I hate when I write keywords in my journal because I'm too tired to explain and then can't remember the story to go along with the keywords when I'm more awake and full of creative energy.
Last August I was making my way up Hurricane Ridge in Olympic National Park on the Washington Peninsula when a conversing pair of faster male cyclists rode by me.
I cannot remember at all what brought up the subject of quilting. Whatever it was, it slowed the two men enough to trigger a conversation for a few minutes before they powered on, leaving me in the dust.
I remember thinking, "I've got to write a blog post about that!" because it was so funny. But all I wrote in my journal that night was, "Matcheypoo."
So now I have to try to come up with a hilarious blog post about a conversation involving the word matcheypoo with no real memory of what was so laughable.
I can't even blame the comedy on the climb because we actually had air during this particular ride. The highpoint of the road is lower in elevation than my house! (Sometimes lack of air causes me to laugh at things I might not find funny when I'm breathing properly.)
Because I'm working on what I hope will be a great novel and because I love the word matcheypoo, perhaps I should practice my creative writing skills and just make up a conversation:
"All I need is the air that I breathe just to ride up this mountain," I sang out loud as I pedaled onward and upward. (That part was real.)
"Nice socks!" a male rider chided as he effortlessly rode past me.
I had to look down at my socks to see which ones I was wearing. I got up so early, I wasn't even sure if my socks matched.
YIKES! They didn't! I was wearing one hot pink flamingo cycling sock and one patriotic red, white and blue cycling sock.
(Remember, this is not real life. This is fantasy. I do match my socks, even when I get up and dress in the dark! Sometimes, I even match my husband!)
"Uh, oh," I whined. "I hope that isn't an omen of today's climb."
The speeding cyclist and his riding partner both slowed slightly to pedal alongside me at my turtle's pace.
"You're nervous about today's climb?" he asked.
"I've never done this ride before," I explained.
"Oh, that must be why your jersey doesn't match your shorts. Or your socks, for that matter," he said.
"What?!?" I exclaimed. I looked down, and sure enough, I was wearing my purple and green Tour de Vineyards jersey and my predominantly white, black, orange and yellow oriental-themed Ride the Rockies shorts. "Oh, don't tell me I'm wearing my blue Tour de France scrunchie, too!"
The man slowed again and took a peek at the back of my helmet.
"Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm afraid you failed today's patchwork challenge."
"Fail?!?" I cried, squeezing my brakes so hard, I flipped over the handlebars onto the pavement. I scrambled to my feet, dusted the tiny gravely rocks off my kit and picked my bike up off the ground. "I've NEVER failed a patchwork challenge! Patchwork doesn't have to match. Patchwork only has to use up scraps, that's all!"
I didn't wreck in real life.
Both cyclists stopped to render aid, which wasn't necessary because I was totally fired up now and perfectly capable of steaming up the mountain within the time limit.
"No worries," the guy said as he picked up my fallen water bottle and handed it to me. "No one will notice. Oh, and by the way, your red water bottle doesn't match your turquoise bike, and your metallic water bottle cage doesn't match your bike or your water bottle."
Grrrrrrrr! Could I bite his head off now? I was ready for a rest stop treat anyway.
(Oh, and in real life, my white water bottle cages DO indeed match my bike!!!)
"Next you'll be saying my drink doesn't match my water bottle!" I shouted.
"No need to get uptight," the man said, pouring a bit of fluid out of my bottle into his hands. "But you are right. Your Gatorade doesn't match anything on your bike or even any of the colors you're wearing."
In real life, I don't drink Gatorade.
"What makes you such an expert on patchwork and matching?" I grilled as I jerked my bottle out of his hand and replaced it in my cage. He was lucky I didn't pour the whole thing on his head!
"My wife is a quilter," the stranger explained. "She's out shopping for fabric right now."
Now we are getting down to the heart of the real-life conversation. The man really did say that, but not because I didn't match. I did match! Honest!
"And that makes you a crackerjack pro?" I questioned. "Your wife is a quilter, so you are a certified and court-approved expert witness in the field of matching?"
"Yes, I believe I am," he replied. "My wife calls me Matcheypoo!"
With that, the other cyclist roared with laughter and speedily sped away.
"Then perhaps you should take a look at your own socks," I grinned. "Looks like maybe your three-year-old put your clothes out for you today."
He looked down at his feet, one brown sock, and one black. Typical male. He'll probably blame it on colorblindness.
"And with white Sidis to boot!" I chuckled. "Boy, you are the epitome of patchwork!"
"At least my patchwork is all low-volume," he snidely remarked as he got back on his bike and raced ahead to find his friend, leaving me alone to contemplate my clothing choice.
No problem. I reached into my hot pink backpack, which, by the way, DOES match my one hot pink sock, and pulled out a perfectly matched kit, which I carry along just in case of rain. I unrolled it on the street to find a yellow jersey, red shorts and blue socks.
"Perfect," I announced. "All primary colors!"
In real life, my backpack is turquoise and harmonizes with my beautiful blue bike. And in real life, this guy told me his wife is a very picky quilter. She really was shopping for fabric, according to her husband, and she doesn't like things to match too much. Or perhaps HE made up the entire story, and she really does call him, "Matcheypoo."