The tradition continues of being unable to sustain a New Year resolution for a whole year.

That’s why I make several of them… just in case one falls apart, I have backup, and a backup for the backup, and another backup! Just so I give myself a chance to say, at the end of the year, well I got XXX accomplished.

My resolution to do something new each week fell by the wayside after week 3. Week 3’s post would have been all about visiting this cool park in Los Angeles, with lots of hilly fields and a Japanese garden. I drive by it all the time and finally got a chance to dawdle in its prettiness. But then I got too busy to write about it.

Then I got even busier to follow it up with more never-done-befores.

Sometimes, life gets in the way of life sometimes… but I’m not complaining.

Two years ago, I bought a used 21-speed Mongoose Pro mountain bike from my neighbor Michael. It belonged to his wife, an avid biker who succumbed to lung cancer a few months prior. Grief-stricken, Michael decided to move back to his home country, England, and got rid of everything he and his wife had accumulated
during their 20-year stay in America. He offered me first dibs on the bike because I was the right height.

I paid him $25 for it, which he said was worth a couple hundred bucks at least. He threw in a custom, padded seat, lock and tire pump too.

“It’s a really, really good bike. You’re getting a good deal.”

A cursory search on Craigslist shows a comparable, slightly newer bike selling for $350, but I didn’t need convincing. I needed a bike anyway, and I knew this was something a little more than your average girly pink bike with tassles and a basket. Although, I kinda hoped for one with tassles and a basket. (How else am I supposed to cart around the designer puppy that I plan on getting someday?)

But, the bike stood dormant in the same spot for years, in a corner of my apartment building’s foyer where it collected dust and cobwebs, moving just that one time when Michael insisted I get on it before committing to the purchase.

And it would probably languish there untouched for another few years if my boyfriend Mike didn’t come along. A recent transplant to California and budding triathlete, Mike thought it would be cool to cruise the nearby bike trail that winds its way down the beach, through picturesque Marina del Rey  and the slightly skeezy Ballona Creek trail about a mile from home. (I say “slightly skeezy” because it’s just the kind of place where a dead body might turn up. These are the thoughts that go through my mind when I go for a run at 6 a.m., when only the in-training die-hards would be out on the trails. It’s why I try to always run with my mobile phone. I know, must stop watching CSI.)

Weekend bike rides with a cute boy? Stopping off at neighborhood cafes for an iced mocha or beer break? Pausing long enough to pet the neighborhood dogs out for a walk? Sign me the fuck up! Yay, I can finally use that really good bike that I got such an awesome deal on!

So, Mike, whose father taught him how to fix his own car, took upon himself the project of restoring my ride. After a few trips to Home Depot and some tinkering, he deemed my bike safe enough to take out again, even though the rusty tires were still in need of steel wool. (I still don’t know what that means exactly.)

But before we set out, he insisted I get a helmet, sweetly declaring that he doesn’t want anything bad happening to my head. Or its precious contents. We went to Big 5, which, weirdly enough, only had child helmets even though they sold adult-sized bikes. So off to Helen’s Cycles we went, where I purchased a $70 helmet.

Let’s just take a moment to digest the fact that my helmet cost almost three times what I paid for the bike itself.

“Your brain is worth more than 3x the price of your bike,” Mike said and then I chuckled  an uneasy chuckle because (a) it’s true, and (b) more interestingly, I went with one of the cheaper models.

But for biking aficionados, $100 is almost nothing to spend on a helmet when bikes run in the thousands these days. Mike himself rides a $2500 bike, which he bought at the bargain price of $1200. He would often salivate at the $4000 models that would zoom past us during our walks by the beach.

“Babe, I can tell what a $50 bike looks like, but I can’t tell a $500 bike from a $5000 bike,” I’d say him whenever he stops to admire a “nice bike.”

Then the moment came for us to take our maiden voyage. I got on my newly restored bike and felt that it was a little bit too big for me, and stopping was proving to be a bit of a challenge. (Challenge as in, I couldn’t do it without scraping half my calf off with the pedals.)

Then, a childlike fear swept over me. I felt like I was eight years old again, trying to ride a bike for the first time and scared of falling. Only this time, I’m 40 years old with no training wheels to fall back on. And my guy was watching. I was utterly nervous.

“Um, babe, can we walk the bikes to the beach first?” (I practically live on a highway. The thought of sharing the road with cars scared the shit out of me.)

“Sure.”

“Um, can I do some practice laps around a parking lot first before we get on the trail? I want to make sure I’m comfortable with the bike.”

“Of course.”

A few minutes later, my fears subsided after a few fall-free laps around a nearby parking lot. Mike beamed.

“See? You’re doing great!”

“OK.”

“There’s a reason there’s that saying.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“You ready?”

“I guess.”

Click, click.

“DON’T CHANGE GEARS UNLESS YOU ARE MOVING! YOU’LL RUIN YOUR DERAILLEURS.”

Huh, what? I have no idea what the fuck a derailleur is, but more importantly, the confidence that I had built up in the last five minutes vanished when I heard the word “ruin.”

“What would happen if I change gears while I’m not moving?”

“Your chain will fall off.”

Great. After a few more laps around the lot to make sure my chains stayed put, we hit the trail. After a wobbly start, Mike did his best to encourage me.

“Babe, you can do this. Just focus straight ahead, don’t look down.”

I was okay for a spell before the sight of a large, oncoming group of what appeared to be seasoned pros (I can tell their combined equipment were worth more than a three-bedroom house in Reno) reduced my nerve to zero and caused me to veer into Mike, nearly forcing him to crash into the group.

“Jesus! You’re gonna get me killed!”

I begged Mike to ride in front of me but he insisted on riding by my side for my own protection. “Please, just ride up ahead. I don’t want to get you hurt.”

His thinking was that the possibility of pushing him into oncoming traffic would scare me into biking straight. Look, you can’t dangle the idea that your well-being rests on my shoulders. You can’t put that kind of pressure on me. Scared that I was going to get this sweet, helpful guy injured, I lost my nerve and the tears welled up in my eyes. Mike, thankfully, had finally pushed on ahead of me and didn’t see my cry. I couldn’t even wipe the tears away; I held the handlebars in a death grip, too scared to lift a hand and dry my wet face.

Now, I’m sure the Marvin Braude Trail has seen its share of people filled with fear while learning to ride a bike. I’m sure it has seen hundreds, if not thousands, of scared humans wipe away tears as they learn to cruise down the path on two tiny wheels. But these were probably five-, six-, ten-year-old mini-humans, not grown ones. I was certain that I was the first 40-year-old in the bike path’s history to cry while riding a bike. The rub was that it wasn’t even my first time.

The thought of getting Mike hurt did scare me into biking straight though and I gained more confidence with each yard we pedaled. Set to one of the higher gears, my bike had a tendency to speed up with very little effort. I worried that I was going too fast but Mike insisted the speed was fine, if a bit slow. (Show-off.)

I had built up some mettle by the time we reached Mariner’s Village a few miles away. The colorful strip of boating offices, restaurants, snack shacks and faux lighthouse plays a big role on one of our favorite shows, “Arrested Development,” and I suggested we take a break to look around. Perhaps one of LA’s best-kept secrets, Mariner’s Village sports a quaint charm and lack of a crowd.

We even spotted a sea lion lazily sunning himself on a nearby dock. I decided, this was going to be our place. We agreed that we would take in a longer break, perhaps brunch, on our next outing.

Our. Next. Outing.

Well, will you look at that? I had gone from scared shitless to ready to take on round two. That whole “riding a bike” maxim really is true, though, as with most things in life, not that simple. The ride home was less shaky, if uneventful, and I felt a little silly for freaking out like a wimp. The tough, sporty Shicia was nowhere to be found, I didn’t even recognize myself, but I can work on that.

And only after I got off the bike to walk it home for the last half mile did I notice what a beautiful sunshine-filled, blue-skied California day it was.

If we’re not friends on Facebook, it’s probably because of one of the reasons below:

1. I wouldn’t want to spend time with you in person. When I start purging people from my friend list, the first question I ask is: If this person wanted to meet for drinks or dinner, would I want to hang out with him/her? If the answer is ‘No,’ buh-bye.
2. You’re an opinionated asshole. Having an opinion is great. In fact, I encourage you to have a few, even if I don’t agree. And while healthy debate is one thing, there is something wrong with you if you are so militant about your beliefs that you would spout on a complete stranger’s wall, even if that stranger is MY friend. No matter how passionate you are about a topic, you should never participate in a discussion on someone else’s wall if you’ve never met them. It’s even worse when you berate them. It’s rude and disrespectful, not to mention embarrassing for me, because then I have to come up with a couple of excuses why I’m friends with an asshole like you. I’d rather keep mindnumbingly boring overshares any day.
3. You never post anything. You are what’s called a “lurker,” friends who never share anything but will gamely talk about what’s going in my life or my posts. If I’m going to share a part of my life, it’s only fair that you share a part of yours. Even if it’s not an even trade.
4. You don’t contribute (a corollary to #3.) Let’s be honest, I have some FB friends who I would be okay never seeing again. But if you at least contribute something to my day, whether it be telling a funny story, offering insight, or sharing articles/videos/images that are interesting, enriching or humorous, I enjoy having you around even if only virtually. But if you don’t engage with me or compel me to engage with you, what’s the point of being “friends”? 
5. You are a professional contact. One shouldn’t friend clients or colleagues in the first place, unless they are people you absolutely want to be friends with long after your professional connection is over, which is the general rule I follow. And even then, discretion is called for in choosing who is allowed to see the real me. Besides, Facebook really isn’t the place to make a social connection where business is concerned. Leave that to corporate lunches, sporting events, the golf course and LinkedIn.
6. You’re an ex. Look, if Facebook wasn’t around, you wouldn’t be around, so why keep you in my life, albeit online only? I think it’s unhealthy to hang onto a connection like this.  If my reason for friending you is to keep tabs on you, I am doing myself a disservice and not allowing myself to move on. If my reason for friending you is to show you what you are missing or how much better off I am without you, I am doing myself a disservice and not allowing myself to move on. Keeping an ex in one’s life means not getting over it. Period.
7. I’ve never even met you. I used to accept friend requests from friends of friends. Most of them were really nice or funny or interesting. But at the end of the day, they’re still people I don’t really know and I’m exposing my life to them? We are turning into a society that thinks it’s okay for strangers to have this much access to our lives. And that is NOT okay, it really isn’t. Two words: Rebecca Schaeffer.
8. You’re a movie quote monkey. Okay, we’ve all quoted a movie before but I unfortunately have too many quote monkeys around me that rely on movie quotes as a substitute for original thought. I find it annoying when it takes over a conversation, but downright intolerable when it goes on and on and turns irrelevant (when it goes beyond the original topic or movie and devolves into a quote exchange that only makes sense to one or two people.) When movie quoting, take a page from George Costanza: pipe in with your one-liner, enjoy the laughs and quit while you’re ahead.
9. It was an accident, I swear! Every few months, when I go on a housecleaning tear, I get a little click-happy and accidentally unfriend one or two people who I really actually like. If you are that .01%, send me a friend request and I will re-friend you. If, however, I ignore your request, then it wasn’t an accident. If I block you, please know I probably hate you.