from an exercise in Real Simple, circa spring 2007.

my warm-up list for leaving the comfort zone:

try: traveling alone; to be more flexible

see: the big picture; positively; day by day, in the moment

taste: curiosity

listen: to classical music

visit: local museums

start: making new friends

stop: saying no for comfort’s sake

organize: bathroom, i.e. eliminate unused toiletries and cosmetics

read: books in my library

play: my flute

learn: yoga

The next time I rode Scottie after his rescue mission, I was worried. On the way home from The Bicycle Business, Scottie seemed like he wanted to quit every time we slowed to a stop. So I rode in the right lane all the way, kept the throttle gunned at stops, and we did make it safely home.

I didn’t ride him for several days after that. Mostly because I didn’t need to, but also because I was worried.

Then on Second Saturday, some friends (who were originally supposed to meet me in Midtown) wanted me to meet them for dinner on the other side of town. It was too far to walk. It was dark. The streets were busy. It was cold.

Should I call it a night and stay home?

Should I ride Scottie over?

What if Scottie doesn’t cooperate?

Well it’s not that far. Even if we get there and Scottie doesn’t want to come home, I’ll be with friends and can get a ride back.

I text my friend: I’m coming.

I geared up and got Scottie.

He started right up. Just like last time. But this time, he died as soon as I gave him gas. He started right up a second time. Anticipating a second stall, I waited until there were no cars coming before pulling out onto the road.

We rounded the corner of my block and Scottie was pulling the same kind of want-to-quit business.

He probably just needs to warm up. We’ll go around the block a few times.

He made it around the block twice and we were on our way.

J Street was packed, so we’ll take G Street up to Alhambra.

We cross over 21st Street on G, just two blocks from home, and Scottie stalls. Only he doesn’t stall out and die, just loses steam. I gas the throttle. He lunges and loses steam. Lunges and loses steam. I turn on the right blinker and we coast in the bike lane. Three cars pass us. We get to 22nd. I turn right to head back home.

At home on I Street, I park Scottie, put him on his stand and text my friend: Never mind. Scottie keeps stalling out.

With Scottie still stranded at The Bicycle Business, I didn’t have have him to ride to class the next day. Thankfully it wasn’t raining, so I walked 13 blocks, helmet in hand, to 16th and R and took the light rail.

The Meadoview line goes directly to Sacramento City College. But I wavered back and forth between getting off one stop early to rescue Scottie or to get him after class.

The problem: what if I went to Scottie first and he still felt sick? Then I’d be stuck rushing to campus a mile up the road. So I went to class and then walked from campus to The Bicycle Business afterward.

There was Scottie, just as content as could be. He had no clue how much heart ache he had caused me in the past 3 days. I took a deep breath, said a quick prayer and pushed his start button, slightly turning the throttle.

He started right up.

Good, Scottie. Now let’s just get you home.

I cinched up my helmet strap and pulled on my purple driving gloves.

We rounded the corner in front of The Bicycle Business and Scottie hesitated. I pulled to the side of the road. His engine didn’t die, but he still coughed. I gunned the throttle a little, and he seemed to take it just fine. I waited until the circle mirror reflected a clear road and pulled out.

We zipped off, over the light rail tracks, and we both made it home.

What to do when your favorite pair of jeans rip at the crotch:

1. Cry. Or curse. Whatever outburst comes naturally in the moment.
2. Banish the jeans to the corner for a day or two until they have learned their lesson.
3. Have a glass of wine.
4. Scold the jeans for taunting you from the dunce corner.
5. Take a nice long, invigorating jog to help release the tension caused by your fight with the jeans.
6. Download the MyFitnessPal iPhone app to track your calorie intake.
7. When you feel you can handle it, then, and only then, hang the jeans on your bedroom wall for visual motivation.

You have not because you ask not.

We hear it so often that we can easily brush it off as cliche. But cliches are often true. Think about it: how often do you complain about something that you had the opportunity to change by simply asking.

•You didn’t get that raise? Well, did you ask for what you deserve?
•The person who came in after you got the last fancy (fill-in-the-blank) that you REALLY wanted, but there weren’t any on the shelf? Did you find a store representative and ask if there were any in the back?
•The barista made you the wrong drink and now you are going to be grumpy all day? Did you speak up and ask him to make you a new drink? (You might even get a “drink on us” for your next visit.)

So many times people complain about things like not getting paid enough, as if it’s their boss’ fault. Or complain that they got swindled out of the doodad by the guy who was behind them inline, or that their drink is wrong and it’s the barista’s fault. Maybe the barista did make a mistake, but if you didn’t ask him to remake it, the only person to blame is yourself.

Here’s the thing: if you got a mocha, but you ordered a carmel mocha, what do you have to lose by asking for the carmel mocha? Even if the store manager is a jerk and he says, “Sorry, pal. Can’t you see I’ve got 30 people in line out the door?”, you still have the mocha. And the chances are that the barista will apologize profusely, make you the carmel mocha, and send you on your way. Now what are you going to do with 2 drinks? You are going to make someone’s day at your office by giving her that mocha.

What about just asking on a larger scale? You’d be surprised at what people will agree to for no other reason than the fact that they hadn’t thought of it until you asked. Example: a couple of years ago I threw a huge party to celebrate finishing grad school at a funky vintage boutique in Midtown called Bows & Arrows.

Would you ever think of asking a funky vintage boutique to let you host a party there? Why not? All I did was ask the store owners, and they said yes.

A dear friend of mine is in the process of investigating changing careers, getting a new job or potentially going into business for herself. It’s a scary place to be with a lot of unknowns. She’s miserable in her current job, and her default mode is to scour the Internet looking for jobs and keeping track of how many resumes she’s sent out.

She is wicked smart and I believe that she would be wildly successful if she went into business for herself. When I say this to her, she responds with things like:

“But I don’t even know what I would do.”
“I don’t have enough experience.”
“I could never make as much money as I’m making now.”
“The market is saturated with people already doing what I do.”

Maybe it’s because I’m a whack-job and read too many blogs like I Will Teach You to Be Rich, Zen Habits and Penelope Trunk, where the writers espouse all kinds of anti-self-sabotage rhetoric that I just want to shake her to get all the excuses out of her system. (Ramit is forever going off about psychological barriers.)

Or maybe we’re just wired differently.

So then I think, why is it that risk-taking is easy for me? No, easy is the wrong word. Essential, maybe? Whatever. The point is, I don’t just enjoy taking risks, I crave them. When an opportunity presents itself I don’t just sniff around to investigate, I sprint toward it. And yes, sometimes I run right off a cliff. That’s the risk.

Why do I do this?

I think it has to do with how badly I want something. How badly do you really want to change your situation or achieve your desired goal? If you keep coming up with excuses and talking yourself out of it, then you must not want it badly enough.

Risk-taking requires the mind set where the goal, the thing you want to change, is more important than the comforts of your current situation.

Will you doubt yourself? Absolutely. Will you question your decision? Of course. But working through doubt and questions to the point of taking action is what makes a person a risk taker.

When we left Scottie last, he was dead, no gas and parked at The Bicycle Business on Franklin Boulevard.

I did go to rescue him the very next day. My childhood BFF, Sarah, who job-shares her first grade teaching position, happened to be off that day and ever so kindly picked me up and took me to Scottie.

Before she came to get me, I had to arrange for some gas. There’s a gas station and convenience store (a.k.a Ghetto Mart) around the corner from my house. Good thing they have gas cans. I buy one, pay for the gas and go out to the pump.

A truck parked at the pump for which I had pre-paid. OK, do this quick, it’s just one gallon. I struggle to rip plastic and pull the cap off the gas can. When it comes off with a yank, the pouring tube falls down inside the can.

Frick.

Instead of pumping gas when the truck man comes out, I am fiddling with the gas can, its tube rattling around inside. I try to use my pointer finger to press the tube against the side of the can to drag it out.

Fail.

I try to pinch the edge of the tube with my thumb and pointer finger.

Fail.

I try to shake the thing out.

Fail.

Truck man brings me a pair of needle nose pliers. We take turns trying to use them to grab the tube.

Fail.

The gas station lady comes out, and she tries to get the tube out. Well, she really just looks at it and hands it back to me.

Fail.

I take the can, turn it upside down and peer inside. The tube is resting right at the opening. I tap it slightly with my pointer finger, and it slides right out.

I pump the gas. Sarah comes to get me. And we go to rescue Scottie.

Except. Once Scottie had a full tank of gas, he didn’t want to go. He started right up, but then died. We went about 20 feet, full throttle, and he sputtered out. We did this about 5 times before I told Sarah that Scottie must be mad at me for abandoning him.

I ask the bike guys if Scottie can stay there one more day and Sarah takes me back home.