On Bike Races and Impromptu Adventures

When I was recently divorced and just entering what I can now call the Audrey Hepburn Phase, I developed a (probably drunken) theory. It's called the Theory of Fabulousness. Only you have to say 'Fabulous' with a kind of wacky mid-Western American accent. So, more like Fyabulous or Fiabulous. Try it, you'll like it.

I developed this theory while visiting my youngest sister Kim on a work term in Huntington Beach, California, where we stayed in her apartment for four glorious, soul-filling days. That trip was so good that we've tried to recreate it again and again with little trips here and there, but nothing has ever quite compared to having a freaking condo in California. The trip began with cheap champagne and James Brown and it ended with cheap champagne and James Brown.

And in between, we went into L.A. and hung out with a lady named Julia, who really was from the midwest and really did say 'fyabulous' and said it a whole lot, in fact. Everything was 'fyabulous.' Everything. Could have had something to do with her taking Zyban to quit smoking and enjoying its antidepressant effects, who knows? Regardless, the whole thing was fyabulous.

One night we ended up at this cheesy lounge right out of the late 60s called The Dresden. I believe it was featured in the movie 'Swingers' and played host to two of the most gloriously tacky lounge singers I could ever imagine. Marty and Elaine have been crooning their honey-dripping stylings since the 60s and have never updated...their act or their look. The result is spectacular. Marty does, however, take the time to wash that grey right out of his hair. With mixed results and shocking black hair dye.

I digress.

The Theory of Fabulousness (Copyright 2001) has new relevance, I'm happy to say. The theory simply assumes that fabulousness begets fabulousness. One is therefore obligated to 'take the road more fabulous' as I've been known to say, at each of the hundred crossroads of decision one finds themselves faced with on a daily basis. Should I get up now, or press snooze interminably, lingering in pseudo-satisfying half-sleep for an hour? Should I go to one of the most prestigious cycling races in the world or should I stay in my 350 sq. ft. Paris apartment?

Most times the answers are obvious. Although it should be said that self-destruction in the name of Fabulousness won't truck with me. Is staying up 'til two, swilling martinis with a handsome stranger fabulous? I'll leave that up to you. But, put it this way, it's fabulous if it's not "yet another" martini-swilling weekend with "yet another" handsome stranger. If you catch my drift. Fabulousness is anything that moves you into a different and exciting realm of new possibility. It is not an excuse to stay stuck. Ahem. End of sermon.

What, you may be asking yourself as you wonder whether I was referring to YOU and YOUR martini problem, does this all have to do with bike races and following one's dreams?

Well friends, to trot out an old chestnut, you only regret the things you didn't do. And while I can't really call myself a cyclist anymore, if I ever could, yesterday I chose to take the train an hour away (and a tram another half hour) and spend the day waiting for the cycling world's biggest stars to whizz by me in a blur of shaved legs and large egos. (I suppose I was a cyclist when I was a triathlete. Only I think of myself more as the 'Why did the runner get on her bike? To get to T2' kind of a cyclist. Although, I have my bike to thank for introducing me to the hawks, so... ) More digression. Case of the Mondays. Here we go.

Weird and wonderful adventures, large and small, present themselves. From 'Hey, want to come to my little cousin's city final hockey game?' to 'Hey, we're taking a sushi class...in Osaka....wanna come?' And yes, staying home is more comfortable, in both the comfort zone and cushy couch sense of things, but if you are the author of the story of your life, would it not be a lot more interesting if, say, you went to the midget hockey game and five minutes before the end of the game, a kid got body-checked rather badly and spent the rest of the game lying on the ice waiting for the paramedics while clock ran down and the winning team tried to subtly celebrate their victory with as much respect as any unruly gaggle of 10- to 12-year-old boys could?

Now, that's a story. Sitting on the couch watching home renovation shows? Not a story.

Have I given the 'you are the author of your own life story' speech before? High time I did. And here it is: You. Are. The. Author. Of. Your. Life. Story. Write it well! Write with flair! Write with weird little adventures down the side streets of life where you never know who you'll meet or to what you'll bear witness. I mean, don't be stupid. Tripping gaily down the alleyways of Compton with a basket of goodies for Grandma will likely get you killed. But spending a day and a hundred bucks in a weird little town that lives and breathes for the Paris-Roubaix...that's worthwhile. Spending an afternoon with aging harmonicists...also worthwhile. Travelling to Paris/Bangkok/Sao Paulo to write/paint/sing/hike just because you love it and you've dreamed it and you're drawn there? Worth it beyond words.

But adventures of the epic sort are not every day occurrences. Small adventures, microadventures, however, are. (Sentence with most commas award.) Cultivate adventure in your life on any and every scale. Take the road more fabulous, which is the road less traveled and the road that leads (however gently) away from your comfort zone. Expand yourself and your life story. Make it fat and rich with image and experience.

Say yes to weird offers, even if they sound boring. International Conference of Actuarial Science? Uh, okay. Who knows? There could be a mysterious woman in a red dress and sunglasses and you follow her to the lunch buffet one day and catch her pocketing the butter pats. There's world of possibility!

Cultivate curiosity. A sense of adventure in all things. (That's it, I'm going to the Tim Hortons on the OTHER side of the street today!) Who knows what adventures and tiny sub-plots await you. Don't arrive at the end of your life and realize that every day was the same. No. Bore the shit out of your ungrateful grandchildren with tales of your Subarctic adventure and the domino tournament in Prague that almost turned deadly!