The Holidays

This Christmas was my first away from the bosom of Brevard, but circumstances convened to make it a very special one. On one snowy night the roommates gathered to decorate the tree and listen to the Nutcracker Suite. My folks sent me a loaf of stollen so I could nibble it and drink tea and miss the frenetic rush of holidays at the bakery. 

East coast love

Just so quaint

The weekend before Christmas brought a mind-blowing quantity of fluffy dry snow and I had three days off to enjoy it. Even better, Thad and Jenna arrived with arms full of Trader Joe's goodies and all manner of skis, and we went out and played hard every day of their visit. Thanks to them I felt like I progressed a lot in a short time, chasing Jenna through the trees and goading Squirrel onto the black runs. We spent the evenings stuffing our faces and drinking Old Chico and hanging out with my favorite people, and Thad proudly did his first shotski. On Christmas after a full powder day at Kirkwood we celebrated by having a taco tequila Tecate Tuesday, as tradition dictates.

Just so dorky

I even found time to see the Bay clan; Tyler and I ventured out of the highlands for long enough to enjoy a holiday meal with the Nichols and Ryans, and go riding for the probably the last time this winter. Now the year is coming to a close in the best way possible. The HR job ended on Saturday and I've already started training at the coffee shop, which has been non-stop inundated with cold tourists desperate for their candy-cane mocha lattes. And I love it.

Unfortunate

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.

The Frosty Foot

My pain memory is shockingly short. I'm hobbling around the house like an eighty-year-old after this morning's trail run/race in Tsali...and thinking strange hallucinatory thoughts like...

"That wasn't bad. Was fifteen miles long enough?" Yeah right, around mile 8 I wanted to punch myself in the face.
"I could have gone faster." Yeah right, I was set on 'trudge' and definitely couldn't have.
"I should run more/longer/competitively." Yeah right, my mantra during the race was "Please never again".

The rose-colored glasses go on about twelve minutes after a race. Stoic? No. Stupid? Maybe.