Author Archives: Bobbie DuBose

Inspire me.


When I first began riding a little over four years ago, Strava was a relatively new thing in our neck of the woods but was gaining popularity rapidly. Likewise, there weren’t a lot of women riding single track, at least to the degree we have now. When I first began riding, there were a handful of women I knew of locally (Palm Beach County) that burned up the trails. I was always star struck when I encountered them, calling them out by name when I met them. Because Strava was new(er) to the area, my ride results put me toward the top of the leaderboard with them overall, and certainly within my over-50 age group. I ironically became known as a “fast” rider—something that felt quite novel to me at the time but certainly doesn’t apply to me today.

Fast forward four and a half years and women’s riding (and racing) have absolutely ballooned in numbers on a local level. Now, you are as apt to find women on the trails as you are men. I may be speaking out of turn, but I feel the numbers are perhaps 10:1, men to women, and perhaps even greater than that on the side of women. This is beyond impressive. The women shredding our trails are of all skill and age levels, as evidenced by the ride details I frequently chronicle on social media.

With this surge in women riders, my almost-55-year-old self has fallen significantly in the rankings with respect to speed. To be honest—I’m way down on the list. This used to bother me a bit purely from a mortality standpoint. I look at riders in their 20s, 30s and 40s and know they’re only going to get better with training, while I’m on a downhill slope at my age with respect to increasing my physical abilities. There is only so much an aging body can do, due greatly in part to an imbalance in hormones. Interrupted sleep. Decreased muscle mass. Increased body fat. Arthritic joints. And the list goes on. This is a fact of life and, one that’s hard for me to accept at times. I’ve written about this before. My mind tells me I’m decades younger than my soon-to-be 55-year old body tells me. This is not a pity party but rather a celebration–an absolute, total celebration.

Ladies, I want you to know you inspire me each and every day. You inspire me to do and be better. When I ride, it’s you I think about. You are my imaginary “rabbit.” I know I won’t catch you, but I will not finish the ride without giving it my all. You, my beautiful fellow female riders, inspire me. And, I hope that you find some inspiration in me, too. I hope, that just maybe because of me, you’ll find inspiration on the trails in your fifties and way beyond. Who knows? God willing, I will be the septuagenarian, octogenarian, and maybe even nonagenarian to whom you say, “Rider back.” One never knows what (or who) you’ll find ahead.

Happy trails, my amazing friends. x

Summer Break Back in the Saddle

Boy, have I missed this. Until this past school year, these commutes played such a huge part in our daily lives. Not being able to ride our bikes to school (because of the distance) is a sacrifice I’m willing to make in order for J-man to attend a suitable school.

I’ve blogged extensively in the past about the role these biking commutes played in our lives during J-man’s first few years of elementary school. Biking the few miles to and from school and work afforded so many opportunities for J-man’s growth, development and betterment that we simply miss out on by riding in an automobile.

Summer is here though, and I intend to take and make as many of these moments as I possibly can.

See ya around town.

 

 

CycloFemme 2019

Twenty. That’s the number of stoked women of all skill levels and riding abilities who joined me on a ride I organized last weekend. Some of these women traveled well in excess of 100 miles each way, to participate in this 8:00AM ride.

This is the second year I’ve hosted a CycloFemme ride, and the 8th year the organization has been encouraging women to “band together and celebrate collective momentum” over Mother’s Day weekend.  The organization’s ethos is simple: “inspire one more woman to ride a bike, and we can change the world.” This is a philosophy I can back wholeheartedly.

Despite a few raindrops, we had a fantastic 36-mile gravel grind. Yes, the trails brought forth beautiful sights and fantastic scenery, but the true highlights lie in the friendships—existing, rekindled, and newly minted. We shared endless laughs, engaging conversation (sometimes serious, but for the most part lighthearted). We got to know each other or, in some cases, know each other better. We talked weather, bikes, saddles (and lady parts), kit, shoe fit, summer plans, bucket list rides and trips, family, and Mother’s Day plans. Mostly, we just rode along and enjoyed being together, celebrating our collective momentum.

Thanks for riding with me, ladies. I look forward to doing so again soon. And no, we are not waiting until next Mother’s Day to pedal together. X

(The following photos are in no particular order, but well worth sharing. Some of these photos are courtesy of Annia Martinez of Outcast Cycling.)

 

Squad Up

Ghost Tour Squad“Squad up!” was a phrase heard frequently during a recent school field trip. It was music to my ears.

Last week, I accompanied my son along with 10 of his fellow fourth-grade students and their parents on an overnight trip to St. Augustine. I had fun, yes, but the greatest takeaway for me was watching my son interact with his pals. It was a lovely sight to behold.

I’ve written in the past about challenges our son has faced with respect to school, academics and social interaction. That was actually why I started this blog so many years ago—to share these very real struggles and hopefully encourage someone who is walking an uncertain path as they navigate the world through spectrum-colored lenses. But it’s been awhile since I’ve shared much in this respect.

Last year at this time, I had so much I wanted to share. I desperately needed to vent, but anger and fear rendered me mum. Last school year—third grade—was an absolutely horrific year in every respect. It all started with the term’s first Standards Based Mid-Marking Period Elementary Progress Report issued at the end of September (2017). The report indicated J-man was failing school to the point of retention. School had been in session for less than six weeks when the report was compiled, and he was FAILING. To add insult to injury, the teacher didn’t even check the box requesting a conference. She simply sent the report home in my son’s backpack. And let me set the record straight; I’m a squeaky wheel. I am the parent who is in touch with my son’s teacher before the first school bell even rings. I want them to know who he is, who we are, and most importantly that I am here to help in any and every way. We are a team. Whatever a teacher needs from me, they get. All they need to do is ask. But I digress. Initially, I panicked. Then, I was livid. How reckless and cavalier this teacher proved herself to be. Sadly, this instance wasn’t an exception; this turned out to be her modus operandi for the entire school year. I wish I could tell you things got better, but they didn’t. The wheels fell completely off the wagon. Our son continued to quite literally and quite rapidly fall through the proverbial cracks. He received zero support from that teacher both inside and outside the classroom while I received zero support from the school administration and district. Our son began to be bullied on the playground and nobody even noticed. I firmly believe the children in my son’s class began to perceive him as inadequate based on the teacher’s treatment of and response to my son within the classroom. Every request for reassessment, reclassification and addition of services was met with rote dialog about bureaucratic policies and procedures and cautionary tales about kids obtaining services when they didn’t really need them.  Blah. Blah. Blah. The last thing I’ll tell you about last year is this; I finally secured the revised IEP for my son that he so desperately needed—IN MAY. Yes, it took seven and a half months for the School District of Palm Beach County to do what should have been done months prior. So much for “No Child Left Behind.” At the conclusion of the school year, my son said to me, “Mom, I’m so glad the year is over. I don’t want to go back there. I felt like I was invisible.” He was nine! No one should feel invisible, but especially not a child.

Last year, at this very time, I was a physical wreck. The school year was drawing to a close and I carried the weight of our son’s world on my shoulders. I ate, slept and breathed my concern for him and how best to educate and protect him in the then-upcoming year. I shed many, many tears and routinely beat myself up because I felt like I was failing as a parent. I wondered if I was capable of home schooling my son, but the idea was quickly shot down by my husband. The only other option was private school, which would require huge financial sacrifice on our part.

I made application to a school that touted “a fantastic Exceptional Student Education (“ESE”) Program,” only to be told, “I’m afraid your son wouldn’t be a good fit.” I applied to a charter school that serves children with autism exclusively. After a lengthy conversation with the school’s principal, we collectively determined the school’s restrictive environment would not be appropriate for our highly functioning son. Then, after two brick walls, just like Goldilocks, I contacted a school that turned out to be just right for our son. I will eternally be grateful to the Director of Admissions and Development who met with me, then eventually with our son, and said those magic words that changed our lives, “Let’s give it a try. I think we’ll be okay.” I could cry just remembering that day.

That decision was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. Did I have reservations about the school? Absolutely. I worried a small, private school might not be equipped to teach to a child that requires a little extra help and a teacher who possesses a whole lot of patience. Blessedly, my concerns were unfounded from day one. This small, loving, nurturing environment is precisely what our son needed to thrive. We had a lot of making up to do, both academically and socially. J-man entered fourth grade far behind his classmates academically. Additionally, his confidence had been completely eroded. His teacher invested so much of herself in rebuilding and bolstering his self-esteem in those first few months of the school year. She worked very hard to help him find his place in the classroom and with his classmates. And just as his teacher exhibited patience and kindness, so too did the students. After all, you are the company you keep.

Here we are, eleven months later, and our son now has a squad—his squad. And every time I hear them call his name or see them pull him into the fold, I fight back tears. This year though, they’re tears of joy.

Beach Squad 2

P.S. For all you moms and dads out there who may stumble upon this post, DO NOT GIVE UP and DO NOT GIVE IN. Your child needs you. Fight for them in any and every capacity possible. They need you. And believe me when I tell you, no one–NO ONE–can or will advocate for your child like you can. x

Tales From the Trails

This past weekend, I participated in my fourth Club Scrub Growler—a grueling yet extremely scenic off-road ride that takes place annually here in South Florida. This was the first year my other half wasn’t able to join me. My plan was to hook up with someone, as I knew many friends would be riding. As fate would have it, that didn’t pan out, and I was okay with that. I’m accustomed to being a lone wolf.

I started the ride feeling great. The morning was beautiful and the pace moderate. At just under ten miles we encountered a friend of mine who was having a major mechanical problem. He is someone who has always encouraged me as a rider, so it was important to me to see if he needed assistance. His problem was far above my knowledge, but I was happy to hold his bike for him while he bypassed his derailleur and reset his chain. Once that was accomplished, I continued on my way.

The route eventually took us through miles of South Florida sugar sand, several inches deep in stretches. By 10:30AM the sun was high overhead and the glare and heat were reflecting off the white sand. At this point, the miles began to tick by slowly and my energy started to lag. All I could think of was the next SAG stop. By mile 32 or so I was ready to call it quits. I had zero energy left in my tank. I estimated the next SAG stop to be about five miles away. I was seriously thinking about calling my husband to come and pick me up. I had water, but the lack of food had derailed me. I ate some PROBAR energy chews—my go-to energy source on the trail—but they had absolutely zero discernable effect.

So. Much. Sand.

I reached the second SAG stop at about mile 37. I ate half a peanut butter sandwich, a banana and some watermelon and immediately felt markedly better. I refilled my water bottles and spent about 10 minutes stretching, as my left calf and right inner thigh were just starting to cramp slightly. After a 20-minute respite I felt much better and got back on the saddle to finish the ride. Back spasms aside, I finished the ride strong after about 7.5 hours (5:42 moving time).  

Don’t mind me. I’m just gonna lay here and stretch my back out for a minute or two.

As I reflect back on Sunday’s ride, it’s clear to me that finishing the ride wasn’t my greatest accomplishment. Showing up was my accomplishment. Committing to ride 60 miles despite not having a partner to ride with was my accomplishment. Giving myself a rest and a little selfcare when I needed it was my accomplishment. Getting back in the saddle when I felt well enough to ride was my accomplishment. Riding across the “finish line” was just the cherry on the sundae.

Note the calories burned. #gimmealltheicecream

If you ride and are ever in South Florida the first weekend in April, I urge you to participate in a Growler. You will have the time of your life. There is something for everyone—a short and extremely scenic 20-mile route, a more challenging 40-mile route, and the super challenging (in my estimation) 60-mile route. The sights alone are worth it. Afterward, you can enjoy a meal and cold beverage while you sit back and reflect on your myriad accomplishments.

Best finish line greeting ever.

A huge thank you to Juliana Catalfumo and Rob Rutstein for organizing this crazy event. And special thanks to the over-75 volunteers who gave countless hours in the days leading up to and after the event to make sure all 775 riders were fed, watered and knew exactly where to go. Y’all are rock stars.

Gleaning Day

Today, my son and I participated in a gleaning field trip with his school. When I mentioned the upcoming field trip to people in the days leading up to the event, most people didn’t know what the term gleaning meant in relation to harvesting crops.

Gleaning is the act of collecting leftover crops from farmers’ fields after they have been commercially harvested or on fields where it is not economically profitable to harvest. It is a practice described in the Hebrew Bible that became a legally enforced entitlement of the poor in a number of Christian kingdoms.

Today’s gleaning harvest benefits South Florida families facing food insecurity. Current statistics indicate nearly three and a half million Floridians are food insecure, including 1.1 million children. The current estimate for Florida’s population in 2019 is 21.64 million. This means food insecurity affects more than fifteen percent of Florida’s population. On a local level, according to Feeding South Florida, 13.6% percent of Palm Beach County‘s population is food insecure, with 189,940 people not knowing where their next meal will come from. I think you’ll agree, these statistics are staggering.

Another aspect of this morning’s gleaning project I need to mention is this. This morning’s weather was around 80 degrees and sunny. While 80 degrees may seem almost temperate to most, I can tell you that while picking peppers this morning, I was quite literally drenched in sweat as were the other parents, teachers and children. My clothing was soaked and the sweat was running into my eyes. I could not wipe the sweat from my brow fast enough. Can you imaging picking vegetables day in and day out as your vocation, especially in the dead of a South Florida summer? I can’t; but 150,000 to 200,000 migrant and seasonal farm workers and their families annually travel and work in Florida to harvest our fruits and vegetables. I implore you to remember this and offer up a prayer of thanks the next time you’re enjoying a delicious piece of fruit or fresh vegetable.

I’m so proud of our school–the kids, teachers and my fellow parents. Together, we gleaned one ton of peppers for our local food charities.

I promise you, after this morning’s field trip, I have an entirely new appreciation for my food and where it comes from. I hope you will too.

What’s to love?

Let me tell you a brief story that paints a perfect illustration of what I love most about riding.

This morning, I was headed for a solo ride. Let me elaborate. It was going to be a solo ride because I’m a really poor planner. Had I told someone to meet me at 8 or 9AM this morning (as I thought to do), they would’ve been waiting on me. Why? Because I didn’t leave my house until 9:05AM. That’s just the truth. If you’ve ridden with me then you know this to be the case. I’m not proud of it. It’s just the way things shake out as I attempt to get out the door. Tardy? Guilty. Ashamed. But, I digress.

Back to the topic at hand. I meandered my way through the trails this morning, having altered my course once I got on my bike. Instead of heading down the same levy as intended, I crossed under the roadway heading out for a more rugged South Florida ride. As I rode through a parking lot to connect to another trail system, I saw two young ladies suiting up to ride. They asked if I knew the route to a particular trail. I told them I did and that I would take them in that direction. We headed out, enjoying casual conversation. As I looked back at one point I saw two riders approaching who happen to be biking friends. They joined us and before you know it, one became 5. THIS, my friends, is what I love about riding.

Four bad ass ladies. Forgive my, “Say cypress knees,” expression.

Ride a bike? You will seldom meet a stranger. For this, I am grateful. I am eternally thankful for the friends I’ve met along the way, and look forward with eager anticipation to those I will meet on future rides.

Yvette and Jen, you are bad asses. Tracy and Mike, you are special. Thank you–all four of you–for spending your Sunday with me. Memories made. xo