that, but it was a bit of a point of contention between everyone who knew about One for All. Or everyone involved in this situation directly, anyway.

Toshi had refused to contact Gran Torino about it, which Tenko kind of understood, but he was willing to take the first step himself if the old hero’s expertise was needed. Nighteye was another person whose help they could probably use, especially considering that he had a lot in common with what Tenko already knew of Midoriya. If nothing else, they’d be able to strike up a great conversation about limited All Might figurines or something like that. But, once again, Nighteye wasn’t someone Toshi was willing to talk to.

Shouta, of course, insisted that he’d have to get over his personal issues if he wanted to help his successor along to the best of his ability, and Tenko agreed. He just also knew Toshi needed some more time to think things through. And it wasn’t like they were in that much of a hurry.

As long as All Might didn’t get into any big fights and stuck to his time limit, he should be able to uphold his status for another couple years, until Midoriya was finished with high school, at least. That should be doable.

The first thought Tenko had when the window of the store on the other side of the street shattered was ‘oh, please, don’t let this be a sign’.

He broke into a sprint without even a millisecond of hesitation, past the stunned civilians who were just now beginning to turn in the direction of the incident. The shattering of glass had been accompanied by a dull, deep sound, almost like a heavy bass turned up too loud. Tenko had felt it shake his body faintly, even being a little bit further away.

“Call an ambulance!” he shouted over his shoulder at the nearest bystander, who hastily began fumbling with her phone. Tenko left her to it.

He jumped over the broken glass and carefully pushed the door open. There was no screaming or yelling going on, at least, which meant this probably wasn’t a villain. Hopefully.

“Hello?” he called, “I’m a hero! Is anyone injured?”

“Back here!” came the answer, a little delayed, and followed by a cough.

Tenko rounded a shelf that seemed to have had all its contents blown out that were now scattered across the floor, but the shelf itself miraculously still standing – courtesy of construction with both earth quakes and quirks in mind, most likely. The first thing he found on the other side was an older man slumped on the floor and holding his bleeding head. The vest and nametag he was wearing told Tenko that he was staff, and the clear-eyed look of relief told him that the injury wasn’t life-threatening at the very least. There was no use freaking out about head-wounds more than necessary, they always bled a lot.

That wasn’t the main reason for concern, though, and as Tenko took in the scene, his heart sank.

In the middle of all the destruction stood a tiny girl, hands pressed to her ears and shaking her head rapidly as she sobbed. A woman was kneeling in front of her, though a little ways away, seeming hesitant to touch her.

Tenko would estimate the girl to be about four years old, which made her the perfect age for…” “Her quirk,” said the woman, looking up to Tenko with wide eyes, “She just… this is the first time…”

Tenko understood all too well. He reached for the emergency pager he kept in his pocket and pressed the button. If he was very lucky, Eraserhead would be the one to answer his call. But either one of the other two would be great, too, after all, they knew better than Tenko did how to deal with a scared child who couldn’t handle the destructive power of their quirk.

“What are your regular methods of calming her down?” he asked, very carefully moving around the child, not getting too close just in case, and keeping his hands up in a hopefully soothing position. He wished he had his hero costume. Right now, he just looked like some guy with an admittedly not too reassuring looking face, and his habit to wear black on black wasn’t helping. He did put on a small, soft smile though, when the girl’s eyes snapped to him, and while she didn’t stop crying – now interspersed with small hiccups – she also didn’t blow up again, which was Tenko’s main concern.

“I… I just try to take her away somewhere quiet…” the woman who was probably her mother said. She was cradling her arm to her chest, clearly trying not to let on that she was in pain, but Tenko had been trained to recognize that kind of thing.

“Alright, thank you. Are you okay with staying in her line of sight for now?” Getting civilians out of imminent danger was always the first thing that needed to be done, but mothers and children were something else entirely. Tenko didn’t trust that the girl wouldn’t panic even more if her mother left her alone.

“I… yes. Of course.” The woman nodded, face set with determination now.

Tenko glanced around the scene again and took a breath. There were several hero action figures strewn about, most of them broken in some way or another. Some of them were making the noises of messed up voice boxes, repeating the lines that had been recorded for them, or just beeping incessantly.

He pulled off one of his gloves and crouched down, still feeling the girl’s eyes on him as he began to pick up the loud figurines one by one, the cacophony of background noise slowly fading as his quirk worked.

The girl’s crying was subsiding, too. But as Tenko looked up at her, her eyes were glassy and she was trembling slightly. She was going into shock. But she was slowly lowering her hands away from her ears, and that was all Tenko needed.

“Hey,” he said very softly, “It’s okay. Your Mama’s okay, and I’m a hero. I’m here to help, see? I got rid of all the noise.”

The girl sniffled slightly, but nodded.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Her mother seemed to be struggling not to run and wrap her daughter in a hug, but Tenko was glad she wasn’t doing it right now. It had to be incredibly difficult to fight against her own instincts like that.

“I hurt you…” The little girl’s voice was numb, too calm, stating a fact as she stared down at her hands. “I did… I did a bad thing.”

“No, no, I’m fine. I’ll be fine, honey, this wasn’t your fault,” her mother reassured her quickly, speaking a little too fast, hasty in trying to reassure her daughter.

Tenko wasn’t sure that would help. “Would you like to come outside with me?” They would have to take the backdoor to avoid all the onlookers, the gawking crowd that would already be waiting outside. Anything that would set the child off right now would result in even more injuries. Or worse, if they were unlucky.

The girl glanced at his hand, but Tenko put his glove back on and smiled. “See, my quirk doesn’t do anything dangerous when I’m wearing these. We’ll find something like that for yours, too, okay?”

She nodded slowly and reached out a hand, towards him rather than her mother. That was good. She trusted him as a hero to take care of her, even at this age. Having hurt her mother, it made sense she wouldn’t want to touch her right now.

There would be a lot of counselling needed for her to recover from this. But the worst had been averted, and when the girl’s tiny hand slid into Tenko’s, he held fast.

Ten minutes later, Tenko was sipping the free coke the store owner had given to him as a courtesy and watching the ambulance drive away – on board: the little girl, her mother, and a mildly uncomfortable but ever-professional Eraserhead. He’d keep any further quirk accidents from happening, even though everything had calmed down considerably now.

“It’s weird how we’re the kind of people who just attract trouble wherever we go,” Oboro said beside him, leaning his elbow on a cloud, his eyes also fixed on the back of the ambulance. He’d been patrolling with Shouta, and so they’d both come to answer Tenko’s call. And even though Tenko had had everything under control, seeing him show up in his hero uniform had immediately put him at ease. That was what heroes were supposed to do.

“I’m just glad I have a hero license so I can actually do something about the trouble now,” Tenko said. He’d always itched to solve problems, maybe that was part of why he loved video games (and his actual, real life job) so much, and the time before he’d had his hero license had been hell. Growing up surrounded by heroes didn’t help, either. He’d wanted to join them on patrols at six years old already. That was around the time Nemuri had helped him design his first hero costume.

And the thing was, even when Tenko hadn’t been allowed to seek out trouble, trouble had still found its way to him. He wondered if other heroes were like that, too, just people who had been unlucky all their lives and wanted to fight back. Probably not. Tenko just had uniquely bad luck.

Oboro laughed next to him. “Remember the phase when you wanted to become an esports professional?”

Tenko elbowed him in the side. He did not need to be reminded of that. He’d just been an embarrassing teenager and mostly it had been his way of protesting how hard UA classes were. He hadn’t honestly considered it… had he?

“I could still do that,” he pointed out, “Or I could start streaming video games. I bet a ton of people would love to watch.” A lot of his fans appreciated how he’d sometimes start rambling about video games in interviews, after all. Apparently it made him ‘relatable’. Even though he doubted he actually was, once someone got to know him. His best friend was an ever-grumpy burn victim for a reason.

“You could,” Oboro agreed, “I’d be in. We could set you up at the agency and stream together.”

And just like that, Tenko didn’t like the idea anymore. It was really a miracle how fast that could happen. “You know what, I think I’ll stick to private gaming.”

Oboro gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m wounded! You just don’t want to be seen with me on camera!”

Tenko rolled his eyes, trying hard not to smile. “We’re on camera together all the time. I just don’t want to be seen with you on camera where it seems like it was my choice.”

“How can you say that? About your favorite uncle?” Oboro pouted, clearly over exaggerating on purpose, and Tenko finally broke and laughed.

“Sorry to break it to you, but you’re just not cool anymore.”

Oboro crossed his arms, but then immediately lit up again. “So you used to think I was cool at some point?”

Tenko snorted. “Uh, obviously.”

He may have looked up to Shouta because he was badass, as a teenager, but Oboro would always receive a special kind of admiration from him. It was only fair. After all, who knew where Tenko would be without him?

[3shots-blog]

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[kcowgill]

About that “bad” run on Saturday.

I had noticed the last month or so that I have been more inclined to call off a run early using a strategy that has worked in the past: making smaller loops back to my house for refills of nutrition/hydration.

Last week, I decided to not give myself that option, carry more nutrition/hydration, ran straight east toward Lake Michigan (recalling that it’s about 5-6 miles away) planning to run along the lakefront until I knew I’d be at 14-15 by the time I got home. After I got to the lake I was feeling like I made a poor choice, headed back west sooner than I wanted, and ended up walking the last 2-3 miles home.

This past Saturday I did much the same thing, but was really jonesing for the forest preserve path along the Chicago River North Branch. I brought much more plain water hoping that would make the difference. Loaded up my new hydration vest/backpack as best I could and aimed myself for 10 miles out along the trail. My back started aching somewhere along the way and I decided at mile 9 I’d lay down in a patch of shade for a bit and head back early.

At least I had a nice view!

After resting for a bit I headed back home, but could only convince my body to run a few more miles, especially since I was already running low on water. After walking for a bit decided to call my wife for a pickup at about the halfway point home.

---

Part of my issue is physical - I’m feeling drained, my legs are sore in a weird way, I took too much time off (from higher mileage) after my last 50k, my heat acclimation hasn’t at all been gradual, and there’s some mechanical issue going on with my toes banging into the fronts of shoes that are clearly big enough being nearly 1.5 sizes too big.

A lot of it is mental, though. Even if the 50 mile race I had my eye on isn’t canceled, I had decided I’d only do the virtual option, but lately I’ve been doubting even that. Give my slot to someone who’s actually going to do it.

I just don’t know.

[coffeeandmoonthoughts]

50 days until my half marathon and one day after that, I’ll be running through the Arizona mountains

I better get a better backpack and a hydration vest

[coyotebombsquad]

Bikepacking down the California Coast

Words and photos by C.J. Foster

Prologue:

Last April, I was transitioning between jobs and scored nearly two weeks off; enough time to throw together an adventure -- something that would offer a moment to reflect, reset, and prepare for the road ahead.

I set out for the California coast. I rented a car and drove to Crescent City (20 miles shy of Oregon). This is where I would begin my real journey -- pedaling home to San Francisco -- a grand total of 420 miles and 32K of elevation, after all was said and done.

Leaving behind the city, I began to feel a quiet peace settle upon me. It was the sense that a chapter had ended and a new one was beginning. There were big changes to ruminate on, something that journeying through forests helps coax along, but still I was eager, anxious, and nervous about taking on a solo trip of this magnitude.

Day 0 (SF to Crescent City -- 355mi + 100 bonus miles due to rerouting )

Heavy rain was in the forecast; just what California needed to replenish our depleted water table and reservoirs. More roads were washed out with each downpour, serving a deterrent for this bike packing trip. Despite poor conditions, I retrieved my rental car, picked up some last minute provisions, and impulsively purchased a quality point and shoot while on a lunch pitstop at In N Out -- this wouldn’t be a road trip without it.

I crossed my fingers that the rain wouldn’t be too bad or last too long.

While on the road, worst case scenarios played out in my mind and doubts churned in my head. Questions about my fitness levels, on-the-fly bike maintenance, and my safety all nagged at me. I have taken numerous solo trips before, but I was still greeted by familiar doubts. I warded off these old friends and pushed the accelerator, willing this trip into fruition.

A landslide had occurred the night before just North of Leggett, which closed highway 1 (just North of where 101 merged with 1). I thought I could outsmart the landslide and the CHP by taking a route that I found on my phone, but the locals and tow trucks dissuaded me. There were potholes that my rental car wouldn’t negotiate successfully. A CHP officer suggested that I drive back to highway 20 and cutover to highway 5 and back on highway 36 -- an extra 7-8 hours of driving to get around one landslide. I was highly motivated to find an alternate route and was successful! There are some windy gravel mountain roads that cut through Covolo to Zenia off highway 162. They were sketchy, pocked with potholes, and many blind corners had cattle hanging around them. Nearly 4 hours and 135 miles later, I was dropped back onto 101. Just in time for a wild downpour to obscure my visibility nearly entirely for the last two hours of my drive. As the wipers whipped away, there were a few moments that I questioned if I should abort the trip and go find a B&B somewhere to lounge around and take it easy. Where’s the adventure in that though?

I made it to Crescent City after numerous bursts of sketchy downpours and 11 hours of driving. At a cheap hotel, I took the last hot shower that I’d have in several days and drank an IPA to settle all my nerves from the drive.

Day 1 (Crescent City to Clam Beach) -- 75mi/4.2k ft

https://www.strava.com/activities/948298792

When you roll out of bed and see your bike next to you, you know it’s going to be a good day. The storm had ended (for now). I returned the car at the world’s tiniest commercial airport after running a few last minute errands (patch kit and lighter are crucial). A polite and professional looking middle aged woman in a knee high skirt helped check the car back in. As I went to check the mileage a man with a mangled undercarriage came driving back up with a dumbfounded expression -- the cowling of the car was dragging on the ground, making an infernal noise. The rental car woman casually walked back in to grab a pair of tin snips. When she returned, she squatted down and removed the offending piece, then informed the man that he was all set. What service!

From there, I was free, off on my two wheels, fully supported. The day was sunny, dry, and a bit windy, but still gorgeous. The road felt solid under my self-propelled vehicle; my legs marginally ready for the physical challenges ahead. The cliffs along the ocean fell away like they had been cleaved by the great Paul Bunyan himself. The ocean would be my comfort, my well of motivation for the next several hundred miles.

The miles of coastline stretched endlessly in front of me. I rolled along undulating roads that led to tiny coastal towns; nearly forgotten, yet timeless. The forest stood sentry over the towns, over the coast, and over me.  

Several hours of headwinds and roughly 40 miles in, I stopped in Klamath Falls to admire the 40 ft tall Paul Bunyan and Babe the Big Blue Ox. It dwarfed me and my bike. My hunger had built, so I indulged in a plate full of chili fries and a sandwich at a nearby cafe in False Klamath; got to love being a cyclist, you can eat anything and it’s all considered fuel for the next ride. I had been cruising at 13 MPH, slow and steady, and this would be pretty much the fixed speed that I’d be moving at most of the trip.

After lunch, there were a few decent climbs: one up to Prairie Creek Redwoods and another out towards the stunning Patricks Point. A few lagoons loomed in the distance, they distracted me well enough for about 10 miles as I rounded my way to the campground.

I landed in Clam Beach State Campground after deciding to press on passed Patricks Point (my original stopping point for the day). The tent was a small project, as it was my first time pitching this new 1p tent, which proved to be a trivial task. The hunger was driving me to skip the backpacking meal and opt for some pizza at a local joint in McKinleyville. The kids working did not care if I brown-bagged it while eating a few slices in their store -- likely not their first dirtbag cyclist. Four slices and a 22oz of IPA prepped me pretty well for passing out. There was a slow ambling pedal along the airport road that led me back to camp. A few small planes landed during the sunset and I soaked in how light everything felt, nothing was tugging at me or compelling me to do or be anywhere, I was exactly where I needed to be.

Day 2 - Clam Beach Campground to A.W. Way County Park (Mattole Road) -- 75mi/5k ft

https://www.strava.com/activities/949287569 https://www.strava.com/activities/950851373

The first light of the morning woke me and I felt rested. I wanted to get an early start on the morning since rain was in the forecast, but not until afternoon. I planned on covering a fair amount of ground before the rain came (hah). As I packed up, my camp neighbors warmly offered me a cup of coffee, they lived locally and told me they were getting ready for work -- made me reminisce about camping up at Hawk Camp back home during a work night. The kindness of strangers would be a recurring theme during my trip.

Breakfast was eaten on the bike; the convenience of a breakfast burrito and a chocolate milk on the road. It conjures up an image of a train engineer shoveling coal into his engine to keep it chugging along. The morning was beautiful, I mostly pedaled by coastal farmlands and a smattering of small towns. The headwinds were ever-present, but I felt strong nonetheless. I caught up to another cyclist in Eureka who looked like he was out bikepacking with his loaded panniers, I excitedly asked him where he was off to. He was commuting to work and wasn’t on much of a journey. I wouldn’t encounter another cyclist until my last days of riding.

The farm roads gracefully lead me to Ferndale (my halfway point for the day) where I loaded up on provisions. While visiting a grocery store, I absentmindedly left my sunglasses on a rack and left for a pastry and coffee (I retrieved them). A local who had been in the store had noticed me down the street and flatly observed “you didn’t make it very far” when he saw me in front of the bakery. I’ll call that small town humor.

The climb out of Ferndale was absolutely brutal. It felt like hitting a vertical wall and only the powers of levitation would be able to lift me up the ridgeline that I was attempting. I was desperate to move quickly, but humbled by the aggressive grade and the howling winds at the top of the climb. The threat of rain was no longer merely a threat, I donned my rain gear quickly and prayed that I’d stay dry and cool enough to finish out the next 30 miles. From Ferndale, I covered about 4.2k ft in 35 miles. Brutal with packs, brutal without them.

Needle like rain stung my face for over an hour, my amusement during this section quickly changed. A sketchy winding descent led into Capetown, where I lost one of my water bottles and I narrowly missed being crushed under a dump truck’s wheels. The trucker that was just a tad too comfortable with the roads and cyclists on them.

Following the descent into a cove, a local in a green Tacoma stopped ahead of me and dangled a construction high-visibility vest out of his truck window and stated “dude, you need this!” His name was Oliver, and again, strangers with endless kindness had been looking out for me with safety and hydration (Oliver gave me a water bottle to replace mine, it was even alkaline, for sensitive stomachs). My flickering flame was ablaze for the adventurous path again.

A few miles ahead there was the town of Petrolia with a little gem of a bar called White Rose. I saddled up at the bar to wait out the storm. A beer would revive my sense of humor and the locals were entertained by my very presence. Who bikepacks in the rain, they asked? A few randos contributed to a hot shower fund in their own amusement since AW Way Campground had a coin-op hot shower. The kindness of strangers also contributed another gift from Humboldt county too, a special little doobie hand rolled under the bar. Despite the fact that it had only been two days of pedaling, I felt the beginnings of loneliness assuaged by strangers. I was striving to stay open to any experience along this road.

The campsite was a few flat miles from The Rose (as the locals referred to it), I even turned down several ride offers, told them that this was my journey to power. The campground boasted 30 soggy sites, they were all empty, so I had my choice. The hot shower was restorative, a bit of magic for a renewal that I would need for tomorrow.

Day 3 (AW Way Campground to Wright Beach 76mi/10.3k ft via Usal Road)

https://www.strava.com/activities/950851391 https://www.strava.com/activities/951928834

There’s always an odd sense of waking up in a campground without anyone else around; it’s a bit eerie, but also deeply peaceful. Rested, I packed up and hit the road, noticing a new lovely creaking noise my bottom bracket had developed due to all of the rain.

The plan was to take Mattole Road and connect to Usal road despite most people informing me that Usal road was still closed, but I felt that I didn’t have much of a choice since the reroute due to all the highway road closures would climb up and over Garberville and add an extra 70-80 miles (I had no idea how much climbing it would add). The folks from the White Rose had informed me that the Bryceland Market would be a good place to stop for food and road intel.

Still groggy with sleep encrusted eyes, I rounded a bend, and from the shoulder of the road a blur of black streaked ahead and veered into the center of the road and turned around to face me. It was a bull, of sizable proportions! He pawed at the ground as if to feign a charge. This frightened me, but I took comfort in the fact he didn’t have horns, nor did he have testicles (minor thing noted when he ran ahead of me), but I was leery of this 1500lb bulldozer and hoping he wasn’t too aggressive. I stopped about 50 yards away from him, facing him down like it was a standoff (it felt like a David and Goliath faceoff). I first yelled at him, then rang my bell, tossed small rocks in his direction to get him to move out of the road. He wasn’t budging. Then I thought to channel my inner cowboy spirit, and boldly rode towards him, yelling at the top of my lungs “GO ON, GEEEIIT!!”. This magically compelled him to turnaround and he trotted in the direction that I was rolling in. My inner childhood cowboy was giddy and terrified all at the same time. Such power I yielded. The bull veered off the side of the road before we got to a cattle catcher and I was free from my escort/keeper. I pedaled off to safety, and continued binging on serial killer podcasts, such a odd choice for a sojourn on desolate mountain roads.

Honeydew was a good restocking point where I pounded yogurt like it was water. They had a map of the area and informed me that Usal road was still closed, but I should check in with the BLM office in King’s Range. Just outside of Honeydew, there is a massive climb that aggressively stretches up to King Peak. It humbled me. I stopped several times to give my knees a break and to lube my chain. At one mini pitstop, a local named Grant stopped to check in on me, and I informed him that I was ok, and instead of speeding off to his day, he casually chatted with me for a few minutes. I inquired about Usal road, but he didn’t know much about its current state. The next several hours were a virtual elevator of careening ridgelines, towering forests, washed out roads, and serial killer podcasts.

Dropping into Thorn Junction, I crossed paths with Grant again, he was hauling a load in his truck, and chatted with me briefly and offered up an apple juice. I was thankful for the offer, and took him up on it. Each drop was refreshing, the kindness of strangers continued.

The BLM office was down the road another mile. There was one woman with a colleague there, they both heavily advised me not to take Usal, not that it was a fool's errand, but pretty close, saying that I needed a mountain bike or something beefier than my cross bike (on semi slick 32s). They weren’t exactly too far off, but I decided Usal was my best option, considering my current location and what I could physically tolerate (at this point I was 40 miles in and nearly 5k ft climbing).

There was a awkwardly situated cafe in a lumberyard called Caffe Dolce. Their pastries and sandwiches were exceptional. Both the fuel and the rest were a much needed respite. I was surprised at how busy the cafe was. There was a constant stream of people coming out to pick up a sandwich, I surmised that they were all potentially pickers at some of the farms in Humboldt county. I overheard an Aussie gal talk about going back to the farm.

Back on the bike, there was a smell of dank herbal piney resins wafting at me, I was definitely in Humboldt county. To punctuate that point, I was nearly at Usal road, pedaling along fern laden roadways, when a women walking along the road was most certainly on a different plane than I was. She stated everything is beautiful and asked me for a hug, which I complied and listened to her delve into hyper connected beauty and how we’re all one. I was grasping for an understanding of what all she was conveying to me. I pointed her the way that she should continue walking, and hoped that somebody would return her to wherever she had come from. Bizarre.

Usal’s beginning was a formidable muddy clay-like road, deeply rutted and pocked. The mouth of the whale that would swallow me up and eventually spit me out some ~30 miles and 4k ft climbing later onto highway 1. I ignored the closed gate and passed by. There were rollers that climbed and descended into expansive groves, with each descent typically requiring me to dodge pond-like flooded sections of the road. At least 3 cars were abandoned, a Honda Civic had no chance, the two trucks, despite having 4 wheel drive, succumbed to the relentless muck.

I pushed on. I was grinding away at 6-7MPH for the next 6 hours. I had to dig deep and find humor in the pain and to not let all the beauty wane. My nerves were starting to wear and my body was feeling tired of endlessly riding the brakes and carefully choosing my line, which was even harder with a load. The risk was high since both ends of Usal road were closed and I didn’t have any phone reception. A single mechanical issue could ruin the trip, a fall was a different story… actually, I laid the bike down on one slick descent and took a tumble. I was incredibly thankful -- no mechanicals or injuries.

After a few more hours of rocking out (fittingly enough to If These Trees Could Talk) and noting the descending sun, worry began to set in. I wondered if I’d ever get through this seemingly endless road. My strength was waning, but mentally, I was committed to getting through this. After rounding one of the innumerable bends, Usal beach revealed all its glory, just in time for the sunset. This helped to steady my nerves, as I knew there should be a camp nearby. Indeed there was a camp at Usal Beach, but I was pumped and ready to bid this road farewell, so I cranked on into the night. I climbed another 2k feet and rode another 16 miles in the dark. Thankfully, I had my headlight that was charged, but unfortunately, my taillight died on me. There were just a few cars that passed me (it was 9pm on a Thur night with a highway closed just North of me, hence why I decided to commit to Usal route).

Haggard and nearly broken, I arrived at Westport-Union Campground. I had been on my bike for nearly 15 hours that day. The campsite was on a bluff, the chill winds were refreshing, and helped to cool my nerves. What a day.

Day 4 Westport-Union Landing to Russian Gulch (28mi/1.5k ft)

https://www.strava.com/activities/951928593 https://www.strava.com/activities/953575322

There’s a smile that creeps across your face knowing that you accomplished something that most people wouldn’t dare to attempt, it’s not like I rode a 24 hour endurance race, but it still something to take some level of pride in the accomplishment. As the sun crept up and the ocean sang it’s morning chorus, I couldn’t help but reflect on the tough day; my body was spent. Thankfully, there was a short road to a recovery day, as I was meeting the rest of the Coyote Bomb Squad in Russian Gulch for two chill nights of camping.

I pedaled through Westport, a quirky little coastal town (more like a hamlet), with a tiny cemetery situated on the bluffs and some funky whale mosaic fountain. I savored my breakfast sandwich from a small market run by sweet earthy ladies and then slowly rolled towards Fort Bragg. Coming into Fort Bragg, I stopped in the local coffee shop before hitting the local bike shop, Fort Bragg Cyclery, and chatted with the owner, Mark. Later, I picked up some Teknu since I had managed to hit some poison oak on Usal road. After scarfing on the best pizza in town, Piaci Pizza, and sharing a surprise beer with Mark (bike shop owner), I cruised off to the campsite to meet up with my friends.

Several days on the road riding solo can be a great time for self-reflection and really stoke the fires of your inner hobo, but there are those moments when you’re inundated with gratitude for good friends and their adventurous spirits. I was happy I didn’t have to ride any further and more importantly, elated to be around the warmth of friends and the warmth of my first campfire of the trip. The sunset on the bluffs was of epic proportions.

Day 5 Russian Gulch Exploring, Canoeing, and Hardcore Chilling

Nothing is sweeter than sleeping in and waking up to the smell of hot buttermilk blueberry pancakes cooked on cast iron. Resting, chowing, and some mellow canoeing was on the agenda for the day. We gawked at the ultra-marathoners running through our camp; a funky route, and oddly enough, the canoeing location was the finish line.

Catch a Canoe and Bicycle Too was a quirky shop filled with collectors bikes suspended in the rafters, a series of beautifully crafted “toy” rockets, which looked like they could deliver at least a marmot to outer space, all run and owned by an idiosyncratic shopkeeper. He seemed half-wizard, half rocket scientist, and likely was the most intriguing person that I had encountered while on the trip. His knowledge of photography and rockets was astounding, and he ran a bike shop and a canoe rental business too. And these weren’t just any canoes, these were real works of functional art, just like one would imagine with a beautifully crafted bike, these were easily the most beautiful water-worthy canoes I had ever seen, not to mention the fastest; replete with outriggers for stability. I can’t recommend this experience enough; anyone can manage to enjoy a languid paddle up a gentle river in one of these. On the river, there’s a calm that’s induced that coaxes one to slow down to drink in all the fresh air and sights. Even a handful of seals with pups laid around without a care in the world. A few hours worth of this and it’s like hitting reset on your body. Just mellow; nowhere to be, but right where you are.

The remainder of the day was just chilling with friends, scarfing yet another burrito, and roaming around the bluffs followed by an epic paella cooked by the birthday boy himself, Youngblade.

Day 6 Russian Gulch to Bodega Bay (102mi/6.5k ft)

https://www.strava.com/activities/955648904

These are the types of days that most riders dream about: a good deal of rest, a pancake breakfast, and an epic tailwind that would leave most vikings envious. Despite the fact that the option to hop in a car was there, I opted to pedal the remaining miles back home in 2 days. This might have been one of my favorite days of riding. The hills were fast rolling, each corner plunged down toward the ocean and climbed back up along a coastal bluff. The farmlands added to the serene and bucolic views that elicited a smile. Such a beautiful coastline, such a simple life that calls you to standstill, reflect on a slower pace of nature and the simplicity of it.

Each descent propelled me closer to home and I began to squirm a little thinking about joining the fray again. I pushed on.

Point Arena is a small town that boasts having one of the oldest lighthouses on the coast. It’s a cute and quaint little pitstop close enough for a number of motorcycle riders to reach it from the Bay. A weird sight: hippy/coastal/biker community. California is filled with contradictory juxtapositions, but that’s one of the reasons I love this state. After a solid lunch, I caught up to a crew of riders bikepacking, the only legit riders I had seen! The trio were Canadians heading down from, well, Canada and going down to LA. I was impressed with the amount of beer they were loaded with and sad to turn them down to join them. I had hoped to finally exchange some road stories with fellow riders. There was a brief stop at Salt Point with them, but I felt great from that luscious tailwind, even after 75 miles, and decided to push on to Bodega Bay, about 30 miles down the road.

I rolled into Bodega Bay around 6pm and treated myself to a quality glass of wine and a massive fillet of halibut. So perfect, so nourishing. The campsite at the dunes was a windy one, and made it challenging to sleep despite wearing earplugs. No wonder it’s a favorite spot of windsurfers. Some peculiar dreams crept in that night. Maybe the corporate lifestyle or the dread of the routine that was right around the corner.

Day 7 (Bodega Bay to Larkspur to SF 65mi/3k ft)

https://www.strava.com/activities/956749405

The morning dew hung tightly to everything in sight, it limited my vision, and would eventually morph into a full rain. Undeterred, I knew a hot bath and a cold beer was at the end of my road, but first, I needed a solid breakfast. Estero Cafe delivered. Seated just outside of Marshall, it’s a quaint little organic farm to table type of place, but felt more like a cafe that you might encounter in anytown USA with the local sheriff stopping in and a few regulars just picking up their morning joe. The mist had built up to a sprinkle after I finished my last bite, so it would be a drizzly ride home. Another 60 miles of meandering through dairy farmlands and verdant hills. A  host of classic porsches from the 50s zipped along the same roads, they respected me and I certainly marveled at their classic contours.

Fairfax is always a favorite destination of mine, as many bikers can attest. There is a shared love for bikes in this upper-crust hippy town (seemingly contradictory). Gestalt was on my mind, after collecting rain in my shoes for the last 50 miles, I was ready for a beer and a sausage. Both were savored. I felt lonely and wanted to share my journey with someone like I had done the previous year after a longer tour, but nobody extended me the pleasantries. A tired and weariness settled in from the week of riding, yet there was a lingering satisfaction from knowing what I had accomplished.

I opted to take the ferry back to save a few miles and to soak up the bay and the bridge from a different perspective. The quiet Monday afternoon in the city made it feel like a distant stranger, as the streets were quiet. The city towered over the mouse in a familiar concrete cornfield. It felt good to be home; an appropriate way to close out one chapter and start a new one. The cycle continues, as does the adventure, it always will.