YOUR MOMMY WAS JUST LIKE YOU has arrived!

My new picture book, YOUR MOMMY WAS JUST LIKE YOU, illustrated by David Walker is here! The companion to last year's YOUR DADDY WAS JUST LIKE YOU. This one's for you Lexi!

Cape Argus Pick-N-Pay Cycle Tour

Feeling has returned to my left palm and I can finally sit again, without pain, so, a few days late, I’m writing about the big race. In case you are wondering how it turned out, forgive me for making you wait. The night before the big race, as dedicated cyclists do, we gorged on pasta. Adrenalin levels were high at our table of 9. Six of us because we were riding the next day: 3 (excited): Charles, his brother Dave & son Vaughan (veterans of the race); 3 (nervous) Caitlin, Charles and Shona’s daughter, a first-timer along with Curtis and me.  During dinner, Shona (The best spectator, cheering section, supporter in the whole world), her sis-in-law, Les, and Caitlin’s roomie and family friend, Claire, the rooting section, plotted where they’d watch us from and how they’d get there.

Claire made a sign cheering us on.

Before dawn we lined up with our group for the start. Charles and his cousin, Donald, pros (especially after their recent 1700 km ride) were in an earlier group. Vaughn, being local, started an hour later. The rest of us were in the International Group with start times of 7:47 for the AA Group and 7:51 for the BB Group. Dave and I were in the AA group but decided to ride in the BB Group with everyone else: Caitlin, Dave, Dave and Charles’ cousin Robert and his dad, John (76 years old) and Curtis.

Spirits were high at the start line. While waiting, riders chatted and lined-up at the Porta-potty for “nervous pees”.

Up ahead we could hear music and cheering for performing flag girls, etc. But we couldn’t see them. All we could see was the giant sign and a sea of bikes and backs.

At the Starting Gun Shot, we expected the crowd to shoot forward—but no one moved. Cycles in mass do not zoom out the way horses or cars do. We stood there, waiting for the crowd in front to begin cycling.

A kilometer later I crossed the start line. The pedals worked, the crowd spread out. As we rode over the timing mattes, Caitlin and I exchanged grins. We had done it! We were riding in the Argus—the largest individually timed cycle race in the WORLD!!!!

Five minutes later—maybe less—we started on our 1st uphill. A long, steady incline up and over the highway overpass. I hated Charles just then. Hated him for suggesting we ride. Hated him for making it sound like fun! It will be over “just now” I told myself, pushing hard on the pedals. “Just now” is a misleading South African term. “Just now” can either mean a little earlier (little being anything from days before to hours or minutes before) or it can mean a little later (as in minutes, hours or days from now.) “Just now” never means now, this minute, as everyone else in the English speaking world would assume, South Africans say “Now now” for that. As in, I’ll get on with my story now now…

When Charles was riding the charity ride, he told us they began every day by saying, “this is a ride, not a race.” The Argus is a race and everyone we knew was riding it that way. That’s how we started out, too. But after that first long, horrid uphill, while coasting down on the glorious downhill. I fought the urge to pedal, the way everyone around me was doing and enjoy. I was not going to race.

So, I stopped to take photos of the magnificent route.

I stopped to photograph other cyclists. Especially those in costume.

I stopped to photograph the first-aid tent. Two guys with matching injuries sharing stories.

The oldest cyclist in the race, Japie Malan (91), fell on a steep downhill after Chapman’s Peak, and had to be immobilized and helicoptered out. (He’s in the hospital now and doing well.) I stopped for a neck and lower back massage. I expected my legs to hurt. But no, pedaling wasn’t the problem; neither was breathing. I could have pedaled a hundred kilometers more but… What I wasn’t used to was bending over handle bars, clutching the handlebars. And keeping my feet in the stirrups (the little toe on my right foot kept cramping…go figure???)

I stopped to refill my water bottles, to sample BarOne Candy Bars (2 of them), to potty (I won’t show that photo).

I took lots of drive-by photos of the crowds lining the race route. One section before the next to the last hill of the race was lined with pink “breast cancer awareness” balloons and pink-shirted spectators. Families picnicked along the road, barbecuing, toasting, cheering and clapping, with signs and banners, chants and encouragement.

I had a grand time photographing the crowds— and they loved seeing me photographing them—but photo-wise it wasn’t good. Lesson learned: trying to take one-handed photos while pedaling and bumping along the road results in fuzzy photos.

One drive-through photo turned out brilliantly: THE FINISH LINE! I rode in 6 hours and 29 minutes, 111 kilometers after the start!

Curtis rode in an hour later! We were all waiting to cheer him in! We did it!

Would we ride the Argus again?

Curtis didn’t say “no” he said… “Hell, no.”

Easy as Riding A Bike

Whoever coined the phrase "Easy as Riding A Bike" must have been talking about a vintage bike with one speed, a banana seat, basket and a bell.. Friday we registered for The Cape Argus Pick n Pay Cycle Tour--109 kilometers along the South African Cape--the largest individually timed cycle race in the world-the race. Pretending more than 6 years hasn't passed since our last bike ride, Curtis and I sauntered up to the registration counter to claim our race numbers: I'm in the AA Group: start time 7:47 am; Curtis is in the BB group, starting at 7:52.

After collecting our race packets, we toured the Cycling Expo where, along with thousands of other entrants, we bought bike pants, gloves, socks, energy drinks, gels & candies. (Charles made us.) Just touring the exhibits was so exhausting we had to stop for snacks...

Today, we took our bikes for a test spin….in my case a wobble. I tried to ride my bike out of the B&B courtyard, swerved, freaked and ran into a drain pipe. “Walk it out,” Curtis called. As if I hadn’t figured it out.

Riding a strange bike is hard enough…after so many years, I’d forgotten how to switch gears (not that I have ever been very good at it.) Do I push in the little lever on the left to switch to the big wheels? Or the big lever on the left? Is left back and right front gear—or the other way around? And which lever controls which break?

The hand signals are easy enough to remember (nice to know some lessons stick.) But one thing I didn’t reckon on is the roads. In the midst of all that shifting and gearing and signaling and turning, I have to keep to the right side of the road—which in South Africa is actually the left side…I think?

Our test drive was 4.52 kilometers long and lasted 27 minutes—which gave me an average speed of 10.3 kilometers an hour. Considering the Argus is 109 kilometers long, if all goes well, I can expect to finish in…about 10 hours. They start scooping people up and ferrying them in support vans after 7 hours…I’d better do something to improve.

Less than 12 hours to start time and I am as ready for the race as I’ll ever be…

Filling My Well in S. A. so call me “Joe Friday”

Whenever someone learns I’m a writer living in Indonesia, they inevitably remark about the fabulous stories I must be writing about my adventures, or how inspiration it must be. To which I usually respond, “Someday,” which in Bahasa Indonesia would be the catch all word for “not yet, belum. For me fiction is reflective. Fiction comes with time: from the past, memories, from what remains. Non-fiction is immediate. Although good non-fiction, too, takes time, time to reflect, draw conclusions and get a distance away so as to see larger pictures.

When I was not writing because life interrupted, my friend Dick called it “filling my writer’s well.” Hearing that always made me feel better, and more importantly, gave me hope that the writing would come.

Presently, I’m filling my writer’s well in South Africa….

Never in a zillion “what ifs” did I ever imagine I’d be writing that—In South Africa—let alone living it! And because I’m loving filling my well and don’t want to stop for a moment. I’m going to pull a Joe Friday and “stick to the facts, Ma’am.”

Fact: Curtis and I flew from Jakarta to Johannesburg Thursday, arrived Friday afternoon.

Fact: We are here visiting our friends Shona and Charles Mason, South Africans living in Jakarta. Good friends, who enticed us to come for holiday.

Fact: Charles, his 2 cousins, and a group of 8 others have been, for the past 14 days cycling through South Africa on a charity ride—when they finish they will have cycled 1700 km and raised thousands for charities. Each day they ride to a designated spot—most days well over 100 km— and present a check to a local charity. The amount they raise is matched by ENGEN Petrol Company. Today is the last day of that challenging (to say the least) ride. Charles has been blogging his ride. Check it out: Charles Big Ride SA Ride:

Fact: The main reason we are in South Africa at this particular time is that we have signed up to Ride THE ARGUS, a 109 km bike ride along the wild, spectacular coastline of the Cape of South Africa.

Fact: 35,000-40,000 people will ride THE ARGUS, the largest individually timed race/ride in the world!

Fact: I have not even been on the seat of a bike in at least five, (5) years.

Fact: It is very very windy today and I have heard stories of what the wind does....blows bikes off the road...blows bikers into each other.

Fact: The delivered our rented bikes and helmets today and I am very very nervous.

Two Fish in the Same Pond…Finally!

….Fish lovers that is. Specifically Norman the Fish lovers me and Noah Z. Jones the Amazing, who illustrated Not Norman, A Goldfish Story. We met up for the 1st time at St. George’s Pre-school in La Canada, California on Wednesday. How? In some wonderful cosmic collision Rebecca Grose, of SoCal Public Relations,

just happened to reach out to Flintridge Books in La Canada when she was scheduling events to celebrate my new picture book, Your Mommy Was Just Like You, and, fellow Vermont College grad Catherine Linka

just happens to be the Children’s Book Buyer for Flintridge Books (which is now is a brand spankin’ new, bigger and better location right on the corner of Foothill and Angeles Crest)

, and Noah’s son Eli just happens to be attend pre-school at St. Georges—what are the chances of that!

Noah, who is quite famous and successful nowadays as creator of the Disney animated series, Fish Hooks took time that morning to pop over to St. George’s for a visit. What a surprise! What a treat! Noah is just as silly and fun and clever in real live as I imagined him to be when he brought to life our funny flippin’ and floppin’ fish character Norman!

Noah and I had never met. Never even talked on the phone before. Never even e-mailed until after Not Norman was released in 2005. (Which is pretty normal in the picture book creating process.) Still, it is kind of weird if you think about it….wouldn’t it make sense for the illustrator and author to chat? Or meet? But that’s not how it’s usually done. The idea is that the author might muck up the illustrator’s creative process by imposing his or her vision over the artist’s. I must admit, judging by the wonderful, surprising art in picture books—especially mine!—the system works!

Our editor, Sarah,  kept telling me how much fun Noah was and how nice Noah was and and and…and finally I got to see for myself! Noah brought his easel, giant paper and markers along when he came to surprise me. And so together we entertained the preschoolers with the story of how Not Norman came to life. For a few hours on Wednesday it was the Noah and Kelly Show: while I talked and read, Noah drew silly, funny sketches. The kid’s heads were bobbing back and forth faster than fans at Wimbledon!

Noah and I had a blast! We’re hoping this is the beginning of more fishy fun! (Hint, hint, Sarah...)

Mis-Connection

I’m writing from the Singapore Airlines lounge in Singapore where I’m sitting, enjoying a snack, and taking it easy for the first time in days. You know how it is before a big trip? All the planning. The packing. The worrying over what needs to get done before the trip, for the trip? It can make you crazy… This is the only excuse I have for racing into Jakarta’s lux megamall, Grand Indonesia, a couple of days ago, without my PHONE.  (Don’t laugh. I know what you’re thinking: Big deal, will it hurt to go a few hours without being connected via phone?)

Not having my phone wouldn’t have bothered me one little bit—if it weren’t for Aan. I don’t drive in Jakarta, Aan does. Over the years, he and I have developed an efficient drop-off/pick-up system. It works like this: Aan drives me to a mall or shop entrance. We both note the place and agree where we will meet up. Then Aan drives off and I go about my business. When I’m finished with whatever I’m doing, I give him a call and he picks me up. Simple—except if I forget my phone…

I didn’t realize I’d forgotten my phone until I was ready to go and began digging around in my humongous purse for it. I knew instantly it was In the car. I’d been checking my e-mail as we drove and must have left it on the seat. My only hope was that someone called me and Aan heard the phone ring and realized I’d left it. Or, that he’d spotted it on my seat. If not, he’d never realize I was phoneless and come looking. Instead he would sit wherever he was, waiting and waiting and waiting for my call.

I scurried back to our appointed meeting place and looked around. No familiar, most common of all-silver mini-vans hanging about. Might he be inside watching for me?. If he realized I didn’t have my phone, he might come inside to wait an watch for me. It was air-conditioned… Alas, there was nary a a slight, big-eyed, spikey-haired Aan in sight.

Not everyone in Jakarta uses our system. Some use the tried and true Car Call method. Established long before hand phones became common, Car Call is exactly that. When a patron is ready to be picked up, he or she goes to the Car Call desk and tells the attendant the driver’s name and place of employment. For instance, if I were to call Aan, I would say. “Aan, dari BP” (“dari” means from or with) and the attendant calls that out over the loud speakers, which sounds in the garage, and soon he’d drive up to fetch me.

Unfortunately, using the Car Call is not our system. It’s not many drivers favorite system as it means the driver has to park in the garage, within ear shot of the speakers. He can’t eat, or smoke, or hang with friends. And worse, he might have to stay in the dreaded underground garage. Dreaded because several Jakarta hotel bombings ago, drivers were trapped underground in a garage. Aan does not like those cursed garages.

I tried Car Call anyway, hoping, with little hope, that Grand Indonesian was one of those places where Aan likes to park near the speakers. And I waited.

I tried Car Call again. And I waited…and waited.

And while I waited, I didn’t just wait, I came up with a plan. I could ask someone to borrow his or her phone and call Curtis at work and ask him to call Aan. Or I could call Rusnati at home and ask her to call Aan. Or, if I knew Aan’s number, I could call him myself.

I was mustering up enough words to ask one of the mall employees if I could use  precious phone minutes for an emergency (how do you say "emergency" in Bahasa Indonesia?And should I pretend to be sick or dying) our lovely, silver mini-van drove up. Yeah, Aan!

The van door was barely closed behind me when Aan started in on how I had forgotten my phone. How it had rung almost as soon as I’d left. How he had been back and forth looking for me, worrying about me... How he had gone into the mall asking employees if they had seen a tall, hair-less white lady in tan pants wandering around…How he'd given the Car Call attendant my description and told them to call me if they saw someone fitting my description. (I’m sure if he’d had a photo he would have shown around it ala every cop program ever aired, or made copies and posted them.)  It was a though I were a teen, being lectured by my adult. Blah, blah, blah….

Back home, Aan did the most “Dad” thing of all. He handed me a small piece of paper torn from his notebook. “Keep this in your purse,” he instructed. On the paper, in tiny, tidy letters, were written his name and phone number.

I felt like a kid, a silly kid, true. But also like a well-cared for kid.

I promise, Dad/Aan, I’ll never leave home without it!

Been Playing Hooky

Happy New Year! I’m starting 2011 with an “Unexcused Absence.” I took the holidays off and gave myself a real holiday from all forms of non-personal communication. For the past month I tried to avoided my computer, phones, mail….and focus on here and now.

And dang if it didn’t feel just like it did when I used to play hooky from school: an intoxicating blend of guilt and pleasure.

It wasn’t easy. E-mail is especially hard for me to ignore. I really had to work at not check in often. Let’s say I sort of managed (only because for much of the holidays I did not have access to the internet.) In the end, I give myself a C-. (I flunked business e-mail). Now I’m getting those where- the-heck-are-you-and-why-haven’t-you-responded-and-did-you-fall-off-the-edge-of-the-world notes.

I ended the holidays at a Creativity Energizer Retreat with my writing bud, Marty. Each January, we sequester ourselves with piles of new books, favorite snacks and libations, and a few problem manuscripts. We set a schedule for the days and stick to it. It’s amazing how revitalizing it is. It was especially so this year as both of us began the retreat feeling as though we hadn’t a fresh idea in our heads and should quit writing all together. We ended refreshed and overflowing with creative promise. Wooooo!

Prior to the retreat, we met with a fellow writer, Kathy Duval to discuss New Year’s Goals (notice I didn’t say resolutions? I resolved not to resolve this year.) “Write It Down, Make it Happen” Kathy said, explaining how every year she and her family write down personal Dreams/Hopes/Desires they have for themselves and put them away. The following New Year’s they pull out the prior year’s notes and see how many they had achieved.

Kathy’s family is not alone in doing this. Google the phrase: “write it down, make it happen and you’ll find scads of stories. There’s even a book detailing the process. If you are so inclined to read it, here’s the Amazon link.

Today, the GGs, my creativity group, are holding our gathering of 2011. To kick off the New Year, we are going to Write it Down/Make it Happen! Why don’t you join us?

Write it Down, Make it Happen!

Supplies:

• 5 small pieces of paper
• colorful pens,
• your personal Dreams/Hopes/Desires (Note: personal—this is for you!,
• a small colorful box, envelope or sachel to use as a Dream Keeper.

Directions:

Close your eyes and take a few minutes to think about what you want, what you really really want to happen in your life. Do not censor yourself. Do not limit yourself. Be honest! Dream big!

Cull your Dreams/Hopes/Desires to a short list of 5.

Do not share them with anyone! Do not talk about them!

Write each of these 5 Dreams/Desires/Hopes on separate pieces of paper.

Reread each, fold it, and put it away in your Dream Keeper.

Secure your Dream Keeper in a safe place (remember where you put it so you can retrieve it next year.)

That’s how you do it! Now get busy

Watch out 2011! We Have Arrived!

MIND YOUR STUFF!

The song goes: It's that time year, when the world falls in love. The words in my version are slightly different: It’s that time of year when...I FALL APART! Seems I’m not the only one. The number of items left behind in airports during the holidays is about 1000 times higher than during the rest of the year. How do I know? Because the gals in the Continental Airlines Lost and Found at the Houston airport (hidden behind baggage carousel #7) told me when I stopped in looking for my laptop.

I don’t usually use my computer on planes, but I was fast approaching an article deadline (it was due that day)  and I needed to make some final revisions before submitting it. So, I took it out of its happy green case, stowed my bag in the overhead and carried the little black, blends-right-in-with-the-floor laptop with me to my seat. It was a bumpy ride from Denver but I pushed through and made the revisions—brilliant ones, if I say so myself—and got the article and photos all ready to send. Tres satisfied, I stowed my trusty laptop it in the back-of –the-seat pouch and pulled out my book.

However, when landing time came around, the flight attendant informed us that back-of-the-seat pouch was not an “FAA approved laptop storage bin….”

Fast forward a day, a zillion frantic phone calls, a lot of hand wringing, head bashing,  and more phone calls to the next night: As I waited at the Continental Baggage Claim desk to see if my laptop was the one found on the flight I had taken, but tagged with Bernard Something or other’s name,  two baggage handlers came in pushing wheelchairs heaped with  more lost and found items.

“How many more days til Christmas?” someone called out. They all laughed and someone else remarked, “We are going to get buried in stuff before the holidays are over.”

Seems the holidays are the major lost item times--and the closer it gets to Christmas and New Years, the more the mounds of lost items grows. Good news: over 90% of lost items are turned in, the Lost and Found folks told me. But not everyone claims them. “You should see all the laptops, Nintendos, cameras, phones, books, coats, we are holding,” the agent said. I was hoping my laptop was among them while trying not to get my hopes up too high. It hadn’t been the best of evenings…

On the way to the airport—my friend, Joy, rode with me—we’d had to pull over to let a fire truck zoom past.  A little ways farther up the highway, something happened and everyone in our lane had to slam on the brakes. You know the squealing, screeching, honking, veering out of the lane kind of forced stops that make you  scrunch your shoulders and listen for the crash? Fortunately, no crash followed, but when we started back up the car was abnormally loud. Just as we reached the exit from I45 to the Beltway 8 the reason for the noise became apparent: we blew a tire. We were riding on the rim. This was 9:30 at night, in not the best part of town (is under an overpass ever good?) I pulled on the emergency flashers and we inched the car to a lighted parking lot ahead.

The parking lot turned out to be that of a way-too-popular- with- the- wild-bunch sports bar in a strip center with a lingerie shop named “Candy’s.” Guys were drag racing motorcycles, burning rubber, blaring bass with trunks vibrating.  In limp two middle-age crazies in a giant, gold, Chrysler “pimp mobile.”

Joy and I are not namby-pamby’s. I’ve changed a tire. I knew how. We knew how to muscle the suitcase out of the trunk, and our bags of holiday shopping, and to tuck our purses in the back seat and lock the doors. “And put our phones in our pockets, just to be sure.” What we didn’t know was how to use the new-fangled jack, or where the heck the lug nut taker-offer was.

But…we were right in front of a tire store (with the garage bays open.) I went in to beg the tire center guys to help us. Reluctantly one followed me out to “see” what was going on. From the way he was barely walking, it was clear he really didn’t want to play “good Samaritan.”

While I was in begging the tire guys, Joy flagged down a young black guy. He was already working at the jack when  tire store reject and I arrived. Soon, the young guy was joined by another (his brother, we found out when we complimented them on their willingness to help.) In less than 15 minutes they had our tire changed, the old one stowed, and our luggage back in the car. "Your Mama would be proud," we told them, "we sure would be if our boys behaved the same." We slipped them a Christmas thank you. (We had to call them back to thank them as they took off as soon as the job was done.) But we noticed later, from their giant smiles, they were happy to have our “thanks.”

But a changed flat and a returned lap top are not necessarily the same thing. Could I get lucky twice? I hoped and waited and hoped. The lost and found handler was smiling as big as I was when I turned on my little black ASUS and the familiar “Kelly B” password square popped up.

Laptop and  flat tire in toe, we zipped over to the rental car office, exchanged our car for another one—and a delightful girl there, with bright eyes and a happy giggle, helped us transfer our stuff to the new, identical gold Chrysler, and away we went.

This was definitely one of those character definers:

One kind of person would dwell on the lost laptop, traffic scare, and flat tire and call it “rotten luck."

Another kind of person would consider the two young guys who stepped up to help a couple of strangers, the returned lap top, that it was a rented car, and  call it “great luck.”

What do you say?

I say: It's that time of year so...MIND YOUR STUFF!

Happy Christmas!