#beautifulgodzilla

I <3 SLC: Beautiful Godzilla Out

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 21.

Hey guys, this is my last Beautiful Godzilla column. I’m moving to New York City to dedicate my life to pizza.  

I’ve thought a lot about what I wanted to write here, in this space, for the very last time—something smart and meaningful and funny, of course, but all I could think about was how much I’m gonna miss this city.  

So, those of you who claim your home elsewhere (even if you only lived in California for six months back when you were two years old), pick up a trusty ole beater from the Bicycle Collective, sign up for some volunteer hours while you’re there, and let me lead you through a verbal tour of Salt Lake City as a precursor to your next bike adventure. The next time someone asks you where you’re from, I hope you’ll jump up and down screaming “SLC!” after proving you’re not hiding a Mormon demon tail.  

Everybody’s Salt Lake is a little different, waxing and waning as you meet new people, get a good tip on a restaurant you’ve never been to, or fall asleep on TRAX one day and end up adopted by juggalos. 

Mine runs the square area between 2100 South to about 4th Ave (too lazy to ride up that hill any farther), 900 West to 900 East (ditto). The mountains sure are pretty to look at, but there’s fucking snow up there, you crazy bastards! 

I felt like an outsider for a long time in this town—not ’cause I had anywhere else to call home, but because I felt a disconnect with my surroundings, especially living in the bubble that is university life (one in every four college students has an STD, FYI). That all changed the first time I hopped on a road bike (I did get saddle sores, though …). Cycling makes a city feel like it belongs to you, like you know and understand it in a way that maybe you didn’t before. I’m sure that there are other things that can contribute to a true sense of residence, like fireworks and an inbred pioneer heritage, but there’s nothing like the bicycle—the perfect machine.  

Salt Lake City became mine the first Midnight Mass I ever attended, about six years ago in the middle of a dry winter day. We rode all the way out to Sugar House, bombing hills on our way back as I gripped the handlebars in silent terror, thinking I was sure to fly over them if I were to hit the smallest scar in the asphalt. 

Chris Ginzton practiced his Spanish on me the whole ride, and as the adrenaline numbed my fear, I thought, “This is beautiful.” Or maybe it was, “He is beautiful … ” 

As I attended more and more events, I felt my confidence grow, and not just in my cycling abilities. Critical Mass, as chaotic as it seemed at times, provided an outlet for the peaceful protester inside of me that I had been too scared to express before then, because you know that prison bitches would go apeshit over my butt—just ask my lil’ lesbo sis, Carla, who shares my “jeans” and is practically rolling in vaginas. I always looked forward to riding through the Gateway, a tall bike at my side, Zed’s boombox spitting cheesy ’90s rap, and bike bells ringing like a hundred wind chimes in a maddening gust as pedestrians gawked at us and cars honked impatiently. Those days, rides would often end at the top of the Walker Center as the sun set, with anyone we hadn’t dropped off at a bar passing around flasks of wine and whiskey, taking turns testing out the freak bikes among us. The view alone—an eyeful of historic buildings and dirty alleyways juxtaposed with contemporary architecture and modern street art, tinged by this city’s many Instagram-worthy sunsets—makes you feel like you’re doing something right.  

Then there was the afternoon I came face to face—or perhaps frame to door—with my mortality. It was one of those days when the air hits your face like ice water, but the sun’s so bright it reaches under your skin to warm you from the inside out—the only appropriate outfit for that weather is one of those fluorescent green, full-body suits. Had I been wearing mine that day, perhaps things would’ve turned out a little different, but I was conveniently wearing a helmet, otherwise this column would just be a slobber smear. I hit the ground hard on my back, facing a car whose door was cracked wide open, gasping for breath as pedestrians rushed to my side. I’ve always been a careful cyclist—though perhaps a bit insane riding two years without brakes—but always aware of my surroundings, and that experience shook me even more than when I found out Santa was my parents, and they were broke. Riding hasn’t been the same since, and sometimes my back seizes up, but that motherfucker had to replace his entire windshield, and the spooked look on his face makes me believe he’ll be glancing at his side-view mirror before he gets out of his car for the rest of his life.  

I’m excited and nervous about riding in NYC. I think my FBG status will go over well with the cabbies, but I’ve heard the pedestrians are a nightmare—a plague of pede-philes, so to speak. 

Still, when it comes to cycling, this city will always be home, whether I see it again or not—whether, at the end of my life, I’ve spent more years in other places that aren’t here. The bicycle community here has raised me into adulthood, supported me and helped me turn a life that would’ve felt like I was holding my breath for eternity into one where I breathe real deep and make that “refreshed” sound as I breathe out. So annoying. 

I’ll be cruisin’ with Bike Snob soon, and won’t be around to push you down the hill, but there are plenty of fine people in this community who can help you out. In addition to the obvious, the adventurous James Miska is out to start Salt Lake Bicycle Tours, with the mission to show residents and visitors around this city and its magical spots. “My inspiration for it came from having consistently biked around this town for the past nine years, always going to cool places, and wanting to show those cool places to cool people,” he says. Hit him up over at saltlakebicycletours.com. 

The SLCo Bicycle Ambassadors Program is another relatively new way to stick your toe into cycling, providing one-on-one mentorships that are like commuter training wheels, and you can find them at facebook.com/slcobike. Jack Lasley, the BA’s Program Coordinator, summed it all up real nice, saying: 

“When you ride a bike, you fully inhabit the city. Everything becomes familiar as you begin to notice the details... 

You might avoid the same daily pothole as you did in your car, but on your bike, you notice that it has a yellow lighter inside and you have time to wonder how it got there. You learn that certain blocks have distinct smells and sounds. That every street and intersection feels differently. You start to navigate by names and faces, rather than by numbers and distance. You begin to develop rewarding relationships with strangers, even though most only last seconds or minutes. You have time to wave and smile as you pass another bicyclist or have a quick chat as you both wait at the traffic light. You start to feel like you have friends you haven’t even met yet.”  

Burn the Bra, Not the Panties!

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 27.

The other day, I introduced myself to someone who recognized my name from this column and said, “Oh yeah, you write about bikes and butts.” Oh god. Am I the Miley Cyrus of columnists? 

Look guys, I write about butts ‘cause they’re a pretty crucial part of cycling, being the thing you sit on and all. Well, if that’s the case, I feel like I’ve been letting my fans (hi Mom and Dad!) down lately as my #fbg4lyfe status hasn’t been written about for a few months. Fortunately, I have friends (hi Colin!) who care about my integrity as a writer and female cyclist, and sent me a link to an article about a fascinating Kickstarter campaign for chamois panties.

If you get nothing else out of this column, I want you to know one thing: how to pronounce “chamois.” It’s “shamee.” You’re welcome. 

Now that you’re not going to mumble through the word as you read my column aloud to all of your friends, let me tell you what chamois panties are. Basically, a company based out of Austin called Urbanist, dedicated to “saving the world from spandex,” has more than successfully funded a Kickstarter campaign (doubling their goal) to create sexy, padded women’s cycling underwear. I’ll be honest: when I first glanced at the campaign and saw a skinny girl in panties sitting on a bike, I rolled my eyes and thought, “Is it really so hot in Texas that people are gonna start riding around in their underwear? Shouldn’t they be marketing these to the nudists in Portland?” Then I did what so many of my Facebook friends often fail to do before posting, and actually read past the headline. It turns out that Urbanist’s chamois panties are the answer to all my cycling prayers. The following is an anticipatory product review, as they’re still in the testing stages, which must be an interesting process when it comes to panties …

A few months ago I bought a beautiful, cushy pink Terry saddle from Saturday Cycles that was meant to replace the supposed size-tailored racing saddle my butt cheeks had completely enveloped over the past few years––I blame Eva’s Bakery, my serious relationship and ice cream. It’s actually a really nice saddle, but it didn’t make the kind of difference I was hoping for. I can’t speak for anyone else’s anatomy––I still don’t quite understand how guys straddle anything, let alone a narrow bike seat, with all those dangly parts––but it seems that no matter what angle I adjust my bike seat and handlebars to, my saddle rubs in all the wrong places. 

When your stage curtains start to go numb, it’s a good indication that some crucial house lights are being cut off, if you know what I mean. 

Enter chamois panties (dramatic pause).

The panties come in two styles, and they look like regular women’s underwear––ruched on the back, sheer sides, patterned––but they have a magic chamois pad sewn into them. I imagine it’s like wearing a couple of super absorbent maxi pads without having to worry they’re going to unstick and slide into your pant leg. Of course I’ve considered the fact that we’re all going to look like Tina Fey in that SNL Tampax commercial parody. They don’t look like that on the model, who’s probably considering implants now, but my size 9 cheeks (on a good day) don’t need the extra cushion, aesthetically speaking. These definitely have skirt potential, though! For the past six years, I’ve had to choose comfort over style so many times as a commuter that I don’t even bother brushing my hair most mornings. These panties are more than just a genius idea––they are female liberators! We can finally ride bikes and be feminine! Exclamation points!!!

Highway Haikus

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 32.

For better or worse, I’ve accepted that being a human with breasts, long hair and a voluptuous backside automatically subjects me to a barrage of verbal assaults the moment I step outside. 

Choosing to straddle a bike instead of driving a car to navigate the city streets triples the amount of titillating, one-way conversations I have on a daily basis, simply because I’m more visible to all of the loud and obnoxious wisecracks out there on all sides of (and in) the bike lane.  

From the predictable catcalls and wolf whistles, to the usual, impatient honks, “Fuck yous” and “Get off the roads,” I’ve heard it all in those intimate moments when I’m a mere three feet (or less) from bold strangers. I think the most creative one that’s been yelled my way happened when I was riding up 600 South in a dress one summer afternoon, and someone slowed down enough coming off the freeway for me to catch a full sentence: 

“Why don’t you ride me, instead!”  

I reached out to the SaltCycle community on Facebook to find out what other bits of poetry and conversation have been offered to our community’s cyclists, and found an interesting pattern: It seems that men tend to get more aggressive and negative comments thrown their way —nine times out of ten, when I’m riding with a boy, I’m guaranteed to hear the word “faggot” out of the mouth of a pin-pricked man in an oversized vehicle—and have more tales of physical assault (beverages thrown, car chases, threats, etc.). The women however, get more … creeps. You know that carnal glint deep in the eyes of your significant other when you throw on some Marvin Gaye and slowly undress (Let’s keep it PG-13, guys)? Well, I think I speak for a decent percentage of the women out there when I say that it’s extremely uncomfortable to see that look on a man’s face in any other context, and even more so when it’s verbalized or even whistled. I’m not a pedaling piece of meat, however scrumptious my ass might look, and you, complete stranger, have no right to make me feel as such just because you’re traveling 20 mph faster than I am—because I will catch up to you at the next light. 

There are three ways to address such mongoloids: the “parade princess,” the “one-fingered hello” and what I like to call “the stupid idiot.”

 The parade princess is my favorite reply to anger. Basically, you hear someone yell “Fuck you” or honk at you to get out of their way, and you turn to them, give them a big smile, and wave enthusiastically. We live in Utah, people—this state is built on guilt and shame, so learn to use it to your advantage! The one-fingered hello is purely for my own anger management. It’s clichéd  and expected, and all it ever does is mirror the response or fuel the rage further, but sometimes waving that middle finger in the air just feels right. I’ve witnessed the stupid idiot on a few group rides, and all I have to say to all you stupid idiots is that no matter how intoxicated you are, you’ve gotta be a really stupid fucking idiot to think your 15-pound carbon frame is a match against a two-ton pickup truck—keep your testosterone under control! (I’m allowed to say that because I’m on my period.)  

Rebel Grrrls: Ovarian Psycos

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 24.

Ovarian Psycos’ Maryann Aguirre, aka La Fingers, answers a phone somewhere in East LA with unrestrained enthusiasm as I state my name on the other end at the SLUG Headquarters in Salt Lake. 

My own excitement is muted by slight intimidation and the natural awkwardness that accompanies my introduction to any stranger, but something about her voice is familiar, and it greases the stiffness I’m feeling. She’s just arrived at her home after biking from work in the heat, and, having ridden to the office during pit-staining temperatures earlier that day myself, it’s easy to lament her discomfort. As we discuss her bicycle, a Raleigh hybrid she’s pretty fond of, Aguirre speaks rapidly in Spanish-speckled English, her pitch inflecting upwards at the end of each sentence, giving my inquiries a boomerang effect. 

As she explains her nickname, La Fingers, a result of being caught wagging her middle-finger on more than one occasion, I know I’m talking to the right person.

Bikini Kill’s “Rebel Girl” lyrics pop into my head as I listen––”That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighborhood. She’s got the hottest trike in town. That girl holds her up so high. I think I wanna be her best friend, yeah!”––and I quietly make the (creepy) decision to friend request her later. Feeling conversational, I stray from the long list of chronological questions I’ve typed up, but Aguirre wants to stick to the plan––she’s been chosen to represent the Ovas in this particular interview, and she’s gonna do it right.

Though Aguirre tells me she has only been a part of the “womyn and womyn identified” Los Angeles bike crew for about a year, the Ovarian Psycos celebrated two years of female-empowered radicalness over the summer. The group was founded by Xela de la X, aka Cihuatl Ce, for similar reasons as many other female organizers, including myself: to provide a safe space for women (particularly women of color) within a very male-dominated community. Of course, their mission statement, goals and organization are much more ambitious and resourceful than my attempts have ever been, but I’ll get to the deep stuff in a moment. What initially attracted me to the Ovas, after the lovely Elizabeth Lopez Medina linked me to their merch page, was their deliciously deviant slogan: 

“Ovaries so big, we don’t need no fucking balls.”

Yeah, yeah, feminism is about equality, yadda yadda––but the Ovarian Psycos are far from being the he-man haterz hypocritically correct ding-dongs are gonna make them out to be. Aguirre tells me the slogan came about organically and conscientiously, and was met with mostly positive feedback. “We’re not gonna have a fuckin’ ‘ride my bike and I feel so free!’ kind of slogan,” she says. “No––ovaries so big, we don’t need no fuckin’ balls!” Aguirre’s voice gets louder and she loses the questioning inflection as she explains the group’s target demographic.

“We try to be particular with the words that we choose to use because we’re trying to hit certain kinds of women,” she says. “Not just women who are just like ‘oh yeah, cool, I like to ride my bike,’ [but] women who need the sisterhood and the bonding … ‘at-risk’ society.” 

Aguirre drops down an octave as she opens up about her own background, laying it out for me in a matter-of-fact kind of list. She’s 22-years-old, Chicana, and a mother of a 4-and-a-half-year-old, working full time. She’s had a rough life, growing up in the hood with an abusive parent, pregnant at 16. “It’s not just to go and ride our bikes,” she continues. “It’s much deeper than that. We’re trying to outreach to women [whom] society has decided are not the fucking top girl––they’re the fuck-ups.”

Ovarian Psycos’ mission statement shakes any doubts that this group of ladies doesn’t mean business. They claim to organize and cycle “for the purpose of healing our communities physically, emotionally and spiritually, by addressing pertinent issues through cycling,” and they have every aspect of this statement covered in just one of their many events––the Luna Ride. Surprisingly their only monthly “womyn and womyn-identified only” ride, the Luna Ride happens every full moon at sundown and promotes what Aguirre calls “wrap-around therapy.” “We bring in the physical, which is writing down miles and bike-riding and stuff, but at the end, we bring in a different level, which is why we’re different from other groups,” she says. This includes anything from talks on domestic violence and breast cancer, to special, indigenous ceremonies celebrating the Mayan Moon Goddess, Ix Chel. Aguirre senses my surprise and hesitation at her admittance to worshipping anything other than the two-wheeled whip between her legs, and explains that the ceremony is completely secular and rooted in culture, not theology. 

“We have our ancestral background, so we feel the need to bring in these ceremonies because this is something that some of us have recently found,” she says. “For myself, I recently started being a little more spiritual.” 

My reflex to recoil at the mention of spirituality is a personal flaw stemming from experiences inside the polarizing atmosphere created by Utah’s dominant religion, but Aguirre’s somewhat vague descriptions of the ceremony sound inviting. She’s hesitant to give me details, as it seems to be a personal and sacred experience, but explains it as a talking circle of introspection and celebration of the feminine––emotional and beautiful.

In addition to the Luna Rides, the Ovas also organize a variety of fun, sometimes-themed, co-ed rides, coordinate ladies and trans shop nights similar to Salt Lake’s own ladies nights at the Bicycle Collective, and table at a variety of community events. The Ovas are also currently seeking out their own space, a “bicycle womb” of sorts, Aguirre says, collaborating with the Boyle Heights Collaborative, funded through the California Endowment. All of this requires a lot of structure and organizing, and as Aguirre explains their leadership hierarchy, I can’t believe these women aren’t running the country yet––seriously, if this nation has any hope of surviving the next 50 years, it’s in the Ovarian Psycos. 

The Ovas operate successfully as a decentralized form of government that changes seasonally. 

The group as a whole is called the Ovarian Psycos Cycle Brigade, and it includes every man and woman who shows up to the rides and events. Group decisions are monitored by a Core Collective, made up of seven central figures and six SLITS (Sister Leaders In Training), who attend meetings every other week. The leadership heads, dubbed the Left and Right Ovaries (LRO), serve as co-chairs for the group and change with the seasons. One is a self-appointed volunteer, the other is chosen randomly from a hat, and their main purpose is to host the bi-weekly meetings. At these meetings, the Ovas discuss events, create agendas, decide how they want to be portrayed (pick someone to respond to that annoying Utah girl who keeps hassling them about an interview), and do “clit checks”––making sure everyone’s doing their fair share and getting shit done. The Ovas also have committees responsible for different aspects of the group, and Aguirre is currently part of the Outreach Committee as well as the Core Collective, handling much of the tabling, social media and, thankfully, interviews. What truly brings success to the group is their dedication to a worthwhile cause. “I don’t get paid for this, this is from the heart. As much stress as it might be, at the end of the day, none of us would be doing this if we weren’t getting our energy and our strength through our hearts and what we believe in,” says Aguirre. “It’s much deeper than how many likes we can get on Facebook.”

Aguirre shows more and more enthusiasm as we talk about events, and when I finally bring up Clitoral Mass, she nearly reaches through the phone and excitedly shakes my shoulders, telling me how amazing the event’s gonna be. Though Clitoral Mass, the female empowered version of Critical Mass, is a long-established, international event, (at the time of this interview) the Ovarian Psycos are organizing LA’s first-ever to coincide with the blue moon on August 31. “We just thought it was perfect!” says Aguirre, as the blue moon only happens every two to three years, and is surrounded by much of the folklore the Ovas subscribe to. I nearly fall off my chair when she gives me the date, as it happens alongside a previously planned trip to LA. Aguirre immediately exclaims that I HAVE to come, and asks if I need somewhere to stay, or if I’ll need a bike, explaining that they’ve set up a registry on their website for those coming into town for the big event. By the time this issue hits stands, I’ll have been a part of LA’s first Clitoral Mass, riding alongside a group of women who share my love of cycling and sisterhood.

I’ve been on the phone with Aguirre for over an hour as the interview begins to wrap up, and she feels like an old friend. I’m completely charmed by her attitude and sincerity: 

“I just gotta go where I gotta go, and I gotta do what I gotta do, and no man’s gonna fuckin’ stop me,” she says at one point in our discussion, completely sealing the deal on that friend request, which I now get to make in person. 

I ask her one last, heavy hitting question: “What does it mean to be an Ovarian Psyco?” Aguirre goes quiet for a moment. “Being an Ovarian Psyco is not necessary just for women, anyone can be an Ova,” she begins slowly. “Someone who’s proud of themselves and proud of who they are. Being an Ovarian Psyco doesn’t mean that you ride a bike or that you’re a mad cyclist, that you can write down miles. Being an Ovarian Psyco is more of a state of mind—it’s an identity. It’s the way I identify myself, just like I choose to identify myself as a Chicana. It’s not hating men, it’s being proud of who you are, taking charge of yourself, your body, your surroundings and loving your community and giving back.”

At the end, as I describe my own bicycle group, Salty Spokes, and complain to Aguirre how difficult and frustrating it is to organize events sometimes, she gives me exactly what I need to hear. “One person didn’t make Ovarian Psycos what it is. It took time and it took the heart of different women to start structuring it to what you see and what we do.”

Bikini Kill said it best: 

“That girl thinks she’s the queen of the neighborhood. I got news for you––she is!”

Ice Ice Baby: Riding in the Winter – Hobo-Style

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 23.

Riding a bicycle from October through March doesn’t even cross most of your minds. I know this because your bikes look shiny and new, and you look fat and slow come springtime. 

I’m just messing with you … I’m not one of those holier-than-thou yuppies pretending to save the world.  In fact, after three years of riding miserably through snow and ice, I raised enough funds to buy a four-wheel drive vehicle last winter to keep me warm and dry on my outings—until it broke down.  I know there are a handful of you like me whose parents don’t inject your measly minimum-wage income with extra padding, and can’t afford a car or the ridiculous UTA fare, so this month I’m giving you some tips on how to make it through the “Greatest Snow on Earth” via bicycle—hobo style.

Keeping your hands and feet warm and dry is what’s going to keep you out of frozen depression through the wind, rain, ice, snow and their many combinations you’ll face. To do this effectively, your core has to be warmed up. Pedaling your heart out is going to do this naturally, but it helps to have a warm, water-resistant coat. A new coat is pricey, but you have other options. I’d been using my snowboarding coat from middle school until recently (I was a big seventh grader, OK?), and have lots of friends who go to the D.I. or Thrift Town and find something for $10 or less. You may end up with a technicolored dream coat from the ’80s, but with all the other stuff I’m going to suggest you put on, you’re going to look ridiculous anyway.

“Cyclists” are going to tell you just any old coat won’t work––you need one that breathes or you’re going to get sweaty. Here’s what I think: It’s better to end up at work dripping with sweat than frozen, ‘cause your coworkers aren’t going to mind the smell as much as your screams and moans as you painfully thaw out.

Once you’ve got the coat, here are a few more things you can try, depending on the weather:

Rain: Install front and back fenders on your bicycle once the weather goes to shit. The water on the road gets you more wet than the rain itself and you WILL show up to work with an embarrassing wet butt without at least a back fender. Google how to make your own out of milk cartons and aluminum cans. Your footwear is also a concern, because unless you’re wearing rubber shoes that magically seal to your skin, your feet are going to get wet. This is when you break out the plastic bags. You’re going to look … trashy, but tying those things around your ankles is your only option if you don’t want to spend the rest of your day in misery.

Also, carry an extra pair of pants and socks. If you can’t buy an awesome waterproof Velo City Bag, steal your little brother’s backpack and wrap up your clothes and anything else you want to keep dry in a hobo purse.

Snow—blizzard-style: Have you ever been whitewashed? That’s exactly what biking in a blizzard feels like. If you can get your hands on one of those face beanies, do it. Who cares if you show up to the bar looking like a mugger? Better than having the inside of your nose melt into your beer as it thaws … A knitted scarf also works well, and keeps snow from falling down your shirt—I realize your breasts may feel like popsicles at times, but they don’t actually have to freeze for people to lick them. When the wind starts up, your hands are another extremity you’ll want to keep warm. Good gloves are expensive, but a bunch of shitty gloves are not! Both Smith’s and the dollar store have cotton gloves for a dollar that you can layer over each other. I suggest you buy $5 worth and keep extras in your bag, because they’ll get wet and you’ll want a dry pair for your ride home.

Another factor during a blizzard: visibility, or lack thereof. I have a shitty pair of ski goggles that help on my end of things, but remember that you just look like a big snowflake to drivers.

Ice: This is the worst element because it can cause the most damage. It’s the reason I splurged on a dorky helmet with earmuffs. No matter how careful I am, how slow I ride, how hard I squint at the ground, my bicycle slides out from under me at least once every winter. There isn’t much you can do to avoid it other than watch for ice and try to circumvent any patches. My suggestion is to increase your awareness and decrease your speed on icy days. Main roads are usually better about plowing and salting the asphalt, but also contain more shitty drivers. Falling on the ice isn’t that bad anyway when you’ve got so many layers on.

Ladies, leave your man at home

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 22.

In light of the recent woman-bashing that the Republican party has wrought upon our brains through its war on Planned Parenthood and reproductive healthcare, and in celebration of the Salt Lake Bicycle Collective’s 10-year anniversary this month, I decided to revisit the bi-monthly Ladies Shop Night hosted by the Collective for quite some years now and reclaim my feminine power among other bicycle-loving ladies.

 Most of the avid cyclists in town have heartfelt ties with the non-profit organization, and though my bicycle-mechanic skills begin and end with tire levers and a 15mm wrench, the Bike Collective is partially responsible for the onset of all my two-wheeled enthusiasm. It’s there that I assembled (with the help of then-volunteer Davey Davis) my trusty green Mercier and rode it out the doors like a carefully planned child bursting from its appropriately-aged mother’s womb—thanks to the safe-sex education she received in high school.

The thing is, bike shops intimidate me. 

I don’t think it’s so much that I walk into a shop and there’s a whole bunch of dudes who know way more about bikes than I ever will throwing around bike mechanic gibberish—I’ve got mad respect for people who can do things I can’t (yet) do. I guess I just feel a little sheepish walking in there and asking them to switch out my pedals when I purchased a fixed gear primarily for its low maintenance.

This is why the Salt Lake Bicycle Collective is one of the greatest places in all of Salt Lake, almost better than pizza night at Sage’s (#fbg4lyfe). You pay $5/hour for them to help you fix your own bike, or drop in during their volunteer hours to earn $5/hour credit on parts and time. It’s a win-win, ’cause a tune-up at a shop is about $50 and you ain’t larnin’ nothin’. Not that I’ll never go to a bike shop again—mad props to Salt Lake Bicycle Co. and Saturday Cycles for supporting all my random bike events.

Ladies’ Night at the Collective used to be a pretty big part of my month, even bigger than getting my period (believe it or not, Rush Limbaugh)! 

I’d ride my bike down there with my sister Carla, we’d hit up Vertical and chomp down a chik’n sandwich, then head in and either work on our own bikes with the help of ladies like “Punk Rock Lindsey” and Meara McClenahan, or provide others with our limited mechanical skillz as we learned more … and I was learning shit-loads! Before I got a job as a copy editor for SLUG, which required me to sacrifice the Collective for a red pen and a furrowed brow on Wednesday nights, I knew how to true a wheel, cut down handlebars, dis- and re-assemble crank sets and perform basic maintenance like changing a flat and lubing a chain, among other things. It’s also where I began recruiting for Salty Spokes.

Now, it goes without saying that I could’ve learned all of those things with a bunch of guys around––it just would have taken a lot longer due to all of the stick-peeing I’d have to wait around for.  In fact, Jace Burbidge, the current Night Shop Manager at the Collective, is the reason why Ladies’ Night is still around. He didn’t want to see it die after the gals who were running it decided to move on, so he stepped up and spearheaded its revival, taking on the role of manager and promoter. Jace was my go-to for the many mechanical questions I had on my visit as my Salty Spokes cohort, Kenna O., and I took on a couple of flat tires. My inclination toward a “women-only” event like this lies in a deep-rooted societal flaw. There’s just no getting around the fact that we still have a very outdated perception of “man,” and that generally results in a bunch of guys who want to lube your chain while you watch their impeccable technique rather than show you how to take care of things yourself. Yeah, yeah, I heard it, too. I get it, I like to be needed, but I’m not going to rely on a pair of testosterone-pumped testicles to stick around long enough to fix my main means of transportation whenever it breaks down. Plus, I won’t lie, it was always a little difficult to focus on mechanics when Davey’s irresistible, boyish grin was flashing my way. 

I’m much more likely to learn when I’m surrounded by the nurturing familiarity of a pair of boobies.

Baby Got Back

Beautiful Godzilla is column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 28.

This month’s column is brought to you by Sir Mix-A-Lot and his appreciation of fine, fat bottomed girls. 

Unfortunately, being an FBG isn’t all limo back seats and baked goods. Aside from finding a pair of jeans to go over my voluptuous assets (thank the fashion gods for jeggings, right?), finding the right saddle on which to rest those back pockets has become a real … well … pain in the ass.

Now, a lot of cyclists will tell you that the berth of your behind doesn’t matter as long as your “sit bones” are resting on the back of the saddle, supporting most of your weight so that your soft, sensitive baby making organs are free of friction. As a fat bottomed girl who has had her sit bones measured for a women’s specific saddle, I’m here to tell you that’s a load of bullshit, as my ass cheeks completely envelop my seat like a fat girl in a g-string, and it’s about as comfortable as it sounds. 

Not that friction is a bad thing, but rubbing up against a hard saddle for 10 miles in the middle of summer isn’t my ideal way of getting off, and it shouldn’t be yours, even if it’s the only self-pleasure you can indulge in without having to tell your bishop. 

Feminie bike recon

Beautiful Godzilla is a column about my feminist bicycle adventures for SLUG Magazine. Published monthly in print from 2011-2014. Read the original online and in print on page 22.

It was a warm summer night 20-some years ago, the sun was just setting as my papa pulled off those extra little wheel supports from my pink-tasseled Barbie cruiser. With a gentle push, I was on my way, riding in dizzying circles around the cheering crowd of spectators chanting my name. I’ve since upgraded to the sleek green pedal machine I use to burn holes into our salty streets—the supporting character in my experiences riding, racing, crashing, sexing (that’s right) on, over, under, next to, in and generally around bicycles. I’ll be wheeling these experiences into your brains through SLUG’s action station from now on. With that said, let’s ride!

There’s a definite lack of female representation in the bicycle community. 

I’m not going to pretend that it hasn’t been advantageous when it comes to dating—the male to female ratio is absolutely in my favor and there are some real babes on bikes riding about—but there are times when a gal just needs the kind of bonding only her fellow lady bitches can provide. Also, group rides with a bunch of guys can get obnoxious real quick: Getting called “fag” from the overcompensating douches in their lifted trucks on a regular basis seems to be a big motivating factor to ride fast and reckless. Not that I’m against hustling, I just don’t want to watch a pissing contest while I’m trying to enjoy a leisurely ride about town.  

This is why I’ve done just about anything I can think of to bring more ladies some good clean fun between the legs. 

All right, pervs, pull your hands out of your pants now ’cause the kind of lollipop licking described hereafter will not leave you with a happy ending. About three years ago, I started a women-only bicycle crew, now called Salty Spokes. Back then, we were the FTP, which didn’t really stand for anything, but rhymed with BFC, the super macho fixie crew that has since disbanded. What can I say, I’m a sucker for subtle mockery. Turns out that all irony aside, most everyone thought a ladies’ bike crew was an awesome idea, and we now have monthly rides and a pretty sweet blog inspired by Candy Cranks at saltyspokes.com. Our longest running and most frequent ride is Sundae Shuffle, a casual ride around town that concludes in tasty vegan treats on the third Sunday of every month, weather permitting. Unfortunately, for no known reason, getting Salt Lake City women to show up to events is easier said than done. Personally, I’ll show up to anything that promises the possibility of getting one or more of three F’s: fucked, fucked up and fed. So, ladies of the Great Salt Lake, where you at? Not only are bicycles historical symbols of feminine power, but they pump you up with grin-inducing endorphins and keep your ass looking fine. 

If I had to choose between a boyfriend and a bicycle, there’d be no battle: That saddle satisfies like no man can.