Where in Pedalpalooza have I been?

Not, I'm sorry to say, at that fantasmagorical Portland bike festival, of which there is no equal in all the world. I regret to inform you that I missed every single event. I've felt extremely deprived, but I'm putting it on my calendar NOW to make up for it in a very big way next year. Best I can do is link you to my coverage of it from two years back, and refer you to bikeportland, where you can vicariously experience every inch of this year's festival in lurid detail.

My big fat sorry excuse is that I've been spending every available moment for the last three weeks twirling in my own personal time machine -- whole chunks of my past brought to life by all the possessions and artworks and writing that accompanied them. "My name is Kate and I am a packrat." I've saved almost everything I've ever owned since birth.
Here's the view of my storage unit one year ago, almost to the day. Lindi and I have pecked away at it over time, taking away a car-load now and then to weed through, give away, or incorporate into the household. But it's been like the magic pitcher in the fairy tale -- no matter how much poured out of it, the inside remained full.

The latest rent increase finally did it. Here's how the storage business works: They get you in there on a deal, then as your stuff becomes this inert pile of fossilization, they ratchet up the rate, knowing full you're entrenched for life.
I could tell you a thing or two about getting rid of junk -- I could write the book. It's been excruciatingly difficult. I've even gotten rid of my trunks. I've still got a ways to go though. Does anyone want my tennis racket from when I was nine? And where am I going to keep my typewriter collection? Some questions remain unanswered, but I'm working on them. I've become an adoption agency for inanimate objects.

Upcoming Photo Exclusive: first image of self on blog EVER. The new minimalist ME. The birthday me. ...if you get my meaning. I've pared down to the sparest form of cycling. You'll be amazed.