Our route planning commenced the same as it usually does. I volunteered a route, Artec responded with zero active listening signs, which annoyed me, so when he suggested a route I intentionally chose not to listen. I drew part of a track I thought looked good, Artec (still not really listening), told me he didn’t
To all those people commenting on social media about how women ask to be catcalled based on their attire, here’s what Kait and I were wearing: loose-fitting pants layered with loose-fitting shorts and topped off with puffy jackets. But I shouldn’t be expected to describe our clothes. In fact, the only situation in which I should be expected to describe what we were wearing would be if Search and Rescue was involved with saving us from hypothermia. Then, yes, the SAR team would deserve to know what kinds of layers we were bumbling around in at seven thousand feet on Christmas Day.
Artec and I flew into Liberia, Costa Rica on New Year’s Eve. We knew the trip was off to a good start when a cab driver in a tiny red economy car strapped Artec’s bike box to the roof and gestured for me to squeeze into the backseat and position myself on hands and knees
I composed a love note on Valentine’s Day last year for my partner while sprawled across the backseat of my van with my shammies pulled down to my knees and a spoon of Nutella in my mouth. It was 2 a.m; we were racing duo at 24 Hours in the Old Pueblo for our second
“The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn.” – Gloria Steinem
Sometimes, I roll into mountain bike races–and even trailheads–wondering why I am a part of such an entitled, capitalist-driven, expensive sport. I loathe the sight of gas guzzling SUVs (especially when only one bicycle and one person emerge from the SUV), and camping near shiny RVs the size of an average house (complete with loud
As women participating in male-dominated athletic activities, our marginalized position is incredibly complicated. If we can do an activity as well as a man, and look hot doing it, we are told we are special. This feels good. But when the dominant culture blatantly–or even unintentionally–excludes us, doesn’t listen to us, calls us a clutz or a spaz because of something we did in a stressful moment, our feelings are hurt. We need to act–and react–with intention to make situations better for us and for other women. Then, we need to think critically about the layers of privilege and marginalization extending out in a million different directions from us.