Before church this morning

Pedaling forward is a lifelong process

From Saturday's Briefing:

I’m forever pushing children out of their comfort zones.

If one of my students prefers to read only graphic novels, I cajole him to try a science fiction novel. If another is buried in realistic fiction, I convince her to try biography.

Just when a fourth-grader thinks his essay is perfect, I challenge him to make five more words even stronger.

If I teach it, I need to live it, no matter how painful. Every now and then, I push myself beyond comfort.

For example, a week ago I slipped a handmade pink tutu over blue jeans and shimmied in front of 500 people while lip-synching Taylor Swift.

This totally out-of-character performance was made possible only because I was one of a menagerie of dancing teachers at our school assembly. I find strength in numbers when pushing my limits.

My brief stage appearance was painless. My next venture, not so much.

Sunday nights at the Damm house are routinely routine. Cooper practices clarinet. Katie practices violin. I cook dinner and prep food for lunches for the rest of the week.

Last Sunday night was out of the ordinary. I shed domesticity for an evening out with some usually mild-mannered mom friends. We climbed into strangers’ cars, headed for Dallas and spent the night pedaling through Uptown.

Because some in the group planned to drink adult beverages and because we are hyper-vigilant mommas, we chose to hire out the driving. We used our smartphones to hail not taxicabs, but rides from everyday drivers willing to share their cars for a fee.

We spilled out of three random sedans and gawked at our next mode of transportation: a giant cart equipped with barstools and bicycle pedals. It’s called the Buzz Bike.

The cart is piloted by an experienced driver who has control of steering and the brakes. The power is provided by the people sitting on the barstools.

We stowed our purses, the pilot described our roles, and in no time we were inching north on McKinney Avenue. Just as quickly, I could feel some leg muscles that hadn’t been stretched in a long while. Pedaling a giant, truck-sized cart takes more strength than I’d imagined.

Discomfort was easily ignored, though, with all the singing, laughing and waving to curious folks on the side of the road.

We took a break on the route, stopping for chips and salsa (cycling works up an appetite) and water (who could handle anything stronger with all that work?). We climbed aboard again, ready to face two challenges: a steep decline that would send us flying and an equally steep incline that would leave us gasping.

Our party perched atop the first hill, unable to see the bottom. The traffic light turned green and we started to pedal, fueled by a well-timed “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” blaring through the speakers.

Cyndi Lauper’s words were eventually drowned by our screams — part exhilaration, part fear of rear-ending the Mustang directly in front of our lumbering contraption.

We stopped just in time.

We enjoyed a couple of flat blocks, then we faced the biggest challenge of the night: the hill of Allen Street. We’d heard stories of previous groups that couldn’t pedal all the way up — that had to dismount and push the oversized bike.

Our competitive spirits kicked in. We would not become a cautionary tale.

One of the fittest friends in the group pedaled like an Ironman triathlete while commanding us to follow suit. We focused. We dug in. We biked up that cursed hill in two minutes flat.

There was nothing comfortable about it.

But I needed that night out with friends, a few hours away from responsibilities and planning. I needed to step out of my routine, to wave at strangers, to sing ’80s pop with wild abandon.

My sore quads are a small souvenir of the night. Longer lasting is the reminder that we all need to stretch a little.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

The whole gang, celebrating Julianne's 40th birthday (after we survived the treacherous hills)

Before church this morning

Not shown: Katie's new braces on the bottom teeth and expander on top, both of which are causing extreme discomfort

Before Don't Go to Church, Be the Church this morning

Finding ways to celebrate without sweets

From Saturday's Briefing:

I know comfort food because of Gramma.

Having a rough day? A Big Red and Blue Bell float will fix you right up.

Celebrating some good news? We’ll stop at the convenience store for a popsicle or Drumstick.

In the middle of a family reunion? How about a slice of Mrs. Smith’s apple pie?

Gramma has been gone almost a decade now, but I’m a keeper of the flame, a firm believer in the family tradition of soothing and praising with treats.

You didn’t win the election? Frozen yogurt with toppings will cheer you up. You earned a place on the team? We’ll stop for a chocolate shake. You and your friends completed a monstrous project? How about some brownies?

My children have been absolutely agreeable with this candy-coated legacy. We don’t eat fast food. I don’t keep many sweets in the house. Why not fully embrace a system that guarantees treats every few weeks?

I’ll tell you why not. Because your 9-year-old vegetarian daughter gave up most desserts for her New Year’s resolution and, unlike 99 percent of everyone you know, she’s actually kept hers.

For almost a whole year now, she’s passed up celebratory treats and consolation desserts. My family tradition has been challenged. My go-to comfort choices have been shelved.

Not that I’m complaining.

It’s healthy in more ways than one to ditch food as a balm or a reward. Food is supposed to be fuel, and we should consume only as much as we truly need. (I’m pretty terrible at following this advice.)

Drowning our sorrows in rocky road doesn’t really solve anything. And there’s absolutely no relevant connection between, say, making the A honor roll and downing a Slurpee.

Besides all of that, does every piece of encouraging news warrant a reward?

Does every disappointing tidbit deserve a consolation prize?

Katie’s lifestyle change has made the answers obvious.

Not only does she not need a cookie for good news, but she also doesn’t need anything beyond the natural consequences of the good news. Same for the setbacks. The absence of comfort food has forced genuine conversations of heartfelt praise and pep talks. Every time I think, “We should celebrate with [fill in the blank],” I am forced to stop and regard my own motivations, to consider the intrinsic value of winning or losing, of reaching your goals or falling short.

Still, Katie is only 9, and there are events that demand some sort of celebration. (Or moments that not even the tightest hugs and most sincere words can make better.)

So I’ve asked for a Katie-approved list of possible treats. Her suggestions include:

• New book
• Squares of felt from the craft store
• Extra minutes of nighttime Harry Potter read-aloud
• New markers
• New paint
• Movie night at home
• Time at the playground
• Episode of Gilligan’s Island
• New rosin for violin bow
• Homemade Chex mix (“As long as it’s not burned,” she added without a trace of judgment and, yet, no doubt recalling my last batch.)

Free-spirited, creative, poetic Gramma (who cooked a mean batch of Chex mix) would no doubt approve.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

From my phone

Noe and Katie, after half time of the Frisco vs. Centennial football game -- out on a school night!

Cooper, after playing on the field at the Frisco High game

Katie and Cooper at the Frisco High game

Tyra and Katie at the Lone Star Storytelling Festival field trip

Veggies, before they were roasted, for a pasta dish

Katie, after a haircut with the fabulous Erin

Katie on career day, part of College Week, at Hosp