Raw deal

July 9, 2013

Taking risks; stepping off the curb into the busy city traffic, pushing my foot to flex even more than yesterday, sending off my writing to the New Yorker. The world is my oyster, somewhat edible, if enough Tabasco and a pint beer chaser are available. Grilled versus raw, even better.

Oysters and I never got on very well. About 2005 or so I agreed to a trip down the Highway 1 coastline. The first night of our three week biking/camping jaunt from Long Beach Peninsula in Washington state to San Luis Obispo, California, my then beau and I stopped for fresh oysters and a beer or three on the side of the road. It was one of the months ending with an “r” that those smushy delectables are presumably safe for consumption. For the remainder of the weight-loss trip, I had diarrhea so badly that every few hours I yelled “Stopping!”  and off I would race, to the nearest bush or large rock, roll of tp pinched in my hand. It was incredible, ghastly, ridiculous and time consuming. Often times in the middle of a meal, I would have to canter off to the nearest porta potty. Difficult to tell just how much weight I was dropping since, as they claim, muscle weighs more than fat. All I know is the up and down from the butt-pinching slender seat, stretching and pulling on my bike shorts until they were scanty-thread thin, and the sunken look I had in every darned picture taken on that excursion, I was much more tidy than at the start.

I’ll skip to one of the highlights of our journey. Mount Tamalpais in Northern California is a bitch to climb on a mountain bike. My two-wheeler was loaded down with tent, sleeping bag, provisions, water, clothing, towel and sundries. It was our last big climb before meeting up with the parents for breakfast in San Francisco. My stomach ailment had not subsided in the least. As I climbed Mt Tam, in fright of the motorists, I noted some pulled mammoth recreational vehicles with neck-catching mirrors. I trembled the long stretch up. Liquid sloshed around in my intestines. Hydrating before a big climb can be a double-edged sword with oyster flu. The top of the mountain cradled the camp grounds. I was keeping my head down, mumbling prayers that would scorch a monk’s bald head. The long stretch of road that leads to the hiker/biker sites sit well beyond the camp ground. I pleaded with God, Buddha, Universe, The Devil, that I make it to the long buildings down the slope that sported a woman stick figure on the door. Slid the length of the hill as I ran, and felt my body defying my appeal. I was losing control. Flung open the steel door and pulled down my already sopping bike pants that clung stubbornly as I turned the lock. I cried in frustration and incompetency. Had no choice but to wash out the lightweight pants, underwear and finally mop the floor with grey/brown paper towels. Damn near used the entire roll.  Seemingly hours later, I fumbled my way to my bike and set up the tent and sort my belongings.

In the early morning, we coasted down the long road, passing majestic redwoods, and catching a wind not to be reckoned with. The ex’s parents sat on the other side of the small round table as we gorged our meal, drank gallons of fresh water, and ate their leftovers. I even gobbled the decorative garnish from everyone’s plate; raw kale, thinly sliced tomatoes, spigots of carrots, red bell pepper tidbits and dripping lettuce. Inevitably, in the middle of swallowing the adornments , I felt a gurgle sensation in my gut and had to excuse myself. What a waste.