So I stopped by the bookstore to pick up a copy of Easy Biking in Northern California. I remembered a listing in there for a ride through the redwood forest, involving a waterfall. It was a mere hour-and-a-half away and I had been meaning to go for a long time. I was going to go on that ride the next day, goddamnit. I was going.

When I looked up the directions, I found that the ride in question was actually six hours away. Damn my faulty memory. I looked through the rest of the book for rides involving waterfalls and redwoods. I was determined to have waterfalls and redwoods.

I found a ride with a difficulty rating of two wheels (out of three) and a skill rating of one wheel. It culminated in a hike to a waterfall. It was in the Big Basin Redwood forest. It sounded perfect!

I loaded Britney up on the watermelon. (I need to stop giving things cutesy names. Anyone know a therapist who specializes?) It was a long drive to Santa Cruz, but the traffic wasn't too bad and it gave me plenty of time to ponder my life. My one regret was not having a CD player. (Did you hear that they paved paradise and put up a parking lot? I heard all about it, approximately a million times, and I learned the following valuable lesson. That song SUCKS.)

While I was cruising up Highway 1, I saw Bonny Doon road. Now, Bonny Doon is my absolute favorite winery in the world. Before I knew it, my car had turned-- as if compelled by a mysterious force-- up Bonny Doon road. Is this a winery I see before me?

I was very grubby. I had thrown on overalls in the morning, and I hadn't bothered to wash my hair. I was going to ride on a dusty forest trail. Who was going to see me? I should have known better.

Even though it was nine thousand degrees outside, I put on my hoody to cover up my overalls. The hoody (which I got at Ross for ten bucks) says DKNY and makes me appear fancy. I think I slapped on some lipstick.

I was going for the so-rich-I-don't-care-what-I-look-like-but-I-am-naturally-fabulous-even-when-grubby vibe. The extremely cute winery guy poured me one phenomenal wine after another. I carefully calculated how much I could drink and still keep my bike upright.

And here's one for the "it's a small world" books, or perhaps the "serendipitous events" files. The person standing next to me turned and said, "Is your name Mo?" Holy crap: people I know!

Unlikely as it may seem, it was Amalia and Elise, whose names I probably spelled wrong (please tell me if I did). Amalia's sister Rachel is one of my journal readers, and Rachel had sent Amalia and her wife Elise to see my poetry reading way back in the day, which is where we first met. Did you get all that?

Amalia sent me an invite to her birthday party which I never got, probably because I accidentally deleted it as spam. (Fucking spam, making me miss a birthday party.) Now they are moving out of the state! It was great good luck that we ran into each other and were able to hang out at least one more time before they move away. And hang out we did: would you believe they invited me on a spontaneous picnic?

This picture does not adequately convey the picnic. There was yummy bread and pesto, and divine tomatoes, three kinds of cheese, cherries and watermelon, chocolate and wine, and some crazy corn-avocado concoction with tortilla chips. And what picnic would be complete without a naked guy in the bushes?

Amalia and Elise's friends Jen and Jenny-Sayre were there too, which made me the fifth wheel, except that all of them were so gracious about sharing the picnic food and including me in the conversation and keeping my wine glass refilled, I didn't so much feel like a fifth wheel at all. I had a really wonderful time. I kept thinking of a line from L.A. Story: "I've always heard of this happening, you run into people in a museum and then you go out to dinner with them, but it's never happened to me."

Elise and I agreed this would be a very encouraging story to would-be internet stalkers. You could lurk around my favorite places hoping to run into me, and if you did, I might go on a picnic with you! Maybe they planned the whole thing, but if so, that would be very impressive stalking. Even I had no idea I'd be at the winery that day. (Yet fate intervened. The universe knew I needed a picnic.)

After that, it was getting late, and I still had a ride to go on! I said goodbye to the fabulous people and found the trail. Aah yes, the trail. Remember how the book is called Easy Biking? EASY?

It wasn't so easy.

The ride was gorgeous and peaceful. Once in a while I'd see some hikers or some people on horses, but for the most part, I had the trail to myself. It was hard, though. I didn't feel confident going too fast on the dirt trail, and there were parts where the trail got very rough, or narrow, or I was afraid I was going to fall. I really did not get the one-wheel skill rating. I felt like I needed all my skills to get through it.

The ride was, in theory, five miles out and five miles back. Two miles into the ride, I made a little wrong turn and totally fell down the mountain. I hurt my knees and lost my water bottle. Damn.

At three miles in, I came to a creek. In order to ford the creek, I had to maneuver my bike up this steep little path, and I realized I didn't have the energy left to do so safely. If my muscles were fresh, it wouldn't have been a problem. But I really was struggling at that point.

I debated for a long time, but my knees hurt, and my water bottle was gone, and I was dehydrated, and I didn't want to drink too much of the creek water, and I didn't like the idea of going deeper and deeper into the forest for two more miles, and a mile-long hike to the waterfall seemed totally out of the question.

Basically, I decided that I'm not butch enough for mountain biking.

I really wanted to go skinny dipping, by the way. I was standing there pondering it, thinking that it was too bad the creek was so shallow, and almost took my clothes off anyway because what the hell? At that moment, I kid you not, an entire Girl Scout troop walked around the corner and into plain sight. This was almost a really great story.

I biked back to my car, and when I got there I felt kind of like a wuss, but also kind of grateful that I turned around when I did. I was tired. I had only gone six miles, but I was as tired as if I'd gone twenty. Next time I am sticking with the one-wheel difficulty level rides. One wheel only!

To get home, I drove up Highway 1 instead of doing the freeway loop from Santa Cruz. It was a gorgeous drive along the ocean, and I took a few fuzzy pictures out of the window of my car.

I am not sure what was most dirty: me, my car, or my bike. We were all covered in dust and mud, and my nose was burned. Suddenly I felt butch after all! I decided that I would do the six-mile-away bike ride sometime, that I would find someone to camp with me in the redwood forest and make an adventure out of it. (Anyone?)

When I got home, I plunged myself straight into a hot shower. Aaaah. Desperately needed. Then I got dressed again and met up with Jen Wade for drinks at our favorite bar. We met a crazy masseuse who works with magnets, and will only massage women because all men want handjobs. I told him I was very wealthy and had a personal masseuse named Pierre.

Sometimes my life is so random that I am convinced you'll think I'm making it all up. But that's how it really happened. And it was a good day.