the plural of danish

And Then the Icycle

2012-01-31T09:41:00.000-08:00

To the amusement of our cabinmates, we rolled into Fontana around 10:30 PM and piled out of the heavily weighed-down Purple People Eater, reeking of swamp rot and Chinese food, outfitted in camo and full of somewhat-entertaining anecdotes.

The next morning we were all stoked to race, because as everyone knows, road trips are the perfect preparation for competition: dehydration, sleep-deprivation, countless hours in the car, a glut of country music, a dearth of coffee, debilitating starvation and/or heinous over-consumption (depending on whether you ask the boys or the girls).

Needless to say, Dan won. And Sheedy won. And Geoff B won. And Sarah raced her first expert race LIKE A BOSS. And I won. And then I sort of tumbled down the hill during the night DH, and then sort of started eating Oreos and drinking and dancing, as you will have at the Icycle. As usual it was a weekend of joyful festivities with intermittent and only quasi-serious bike racing sprinkled in, and I think as usual everyone had a great time.

Ode to the Road

2012-01-31T09:31:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time the BC team drove to Fort Collins for road nationals, and I was admittedly a little disappointed. Every road trip movie and book ever made has lead me to believe that the experience should be chock full of camaraderie, gut-busting laughter, spontaneous ridiculousness, annoying inside jokes, too much food, not enough sleep.

Years later, I finally got my wish.

We assembled a crack squad of road trippers, based off two important criteria: desire to ride bikes somewhere new, and ability to get time off work. Somehow this rigorous selection process yielded a foursome that meshed perfectly.

I have access to no photos as of yet, so use your imagination.
Here we are brandishing Mitch's arsenal on a debris-littered gun range.
We're wearing so much camo that all you can see is
surreal floating torsos and heads.

We started the trip off on an unbeatable high note--embracing our inner rednecks in the hinterland of southwestern Arkansas, where Dan's BFF Mitch outfitted us with all the guns, off-road vehicles, and Natty Ice necessary to fully appreciate the splendor that is the south. Fueled by a heavy meal from Country Vittles (the jewel of Crossett, AR), we ventured out into the ragged swamplands to shoot clays, knock over deer stands, splash through as much parasite-ridden mud as possible, and generally make asses of ourselves.

Here we are, dry and happy in sunny Waco,
which is apparently the best town ever,
home as it is to Uncle Dan's BBQ, the taco shack, and Cameron Park.

Obviously we were sad to leave, but our next stop made up for it. Cameron Park in Waco, TX provided hours of thoroughly entertaining mountain biking on roller coaster trails that made the Floridians giggle. Then we stuffed ourselves with excellent BBQ and hightailed it to Austin.

Unfortunately, rain and storms dogged our step. Austin received something like 50% of its annual rainfall during our visit, which elicited from us a hearty WTF?! Of course, there were still Goodwills to troll, Texmex to consume, Mellow Johnny's to explore, exorbitantly expensive and beautiful cowboy boots for Sarah to buy, and so many bars to hop. Sixth Street had it all in spades: billiards, dubstep, mechanical bulls, fantastic margaritas, swanky hotels, crispy bleached blonde girl bands, and bearded dude blues.

Here we are presenting our muddy posteriors,
the aftermath of a day of mountain bike misadventures in Austin.

Which is not to say we didn't try to ride in Austin. A foray into the slippery, silty Barton Greenbelt was entertaining if somewhat frustrating, but at Rocky Hill Ranch the carnivorous clay devoured our drivetrains and our spirits. The towel was thrown. So what else was there to do but retrace our steps to Waco and play there some more?

And then (why not?) we did some climbing in the sandstone haven of northern Alabama. Which is to say, Dan and Sarah did some climbing and Sarah gently and expertly ushered Chuck and me up the rock. I've gotta say, that bug has bitten me. Anyone have a pair of climbing shoes I can buy?

Here I am scaling a rock face at Palisades Park,
with a determined/constipated grimace on my face.
I was sure I'd never make it to the top.

And so, to sum it all up (or to "shine the light", as it were): shotguns, mud, Shiner-Bock, cheap motels, expensive hotels, cowboy boots, live music, rock climbing, gubernatorial facial hair. All in all it was a marvelous adventure.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2012-01-16T08:32:00.000-08:00

on saturday night most of brevard's best and brightest showed up downtown to herald in erica's thirtieth year, and my goodness it was a good shindig. the ladies were gussied up and the gentlemen were dapper and no one was above boogying down to LMFAO...except a certain councilman, who just played paparazzo all night. i feel so lucky to have such a huge pack of awesome, dance-happy friends.

the next morning the soles of my feet were ragged and my legs were leaden. i missed the early caravan rolling down to charlotte but refused to skip the short track race so i drove myself, aware of the patent absurdity of driving four hours to race forty minutes. sometimes i'm just selfish like that. because lord have mercy, i do love short track. it's the only kind of racing i get. at the start line all the charlotte ladies were aflutter to have a new face in their midst, and a couple of them helpfully explained the race format and pointed out the local favorites. i considered myself warned.

the course was so fun. after the start lap the twelve of us became three, then two. my favorite lap in short track is always the one where you're done playing around, you've figured out the other girls' weaknesses, and it's time for business. that's the kitten shittin' lap, when you look behind you and see faces contorted with pain and disbelief. i crossed the line and actually managed to raise both arms in a half-assed victory salute.

Braaaap

of course, it was the first race of the season. i resolutely refuse to have off or on seasons, i just stay the same year round, so in february when i come back to charlotte i'll probably get my just desserts from women who have been doing their computrainer sessions. but while they head back to their suburban tract housing, my drive home consists of watching the sun set over the still-snowy mountains past the saluda gorge. so that's always kind of a win right there.

Hooray

2012-01-02T16:02:00.000-08:00

what a difference a day can make. as 2011 drew to a close i was perhaps a little cranky, a little antsy, feeling schlubby, whatever. the first day of 2012 left me bruised, exhausted, joyful.

after three hours of sleep and three hours of housekeeping, i joined the guys for the sycamore cycles new year's ride. it was warm and sunny and spirits were high despite the aftereffects of the previous night's, um, spirits. because we are all a little stupid, we merrily set off to ride 477 to club gap and over the top of black mountain. on the road i struggled to maintain a conversation with wes while trying to pretend i wasn't dying, but eventually as the trail pitched up, and up, i felt better. i do love technical climbing. and lisa really, really loves it.

of COURSE this was the only picture taken. thanks carlos!

i think you have to be in the right mood to enjoy black mountain. i think we were all in the right mood. as the sky went crazy overhead and the sun glittered over the pink beds side and storm clouds glowered over the looking glass side and random precipitation soaked us and the wind tugged us towards the precipice, we all smiled and pushed onward. it was dramatically beautiful so of course there wasn't a camera to be found. as usual the downhill was big and scary and fun. i went ass-over-teakettle into one of the most egregious wheel-swallowers past turkey pen, but lived to tell the tale.

so now that i have remembered how to ride a bike, i think perhaps i will race one. the first snake creek tt is this weekend and i've convinced morgan to come along for some north georgia suffering. then maybe some charlotte short track, because as everyone knows short track is the most wonderful thing there is. then THE ICYCLE, which is also the most wonderful thing there is. it may very well be a good january.

Just a Bit of Reflection

2011-12-31T17:25:00.000-08:00

In the final gloaming of what felt like a breathlessly quick year, I'm browsing the internet, killing time before I don my party frock and go out dancing to celebrate the next calendar page. Fingers crossed the new year will be even better than the old.

2011 wasn't much of a growth year for me. Until I make some kind of substantial change in my life I'll be coasting on this flat, beautiful stretch of road, doing an effortless 28 mph with a tailwind. It's both comforting and suffocating, to know that I have to do so little to achieve happiness, but to know that I could do so much more. I discovered on Google Maps that Trader Joe's is an easy five mile commute from my aunt and uncle's house in Orinda, and aren't we all impressed with the heights of my ambition? I can shake up my peaceful little existence by moving somewhere and settling into another food retail job.

But then, some stuff happened this year. I visited some cool places, I experienced some minor successes on two wheels. My dear Subaru turned ten and hit 100,000 miles, my sister turned into a cool real person. Many dinners were cooked and enjoyed with friends, many customers were pleased with their BMB and B&B. I bought my first stupidly fancy bike, I embarked on my first "grown-up" trip to Europe. Not much to write home about, but I keep taking little steps forward. (Maybe. Or maybe I'm shimmying from side to side, or just hopping in place. Regardless, it's motion.)

Ignore the musings. Whether or not I do something drastic in the coming year, whether or not I race bikes or change jobs or meet life-altering people or move somewhere or buy a house or just cheerfully maintain status quo, I do sincerely hope it is a happy 2012 for us all.

Disturbingly Accurate

2011-12-14T19:51:00.000-08:00

thank you aaron for this gem:

you know, in case you needed a visual of sarah's and my ride the other day...

Lisa and Savannah

2011-12-13T09:04:00.000-08:00

Way back in the spring, the Specialized 2012 catalog was released and upon perusal I was appalled to see that the baby dinosaur had gone extinct...Specialized had replaced their XC full-suspension chick bike with some dumb hardtail 29er. Not cool, y'all. This meant that at some point in the future I would be forced to get a bike that wasn't an Era, and I wasn't happy about it. (First-world problems, amirite?)

Skip ahead a couple months, and I had accidentally found the perfect buyer for the baby dino. And then, lo and behold, a 2010 Sworks Era popped up in the dusty clearance bin of the internet. Same year, same look, lots more plastic. I hemmed and hawed and accrued funds for a month before finally biting the bullet, and the Councilman was kind enough to let me take her out for the first time on Friday.

After my amazing experience with the Yeti, I was a bit tentative about this purchase, my head full of preconceived notions about carbon bikes. They're more fragile, right? And they require a stern demeanor, and spandex, and they're probably a lot more businesslike. No more joyful gallivanting downhill and certainly no more slow easy climbs, right? This was a heavy mantle I was adopting.

Before she had even left the shop she'd been dubbed Lisa, which was definitely not my first choice, seeing as how it's also the name of my heavyset mustachioed lesbian neighbor who loves midnight furniture-moving sessions and audiobooks turned up to 11. But the appellation stuck, and I like to think of my Lisa as the antithesis of her Prius-driving namesake: spry, light, effervescent.

Anyway. She weighed in at 22.8 pounds, first of all. That's just stupid. We rode up Twin Falls and down Avery and I am surprised and pleased to say, the difference was huge. On technical climbs it felt like there was a direct circuit from my brain to the bike, and Lisa navigated each section with playful ease. Then we went downhill, and that was the real revelation; the fancy suspension performed flawlessly, the bike imperiously demanded bigger hits and faster cornering, and once again each move was intuitive. Who knew descending on an absurdly expensive XC rig could be so darn fun? Lisa had incinerated my expectations.

The maiden voyage

Oh, but it gets better. Riding a fancy new bike was only half the fun. The baby dinosaur found herself in new hands, and is now operating under the name Savannah. My dear friend Sarah has been dragging the tired carcass of an ancient hardtail all over Pisgah for years, and I can think of no one more deserving or appreciative of a blinged-out Era than her. We got in a quick inaugural ride yesterday and Sarah was so, so, so, so, so stoked. ("It's so quiet!" "It's so fast!" "The brakes actually work!") Watch out WNC: that bike is a freaking game-changer and I'm afraid that pretty soon we're all going to have trouble keeping up with Gascan.

It's like Christmas, but better

A Tale of Three Bikes

2011-12-05T08:10:00.001-08:00

Tristan on his charger

Purely by chance I had the opportunity to ride three different bikes in quick succession this week. The baby dinosaur is at the doctor's getting its appendix removed so I've been forced to get creative when the mountain biking mood strikes. First T Cowie was kind enough to lend me his Stumpy. It was way fun to ride but I've never felt up to the task when I ride Stumpies...I do those burly big-travel bikes a disservice with my timidity and lack of skillz. Plus it was so clearly Tristan's bike: a bit too big, rock-hard suspension, brutal gearing, ass-hatchet saddle, super wide bars. Tough to control, like riding a big stallion when I'm used to my little filly.

Another day Morgan let me use her after-dinner mint, the By:Stickel. My first excursion on a 29er! Climbing Sycamore, all those magazine phrases popped unbidden into my head: "stable through corners", "riding inside the bike", "clambering over obstacles like a rock crawler". But also: "ouch". I don't love hardtails, nope. Simple as that.

The after-dinner mint in its natural habitat

Yesterday several of us hit up the quintessential Pisgah singletrack, a short out-and-back on Squirrel. My steed du jour was a Yeti 575 and thanks to Dan it was already set up just right when I hopped on it. And from then on the day only got better.

Oh. My. God. I can't even express the joy of riding that bike. It was a big bike that felt little, it was nimble and squishy and raucous and confidence-inspiring and more than happy to bang its intrepid way over babyheads and root baskets up and down. Oh. My. God. I was beaming at every intersection and plowing effortlessly through tech stuff that usually gives me a pause. Within thirty minutes I was plotting ways to purchase the beauty, and trying somehow to justify such a frivolous move. If I'm not careful it still might happen. I get so damn acquisitive when I hang out at the shop too much. I've constructed my armor of "why nots" to protect myself from the Yeti: I don't believe in having a stable full of mountain bikes because, you know, run what ya brung. I really don't like climbing slowly. I don't like bikes that cater to my weaknesses; I want to improve my descending the honest way, instead of just getting a bike that encourages sloppy (albeit wickedly fun) ripping.

I love you.

Oh yeah, also, I can't permit myself to lust after a new steed right now because, well, there's a box en route to Brevard even as I type...

Uh oh

I'm Going to Keep Talking About It

2011-11-07T14:35:00.000-08:00

oh yeah, a couple more fun facts about the swank: there were twenty-five women (nicely done ladies).
and twenty-four out of 192 participants hailed from this county. go locals!
and the only racer who was younger than me? tristan.

Say My Name

2011-11-07T06:17:00.000-08:00

The weather was perfect, the temperature rose, the trails were in great condition. As usual with Todd's events, the course was well-marked, the cheerful volunteers were out en masse, and there was free coffee, beer, and burgers for all. It's safe to say that at least twenty of my friends and teammates raced, and those who didn't cluttered the course, heckling, pushing, and offering all manner of aid.

So this is why people pay to do this.

Stuck on intentional repeat in my brain was the new Florence + the Machine song "Spectrum", in which Florence emphatically commands, "Say my name." That's how good I was feeling. Say my name, gravel road climb, root basket on Butter, old dudes on singlespeeds. I don't think I've ever approached a race with such confidence, excitement, joy. That effervescent spirit buoyed me through almost the whole forty miles, deserting me only during the interminable hike-a-bike on Farlow and on the shockingly painful final climb to Cove Creek.

The chips fell pretty early in the women's field--Karen Masson, local ass-kicking older lady, passed me on Daniel as I struggled with chainsuck and I never saw her again. Every spectator taunted me with her phantasmic existence: "She's only fifty seconds up, go get her!" I mistook "Karen" for the name of another super-strong endurance racer, who has given me hours of amusement with her melodramatic encounters with celiac. She uses gluten as a verb, as in, "I went to P.F. Chang's and I got glutened (ominous music)..." so I gave chase and decided that my battle cry was, "The power of wheat compels you!" This is what hours of climbing does to me. I didn't realize my mistake until the end, and was happy to see the victor eating a healthy helping of gluten-contaminated food.

I finished second, fifteen whole minutes behind Karen, but still feeling like a rock star. Everyone from the PAC had stellar races--Kym was hot on my heels and Jenna, Katie, Jordan, Jess, and Erica all had strong finishes. Most of my favorite people packed the top fifteen; props especially to T Cowie, you sneaky bastard, who would've probably won if he hadn't been so damn covert.

It was bike racing at its best, that's for sure.

Crazy Running

2011-11-04T04:39:00.000-07:00

i found myself doing a bit of crazy running today. not running something crazy, which i tend to enjoy, but crazy running, which i tend to not enjoy. you know, when you're running along on autopilot and you've worn your old shoes which you forgot get terrible traction in thick leaf cover (reason #17 why the shut-in was so damn hard) and you find that your heart is really pounding without your permission and the light is tricky on sycamore cove (the light is always tricky on sycamore cove this time of year) and you're literally (and probably figuratively too) kicking yourself because your form is so sloppy and your foot placement sucks and some weird song refrain is playing in your head and suddenly you're seeing all snakes instead of roots and the only way to end the crazy is to stop. breathe. tell your body to calm down and behave itself. walk a little. and then you proceed onward and you shake it off and after a bit you remember the mechanics of this silly sport again.

good luck to all ye denizens of the trail, for tomorrow is the shut-in. you're made of stronger stuff than i.

High Country Cross

2011-11-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

This weekend I attended the Boone CX race, which has become through the years the only one I'm willing to travel for, because it always guarantees costumes, tandemonium, free-flowing beer, unusually interesting courses, and a decent party or two the night before. This year was no exception. After dancing for hours with my dear friend Rosie the Riveter, I rolled up to the fairgrounds cranky and dehydrated with thirty minutes to spare. Pinning on two numbers, (why, NCCX? Why??) I griped and bellyached as usual, and on the start line, in some weird fit of self-flagellation, situated myself behind all twenty-three of the other chicks. Then proceeded to have a damn good time. After working my way through the field I caught up to a pretty dynamic chase group and legitimately raced the entire forty-five minutes. Every time a wave of fatigue and out-of-shapeness washed over me, it just as quickly subsided. The Deutschbike again proved itself a rad racing machine and I didn't forget to enjoy the little techy sections, although my barrier attempts are as schizoid as ever. After fighting tooth and nail to the finish, I landed in the money (barely).

And as usual, the what-ifs began: what if I took this more seriously? What if I laid off the pre-race stupidity, the swaggering bravado, the bad attitude, the refusal to rest, warm up, drink, or fuel properly? It's never been my style but racing smart could have all sorts of pay-offs. What if I'm full of unrealized potential? But the what-if train always grinds to a halt pretty quickly. My work schedule permits very little weekend racing, my priorities lie elsewhere*, I'll probably never stop having a bad attitude, and I really like to just have fun.

Picture obviously stolen from The Gruppetto Project

But just once I'd like to show up in a t-shirt and really wow 'em.

*Swank this week!!

My Cup Runneth Over

2011-10-26T07:13:00.000-07:00

a couple of glorious fall rides later, on a finely tuned steed built of quicksilver and dreams, i'm feeling like a slayer. every gravel road climb begs a sprint and every rooty berm cries out for shreddage. everything in my life makes me smile and sometimes the days are too full to even pause and appreciate it. we all make our own happiness and by god, if that were my job i'd deserve a promotion.

Hard to be down when you look up

Wonderful rides with wonderful people

Miss you already

Merrymakers on a wild night

In Which I Run Looking Glass...

2011-10-18T08:18:00.000-07:00

And eat my words. Yesterday, the most beautiful day of the year? Piffle. Balderdash.

Happiest Days

2011-10-17T16:30:00.000-07:00

after work i went on the hunt for my favorite miracle drug. i've developed a worrisome dependency on it, but who wouldn't? it's over-the-counter, obscenely cheap, and causes weight loss, lowered blood pressure and cholesterol, improved sleep, increased lifespan, and shiny hair. it's packed with vitamin d, it's anti-anxiety, anti-depression, anti-cancer, and the side effects aren't even serious: bulky thighs, questionable tan lines, obsessive behavior, and the tendency to gravitate towards weird friends.

Oh, flowers for the baby dino!

oddly enough the pharmacy doesn't stock it so i had to get my fix in the woods. today, which was obviously the most beautiful day of the year, i harnessed my doubts about the swank and used them as fuel for quite the ride. from home, climbed clawhammer, up black, down buckwheat, down 477, over to 475b, down cove creek, davidson river, back in on 276 and tacked on north slope just so i could cram the whole seasonal triumvirate into opening weekend. 4+ hours and it felt great. i had no music (never do) so spent the whole time humming a mantra of "pretty pretty pretty! pedal pedal pedal," and making happy (and occasionally frightened) little animal noises. ate chomps. picked flowers. climbed quickly, descended slowly. took pictures. loved my bicycle. i feel a lot better knowing that while i almost never do longer rides, that doesn't mean i can't.

Clawhammer

Black Mountain

FS 477

FS 475B

Hello beautiful

The light fading on North Slope

Third Post in Thirty Minutes

2011-10-13T15:23:00.000-07:00

Please note: the last seven posts I wrote are each filed under the label "awesome". Totally unintentional and probably way too much excitement for one blog, but I like it.

Could This Month Handle Any More Awesome?

2011-10-13T15:04:00.001-07:00

Forgive the silence. There's been so much awesomely awesome stuff going on that it's a real tragedy I haven't kept up with it.

Downhill nationals at Beech? Crazy good time. East coast racers done us proud.

Lydia's 10k+50k? Great success. She is a fantastic race promoter AND athlete.

Pisgah MTB Stage Race? Absolutely amazing. This place we live earned some HUGE props from everyone involved.

Zombie Squirrel Alley Cat? Total unmitigated shenanigans. This much fun should be illegal.

Bike Mag coming to town? Really killer. I'm pretty sure they get it.

Cyclocross at the Pisgah Brewery? Super fab. Never mind the lame course; there was music, beer, friends, and an unbelievably big turnout.

I would post links and photos but you've probably already seen them all. Just believe it: this area is blowing up.

Where I Find My Heaven

2011-10-13T14:44:00.000-07:00

if i were a genius i would somehow bottle the sensation of running pilot mountain on a clear fall day and give it to friends for christmas. the sweat, the burn, the hubbub of late cicadas, the beech trees trying to outshine the sun, the musk of wet leaf carpet (which is the most evocative seasonal smell i can think of, besides, well, ferns, smoke, frost, mown grass, bradford pear trees...). the trail climbs up endless switchbacks, so high that all the leaves have been stripped away by wind and weather, leaving only dog hobble and mountain laurel. the summit is so beautiful it hurts. mountain ranges stretch unobstructed in all directions and the leaves have turned only in the higher elevations, like a dusting of cayenne on each peak. i'd run many times farther just to earn that view. and afterwards comes the the sense of gratification, the well-deserved brownie. i'd bottle all of that.

because i am the opposite of a genius i failed to bring a camera and so could not even ineffectually capture one-tenth of what i was experiencing.

come with me next time.

Some B-Day Gloating

2011-09-16T16:53:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning feeling like I'd been crashed into by a double-decker bus.

Yesterday was my birthday, and while it seems a bit fatuous to go into breathless details about that sort of thing, this is in the end my public internet diary and I will on occasion get silly like that.

Because, really? It was effing amazing.

9/15 came bright and early with a (non-obligatory) 7am ab workout with the BC kids, who shouted a chorus of "Happy birthday!" to me as I entered. Joh greeted me with a mason jar of flowers and a home-baked tray of brownies...yeah, she's over-the-top wonderful like that. After crunching my core for a while I went to (obligatory) work, where my lovely bosses gave me some vino rosso. My roomie convinced me to join her for a quick birthday fat tire ride, which is never a bad idea.

During a drive through town I was tickled to see Miz Dickson, huge grin spreading over her face, mouth "HBD" to me through car windows while turning left, talking on the phone. Multi-tasker. Although the current state of affairs makes one question the quality of human nature, every time a birthday rolls around I am astounded by the pure unselfish joy people express to each other for such a mundane occurrence. And this is self-aggrandizement at its finest, but if so many people are so incredibly nice on this arbitrary day of me-celebration, surely I must be doing something right (right?).

The awesome train kept rolling. After my ride I headed to A-ville for the first game of the season. Soccer was my first love and it's nice to know that a: I haven't forgotten everything, and b: that shit is glorious. I've fallen off the wagon; intense, jubilant addiction. My teammates, none of whom I knew, surprised me by singing to me after the game. And then we went to the bar. A good crew. I had to duck out early to attend an 80s dance party, where I joined up with some finely bedecked friends, forgot about my innumerable bruises and sweaty grossness, and danced my ass off until two.

Hence my extreme soreness and malaise today. Yesterday I worked easy and played hard, all day, and have the scrapes and aches to show for it. And there is no better way to celebrate a birthday.

Mole Hill...to Mountain...to Mole Hill

2011-09-13T10:29:00.000-07:00

Yesterday sort of out of the blue Wes offered me a shot at the Pisgah Stage Race, the insanity of which I had scoffed at for years.

Appalled, frightened, titillated, I retreated to the internet, studying maps, elevation profiles, and race reports. I realized what all stage racers surely know: life would take a backseat. I'd have to play soccer with kid gloves, ease up on the beer consumption, carefully tend to my bike, lose days of work.

In the end my decision was clinched by my job--the boss-lady will be out of town that week, leaving me "in charge", and that, combined with my utter lack of prep and questionable mental fortitude, makes it one helluva long shot.

It's crazy how even the suggestion of such great heights has galvanized me. All right, I won't do it this year, but instead of surviving the Swank I want to race it and own it, I want to kick ass at every cyclocross race I enter, and I want to entertain the notion of the stage race, not in the distant imaginary future, but in the next couple of years.

Now that (finally, wonderfully) Asheville has its own cx series, I can enjoy that stupid, awesome discipline without the usual caveats--no long drives, no missed work shifts, no uninspiring grass courses in the Piedmont. Along with an unusually large Brevard contingent I attended an evening practice race and the Bent Creek throwdown last Saturday and surprised myself with a: a threshold intensity I could've sworn had evaporated, and b: an uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness. My favorite part was clawing my way through the ranks of women in front of me, piloting the deutschbike around their sketchy singletrack maneuverings and "sprinting" away in slow motion.

Da posse

It's not just cx that's got me wickedly stoked on riding right now. Joh and I rode Farlow on Sunday and while I embarrassed myself with my timidity, it was still a grand time. Best of all, four of us ladies partook of a Dupont night ride, which was beyond fun. Clattering down Rocky Ridge at dusk, skirting huge toads and piles of manure, listening to the coyotes, we could not stop exclaiming, "This...is...awesome!"

Da gurls

Give Me Variety or Give Me Death

2011-08-30T13:16:00.000-07:00

multiple choice question:

having thrown myself back into exercise with the hyperactive vigor known only to newly divorced yuppies and jack russell terriers, this week i:
a. did several runs that were painfully long, painfully fast, or both, and agreed to another attempt on the art loeb
b. slapped some road tires on the deutschbike and rode worlds
c. joined the meatnecks for a little bit of crossfit
d. swallowed my fear/pride/avarice and registered for the swank
e. found a soccer team to play for (be still my heart)
f. all of the above

it's going to be an interesting autumn.

Your Opinion Wanted

2011-08-17T08:39:00.000-07:00

I spent the entire flight from ATL to AVL with my nose pressed against the window, marveling at the green, sun-kissed splendor of MY mountains. Then I had a bite to eat at the Root with some of my favorite fellas, and this morning I luxuriated in the old routine of real toast, American-style coffee, and a good book, followed by a quick, cool (!) North Slope loop. Damn, I love it here.

Without even realizing it, I scheduled my trip to save me from the last hurrahs of summer. It's sort of sad because I do love the busy season, but the BMC is closed, camps are over, school is back, and the crushing heat is behind us--traffic, work, and the forest will all be a lot more chill from now until leaf season. Basically there's no downside to being back, except that my beloved CK has packed up and moved back to her lame state.

Cheesy admission: the song that most frequently gets stuck on repeat in my head when running? Coldplay's "Don't Panic".

We live in a beautiful world

Yeah we do, yeah we do

We live in a beautiful world

Oh, all that I know

There's nothing here to run from

And there, everybody here's got somebody to lean on.

No clue what the song is actually about but isn't that so Brevard? There's a reason why we're all so happily mired here.

So here's my question: is the purpose of travel purely to serve as a pleasant reminder of how wonderful the place you live is? Or am I missing the point entirely? Please discuss.

Last Post Over the Puddle

2011-08-15T12:28:00.000-07:00

After the Bosco kerfluffle we were very relieved to be mobile and independent again. We hopped a ferry to Sicily, a mode of transport I highly recommend if you find yourself in southern Italy and want to watch the sun set over Mount Vesuvius and the Mediterranean.

Palermo struck us immediately as dirty yet beautiful, sunny but mild, poor but over-the-top friendly. Shopkeepers were always giving us samples and freebies, passersby offered us advice when we looked lost, waiters practiced their scant English on us, an elderly couple shared their thermos of coffee with me on the train. Everything is cheaper in Sicily and we felt like we'd stumbled on some kind of excellent secret--we saw not a single native English speaker the entire time, just a lot of Italians enjoying their vacation.

We did the obligatory historical things, visiting a beautiful Byzantine cathedral and catacombs cluttered with centuries-old corpses. We went to the smooth white beach by the crystalline blue sea, along with half the city residents, all of whom were doing their darnedest to turn their skin the color of dried tobacco. Only a few blocks from the apartment Jamie discovered King Ferdinand's old hunting grounds, converted into a lovely park with lots of trails where we could run and observe the prostitutes that hang out there.

And of course we ate, and ate, and ate. Crudo and pistacchio paste and magnificent cherry tomatoes and canollis and marscapone pizza, and huge plates of whole bass and swordfish steaks and octopus and prawns all grilled up right next to the table by a fat dude smoking a cigarette.

So there you have it. Three weeks in Italy, many a cornetti and cappuccino, lots of train rides, some historically relevant sites, some sub-par beer and excellent wine, lots of yardwork and aimless walking, and a lot of great hang out time with a couple of my favorite family members.

The Events Surrounding Our Departure

2011-08-15T12:04:00.000-07:00

The strange little tale of Bosco Merrone ended on a vaguely sordid note. We finally worked up the courage to tell Salvatore that we were peacing out early, and he seemed unruffled. We enlisted his lecherous friend Frederico to drive us to the train station and when he wasn't making overtures to Chrissy, he was grilling Jamie on why we were leaving. She gave him most of the truth--we wanted flexibility to explore and didn't have it at Bosco. He insisted that something negative must've happened with Kumar, an accusation that was both appalling and hypocritical. The Israeli girls said they'd received some forewarning, which as you might expect made them uncomfortable when faced with the not-as-advertised situation. We hastened to tell them that Kumar had been the perfect host and had never done anything inappropriate. The whole affair smacked of classism or rascism and left us with a bad taste in our mouths.

Imagine our shocked bemusement when WWOOF Italia sent out an email the very next week. "Attn: Bosco Merrone has requested its removal from the list of farms and therefore is no longer taking WWOOFers."

We were dying to know the full story but resigned ourselves to only ever knowing one side of the weird pas de deux. What happens in the middle of nowhere stays in the middle of nowhere.

Because My Mother Won't Stop Harrassing Me

2011-08-13T08:24:00.001-07:00

Sicily: words later, pictures now.

Sunset over Naples as we embark on the ferry ride to Palermo

Awesome beautiful beach at Mondello

Dramatic Norman/Byzantine cathedral in Monreale
View from our apartment. It's not conveniently located but is super luxurious compared to previous accommodations.

And I Said to Bouffy..."WTF"

2011-08-08T12:52:00.000-07:00

Suddenly it's our last night and we are filled with melancholy at the thought of leaving. Kumar has inexplicably dubbed me Butterfly and shouts it whenever he needs my help in the kitchen. It may be my favorite nickname ever.
We have been joined by two Israeli WWOOFers and we delighted in giving them the Bosco 101. They seem like really cool girls and talking to them made me realize how starved of English I've been. We've met so many people and I'm always the sullen silent friend...I'm not the most outgoing person but I do like talking to new people. Well, off to Sicily, another place where no one speaks English. God, I'm so American.

Our Friend Dark Horse

2011-08-07T13:08:00.000-07:00

we were killing some down time on the veranda with our various instruments of internet retrieval when big dirty antonio set goblets of gelato in front of us. we cheered in surprise and delight, and chrissy and i mouthed "dark horse" at each other. after we'd finished he returned with a bottle of something cloudy and cold. he refilled our goblets and grinned when we oohed and aahed over the milky homemade limoncello. full of surprises, that antonio. the next day he taught chrissy how to ride the 4-wheeler and chuckled at her timid seven-point turn. he always shouts at us to stop harvesting bamboo and come drink coffee instead. after work one day he gave us a chilly bottle of "belgian" beer. made in italy, he explained condescendingly, pointing at the label. he drinks only real german beer. we split it in the sunshine.cooking with dark horse

Party on the "Farm"

2011-08-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

This is a long one. Apologies.

Weekdays at Bosco Merrone are quiet, hot, vaguely disappointing. It's only the five of us, using up the supplies brought in from far-off stores, J and C and I washing dishes, reading, browsing the Internet, fighting the temptation to scratch mosquito bites. Work for the week consists of harvesting as many bamboo stalks as possible, pulling them free of blackberry thickets, stripping them of leaves and shoots with sickles, and dragging armfuls up over-grown horse paths back to the house, where presumably they will one day grace the roofs over the pool and patio. Every day, harvest bamboo and wash the dishes from every meal. It's thankless and there are few distractions. We consider our options and plan a premature departure for Sicily.Then suddenly Friday comes, and with it people. Mario and Gino and Nadia and Rosa are back, and Salvatore and his wife, and other friends besides. They all smoke and laugh and try to force Chrissy and me to form sentences, and bring in huge bags of exciting groceries, and cook. Meals always start after nine and the three of us finish toweling off the last wine glass at eleven thirty. On Saturday the gang (who of course stayed the night--where better to have a weekend-long party than a B&B?) dress their wrinkled bronze bodies with tiny swim cover-ups and then lounge and smoke and opine. Directed by Salvatore, we engage the disheveled yard in an epic battle: weeding, sweeping, washing, hauling, raking, killing spiders. It is hot and exhausting and satisfying, much better than endless bamboo, and we are rewarded with an excellent lunch of fried anchovies and eggplant pasta on the terrace, with eight of our closest Italian friends. And Kumar, of course. Dark Horse is gone for the weekend, so the guests can laugh about his watermelon addiction without him hearing.

We once again wash dishes and finish the day's work and "clean" ourselves in the pool because the water isn't working in our cabin. Then we read and nap and put on dresses, then are drawn back to the house like moths by the sound of karaoke blasted over the hills.

Yes, Italian karaoke. Soulful, boisterous, sincere. Suddenly, Bosco Merrone has a fully fledged festa on its hands. The gang has multiplied to maybe twenty, but because everyone is a noisy Italian, it feels like forty. We (even me) are persuaded to sing a round of Adele's "Rolling in the Deep" and then, after a gut-busting and wonderful dinner of Neapolitan pizza, fried risotto balls, ricotta calzonitas, and assorted cakes, the DJ throws out some Italian pop songs and it's Club Bosco. We dance our asses off, then are promenaded around by old men to samba, salsa, what have you. Except Jamie (beloved by all for her red hair and excellent Italian), who is monopolized by Marc Antonio, a nineteen-year-old whose mama wants him matched up with my cousin.

Cooking goes on until midnight and cleaning until two, and we fall into bed pumped to have been included.
Sunday brings another solid morning of yard work, and then suddenly it's all hands on deck for Sunday dinner, where huge families of paying customers materialize, demanding ice and spoons and bread in their incomprehensible language. Waitressing nightmare. Course after delicious course pass through our hands and I long for a taste. We are pinned for three hours straight, and then we are ordered to sit down and eat, and we gratefully comply. Lasagna, flank steak with delicious peppers, mussels, fried dough balls of anchovies and zucchini flowers, huge bowls of grapes and plums and the ubiquitous watermelon. Wine and anise spirits and espresso and more dishes to be washed and then we collapse with fatigue, at seven at night.

Jamie and I rally briefly to run hill repeats on the wicked kilometer-long driveway, where we can see the sun set over the mountain range. On Tuesday we're taking a night train (and ferry) to Sicily and I don't regret leaving early, but my biggest issue with WWOOFing here--the utter lack of real Italian experiences--was totally obliterated by this weekend. Forty-eight unalloyed hours of working, eating, laughing, singing, in some obscure hilltop lodge two hours from anywhere--what more could I ask?

Life on the "Farm"

2011-08-04T11:53:00.000-07:00

With absolutely no idea of what to expect, we boarded the train to Naples. There we found that no trains went to our intended destination on Sunday, so we arranged for a ride with our proprietor Salvatore and took a train to a dusty little village about 20k away. Weighed down by a truly appalling amount of luggage, we watched with dismay as an average-sized Euro car pulled up with two jovial old men in it.

There was nothing to do but laugh uproariously, and so we all did. Gino and Mario, our friendly chaperones, packed us in like sardines with two monstrous suitcases and assorted duffels and purses on our laps. The whole way to Bosco Merrone, Gino taught Jamie to say Neapolitan phrases with gusto and cheered every time she said "Atza!"--wow!

Atza indeed. We climbed out of the nondescript valley into hills surrounded by bigger hills. The road was shaded by hazelnut and olives trees and only the occasional villa dotted the green landscape. Once at Bosco Merrone, a sprawling ranch house cluttered with shady patios and sweet neighborhood dogs, we joined Gino and Mario and their wives for some caffe and they coached us on pronouncing aglio and oglio. They were cheerful and noisy and profane but they suddenly departed, with kisses and promises of dinner at their house.

Turns out the owner of Bosco Merrone lives in Naples and our welcomers were only friends. We sat down with some trepidation for dinner with our only companions, the two men we'd be working with for the next two weeks.

Kumar is a diminutive Punjabi Indian who has worked in Italy for five years and is applying to move to Sacramento. His English is not bad but spoken in an accented rush that requires several repetitions. He cooks, cleans, and fixes whatever may need fixing in the ramshackle villa. Antonio is a hulking chain-smoker in stained clothes who only speaks brusque, monosyllabic Italian through his mustache and missing teeth. He scared us at first, but showed a bit of a smile when we played Scopa, an Italian card game, with him after dinner. We have named him Dark Horse.

The first full day, we arose at our leisure and made ourselves toast in the big house, and ate leftover carrot cake that was wonderfully light and fluffy. Then the five of us set to work scouring and rearranging the industrial kitchen. It was deeply satisfying work, with a great view of the mountains and an audience of feral cats. Refreshed by a cool breeze as I scrubbed and organized, I almost lost a sense of time and place, until Katy Perry's "Last Friday Night" music video came on the TV.

Then a heaping lunch of spaghetti and Antonio, with no warning and a secret smile in his eyes, started showing us magic tricks with his cards. Chrissy and I have agreed that this stereotypical stoic will by crying and friending us on Facebook by the time we leave.

I promise there are lots of pictures but this stupid website is not cooperating right now.

Gorging Ourselves in Rome

2011-08-04T11:28:00.001-07:00

One of Jamie's coworkers from her internship in Florence took us out to dinner with one of his friends, a fastidious Roman with all the arrogance one would expect. Ricardo drove us to a town south of Rome, and I relished the liberated Italian driving style that up to then I'd only witnessed as a pedestrian.

Dinner was a casual affair of plastic plates and paper tablecloth, but the food! Antipasti was a platter heaped with salami, prosciutto, magnificent mozzarella balls, lima beans, cold cuts, and crusty bread. Groaning, we somehow forced down a series of delicious homemade pasta entrees with mushrooms, tomatoes, and boar sausage. For dessert Ricardo showed us a tiny bar known locally for its warm sugary cakes and the dirty name given said cakes.

The next dinner was an about-face from the previous night's rustic fare. My cousins' parents were treating Chrissy to dinner, so we chose a little seafood place nearby because it received fresh, pungent deliveries every day.

It was a meal of decadence--we told the flirtatious waiter to take good care of us, and he complied. Plate after plate of antipasti arrived, amazing tartare and carpaccio, grilled octopus, slivers of squid with fennel, and a frightening platter of massive raw shrimp crayfish, and shellfish. We did the best we could and were rewarded with a plate of lightly fried fish, then little scoops of creamy risotto with calamari and shrimp. Somehow several bottles of crisp white wine disappeared...then Prosecco...and dessert came. Towers of fresh fruit surrounded cunningly-made sorbet bowls--walnut gelati was frozen in walnut shells, chestnut in chestnut shells, bitter orange sorbet in orange rind, and passionfruit in passionfruit shells. Of course Chrissy received a slab of tiramisu with a birthday candle in it, and we finished off with champagne and bittersweet chocolate. Reeling from drink and food, we made it home and counted it an excellent last night in Roma.And now we've done a complete 360 and are sunning on the porch of our tiny cabin in the hills, watching "Dark Horse" Antonio rumble by on his 4-wheeler. When he turns off the engine, the countryside is silent but for the wind.

Life at Bosco Merrone

2011-08-01T09:28:00.000-07:00

Drinking homemade limoncello on a veranda in the absolute middle of nowhere, Italy. That may sound idyllic and romantic but this is the absolute first instance of us doing what we expected to do on 'the farm'. Suffice to say the owners may have slightly misrepresented their establishment on the WOOF website. However, there is Internet, cute dogs, and the villa is surrounded by stunning green mountains. Gotta have my scenery fix.

Not Bad, Not Bad

2011-07-29T09:28:00.000-07:00

I'll admit it: the thought of spending time in Rome made me nervous. My experience with big cities is limited, and Rome is, you know, huge. Guide books call it intense, gritty, a sensory overload, chaotic, risky, crowded, potentially overwhelming. But, really? I like it a lot. The mild sunshine and late nights of bonhomie don't hurt, but I think this city is more pleasant, more welcoming, cleaner, and less crowded than some I've been to in the states. The catcalling I heard so much about has been kept to a bare minimum, and jogging along the Tiber felt neither foreign nor sketchy. The apartment is located on a narrow cobblestoned street in a locals-only piazza only minutes from the crowds of the Pantheon, the Vatican, and Trastevere. I feel like a rube in totally uncool clothes, sheepishly blurting out "grazie" to shopkeepers who have waited on me in flawless English, but at least I'm not wearing a backpack or socks with sandals. The view from one of the seven hills, I guess

We did an actual paid-for tour of the Vatican today and it was quite something. In a place with such a glut of decadent beauty and art, it's nice having a friendly Dutch girl tell you where to look and what charming anecdotes to consider. Of course, after browsing the masterpieces of history for four hours straight, we needed gelato therapy, followed soon thereafter with risotto pastry therapy...and topped off with sandal shopping therapy.
Cliche?
Wonderful. I haven't done a great job documenting this trip so far (surprise!), so here's a lame shot of the back of St Peter's Basilica...

Day Due

2011-07-28T04:26:00.000-07:00

Time in Rome has thusfar included:
-an artichoke sandwich
-aperitivo at several bars surrounded by heart-breakingly cool young Romans that made me want to hide in the bathroom
-a torrential downpour--I can't escape the rainforest that easily
-a tiny but excellent apartment overlooking a bustling plaza
-the Pantheon, which (surprise surprise) is way cooler in person
-delicious anticipation of our upcoming weeks in the south

Europe for Beginners

2011-07-25T10:52:00.000-07:00

well, i'm flying to Italy tomorrow. rome for five days then frasso telesino for two weeks. don't really have anything more to say but: oh boy! and stay posted.

Um...Oops

2011-07-11T09:27:00.000-07:00

Suffice to say this weekend did not turn out as expected. I was planning to suffer and plod through the run and then surge from behind to take the throne during the six-hour. I assumed I would be deathly sore and fatigued from the run but would somehow rise like a phoenix to conquer the course--after all, I am in no way a competitive-level runner, and am in some ways a competitive-level rider.

Well, I won the half marathon.

I do not win running races.

Uwharrie was way...way...way...way too many fireroads. Yet somehow this didn't daunt me. I went on my merry way, heart beating in time to the pitter patter of high cadence footsteps, drenched with sweat in the 93% humidity. Zoning out on the fresh logging roads and relishing the rare singletrack. Then St Marie, who was trawling the course on his Stumpy, gave me a news flash: Number one!

Say what?

When we crossed paths again and he confirmed it, I settled into grinning complacency--until I glimpsed the light-footed form of another female right behind me. Terrified, I pushed hard for the last four miles and finished, arms raised, only 45 seconds in front of her. Sub-two hours.

Me and my "arch nemesis"

On Sunday I forgot, in a combination of laziness and cockiness, that a six-hour is about riding as many laps as you can, not as many laps as you can get away with. Feeling way better than anticipated, I took a huge early lead, pinned it for a few laps, then started taking longer and longer breaks. I would eat, drink, and watch the course, trying to ascertain where the eff my competition was. Finally after five laps, my hands and ass whimpering for respite, I asked the well-meaning but somewhat inept race director what my gap was. He told me #2 (who was also second in the run) was two long laps down, with an hour and a half to go. After I had thrown in the towel, changed clothes, and put on my shades, he let me know that the timing was screwed up and she was actually only one lap down. No way was I kitting up again, and my faulty math led me to believe I still had the W.

Alas. My mistake was revealed at awards. So in a very strange turn of events, I won a half marathon and lost a six-hour that I had been totally crushing. I still netted the Queen of the Mountain, but it was a hollow victory because not only was the competition pretty sparse...I couldn't even beat the sparse competition!

Well, we still had fun...and I definitely won't do it again, thanks.

And Then There Was This

2011-07-06T12:26:00.000-07:00

thanks to ella for the fab photo

Fast Times

2011-07-05T19:20:00.000-07:00

You know how once in a while you'll have an experience that's such pure fun, so gut-bustingly funny, so grin-inducing, so achingly perfect that you want to preserve it in amber and take it out to warm you on some boring, depressing winter day?

This weekend contained a quick succession of just such experiences, the best of which was the first annual Fast Times at Brevard High Alley Cat. Dan somehow masterminded an amazing race that was both super casual and very involved--detailed course maps, intricate scoring calculated under the influence, and a couple of checkpoints that were sheer genius.

The biking community of Brevard and its suburbs answered the challenge, and how--the Arbogasts rolled up with decorated children in tow,

Cissy and Dave came all the way from Hendo to embarrass their competitors, the King of Pisgah wore a black sequined jumpsuit,

JT proved himself an adept freestyler when accompanied by some fresh Barbie beats,

and quite a few participants forsook the race for some cornhole and cream ale.

I spent most of the race with my lady friends at the costume checkpoint and couldn't count the number of times I keeled over laughing. The best part was reuniting with everyone at the Root and hearing the war stories--time-trialing on the bike path, creative interpretations of the local knowledge photo bonuses, old man dance parties, and pancake flipping under threat of a soaking. Dan Bennett, town shutterbug, took a gabillion pictures and I dare you to find a single shot in which everyone is not beaming ear to ear. To Dan, T Cowie, everyone who manned a checkpoint, and all sixty-something people who showed up to have some fun: well done! As if I needed another reminder that Brevard is absolutely awesome.

Oh Hi

2011-06-29T14:32:00.000-07:00

Forgive the extended hiatus. I have done literally nothing worth alerting the interwebs about. I had composed a little ode to summer in Brevard, but it rang hollow when I reread it a few weeks later--true to form, after a May of quasi-bacchanalia and carpe diem-ing, I have reverted back to my natural state of book- and blueberry-devouring lounge lizard, ready to call it bedtime at the drop of a hat.

Race weekends and epic runs have passed me by with little effect. Nothing looms on the horizon except a trip to Italy (the idea of which seems too unreal and ephemeral to talk about) and this weekend's alley cat (sure to be the social event of the century).

Nonplussed by all this inactivity, I decided (with the usual hemming, hawing, flip-flopping, and backpedaling) to sign up for the Uwharrie Rumble in two weeks: half marathon on Saturday, six hour mountain bike race on Sunday. Highest scoring woman wins the coveted Queen of the Mountain title.

A whole new flavor of stupid, ne c'est pas? (Oh crap, I can't even say that in Italian.) Prompted by my desire to check out Uwharrie, I've committed myself to an entirely new way to discover that I don't like racing. Yay! It also appeals to my secret love of omniums--I may be mediocre, but I'm consistent, gosh darnit. Fortunately I'll have the emotional/logistical support of the Saint...although it will assuredly be peppered with I toldja so's when I'm a whiny, cramping wreck mid-race Sunday...

Always good to have a positive outcome. Stay posted. I promise a scintillating synopsis of the alley cat as well.

Burn 24

2011-06-01T07:32:00.000-07:00

This weekend the PAC sent quite a posse to the Burn 24 Hour race at Dark Mountain. After much jostling and last minute changes we presented ourselves to the (rather annoyed) registration people as a three-pronged juggernaut of co-ed fury. We were all smirking and nudging each other, fully expecting a podium sweep by the pasty mountain folk.

Twenty-four hours later, the pieces hadn't exactly fallen as we'd expected. Granted, the KOP (who is allergic to failure) and his loyal cadre had scored the win, but trailing them by only a few minutes were some (wicked fast) randos from Charlotte or something. Third by less than ten minutes was T Cowie's team, and then in fourth was my team--we had judiciously chosen to skip the last lap because our shot at the podium had grown slim at that point.

Look at all those scofflaws who think they don't have to wear kits on the podium!

That said, the competition was intense the entire time. Every lap out was a battle of titans--the margins were tiny, the stakes were high, and everyone had a goal, whether it was fastest lap time, catching the old man in front of them, or just staying upright on the slick off-camber roots. It was not a mellow twenty-four hours, in any case.

The course was fabulous. None of the climbs were too hard so you could concentrate on pinning it and ripping the ridiculously fun descents. But by night the pace had taken its toll. I felt like we were all floating in a bowl of tepid soup and all my clothes were either sweaty or dewy. Oatmeal cream pies had lost their appeal and fatigue had set in. Laps in the witching hour weren't my favorite--stumbling out of my tent in clammy chamois to wait once again in the transition area for the ghostly emergence of a teammate from the fog begged that tough question: why the eff are we doing this???

But sometime around 6:45am I went out for another and discovered why people race these silly things: the first lap of dawn is a glorious thing. Caution and timidity flee and you're overwhelmed with irrational euphoria--I can see everything! The sun is a beautiful thing.

Afterwards, placated by free BBQ and many hours of sleep, I realized that it was a durn good time and the PAC represented like champs. I got fastest women's day AND night laps, which was pretty exciting, and had lots of fun with everyone.

Yay!

The Tyranny of Toenails

2011-05-22T14:38:00.000-07:00

The other day I ran for the first time since the Art Loeb. Not by choice, mind you. I was buzzing from that experience and itching to go days later. Unfortunately because I spent ten hours slamming my feet into the front of my shoes, I had contracted the apparently common malady of black toenails, with blood blisters on both feet. Painful, unsightly, ominously portending the loss of my precious nails--I was alarmed and queased out, and so have avoided running until now.

I don't often go so long without running, and lordie how I have missed it! I didn't realize how deeply, happily addicted to it I've become. It wasn't the usual twitchy irritable need for exercise--I've been feeding the rat a steady diet of mtb rides--but more of a wistful longing. When I run it's so quiet and simple. My brain shuts off except for the slow trickle of filigreed phrases I store up to write down later. Running has none of the folderol and riskiness of riding; lace up, head out, alone, undaunted.

Since my nails hadn't fallen off yet, I anticipated that first run like a birthday. Back on the trails! Please! After a slow start up the so-familiar rises of Sycamore, I took off. And felt like I was flying.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

2011-05-09T09:37:00.000-07:00

2,200 to over 6,000 feet...31 miles...

Go look up Bridges Camp Gap on the Pisgah Ranger District map. Go ahead. I'll wait.

...See where it intersects with the Parkway? That's where I finished my day yesterday. Now see if you can find the Art Loeb--it's very brightly marked (on the map. Not in real life.) The two trails are pretty durn far apart, wouldn't you say?

But more on that later.

I leapt out of bed with the first chiming of my alarm clock. Had breakfast, drank some coffee, listened to some tunes, was out the door. I felt like a rock star.

A big crowd turned out at 7am at Davidson River Campground: Jackie, Sara, Cason+Kira, Sadie, Lydia, Leah, Gordon+Gary, and me. Only the last four of us had any intentions of doing the big mama--everyone else was peacing out at Gloucester, about 12.5 miles in.

It was a wonderful run. I felt like a little filly prancing uphill and everyone was in high spirits, chatting and smiling, with nary a whiff of competition or jostling for position. The forest was bathed in apple green with heady bursts of color from the flame azaleas peeking around every corner. Grasshoppers fled before us, ricocheting off leaves like leggy ball bearings.

I think my smile was this big most of the time. (The good pics are courtesy of Gordon Murray)

Then at Gloucester the bailers fed us and watered us and we said our fond farewells. Up the stairway to hell, up Pilot Mountain we clambered for what felt like hours, only to descend (oh Art Loeb, you brutal mistress, always stealing the elevation gains back from us) to Farlow Gap, where Todd Branham and some SORBA friends were doing trail work. It was nice to see familiar faces.

A beautiful day on top of Pilot Mountain. Obviously my camera phone doesn't do it justice.

The vistas were choice, the weather was amazing, and I felt spry all the way to Black Balsam, although I was out of water and a bit daunted by the remaining mileage. However, I was still within my limits mentally and physically, refueling like a champ, and feeling gregarious and talkative.

Between the Parkway and Black Balsam

I'll just say it: everything we did past Black Balsam kind of sucked. The trail is a warped cavity eroded into the hillside and the signage is inadequate to say the least. Fortunately the 360 degree views almost make up for it. And I am biased against the final leg now because of what happened. I blindly trusted the experience and map skills of my companions but after a couple of missed intersections we went way...way...way off course. We plunged down miles of steep, debris-cluttered trail into a deep valley, which was nice and all until we came upon a camper who told us just how far off track we were (possibly on the unpleasantly named Greasy Cove, although it could've been any unmarked trail). Fortunately we were only a couple miles from the Parkway, and what could have been a very serious issue was only a minor inconvenience. We sustained no injuries, suffered only a little bonkage, and emerged from the woods with our sanities and friendship intact, albeit feeling a little sheepish and disheartened. And still did almost the same mileage, even if we didn't accomplish our goal.

The final word? Aside from serious navigational issues and not enough water, it was awesome, especially the first two-thirds. It did not destroy me in body or soul and unlike the Shut-In, which I may not do again, I would run the Art Loeb again in two weeks. Really. It was an experience worth having.

Permission to Gloat?

2011-05-06T15:39:00.000-07:00

Guess what I'm doing on Sunday.
The Art Loeb.
Guess what I'm NOT doing today.
Collegiate Road Nationals.*
Guess what I'm NOT doing tomorrow.
PMBAR.

In a weekend of interminable suffer-fests, I think I win; mine is the most relaxed and least intimidating.
Seriously though, there are 3,478 painful and terrible things I'd rather do than race Natz, and there are almost as many (902) painful and terrible things I'd rather do than race PMBAR. Good luck and many sympathies to the folks doing those painful and terrible things.

*Seriously. Road nats '09 and '10 were awful. Lower-circles-of-hell awful. Mommy-why-won't-the-pain-stop awful.

Reverie

2011-04-27T14:56:00.000-07:00

April is waning and suddenly it's less than two weeks until my rendezvous with the white blazes. I have been making some attempts to prepare, inasmuch as one or two ten-milers a week can prepare me for a thirty-miler (the probable answer: notsomuch). I think it is helping more mentally than physically--after all, the Art Loeb is nothing but prolonged steep uphills and prolonged steep downhills, my two favorite features of Pisgah. If nothing else, I can turn my brain to the right setting for that noise.

If I really want to rev my engine beforehand, I probably ought to read Born to Run for the third time--it never fails to ignite a temporary lust for long plodding miles of singletrack. That book does the same thing for me as really good DH videos, which may be indicative of the nature of each sport. Running is my cerebral, solitary retreat, while I like riding because it is adrenaline-pumping, sphincter-clenching, and delightfully social.

There may be nothing finer than a well-made DH video. I entertain no dreams of gravity racing but those films have universal mountain biking appeal. Something about the perfect integration of images and music elevates both to their maximum potential. For example, I watched Made the other evening. Long ago I had decided that Tegan and Sara wasn't really the band for me. But on this viewing of Made I noticed how perfectly the angry, plaintive rock of "The Con" meshed with some righteous shredding at Bromont, and I fell head over heels for it. That song has now been on repeat in my head for a week.

I love how a different perspective or context can completely alter and improve a song. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' first album always left me a bit cold because it seemed too simplistic and punky, but then I listened to a podcast that explained the song "Maps". It was a based on Karen O's disintegrating relationship and in the video her face shows unbearable pain. Another song that is now running through my brain nonstop.

Sometimes when someone I respect really likes a song or artist, I give it more time and consideration than I otherwise would. I recently downloaded the Sleigh Bells album because it got so much buzz last year. After a few plays I relegated it to the Meh pile as being too noisy and repetitive. Then it came up during an unintentional listening session with some friends, who all thought the album was great. It inspired in Rimmer this flawless gem of musical criticism: "The intro [to "Treats"] makes me want to set fire to a car, and the rest of the song makes me want to watch it burn."

Needless to say it's back on my playlist.

Forgive the tangents but this is what I was thinking about on my run today, through smothering humidity, cloudbursts, and the intoxicating smell of wet ferns. I never talk about music on this blog. It seems like a pretty personal and subjective pleasure, and similar to people who constantly label themselves "foodies", I think people who are deeply enamored with their own opinions about music are beyond annoying. But I think we all know what it's like to be really affected by something we're listening to, and that is why I feel okay talking about it.

After Careful Consideration, The Two Most Important Reasons Why I Run In The Forest Instead Of In Town

2011-04-23T08:45:00.001-07:00

1: I like to run without a shirt but am deeply self-conscious.

2: Peeing in the woods is on my list of top five favorite things to do in the whole world.

Redefining Stupidity

2011-04-06T10:20:00.001-07:00

my fast fit runner friend leah wandered into the bakery yesterday and casually threw down the gauntlet: 'i've got a free weekend in may and a few friends who want to run the whole art loeb. interested?'

well, yes. the art loeb is on my list of stuff i'd like to do in the next few years. but next month? ouch. she lobbed that terrifying tennis ball into my court and the only thing i could volley back was an, 'um, ok.'

it's haunting my thoughts now. the longest run i've ever done, on an insanely technical and demanding trail? sounds like...the shut-in. which, at (almost) two thirds the distance of the AL, destroyed me. however, a thirty mile group run/hike means less pressure and no entry fee to justify. there is a good chance i'll bail somewhere near gloucester gap or black balsam, so i can prepare for that likelihood. meanwhile, baker bill and i ran up bennett/buckwheat and down avery today and i felt positively spry. now my mind is buzzing with ways to prepare for the madness. laps of presley? repeats on coontree?

stay posted. i may opt out, or i may discover a secret wellspring of masochism that turns me into an ultra-endurance runner.

although the latter is unlikely.

note: leah has already survived it a couple of times, as has jbw and any number of other crazies. and i want to join their crazy ilk.

On Eating Ungulate

2011-03-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

A couple jars of braised elk, the fruit of someone else's hunting labor, were collecting dust in my cupboard. One night in need of a quick, grocery store-free meal with a jolt of protein, I unearthed the forgotten lode. With some trepidation CK and I eyed the jar, but the seal was still intact, so we each speared a piece of the tender meat and ate it. We waited the requisite twelve seconds and no violent stomach spasms ensued, so dinner was on!

Pre-prepared meat makes dinner a snap for flesh-phobes like us. Now it's become a game--how many different ways can we associate canned meat into our nightly repast? The elk, which was bagged somewhere in the Rockies, has now been subject to a variety of quasi-ethnic cuisines. It adorned tomatoes, okra, and cheesy grits, accompanied parmesan pasta with fried egg and yard spinach, and topped couscous in tzatziki sauce. Last night it was elk tamales with piquant pico de gallo, pepper jack, and pinto beans. (Oh how I love alimentary aliteration!)

Once a majestic free spirit roaming the wilderness, this critter now graces my table in various flavorful forms.

Now we've killed one jar but there are still a few more lurking in the back of the pantry. Suggestions?

Race Reportage?

2011-03-24T19:11:00.000-07:00

i was waiting for pictures from the weekend to surface so that i could adorn this post with something but it seems that nothing will appear, and i am buzzing off a great group ride with the fellas, so i thought i'd throw this out there.

hobby park, first real-ish xc race of the season. yes, i promise i am retired, but despite that i keep finding myself filling out waivers, kitting up, standing on start lines. an unpleasant but short winter has meant a lot more time on the trails this year, and while i'm not IN TRAINING (this is always italicized and in caps in my head), i've put in a lot of fun hours with the baby dino, who is really maturing into a lovely little Era.

after a chill start i trailed Fast Anina for awhile, knowing that she wasn't working too hard to hold me off. i caught phantom glimpses of her through the trees but worried more about Tenacious Bonnie, who stayed a minute off my back the whole time. at first i was terribly irked because if there's one thing i hate in bike racing, it's having a pursuant...or being in pursuit...or being alone...

eventually i realized that while i couldn't widen the gap, she also couldn't narrow it, and i let it motivate me. i pushed the big ring as often as possible and stayed smooth on the bike. and admired the toadshades popping out of the leaves.

it was way fun, which is not an adjective i associate with racing. this bodes well for the season (which of course is not really a season, you know, because i'm retired.)

st marie also had a good race, and don't let him tell you otherwise.

p.s. happy spring!

Good Eats

2011-03-16T09:58:00.000-07:00

warm weather brings with it outdoor dining and late night bull sessions. this week i and my favored coterie (housemate, her mate, my mate) collaborated on some more interesting dishes in honor of the changing of the clocks. saturday night we had grilled sausage on hard rolls with spicy asian slaw and sauteed onions, washed down with a growler of craggie's antebellum ale. on monday it was stir-fried bok choy and cabbage and pan-fried tilapia over couscous, and last night we did yet another riff of our favorite cheap entree: the epic salad, this time with arugula, strawberries, homemade croutons, avocado, goat cheese, and local eggs. and of course warm chocolate chip cookies for dessert. rumor has it that shrimp and grits are on the menu for friday night. who needs restaurants?

I'm Not Moving to Florida

2011-03-14T07:46:00.000-07:00

it was the great land of the unknown. for me, it was the opposite of milk and honey; it was the land of sweat and no elevation change. for years i had mocked this unfortunate protrusion off the bulk of the country, this elongated blister that produced so many slow drivers and so few people that recycle. my roommate, a native of that state, had suffered my not-so-gentle ribbing for too long. "julia, it's time that you shed your ignorant preconceptions of my homeland. join me in an enlightening trek southward."

florida, for all its enumerable flaws, was not quite as bad as i expected. while i went brain-dead driving everywhere to do everything, that's a feature of any sprawling wasteland, whether it be los angeles, charlotte, or the midwest. we visited pristine beaches and played in the clear cerulean water. we pretended to have a bit of culture and took in some art at the dalí museum. yes, we were surrounded by stereotypical seniors who carried on loud conversations in grating boston accents, but there are plenty of northern transplants in toxaway and cashiers too. and even though the air was filled with the sound of honking and the smell of fast food, i sometimes caught a whiff of orange blossoms and ripening strawberries.

florida is a swampy flatland devoid of character (so i thought) and i brought my mountain bike without much hope that it would see action. false. through some helpful contacts i found riding buddies for two solid days in the saddle. first i hit alafia river state park, which imba has named an epic trail system. epic it was not, but fun it was. florida trail-builders are by necessity insanely creative. the trails were snaky masterpieces carved into limestone and dirt, through algae ponds, palmettos, and tangerine groves, with plenty of heart-stopping drops and ledges. the next day i explored balm boyette with a fellow spring-breaker and we discovered the new destination trail of the area: ridgeline. ridgeline, which was built in '08, was probably the most exhilarating two miles i've ever ridden. it was a corkscrew roller coaster of out-of-control whoops, each one taller than the next. no pictures or videos do it justice, so you'll just have to take my word that it was a gem.

i, of course, took nary a picture because the only time i think to extricate my camera is when i see mountains. let's pretend i took this:

"wow," you're wondering. "how did she manage such a nice aerial shot?" don't worry about it.

so. even as i sat happily eating toast in caitlin's backyard, wearing shorts in wintertime, shaded by wisteria and grapefruit trees, the thought never crossed my mind that i wanted to live there. sorry florida. you were kinda nice, but no thank you.

Ode to Pisgah

2011-03-03T06:27:00.000-08:00

I hadn't been running in awhile so I decided to go hurt myself on Pressley Cove before work. It was a beautiful day, just like every other day in February. My heart pounded and my legs burned as I puffed slowly up the climb, which must attain a thirty degree slope in places. Although my brain was addled and anaerobic, reasons to love Pisgah kept popping into my head.

Passing by that incongruous chimney built off to the side of Maxwell, I stopped to read the plaque commemorating it as a historic feature. I have always liked the utilitarian history of the forest. It was not protected for or shaped by hikers and bikers; before there was IMBA, Tom Ritchey, or Gary Fisher, there was Gifford Pinchot, Carl Schenck, and George Vanderbilt.

Scanning for that secret connector that would spit me back out on Avery Creek Road, I thought with affection of the trail maintenance grudgingly performed by a small cadre of forest rangers and independent contractors. For the most part they leave us to our own devices; we avoid the puddles, brush away the briars, and mold the trails with heavy travel, whether by foot, hoof, or tire.

I love the delicious snobbism that we've cultivated living here. "Oh, you have eighty miles of trails? Well, we have hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest. Oh, you have a gnarly rock garden that everyone sessions? Well, we have Daniel Ridge. Oh, you drive an hour on weekends when you want a change of scenery? Well, we have Dupont."

I love the miles upon miles of gravel roads upon which you can beat your brain into submission. I love the seasonal trails; just as the weather turns glum, we have them to look forward to like early Christmas presents. I love the glittering exhilaration in the eyes of a newcomer after that first descent of something super sketchy.

I love the friendly hikers with their day packs and ski poles. And even the not-so-friendly ones; their snarling possessiveness just means they love it too. I love the fevered masochism of people who compete in the Double Dare, the stage race, or the Pitchell 100k (sheer insanity). I love the tourists who lumber around the parking lots like corpulent dollar signs, because they never defile the quiet havens a half mile from their cars. I love the rugged, majestic views you encounter on almost every trail.

It's times like this, when I know I haven't seen half of what Pisgah has to offer, that I question my (or anyone's) need to leave here for even a few years. I will definitely go somewhere else, but I will just as definitely come back.

Nothing New Here

2011-02-27T08:07:00.000-08:00

someone told me recently that my blog is a one trick pony because the only message i ever convey is happy-happy-joy-joy. well, this post is not going to change a thing. how can i possibly write with solemnity or dismay when i've had two cups of coffee and it's SEVENTY-ONE DEGREES OUTSIDE, and i'm about to go for a mtb ride with my saint because my lovely bosses at ye olde red house understand that going outside to play in the sunshine is more important than changing sheets and dusting.

riding laurel/pilot with some of my favorite stumpy club members

other events have also been causing a surplus of joy in my life. weather is first and foremost of course; my mood is absurdly dependent on sunshine. but even when the sun goes down i can get together with my favorite lady friends and have a good time eating, drinking, and posing for silly pictures.

luv.

last week mi madre and i made the trek to charlotte to attend a super fab cupping'n'stuff hosted by the bakery's coffee supplier. there are few things i love better than standing around in skinny jeans pretending to taste cedar and citrus in a cup of joe. pretentious coffee talk really revs my engine.

aaaand despite all those claims of retirement i found myself tracking down all the race dates of the season to add to my planner. just, you know, in case i happen to have a free weekend and want to go drive a few hours and pay dollars to ride around in a circle chasing fast women in the elusive hunt for glory and fame.

or whatever.

also i joined the new club in town because, i mean, who wouldn't want to roll with a pac?

Still Here

2011-02-17T08:47:00.000-08:00

As usual, I have failed my reader(s) in providing that most essential element of blogging: timeliness.

So remember how I went to California? And on the last day I was there I rode Mt Diablo? And planned to chronicle that ride? Well it was one of the best and most beautiful road rides I've ever done. Then I had to abridge it because of some nasty wind up top. So I was going to call my post "The Mountain Wins Again". You like that musical reference? I did. And then somehow seventeen days passed. The post (which was sure to be both clever and lyrical) never got written.

Oops.

It was around here on Mt Diablo that the wind reached 40 mph.

And now the Icycle has also passed. As always, it was the best race weekend of the year. We enjoyed lovely weather, good friends, an appearance by the Enemy Lovers, free beer from Pisgah Brewing, lots of spaghetti, and topped it all off with a silly death march of a group ride at Tsali on Sunday. It was cool to win both races but I do wish the lady turn-out had been a bit more substantial. Come on, girls!

My mother has been spamming me with links about San Luis Obispo, CA for a few days; she is convinced it's the spot for me. I'm inclined to agree but suddenly the weather has taken a turn for the (WAY) better and I am in less of a hurry to get outta here.

Dan Bennett getting all artsy. A good shot of the baby dino in action.

Ride Log

2011-01-31T22:00:00.000-08:00

Friday: California One Youth and Beauty Brigade

I wrote up a little cue sheet based off some local knowledge and made my way over to Highway 1. I didn't mind the brutal wind because I was too busy looking out over the water (not taking pictures). I turned around in Davenport and proceeded to skip the best part of the loop, trusting blindly to the poor set of directions affixed to my handlebars. I could only retrace my steps and eventually with some frustration got back to the house. I am cursed with a poor sense of direction and abysmal navigational skills. My only hope when in new towns is to blindly foray into the wilderness until I develop some sense of place. Chrissy's commuter bike was perfect for that.

If I had taken pictures they would of course have looked like this.

Saturday: The SC Hustle

Ah, a Saturday morning group ride! Legend has it this one has been going on for thirty years. I arrived early and explained to a woman who races for Vanderkitten (yes, I was secretly excited) that I was a noob. She and everyone within earshot seemed very worried for my well-being because there were sprint points along the ride (duh) and I wasn't familiar with the area. "You do have a cell phone, right?" is code for: "When you get dropped, you can find your own way back, right?" Fair enough. Seventy people showed for the ride and I swam along in the sea of roadies listening to their absurd chatter: "I won this sprint last week." "Hold your line!" "So this clown wasn't doing ANY work, so I told him to either get the f@#$ off the front or help us pull in the break." "I've been on the rollers for three months getting ready for the so-and-so race." "I was the third person to buy Di2 and the president of Shimano called me..." (Yeah, really.) Anyhoo, after some tepid sprints (nothing is hard when you're sitting in a paceline the size of an eighteen-wheeler) we rolled into Watsonville. The sixty-milers took off for the mountains, which were wreathed in clouds; they beckoned to me. But I only had one bottle and didn't trust my own fitness, so I took the easy way out. Alas.

A rainbow over San Lorenzo River (or, more accurately, a rainbow over the part of town where the prostitutes live).

Sunday: Arana Gulch

Off-and-on drizzle hindered me from conquering Highway 1 so I returned the road bike to Beth and went for a little run down to the harbor. This was definitely one of those DAMN, NO CAMERA outings. I followed a tiny meandering dirt path behind the harbor and found myself in a wide open meadow ringed with trees. The sky was dramatic as the rain evaporated and the sun fought its way out, and there was no sign that this lush green space was in the middle of a city.

Monday: Wow

I'm up in Walnut Creek now, and I borrowed my aunt's (teeny tiny) Litespeed for some more exploring. I started in Orinda and in barely fifteen minutes I'd escaped the bonds of upper middle class suburbia and was meandering through dank wooded tunnels. Then the road turned up and climbed to Redwood Regional Park. It was a gradual, winding scenic climb like the backside of 215. I was way happy, and the descent down the other side was not bad either. Chastened by my pitiful previous attempts to make loops, I opted for an out and back, which more than quenched my need for scenery.

The reservoir. Fyi, Oakland: I spit in it.
Not really.

Yay uphill!

Tomorrow: Mount Diablo! (Dramatic music)

I'm Never Going Home

2011-01-27T13:28:00.000-08:00

In all honesty this trip to Cali was impromptu and I forgot to get excited about it until I was on the plane. I had no expectations and figured even if it was a forgettable week I would at least get in some good face time with the west coast family.

Apparently low expectations beget fabulous trips. Or maybe it's just the combination of A-MAZ-ING weather and incredibly welcoming friends and family. Wandering the streets in shorts and sandals, reading on the beach, and riding bikes in short sleeves has got me dreading the return trip.

My wonderful cousin Chrissy treated me to breakfast at Cafe Brasil, where they serve coffee that's like the nectar of the gods. I had some nummy poached eggs over avocado and baguette.

I asked my friend Beth if I could maybepossiblyperhaps borrow a mountain bike, to save the money and worry of shipping or renting a bike. Um...she came through IN SPADES. Today I got to ride a carbon Trance up and down a mountain. We went out early while it was still chilly (and by that I mean fifty degrees...) and met up with a group of six other awesome, fast women to ride for a couple hours. We pinned it up a long dirt road climb then descended forever on marvelous snaky singletrack through the redwoods. The five inch bike made for some durn good riding.
And as if that wasn't enough, Beth then lent me her titanium road bike for the rest of the week. I don't believe there has ever been a better time and place for some solitary wandering road rides. I think I'll go explore Highway 1 tomorrow.

This might have been called Sand Point. Right before the sick-ass descent of West...ridge? I think.

Plunder from the farmers' market. Last night we made salad with sauteed rainbow chard, kalamata olive croutons, and roasted root veggies.

I don't even like beaches. But I like this one. And it's two blocks from the house.

Mmmm Santa Cruz

2011-01-25T16:47:00.000-08:00

This Is One of Those Things Words Can't Express

2011-01-19T08:03:00.000-08:00

The cycling world just lost one of its most promising, talented, and friendliest stars. Carla Swart was a truly amazing individual and I can't believe she's gone.

One is Silver and the Other's Gold

2011-01-18T12:22:00.001-08:00

I made a bike purchase this week, purportedly in the effort to streamline my fleet, but really just to experience that *rush* again.

It's a Stevens cross bike but will function mostly as a road bike; Rimmer, St Marie, and T Cowie all rocked cantilevers on the road, so why can't I? The candy cane bike (for which I admittedly never held deep feelings) must depart the quiver to make room for this new arrow, but I'm holding onto the Redline, because it's a lovely lovely bike, a great commuter, and very dear to my heart.

I took the still-unnamed beauty on a short ride today and was quite happy with the experience. I seem doomed never to break the 20 pound barrier but I can't muster the energy to care; the geometry feels racey and it quite possibly descends waymorebetter than the Allez (although that may have been because I haven't taken off the cross tires yet). The Cane Creek cantis are a delight, and the Sram Apex group is snappy and feels more expensive than it is. (The jury is out on the double tap shifters though. I struggled a bit with the long throw. Methinks some adjustment is in order.) It also came with full Thomson bits and who doesn't love some dirty south bling? The wheel situation is still in flux, but as long as it rolls I can't complain.

It was just blue and white but...I couldn't resist imposing an Uhmerica color scheme on this German steed.

So there's a fresh-outta-the-box review, colored by excitement and by no means comprehensive. But on the other hand, I've owned the baby dinosaur for almost a year now and it deserves more praise than I've thought to give it.

Dear Specialized (and Sycamore Cycles):

I love my Era more than life itself.

K thanx bai

Also, loving the XX crank. A compact makes a durn lot of sense for mountain biking, and this crank is CRAZAY stiff. So stiff that even I notice it. And I cannot say often enough or with enough breathless emotion that my I9 Ultralites freaking rock. I would get in a bar fight over these wheels, if some hapless patron dared to claim another wheel was superior. This baby dino "review" may seem a fit of gratuitous eulogizin', but my point is more that I've now spec'ed my mountain bike EXACTLY as I want it and couldn't imagine it being any better.

I can't ride it so I take pictures of it. Sigh.

Twentyeleven

2011-01-17T13:00:00.000-08:00

cool stuff that has happened in '11 so far:

-the saint and i hiked up to big rock on new year's eve and ate chocolate pecan pie at midnight.

-i've only had to work three or four days a week.

-a posse of us went down to ride at paris mountain. new favorite south kack trail system, fo sho!

-cross country skiing. fun and tiring, although i am totally shite at it. yep:

-new decemberists album!

-new cross bike!

This Makes Me Smile

2010-12-31T09:30:00.000-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i24IKWqfTGc

Aftermath of a White Christmas

2010-12-29T15:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I went for a snowy bike ride and today I went for a snowy run, and I was tickled to follow my own tire tracks down the trail.

Maybe the only cool thing about lingering snow is that it works almost as a census taker. In town you call tell who doesn't drive very often by the sheets of snow on their cars; some people have pristine yards, proof that they either don't have children (or a sense of child-like wonder) or that their children were too preoccupied with new Christmas video games to bother with sleds and snow pants.

In the woods you notice that for some reason Upper and Lower Sycamore are the most heavily traveled trails; that lots of people are trying out their shiny new hiking poles or xc skis; that there's some fascinating carcass or excrement down below Mountains-to-Sea that has all the dogs investigating; that only one person has been dumb enough to ride Grassy and she was running a Captain in the front and a Sauserwind in the back. Best of all, you see evidence that families make full use of the forest--and each tiny set of bootprints trudging behind grown-up size steps, with paw prints dancing in and out among the human, is a little love letter to Pisgah.

Photos Found

2010-12-12T06:15:00.000-08:00

So here's the best cx race ever, in Unicoi, TN. Some of these are messed up because the camera was on a weird setting.

I was having a blast. If these were bigger than thumbnails you could actually tell.

The setting was very pretty. If you squint you might almost think we were in Colorado or something...ish.

Before and after. The Era has about ten extra pounds of grass/mud weight.

This was before T Cowie stopped having fun.

And that's all I got. Mad photo-documentation skills? Check.

oops

2010-12-10T14:52:00.000-08:00

the days and weeks continue their inexorable march and i have failed to document them. after each race or "race" i attend, i delay blogging in the hopes that i will come across a photo or two to adorn an otherwise stark entry...and every time my search fails. the world wide web does not deign to acknowledge my existence.

and so a month has passed.

in that month i poached a couple of tiny cross races to make money while skirting anything challenging for the most part...except for hendo. my first ever uci race and LORDIE was i outclassed. i stayed strong the whole time and didn't piddle around moping about my poor performance, so that's something. fighting tooth and nail for 19th place is a new and humbling experience. plus, uci races require FOUR NUMBERS, UGH, so needless to say i'll be avoiding them in the future.

i would like to get into cyclocross shape, but suddenly it's december and the season seems to have passed me by. now i'm getting a bit amped about next season, despite all my protestations about "retirement" and such nonsense. i just bought a sram XX crank for my sweet baby dinosaur and am close to puking with excitement about it--nicest component i've ever owned, sexysexy industry nines aside.

have you ever seen anything so beautiful? i mean, besides my bike.

of course, st marie heard about my purchase and upped the ante by ordering a couple of new carbon xc bikes and a dh bike, so......dick move.

what, you're still talking about that? here's proof that i actually did the shut-in, although my face is lying. it says: 'i am taking a merry jaunt in the woods,' while my brain says: 'i can't feel my left leg and this was the worst idea you've ever had. i hate you. i'm going to sleep now.' pic by paul christopher.

cross in tennessee. there are better pictures hiding somewhere and i'll post them, but for now believe that it was veryvery muddy and veryvery fun. not pictured: me slipping and sliding around on a full suspension, grinning from ear to ear. also not pictured: t cowie eating it in a race that consisted of him, himself, and he.

sorry.

i am also all a-tingle about next year because (and understand that my plans are entirely fluid and liable to change) so far scheduled:

santa cruz in january, to visit my cousin and ride as much mtb as possible

saint pete in march, to hang out with caitlin and do silly florida things like drink wine on the beach at night...in 70 degree weather...

crete in june (and maybe london beforehand), to play archaeologist with some of my favorite bc professors.

more proof that i am deferring 'life' in order to live.

And Now, Without Further Ado...

2010-11-08T08:08:00.000-08:00

Before delving into my own personal sufferfest, I want to extend high fives to other people in this long weekend of sufferfests. Here's a vague high five to everyone who raced that marathon in New York or wherever, and to everyone who did the Iceman, which looks super stupid, and to all the loud and encouraging spectators who swarmed the Shut-In. A very specific couple of high fives to Jenna and Lydia for being wonderful volunteers on the deserted, snowy Parkway. And a whole round of "up highs" for all my friends who crushed the Swank. The KOP proved that he will probably get faster every freaking year until he is eighty, Geoff B got fourth with a broken rib, and Derek finished strong on three different bikes, which tickles me to no end.

So.

Confidence, which is supposed to have all kinds of miracle uses and magical results, has never really done good things for me in competition. Whether it be soccer games, XC meets, or bike races, I perform best when I've achieved a subtle blend of grumpiness, pessimism, apathy, and disgruntlement. I approached the Shut-In feeling prepared, eager, and confident of success, and just like those malignant clouds over the mountains, I should've known this peppy optimism did not bode well.

Dear Julia: Fear me. Love, the Parkway

No, I can't really blame the awfulness of the experience to some abstract concept like a good attitude. Contributing factors included: the cold; the cramping; the coldness of my calves; the coldness of my water; the coldness of a single GU lodged in my gut, which kept me from eating anything else the whole run.

All right, no more excuses. The Shut-In was very hard, very painful, somewhat rewarding, and veryveryvery beautiful. Even as I zombie-staggered up the brutal final two miles, sobbing from oxygen debt and hating the panting progress of other runners as they passed me, I couldn't help but notice the sun piercing the snow clouds, and the glitter of the frost-laced puffs of weeds lining the path. If I had to die the dramatic, absurd death I was envisioning for myself, at least I would be in heaven on earth.

Oh, and to everyone who said, "Beat Baker Bill,": not even close. He had a great race and beat me by ten minutes. Despite falling apart, I did meet my target of a sub-4 hour finish (which I realize now was not an especially lofty goal).

A less than rosy experience after the finish did not help matters, but eventually we escaped the sub-freezing windy venue and returned to real life in the valley below. It's kind of hard to walk now, but safely ensconced in my warm bed, I am (as usual) forgetting that promise I made to myself during the last ten miles: "Never again, never again, never again."

Maybe again.

The view from the top (images courtesy of Ian Hilley)

Four Weeks in 500 Words or Less

2010-11-04T14:11:00.000-07:00

i'm settling into life post-college quite nicely. apparently all i ever wanted was an ambition-free, responsibility-free existence. it's possible this pleasant floating sensation won't last, but for the time being i'll enjoy my leisurely breakfasts, relaxed work schedule, and the occasional late night out.

the shut-in is in two days. perhaps after this weekend i'll give that a more in-depth treatment, but i've shirked a couple of race reports now, so:

at the tree shaker 12 hour sycamore cycles had a mighty showing, taking first and second in the three-dude team category. kwood, derek and i had to battle to the final hour for that podium spot, but in the end we got it. third place was well aware that they had been chicked.

some bakery patrons are still congratulating me for the collegiate team's showing at tahoe, and i have to gently remind them that although i WISH i had been there, i was slinging pastries while the kids racked up the stripey jerseys. i am super proud of them, especially captain america and tina.

i joined a posse of brevardians in boone this weekend for halloween festivities, downhill races, and some cross. i registered for the cross race to spite myself and i never stopped complaining, from the time i woke up until i pinned on my numbers. (two of them! ugh! nccx, it's like you HATE me!) by around thirty minutes in, when i remembered how to ride a bike and decided i was comfortable with my eighth place position, i started enjoying myself (sort of). it sure didn't compare to last year's second place, but it was the most encouraging crappy finish i've ever had.

and now those familiar symptoms, in remission for two years, are quietly regaining strength. hill repeats? carbon forks? series points? UGH! cross fever is like malaria...once you've caught it, all the quinine you take can't hold it at bay.

baker bill informed me that his sole purpose during the race was to make the course markings his bitch.

I'm Hungry

2010-10-05T10:30:00.000-07:00

The Shut-In is looming.

These days I've got some good options when I want to hit the trails. On runs with my dad we explore the epic ups and gnarly downs of Pisgah. When I go running with Joh, we (subtly, with great nonchalance) try to bludgeon each other into submission. When I'm on my own, I do long loops on the old faithfuls and get lost in my thoughts. Today I did the Big M backwards and forwards and only came into contact with people twice; I skirted the work crew on Sycamore, then ran into T Cowie and T Had near the end. Squirrel had only a few, oft-repeated words of wisdom for me: "Don't forget to eat and drink." He knows me so well.

During the hours of vaguely addled solitude, I decided to name all the different ways that I go downhill. What follows is an unabridged compendium of all my descending styles.

1: The Rag Doll:

All about gravity, feet flopping and arms flailing. I do the Rag Doll down steep, wide open

descents. It's like running it WFO on a bike. It's the fastest way to run but the feet take a beating.

2: The Real Runner:

This is less of a free fall than the Rag Doll. This style uses more muscle for braking and control, and actually pay attention to where each foot goes. Better for technical downhills and hurts less.

3: The Jackalope:

This bounding style is ideal for thick, soft surfaces like mud, heavy leaf cover, and especially snow. It's crazy fun but only works when there's something to catch and cushion each foot fall.

4: The Holy Sh*t:

I reserve this cautious half-run half-walk for only the scariest, most ridiculous rock faces,

boulder fields, and slippery switchbacks.

5: The Prairie Dog:

'Nuff said.

The Long-Awaited Worlds Pictures...

2010-09-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

...All five of them (in no particular order):

Here we have the "chicken line" on the XC course. So-called by the course official, in heavily accented English. I fell off my bike about a foot after that last pointy rock.

RACHEL! WOOO! She may not have claimed a podium spot but she claimed my heart.

The 4x finish line. Please note the oodles of people, if you can note anything in such a poor-quality pic.

Lookout tower on the top of MSA. Dramatic clouds, scattered showers, panoramic view of the St Lawrence River and adjacent mountains. Delicious.

Trials is weird. And fascinating.

So, Worlds

2010-09-07T09:54:00.000-07:00

[I promise there will be pictures, as soon as St Marie gets his rear in gear.]

We took a much less stupid way back so the drive home was quiet and uneventful. Not a moose to be seen. It was still eighteen hours in the car though, and when I wasn't listening to old mix CDs from high school, eating goat cheese, or guffawing along to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, I thought about the weekend. And concluded that it was kind of the most awesome thing ever.

Friday saw lovely weather and a sprinkling of rain, just like I'd hoped. Suddenly traction everywhere was tacky and ideal. Armed with a map and several sandwiches, we set out from the B&B for a long ride. A bike path, the wonderfully named Marie-Hélène-Prémont Trail, connects the town to the mountain. Once there, we were expecting more of the same thing we had ridden Thursday: tight, loamy, challenging, delicious. Turns out the trail rating system at MSA is a wee bit perplexing. Sometimes "Très Difficile" means tricky singletrack and sometimes it means brutal fire roads that go updownupdownupdown without providing any real sense of accomplishment. Regardless, it was a good ride and left us time to watch some XC and some trials (weirdest discipline ever).

On Saturday the weekend's festivities were amping up. The crowds were huge to watch the elite XC races. As we wandered through the pits we brushed by a veritable bevy of big names in mountain biking. I feigned nonchalance when I saw Melissa Buhl, Aaron Gwin, and Irina Kalentieva, but when Gee passed all I could do was stop and stare. St Marie regretted not wishing Adam Craig and Carl Decker good luck as they stood beside us to watch the ladies blaze through. I probably won't ever be inured to celebrity spottings--it took me hours to recover when Steve Martin stopped by the bakery, and he doesn't even ride bikes!

The women's XC race got me more worked up than anything else, I think. Watching Willow duke it out with the Euros and Pendrel was crazy intense and St Marie had to chase as I sprinted all over the course trying to get the best views. The best part was yelling "North Carolina" at Willow...I got to say hi to her after the race and through the red mist of competition she actually heard the shout-out!

The men's race was a success because Burry got a medal, but the US guys sucked it up, and anyway I was saving my voicebox for the night's 4X race.

Oh. My. God. Most insane awesome bike race ever. Words can't even express. The best part was watching chicks hit the huuuuge doubles, and seeing the Czech edge out Jared Graves in the final stretch to take the win. Then we watched the music from a hillside overlooking the venue as the light show illuminated the low-hanging clouds.

And there was still more. On Sunday we elected to ride the entire XC course to see if it really was that gnarly. And yes, yes it was. At the Rock Garden (which everyone spoke of as if it were capitalized, because it was so ridiculous) I took a hard tumble on the chicken line and struggled with the tech stuff for the rest of the ride. I do not envy the racers. Then we splurged and got lift tickets up to the top so we could scope out the whole DH course. I yelled for Rachel like there was no tomorrow, but the crowd saved its loudest love for Steve Smith, the Canadian who took a surprising second after Sam. Then, suddenly, it was over.

At frequent intervals during the car trip, unable to contain my glee, I would turn to St Marie and say, "That was the coolest thing ever." Pause. "That really was totally awesome. What a good freaking idea." He offered little in the way of disagreement.

And that was the story of my trip to Worlds. Soon to be augmented with pictures.

B&B?

2010-09-04T17:49:00.000-07:00

We're staying in a bed and breakfast in Sainte-Anne de Beaupré and ever since we booked a room, I had been looking forward to it. Working at the Red House gives me a peek into a magical world of luxury where other people stay in clean, beautiful rooms, return every evening to fresh towels, and enjoy delicious breakfast served by a charming, sunny woman and her tall English husband. And entry into this world is only around $100 to $200 a night.

So I kind of assumed all B&B's shared these fantastical qualities.

But in Beaupré we were greeted by a fat, sweaty-looking woman cradling a shivering rat-dog named Yoda. Without offering a smile, she informed us that we could not check in until five and had to find something to do for the next two hours. Fair enough. Then it got worse.

The house was filled with kitsch and clutter. At breakfast (a tawdry spread made better only by coffee and homemade crepes) the proprietress laid down some more laws. We had to pay for a three night stay in (foreign) cash. We had to vacate the house from one to five, which required that we kill a whole lot of time in chamois up at the mountain. One to five in the afternoon was her "cleaning time" and yet upon our return our room was untouched--no fresh towels, unmade bed, no trash removal. We shared a bathroom with the second floor guests, accessible only by a creaking attic staircase. And when I fearfully requested an earlier breakfast on the final day, I was shooed away with a brusque "non".

I am not really, really complaining--after all, we still had a nice bed, edible breakfast, and a place to shower after each day's ride. But at the ATM, withdrawing a wad of Canadian twenties, I reflected that I don't usually pay to be bossed around. At the Red House we are flexible to the point of obsequiousness, but here the Saint and I found ourselves trying to placate this large, unpleasant woman. It has been une expérience étrange.

Up North

2010-09-02T18:56:00.000-07:00

Aside from an unplanned detour through Manhattan (and yes, we played "Empire State of Mind" like the dorks we are) the drive was uneventful, if excruciating.

On Tuesday after three hours of sleep at my grandparents' lovely New Hampshire estate we ventured out to Bretton Woods in the hopes of riding some good singletrack.An hour later, hopes shattered, we reemerged from the network of cross country ski trails--rough, weedy doubletrack--and investigated the resort's ski slopes. Two fools on bicycles, we climbed the never-ending and painful service road up the slopes and found nary a trace of the "black diamond bike trails with manmade features." But as we bitched and braked down the mountainboard course (stupid), a ladder ride tucked in the woods caught St Marie's eye and we had finally found singletrack. Tight, rooty, loamy. Very much like the slopes down south. We returned the next day and St Marie applied his big bike to the job of finding more black diamond rides.

While not biking in the great white north, I've been trying to recreate the summers of my youth--cookouts at Camp Jack, swimming in Burns Pond, shows at the Weathervane Theater. Unfortunately, it was difficult to fit six summers' worth of nostalgia into two days...and so we headed north again.

Pancake breakfast at camp, just like the good old days

Mont-Sainte-Anne was everything I had hoped and more. The venue is crawling with competitors, vendors, and spectators speaking not-American and riding around anything from massive DH rigs to tiny alien trials bikes. We rode a few trails and part of the XC course and I loved it! The mountain is covered in a foot of moon dust and corners are loose as poo. Perhaps racers will escape without experiencing that wonderful east coast mud...but I'm hoping for rain.

Now I understand when people take pictures of Euro-drops and then say "It's a hundred times worse than it looks." Because they are.

This Post Has No Uniting Theme

2010-08-29T15:45:00.000-07:00

i believe this is what those in the know call a "photo dump". i take very few cell pics, but some always find their way onto the phone.

looking for the captain? well, he's in a train depot in montana, if you can believe it.

still life with cheap meal. house-sitting, leftover wine, excellent omelette.

the shake weight does in fact exist. it is located in the impulse buy section of your local walmart, right next to the mountain dew and cigarettes!

sometimes i babysit this kid. he is awesome.

the children are back in school and while i don't envy them the classes, or even the races, i miss the camaraderie. therefore they must forgive me if i sometimes encroach on their company, because i still secretly want to be (somewhat) involved.

on an unrelated note (because books are rarely related to college), i am part of the way through a really good book right now. it's called the story of edgar sawtelle. i wouldn't even mention it, except that i have suffered through a string of inane, cliche-ridden, poorly written books recently. after finishing three or four books that were disorganized, weirdly humorless, or way too esoteric, i checked out simply divine, which was so full of awful puns i finished the second chapter and promptly returned the rag to the library. summer may be a time for crap books, but i want good crap books, thanks. anyway, hallelujah the drought has passed, but here's my problem: when i encounter a compelling, well-written novel, i devour it. mothers around the world advise their children to chew before swallowing, savor the flavors, make sure that beef doesn't get lodged in your throat honey. mothers would despair of me. i am so not a savorer, not of food nor of books. i eat too fast, and i read too fast, skimming big clumps of glittering prose until suddenly i'm at the end and i've missed half the point and i'm kind of out of breath.

the point is, we're driving to new hampshire tomorrow. and then onward to quebec! and i've packed a bag full of really good books and by gosh, i will savor them, because it is a very long drive.

Road Ride

2010-08-11T08:18:00.000-07:00

joh talked me into an early morning road ride today and in retaliation, i suggested we do big hill instead of the rosman loop. i woke up four minutes before go time so i set off with an empty stomach but there was a warm apricot brioche tucked safely in my jersey pocket protecting me from hunger. it was cool and clammy as we pedaled our lazy way through the fog. going up walnut hollow, we both agreed, was only a few degrees less painful than giving birth. as "retired professional athletes" she and i are mellowing into a lifestyle of less fitness...for now, anyway. my game plan is to roar back onto the scene at around age thirty, which is when women become effortlessly fast (or so it seems).

questioning our mental stability, we continued on east fork and puffed up the rollers and switchbacks. somewhere in the middle of nowhere i remembered once again that i. love. climbing. climbing is the only reason i ride a road bike. no matter how out of shape i am, i would much rather dig into the pain cave than spin around on boring flats.

we arrived back in town with sweaty smiles and contented limbs, and plenty of time before work. i think i like morning exercise, although i always spend the first fifteen minutes feeling like i'm going to vom.

the kids are going back to school in less than two weeks and i'm not sure how i feel about it (besides smug). will i miss the routine and occasional mental stimulation? will i long for the heat of collegiate battle? will i browse through exorbitantly expensive textbooks and think, "if only..."? will i become so desperate for scholastic status quo that i start applying to grad schools and studying for the GRE?

ugh. not likely.

Ode to Self-Propulsion

2010-08-04T08:09:00.000-07:00

forgive the silence, i've just been living life.

my days are equal parts work and play. there's the daily grind of BMB or B&B but after work i can traipse off and partake of the feast of fun that surrounds us. running, painting my toenails, bike riding, playing with puppies, reading everything i can get my hands on, slip'n'sliding, eating yogurt and lots of fresh veggies, watching roller derby, and spending time with people i really like.

the best part is that i can continue this trajectory for as long as i want. there's no deadline, no requirement that i return to "real life". there's nothing propelling me in a direction i don't like.

running has become a favored pastime recently, despite cloudbursts, bug swarms, and stifling humidity. it feels more like floating. the racing schedule for this fall is looking less bicycle, more bipedal:

august 21: springmaid splash 10k

september 18: hickory mountain 10k

november 6: the shut-in

meanwhile, the next great adventure is a trip up to mont-sainte-anne with mon st marie. i definitely plan on touching rachel atherton.

fingers crossed there will be a repeat of '08.

Love Letters

2010-07-12T11:16:00.001-07:00

Dear public transportation,

I love you. I've returned home to the south and I think I miss you most of all. More than Galbraith, prehistoric ferns, shellfish, bike lanes, or huge mountains. I found myself up poop creek without a paddle a few times and you bailed me out on each occasion. Never mind that I had to walk miles to reach you, carrying my luggage every step. Never mind that you cost me money. You are still awesome and convenient and while I understand that Brevard is not very welcoming to you, I wish we could be reunited here.

Regards,

The person that spent a lot of time with you

Dear Andy,

You are amazing and cute. I'm sorry about your brother, but you've still got the magic. Kick ass.

Love,

Your number one fan

Coming to an End

2010-07-06T10:52:00.000-07:00

Hood River is a great place. Tina and I rode at Post Canyon, which she described (with some derision) as the Bent Creek of Oregon...I couldn't complain. Smooth, fast tabletops, switchbacks, and berms are something I don't get enough of. Then magically the dusty trail opened up into what felt like a remote mountain meadow. I loved it.

After our ride we enjoyed some excellent music at Double Mountain Brewery, then watched fireworks over the Columbia River. God bless Uhmerica.

Short track on motocross course=painful, ridiculous. I will say, Portland's race scene is something to aspire to, but the thirty minutes of heckling, tutus, and mud reminded me that I am really, truly not interested in racing right now.

And now it's one more day on the train, one more day in Bellingham (hoping to watch some Tour at Mount Bakery, just so I can gaze upon the younger Schleck), and a long day on the plane. Big thanks to Tasha and Alexis for their hospitality and good times.

Brief

2010-07-04T09:02:00.000-07:00

Alexis, Tiffany, and I are heading out to Hood River for some bicycle riding so here's a quick recap of the past few days.

-I finally fell in love with Galbraith on my third ride because I discovered the wealth of awesome not-freerider stuff the mountain has to offer.

-Circumstances dictate that I won't be going to Canada at all this trip, which is pretty disappointing.

-Hopping the train to go to Portland felt like coming home. I love trains now. Especially because the nice people at Amtrak let me stay in Portland an extra day at no cost. That means tomorrow: moto short track!

-Yesterday was beach day. Oregon has very pretty beaches.

-We availed ourselves of Portland's excellent bus system to check out the massive blues festival going on at the waterfront. After wandering through crowds of tripping hipsters and nutty old people we found a great band for dancing, and proceeded to do so for three hours. Love.

-I am SO over traveling for now. Looking forward to settling back into the comfortable (and MUCH CHEAPER) routine at home.

Bennett and the beach

Now That I'm Here...

2010-06-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

So Bellingham is pretty cool.

I've ridden some at Galbraith (which is essentially the mountain just for mountain bikers), once with Tasha and once with Angermeier. It was fun, and scary, and left me with some bruises and a deep longing to learn the trails well enough to get comfortable. Each trail is a lovingly-built masterpiece of tabletops, berms, and the occasional ridiculous wooden creation. Needless to say, in the dark, primeval forest the baby dinosaur felt right at home.The trailhead of Scorpion. We totally sessioned this feature...not.

The food and drink are fantastic. In the short time here I've sampled coffee from every shop I could find, sipped raspberry mead and old vine zinfandel, eaten sausage and gruyere crepes, exquisite sashimi, and salmonberries off the bush, and had a chocolate croissant that almost rivaled one from BMB.

The term "bike friendly city" has been bandied around a lot in recent years but I never really got it until I came here. Bike friendly is wonderful. Every street has a bike lane, every shop has a place to lock up, and most importantly drivers are aware of and courteous to cyclists.

Tomorrow we're off to Vancouver, and Tasha has a friend who knows some good Canadian trails. Bring the gnar.We ventured up Mount Baker as far as the snow would let us. It was beautiful beyond words.

The Cascades Were GORGEOUS

2010-06-26T21:36:00.000-07:00

...as were the macchiato and lavender shortbread with which I rewarded myself in Seattle.

I Beg to Differ

2010-06-26T10:30:00.000-07:00

I ate breakfast in the high desert of Washington. My seatmates this morning were a xenophobic middle-aged man obsessed with Japanese beetles, a doughy horse woman wearing a scrunchy, and her deaf, grumpy mom. A vapid lot.
I almost came to blows with the horse woman. (I've met many doughy horse women and can't speak highly of any of them.) She announced with pride that the Washington peninsula was the only rainforest in North America. Just to make conversation I mentioned that my area rivaled hers in annual rainfall.
"No, but the peninsula is an actual rainforest. Except without like poisonous frogs and stuff." Her beady eyes were filled with smug certainty.
"Yeah, a temperate rainforest. That's what we have too..." but I trailed off. Nothing good ever came of a cyclist arguing with a horse person, even if it was a matter of hometown pride.The doughy horse woman hurried to inform us that this was the Columbus River. She was a very knowledgeable lady.

After Days of Flatlands...

2010-06-26T08:12:00.000-07:00

I had almost despaired that it would be dark before we reached the scenic part of the trip. The sun was slung low on the horizon as we slowly crossed the plains and foothills fronting Glacier National Park.
But somehow, magically, the sun never seemed to set. We meandered through the snow caps, evergreens, and plunging whitewater and I was thrilled to spot a double rainbow over the mountains. It grew dark just as the train left West Glacier, and although I slept through the Rockies, I'd had enough beauty to last me until the Cascades.

On Odor and Obesity

2010-06-25T17:10:00.000-07:00

I have two seats to myself and my only complaint is that with my proximity to the dinette, every time the door opens an unpleasant processed odor wafts in.
When Jeremy-the-dining-car-manager announces mealtimes, groups of chunky beef-fed Midwesterners hustle past me to check out the chef's special. All I see in their rush are pale hairy calves and flapping t-shirts that reveal acres of back fat.
I'm not one to talk though--my feet have grown puffy from days of inactivity, and I smell a little like a concession stand.

The sky is a pleasant distraction.

Coincidence

2010-06-25T16:58:00.000-07:00

I've grown fond of--almost possessive of--the "ladies' lounge", an antiquated avocado-green antechamber where I can stretch and brush my teeth and bemoan my greasy hair in private. The lounge even has booth seats and its own bathroom. Even better than the lounge is the observation deck, with huge windows and a snack bar. This is where people go to get drunk.

Today I made my first foray into the dinette. I had avoided it thus far because it was pricey and filled up fast, but I'm on my longest leg, with no Charlottesville pancakes or Chicago reubens to tide me over.
I was seated with three travelers from the sleeping car, which (according to the elderly San Francisco gentleman to my left) was comparable in price to flying first class. So, I knew my place among my breakfast companions.
Small talk ensued and, as often happens with strangers, coincidences started popping up left and right. We were all northern California natives. The Montana couple, whose matching cowboy hats contradicted their WASPy mannerisms, were well-versed in the field of pediatrics, as was the San Franciscan. But then the world got really small. I revealed that I was a college grad from NC.
"What school?" the woman asked.
"You wouldn't know it, it's tiny."
"Try me," she pressed.
So I tried her, and lo and behold, her daughter graduated from Warren Wilson. And won the downhill race at the '07 nationals in Banner Elk.
"Shut up, shut up!" I could barely keep myself from saying.
It was madness. We talked about her daughter's decision to run mud spikes because of the abysmal weather, about how Warren Wilson is doomed to be ever the bridesmaid, about the great comraderie among the teams of the dirty south, and best of all, about the questionable hygiene and trademark funk of Warren Wilson kids.
It was a good breakfast.

Recent flooding has plagued the Midwest, leaving everything green and delicious. Today I watched the sun rise over the waterlogged fields of Minnesota.

Dear Amtrak: You Are Wretched

2010-06-23T06:36:00.000-07:00

(But I forgive you.)

Amtrak lost my reservation not once, but twice. The first occasion was weeks ago, when Julie-the-automated-Amtrak-lady rang me up and left an ominous message telling me that I had to call her as soon as possible. Because phones make me quake in fear, the Saint took care of it for me and reminded Amtrak that I did actually exist and did actually have a reservation.

And then we rolled into Greenville late last night and...you'll never guess. Once again we spent almost an hour convincing the company that I was not a ghost or specter. (It's like that Stephen Crane poem...I said to Amtrak, "Julie, I exist!" and she replied "However, the fact has not created in me a sense of obligation.")

So that was kind of appalling. And the station was filled to capacity with crazies. Two stereotypical New York hens gabbed ad nauseum while Lee the OCD station attendant (and Jessco White look-alike) sashayed around with his can of Mountain Dew and engaged his customers in conversations right out of a bad screenplay. Fortunately the trip has been relatively painless since then. And checking a bike on a train really, truly does cost a mere and magical five dollars. I'm in Charlottesville in the Blue Moon Diner killing time until my 1:00 connection to Chicago. They gave me a pancake with Dwight Schrute's face on it, so I can't complain.

If you look closely you can just make him out under the pat of butter.

Then I was about to pack up and wander back to the station and they turned on the World Cup! I am swimming in coffee and very content.

Headed West

2010-06-21T11:15:00.000-07:00

summer in b-town has been delightful so far, but my wanderlust finally overcame me and i booked a train trip. i was unable to hit up montana as originally planned, so it'll be a straight shot to bellingham to visit my shoe twin. fingers crossed there will be some vancouver/whistler action sometime during the stay, and i'll also spend a weekend in portland with tinaalexiscarolinedecosimo.

ever since i laid out my plans, i've heard nothing but bad stuff about trains. they're slow and unreliable, they're cold, they're boring, they're only one step less sketchy than the greyhound.

ok, but still. i want to see the whole country and i don't want to drive. we shall see how it turns out. i leave tomorrow and i am mad excited, and damn the naysayers.

oooo lookit them mountains!

this trip will also serve the purpose of helping me narrow down options for a possible location change. it's going to be SO hard leaving the wonder spot that is brevard, but i have to get out of here eventually.

the pacific northwest may not be what i'm looking for. i was perusing the weather channel and was deeply disturbed to see that b-ham is not only rainy (not surprising) but also chilly (somewhat surprising). i had to recalibrate my sun-addled mind and remember to pack a few long-sleeved shirts in the place of my myriad of sundresses. ugh. please, no one say "i told you so".

hopefully i will manage a few pictures and words during the long...long...long voyage...stay tuned.

all that?

2010-06-07T11:12:00.001-07:00

it hasn't been an eventful summer

hence my lack of posts

and pictures tell it better anyway

of course there's been a lot of this

and a good bit of this but i've also indulged in a little bit of this
possibly a bit too much of this
and not nearly enough of this
and pretty soon i'll be getting a whole heaping helping of this

View Larger Map

Really? You're How Old?

2010-05-15T13:46:00.000-07:00

So today I graduated summa cum laude, which is a feat I never, ever would have accomplished at Carolina. After stuffing my face with Pepperidge Farm cookies (yeah, BC keeps it classy--no generic shortbread for us), I rewarded myself with a Coontree run in a thunderstorm. I enjoyed it so much that I turned right around and ran it backwards as well. I tried to turn my adventure into some kind of poignant metaphor for graduation/life, but such lofty ideas eluded me and I was occupied with much baser thoughts. Mainly, that schoolwork is an awful lot like doo-doo.

Really?

Yes.

I couldn't stop coming up with similarities between bowel movements and schoolwork. Both are best accomplished in one sitting, and both are greatly expedited by coffee. I often refer to paper-writing as "pooping one out" because the process is fairly uncomfortable but ultimately satisfying. Both essays and excrement can come out pretty awkward-sounding if you try too hard, and there are grave repercussions if you don't submit on time. Meanwhile my hated nemeses, presentations and group projects, are more like explosive diarrhea: quickly done, with a shitty final product.

The worst part about this scatological reverie is that I could glean no deeper meaning from it. I made no revelations about life, I just ran along giggling about poop and chiding myself for being so gross. I guess it all boils down to the simple fact that I am so glad to be done with all that crap.

Redemption

2010-05-08T21:49:00.000-07:00

Sort of, anyway.

I met my secret goal of a top ten in the crit! Ninth place. I felt awesome and raced real aggressive, but the chips just didn't fall the way I wanted them to...at the finish I was begging for another thirty minutes.

On the front, pedaling through corners...I'm just not a smart racer.

Elk Killer, master of consistency, scored another 17th. I can't say he was pleased about it, because he is a helluva sprinter, but ah well.

The Saint is watching supercross right now and probably doesn't want his results broadcast. St Mariiieeeeee........

They're cute.

So my final collegiate race was a success (and the best result BC has ever had at road natz--sad, no?) and now I have nothing better to do than ponder my future. Oh lordie.

Also, Madison was lovely.

Unfortunate

2010-05-07T15:16:00.000-07:00

That didn't go well.

Today was cold and crappy and raining. All day. St Marie flatted midway through and the neutral support had already used up all their wheels on the silly DI boys...ouch. Elk Killer netted a perfectly respectable 17th but I think he burned a match or three doing it...ouch.

I quit.

I suck.

I flatted too, but quickly received a new wheel. Pinned it for five miles and caught back onto the pack, but I was blown for the climb. I fell back and eventually gave up. I spent the next fifteen miles (to my chagrin) composing my litany of excuses, like any good cyclist would. Flatted. It's raining. Want to take a wicked yes (oooo Family Guy reference). Lost my glasses. Four hour race. Saving it for the crit. Suck. I do not like making excuses; they're embarrassing. But more than anything else, I remembered, for the hundredth time, that deep flaw that has marred my racing career:

I hate racing.

I love winning, and good results buoy me almost long enough to overcome the bad ones. But now that my final collegiate weekend has started with such a downer, I know I can't pursue my secret summer plans. Because I just don't love it, or enjoy it, or want it enough.

That said, I'm still looking forward to the crit. Because crits are always fun.

Wish Granted

2010-05-06T13:25:00.000-07:00

Well, Elk Killer has the camera with all the pictures and I don't feel like retrieving them now (later, I promise) but I got my wish: the course is beautiful.

The first quarter of the 15 mile course is mostly flat/downhill with alarmingly sandy corners and small branches littering the road. Ugh! The rest of the lap is up down up down up up up up through the lush green uber-pastoral landscape. It's not as dramatic as Fort Collins was but definitely breath-taking in its own right. The lap finishes on a long semi-steep hill, and the race finishes on an even longer, much steeper hill. Fun!

How am I feeling about this? It's just like last year: even if I get blown to bits (likely) I'll still enjoy the ride because of the lovely terrain. I feel even less prepared this year and the weather is probably going to be nasssty, but I refuse to talk myself out of this pleasant sense of anticipation. It's on!!

Madison, WI

2010-05-06T06:51:00.000-07:00

After a relatively painless 14 hour drive full of XM comedy radio (ick), we're here. I just can't believe how much of the country is ugly and boring. It makes me want to go find beauty somewhere.

Pre-riding today...I'm afraid.

Wow

2010-05-01T12:14:00.000-07:00

Seventeen years is such...a long...time. But now I'm one quiz, one exam, one thesis introduction, and one road trip away from being completely finished with school.

In retrospect, college was pretty sweet.

This was four years ago. Yeah. Seriously.

Freshman year. This is my favorite picture in existence.

Halloween of sophomore year. The ladies dressed as the five stages of Britney Spears.

Junior year. Ugly sweater party at the Cowie/Tellman household.

The Sycamore crew mobbed the seasonal trails at midnight, 10/15/08.

I spent a lot of time in this guy's company.

Senior year. Mountain bike season would not have been the same without them.

Tale of Two Bikes

2010-04-20T09:22:00.001-07:00

the baby dinosaur has been talking to me.
it says things like, "stop braking. i got this."
and "look how much higher i can jump!"
and "let's session that."
and "quit climbing like a pansy. put it in the middle ring."
and "wash me. make me beautiful again."
it kind of scares me with its insistence.

road conference was this weekend. on saturday i pulled a hindenburg but got some redemption on sunday. and now BC is goin' to nationals. i anticipate much pain.

apparently the crit is circling the capitol building. that's pretty durn cool.

New Bike New Bike New Bike

2010-04-15T09:25:00.000-07:00

Ok, so, the Alabama race weekend: rode kind of slow, climbed big hill, finished nestled in the bosom of Lees-McRae's formidable machine team both days...netted a 4th and a 3rd. No big shakes. My results are so consistent. And boring.

Now the good stuff. Having taken the NEW BICYCLE on its maiden voyage, I can present to you an utterly scientific and objective review of the 2010 Era Expert. I took it on ____(can't tell because it was kind of closed as of today...) with the Saint and T. Cowie because it's a darn good test of tech climbing and Pisgah descending. After adjusting the Era within an inch of its life, I was pretty much pleased with the position and we started the dirt climb. Out of the saddle, I felt exactly like I was riding a baby dinosaur.

That comment elicited some puzzled expressions from my companions. Basically, I would imagine a baby dinosaur has big muscular legs but feels a little clumsy, being fresh from the shell, so he treads very carefully. So: delicate but muscular. Which is definitely a good thing.

Then on the descents the Era demanded I ride totally out of control. I could not acquiesce because I was riding like a newbie hack, but soon, little Era. Soon.

Now I understand all those nancy words magazines use in reviews, words like "responsive" and "balanced" and "stable". Here's another one: "perfect". The new (as of '09) suspension design is absolutely delicious. It will require that I accumulate some Tristan-like knowledge of suspension so that I don't bop around with it totally set the wrong way. While experimenting I turned the Brain off and commented to the Saint that it felt very nice, but of course he was appalled and said that defeated the purpose of owning it. I've got some learning to do.

Also: it is the first new mountain bike I've ever owned. Even better: it's sub-25 pounds. Most importantly: it is shockingly beautiful. I cannot take my eyes off it. It is my pristine little baby dinosaur that sparkles in the sunshine.

Let's go ride tomorrow afternoon. Everyone.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

2010-04-08T08:47:00.000-07:00

Dear Epic,

Imagine me and you
I do
I think about you day and night
It's only right
To think about the bike you love
And hold her tight
So happy together

I can't see me lovin' nobody but you
For all my life
When you're with me baby the skies'll be blue
For all my life

Me and you
And you and me
No matter how they toss the dice
It had to be
The only one for me is you
And you for me
So happy together...

Oops. I lied.

A Couple of Important Points

2010-03-30T12:04:00.000-07:00

I forgot to mention that Dr. Crotts also had a great weekend. He's been doing a whole lotta work, including racing the A men's TTT whenever possible, and has grabbed two top fives so far. Well done, sir.

Also forgot, mad props to Furman for a really well-run race. It was a marked contrast to the usual collegiate weekend.

I finally got an article on the BC athletics page. Wow! Despite being DII conference champ for each season so far! Sour grapes...I'll waste no more time complaining.

Rich Mountain, Becky Mountain's twin brother, is totally totally awesome.

This weather is totally totally awesome.

Riding alone can actually once in a while be totally totally awesome. I saw this guy up close and personal. That was totally totally awesome.

Stellar Times in SC

2010-03-28T16:57:00.000-07:00

for once the collegiate road racing gods smiled down upon me and delivered up a win. albeit a pretty lackluster one.

the cards were in place. all the fast LMC girls were jet-setting in europe or out west, riding against other fast girls. the course had some hills. i felt good, and my bike was stuck in the big dawg (right where it belongs, one might argue). so i laid down what one might call a blistering attack (if one was so inclined) on one of the hills and rode away, bringing with me a lone LMC girl. she was hurting, but we maintained a decent clip for the rest of the "race". by the 1k sign i was antsy and frustrated, knowing that no matter how the finish went down, i would be relegated to second. because that's what always happens.

and then (and this is where i lose any chance at respect or any claim to a legitimate win) she didn't sprint me.

so we casually rolled through the finish, eying each other the whole time, and i had to explain to the saint, who was spectating (although he still SHOULD have been racing at that point) that i had won.

as thad puts it, "the first RR win in Brevard's history". i just wish it hadn't been so ho-hum. the crit was a lot of fun too, although i continued the grand julia tradition of chasing point(less) primes in place of impressive wins and netted a mediocre 3rd place.

the guys are earning their meals so far. elk killer and captain america finished top ten two days in a row. tristan had a fab break away but, as the announcer loved reminding us, "he really was racing, but it just wasn't good enough. he got gobbled up by them lees mcrae boys in the end...pothoes...been racing 25 years and officiating 15...something something..."

my favorite part of the weekend: when all the boys forgot their game of Yellow Car just long enough to bust out singing along with miley to "party in the usa".

chilling with the good doctor pre-race

i-n-e-x-o-r-a-b-l-y

2010-03-08T15:06:00.000-08:00

yesterday the founding fathers of the pisgah beard society led a caravan down to spa'burg and we rolled out the fat tires, with the sunshine cheering us on. croft's twisting trails stumped me at first but after an hour of frustration i remember how to ride the bike and started having fun, hanging on CB's wheel. we are all a bit out of shape but going slow means you can look at the scenery.

two really good songs i heard today: peter gabriel's cover of "the boy in the bubble" and "inexorably" by zoe boekbinder. go listen.

today the saint and i opted out of a road ride and instead built a little jump and a little berm in his pasture. i love playing with shovels.

i just made my first omelet. not perfect, definitely delicious. kiddie stuff, i know, but it's the small things in life...

only four or five more hours of work on the thesis and i'll have a rough draft.

spring break has been damn good so far.

Spectacular Spectacular

2010-02-26T12:01:00.000-08:00

Another awesome day. The Saint and I rode Macedonia Church this morning, which is such a great ride but lamentably a bit off the beaten path. The sunshine was lovely enough to make me forget the sub-freezing windchill. Having burned sufficient calories, I'm now packing them back on with brownies and espresso. Eventually I will start writing a paper but for now I'm just relishing the caffeinated, post-exercise glow. And then maybe some P&B (Pappas and Beer) with B&P (Baman and Piderman) tonight. Can life get any better?

Champagne Supernova

2010-02-25T11:18:00.000-08:00

Yes yes, this is how I feel today. Bubbly. It is good. I think part of this comes from the looming prospect of college-free life. I am going to pass on being a grown-up for right now (thanks for asking, all ye denizens of the bakery) and just putter around, earning just enough to pay for house/car/occasional adventures.

Because I don't think I will be applying for real-people jobs until next spring, fall will be fab. How could it not be?

-world champs that are driving distance away

-the Shut-In

-Lydia's super awesome-looking Hickory Mountain run

-BC mtb season, which I can now observe in a relaxed fashion

-a long-awaited visit to my shoe twin!

I write a lot of boring posts about my future, but you know why? Because it's so bright I gotta wear shades.

"Sky Falls, You Feel Like..."

2010-02-07T16:28:00.000-08:00

"It's a beautiful day."

-U2

I awoke to sunshine and I knew I was going for a run. The boys were headed down to Clemson for DH sessions but in the past week, my riding has been derailed by an assortment of frustrating circumstances. So I really wanted to make myself hurt on two feet.

Pisgah was gorgeous in the aftermath of so much winter weather. I decided to run Bennett Gap. The road up was still covered in eight inches of snow and based on the tracks, I was the probably the first person who had made it past the Twin Falls trailhead in a week. It was hard, slow going. As I climbed higher, the road became more and more littered with tree limbs and broken icicles started raining down, tinkling violently like hundreds of windchimes. I started to question the wisdom of a long solitary run on a deserted road but was having too much fun to turn around. I shielded my head and neck with my arms and continued to run, probably looking very silly. At the top I ate ice off the shrubs and enjoyed the glorious sun.

The rhododendron tunnel was like a bobsled track in Narnia, a steep slick chute framed in frozen mountain laurel berries. On the highest overlook that straddles the ridge I was overcome with awe...it was one of those infrequent times when I believe in God.

I would have given all the toenails on my left foot to have a camera during the run. Instead I had to steal a picture Todd Branham took back in December. But you get the idea.

The narrow half-track climbs were covered in smooth little ice baubles and as I clung to the barely-there trail and crawled through low-hanging rhodo, I sent them showering down the bank. The final descent past Coontree was fast and fun through soft snow drifts. I hate to disappoint anyone but I don't think we'll be riding Bennett for a long time. There are way too many trail obstructions.

Afterwards I sat in my car for a couple minutes, relishing the beauty and loathe to drive home. Then the Truslers, awesome local B&B owners, passed me and we chatted about their hike. That is why I love Brevard. You will always see someone you know on the trails.

It was far and away the best run I've ever done.

Oh Icycle...How I Love Thee

2010-02-01T17:39:00.000-08:00

Pic by Brado