I received some interesting junk mail the other day. It wasn't addressed to 'Resident', it was addressed to me, personally, Kim Orndorff. That means 'THEY' know who I am, how old I am, and probably what my last purchase was (50 lbs. of crimped molasses soaked oats and some hoof supplement.) The envelope was from OptiLife. Probably a network marketing scam. Utah is the capital for pyramid ... oops ... I mean multi-level ... oops ... I mean network marketing companies. I turned it over to read about ... the Pilot Walker, with the picture of said walker and a smiling 65-year-old woman in need of said walker.

"Well" I said semi-calmly, "It would appear my back doctor sold his patient list."

Which wouldn't surprise me. With the rising costs of malpractice insurance, doctors need to make a buck here and there so they can afford their Lexus payments. Either that or they just figure anyone over 45 stupid enough to buy motorcycle parts and horse accouterments needs a walker. Or soon will.

Notice I said "semi-calmly" - I want you to understand that today we are going to talk about change. About impatience. About the sort of person who pushes the elevator button ten times in 60 seconds even though it's already lit and the people around you are all backing away slowly.

Oh by the way, people like us push elevator buttons NOT because we think the elevator will come faster - we're smart enough to know it won't - but because it keeps us from punching the wall, shoving the person with the smug smirk next to us into the nearest potted plant, or God forbid, taking the stairs.

Anyone can change and learn patience. I have the secret. In fact, the other day Big Al wrote me and said "Thank you for your patience and understanding in this matter." To which I replied. "I'll tell my doctor the Lithium/Prozac/Xanax combination is working."

I have an obsessive as well as somewhat impatient nature. (Naaaaaaaaaah, you all say, not YOU.) It is a double-edged sword. It can drive me to accomplishment, or keep my up at night worrying about my latest mole. Destroy it, and the things that drive me to be able to create stories, learn everything there is to learn about something new I've decided to pick up, or lead an attack on the latest threat to our public lands will leave me on the couch watching bon-bons and eating Oprah. Of course, it also makes me more manic and prone to serious grammatical errors.

About once every two years I go see a good friend of mine, a psychologist. He's the only normal 'shrink' I've ever heard of. Dr. J. actually talks to you instead of asking you stupid questions like "How did that make you feel." He's a good sounding board for someone like me, who worries a lot, and is married to a man who likes me to express my worries in ten words or less.

While discussing my propensity to obsess, I said jokingly: "I could take drugs."

Dr. J. looked at me and said: "Hmmmm, have you tried Zoloft."

"I was kidding" I said.

"I wasn't" he replied.

I stuck my tongue out at him. He wrote something down on his little pad. Things sorta went downhill after that.

And Chris is worse than me - not necessarily about obsessing (guys don't worry, guys take a nap) - but about being impatient.

We've both been working on not letting the stupid things bug us, pressing the elevator button only five times between the two of us (he's three, I'm two), not yelling at red stop lights (out loud) and not tailgating the idiot driving 20 mph in the left lane with a cell phone glued to his/her ear. With our newfound patience, we went riding ...

Chimney Rock is an approximately two and one-half hour drive from our home. We have to wake up a little early to get there with enough time for some good riding, and to get home before the dogs have an accident on the carpet.

Our clocks are set ahead anywhere from 10 minutes to 25 minutes. This is a psychological ploy to get ourselves out of the house on time. It makes for confusion at night though.

Me:     "What time do you want to get up."
Chris:  "6:00 a.m."
Me:     "The REAL 6 or the fake 6?"
Chris:  "The real 6 – unless you think we need to leave earlier."
Me:     "So do I set the clock for 5:30 or 6:30?"
Chris:  "Which clock? Connor's or ours?"

In passing, I must tell you we had a clock once that slowly got faster and faster without us knowing it. One morning we thought we were up drinking coffee at 6 a.m., and it was 5 a.m. We wondered why the moon was still out and the neighbors chickens were still sleeping.

We were on the road by the real 7:30 a.m. after having arisen at the fake 6:30 a.m. Driving up the canyon we managed to avoid most stop lights and had to tailgate only once ...or twice ... maybe three times, but that would be tops. At least 20 drivers deserved it.

We arrived at our destination, checked all necessary vital fluids and gasses, put on all our gear and were out on the trail by the real 10:00 a.m ... I think. My wrist watch is only 5 minutes fast ... maybe.

Things were going swimmingly. I hadn't ridden for almost five months so it took me 15 miles just to be able to pry my hands off the grips, I hadn't touched 4th gear yet, but I was starting to relax.

Until we began exploring a wash we knew nothing about. Great big bike-eating boulders loomed up ahead, and Chris managed to skinny between a couple of huge ones in grace and style. I saw disaster written on them since I can't dab. So to be safe, I got off my bike and decided to take it over the rocks the sissy way, at least assuring myself an unscathed pipe and a happy husband.

I still don't know what went wrong, I just know that to my absolute horror, the bike ended up falling over into those rocks. When I hauled it back up and hopped on, my right leg was pushed out by a very misshapen front shroud. I flagged Chris down and pointed to my bike. We headed for the truck hoping for a quick fix and more riding. It was not even noon, (The real noon, not the fake noon.)

When we got to the truck and examined the damage we realized my bike was finished for the day and probably the next week or two. It is at this point that tools usually start sailing through the air, and words meant for the decks of Navy boats are bandied about.

We had driven for two and one-half hours to get there, had a two and one-half hour drive home and had ridden less than two hours.

We calmly trudged to the cooler and brought out lunch.

Chris:  "Well, that's the way it goes sometimes."
Me:     "Yep"

Right about then I dropped a cracker onto the trailer floor, mustard and cheese side down. I leaned over to pick it up, and the drink I had in my lap tipped over and spilled the entire bottle all over the trailer floor. The sticky contents began an inexorable creep towards the gear bags while I frantically grabbed Chris' jersey to wipe it up. (The Gods were toying with me now.)

Chris:  "Whadja do that for?"
Me:     "Don't know."
Chris:  "That's the way it goes sometimes."
Me:     "Yep."

The drive home involved a few stop lights (all red), and the necessity to tailgate only twice ... maybe three times. I don't remember, I was calmly wiping sticky stuff off the bottom of my shoes and chanting calming mantras.

When we got home, the cat had yorped all over the living room rug.

Chris:  "Well, that's the way it goes sometimes."
Me:     "Yep."

I had the strangest feeling of wanting to explode, but trying my best to be Ghandi-like I walked around the house in a semi saint-like trance.

Chris went down into the garage to work on my bike. Things were quiet as I scrubbed up cat puke. Suddenly it sounded like all hell broke loose down below. I ran down the stairs to find Chris covered in old dirty gear oil from his thighs to his soaked shoes.

Me:     "Whadja do that for?"
Chris:  "*&!!@@@"
Me:      "That's the way it goes sometimes."
Chris:  "*!!!!~###!) #@!!&* !!#@"

A shop wrench went sailing into the cement garage wall. I giggled.

The air was full of expletives, tools were being tossed with impunity ... MAN it felt good to be back to normal!!

Kim Orndorff