Miss Fussbudget Goes Bicycling

As a kid, when I was especially cranky, my parents would threaten to throw Miss Fussbudget in the nearest major river. Exactly which one depended on where we lived; in the Michigan years it was the Detroit River; in St. Louis, the Mississippi. I don't know where Miss F. ended up when we lived in Indiana--they probably just abandoned her in a corn field.

Nothing is more infuriating to a irritable kid than ridicule, and I remember well how frustrating it was to be reduced to a fictional character who could be disposed of so easily. However, as an adult I realize that laughing at your kid when she's being hideous is one of the things that keeps you from killing her, so overall I'm grateful to my parents for the strategy.

Unfortunately, they never made good on their threats to sink her in the mighty river, because little Miss Fussbudget is alive and well, and today she went on a 70-mile bike ride and complained almost the whole time. Even though the air was sweet with milkweed, even though all the drivers were friendly, even though it was a sparkly perfect weather day, even though the views of the hayfields and distant coastal mountains were nothing short of spectacular, even though we found new roads with fresh pavement, even though that zippy bike topped 40 MPH so many times, even though there were baby turkeys and puppies and puffy clouds and snacks, Miss Fussbudget pretty much hated that entire bike ride. She just couldn't help it. She yelled right out loud, all the way up the New England Road, across Rte. 220 and down a good part of 17. I HATE THIS BIKE I HATE THESE SHOES IT HURTS I AM TOOO TIRED I AM SO SICK OF THIS STUPID EXERCISING THIS WAS THE WORST IDEA I AM TOO TIRED EVERYTHING HURTS I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT I'M NEVER DOING THIS AGAIN I'M THIRSTY I'M GETTING A SUNBURN A HORSEFLY BIT MY BUTT ARE WE THERE YET? NOW HOW MUCH LONGER? OH THIS IS TOO TERRIBLE.

And so on, for five hours. Fortunately, no one was listening, and I dropped Miss Fussbudget's sorry little tush in Rockland at the Blues Festival, raced some motorcycles through town, got home with a smile on my face, and hammered out the best three-mile run I've had all year.

So na na na noo noo, little miss. Into Rockland Harbor with you.

_______

Bike: 5 hours, 71 miles
Run: 30 minutes, 3.3 miles
Holy shit, two weeks.