PTSD

Bike riding has not always been kind to me.  In fact, nearly every broken bone I have had is because of the bike.  My first memory of riding a a bike is when I broke my leg at the age of 5.  I am sure I had been riding for quite sometime before that (see me learning to ride above) but this memory wipes them all out.  It was a dreary day (it must have been!).  I was at my friend Jill's house, and she had a gravel driveway on a hill.  These were the days when you back pedaled to put the breaks on.  Unfortunately, I had the bright idea to put my leg down to stop myself.  And, there you go, a spiral fracture of my right tibia.  Of course it was at the beginning of the summer, so I had to spend the entire summer in a cast and on crutches.  Swimming meant floating on a tube with a garbage bag over my leg.  What a bummer!

Then there was my encounter with Meredith Hoyt and a man hole cover, which left me with a broken rib and her with a broken tailbone.  This added to my not so memorable trip of climbing hills in France.  Oh well.

And then the "best" break of all, my collarbone, at crit practice, in August last year, followed by surgery, followed by a year to forget.

Which has given me PTSD (i.e. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).  So today, riding in Hulda Crooks with Matt, I did the toddler thing and pouted (or rather flatly refused) when confronted with a steep downhill gravel trail.  The adrenaline starts, then the nerves, then the loss of balance and all confidence.  I will surely die (or break a leg, or a collarbone) if I ride it.  Right?  FLASHBACKS to 5 years old!  But, yet, I have decided to take the plunge (no pun intended) and get a mountain bike.  In exchange, Matt has agreed to be my nurse when I break the next bone.

The weather was great today, though.  And the view was awesome, although I didn't see much of it because I was concentrating so much on the trail...

So this is what it's come to

I'm 33 and Friday nights consist of a trip to the gym (including the WALK to the gym) and then a movie and dinner at home.  I have even picked up the new hobby of sewing.  Granted my hobbies are usually quite short lived.  But still, sewing?  Way too domestic for me.  I am currently working on some curtains for my garage.  Practice curtains is what I call them.  Not too shabby for a first time.  (Minus the ugly clothes I managed to make in 8th grade when I took sewing lessons; the clothes included a flowered shirt and purple sweat pants -- Mom, what were you trying to do to me?).  But I'll comfort myself with the fact that I won't be sewing for long -- short lived, remember?  The stint in 8th grade didn't take off and this one most likely won't either.  I did invest in a sewing machine though, just in case.  I can always fix things.  I am NOT domestic.  Really.

The Bread Tradition

I'm the child who has decided to carry on the Fynewever bread tradition.  My Grandma Fynewever taught my dad, and my dad taught me.  Hopefully by the time I'm 60, I'll have perfected the art like my dad has.  Now, this is isn't to say that my siblings might take up the task someday, but, as of yet, I'm the only one.  And no, a bread machine doesn't count.  I always was a Daddy's girl...

Growing up, as far as I knew, there wasn't such a thing as store-bought bread (or store-bought cookies, or anything else store-bought for that matter).  I must say that I'm a little stuck up when it comes to bread.  But then again, I also have to admit that I buy bread at the store now too -- I have to keep my carb habit in good supply but I don't have enough time to make enough bread to keep up with that.

So here is one of my projects in process...

I love my Kitchen Aid!

Almost there!

The finished product.  And not too bad.  Thanks Dad!