I Used to Do This

I wake up feeling antsy. And angsty. I've let too many sunshiney days go to waste. I have watched the evenings pass with beer in hand instead.

I don't want to go for a run, because for a couple reasons I don't like short runs here. I am particular. I don't like running trails that I'd prefer to bike, and the hard trails I want to run are populated with megafauna that I'm not tryna fuck with. It's too bad I don't have that perfect backyard loop like at Camp, or the miles and miles of steep ridiculous Pisgah trails to hurt myself on.

Oh well.

I decide to ride up to Targhee. The warm morning air feels heavy with moisture (like, fifty percent humidity, not real southern humidity) and black clouds are pushing north across the valley but here black clouds don't always mean a storm, especially not in the morning. I pack a jacket and go for it.

I feel fast. I love spinning. The road is quiet. It's opening day at the resort but no one is heading up because there's still six feet of snow at the top. Two trails are open to bikes.

The shoulder is so wide and the pavement is so smooth. I breathe hard but don't think hard. I feel like my thoughts are left trailing in a wake behind me. I can't hold onto any thoughts when I exercise. Bye, thoughts.

Daily rain showers have left everything so green, the greenest, the most emerald, jade, lime, verdant, in contrast with the peaks, still snow white. I look at flowers, look at the corpses of little birds and squirrels on the road, look at the rumps of what might be elk tucked down next to the creek, look at big boulders and think about the book Sylvester and the Magic Pebble. What if all those boulders were actually donkeys?

This ride feels like when I used to get out all the time in the mornings. Before I felt constrained by a nine to five schedule even though my job is flexible and there's no way my boss could fire me. Back when I was an athlete. Now I'm enthusiast. But this is why I was an athlete. Because I used to do this. I resolve to do this again. I haven't ridden to Targhee that many times, because I don't like out-and-backs, but it's a twelve-mile climb on a beautiful road that ends at 8,000 feet. How did I get so lucky as to live here? Why wouldn't I like this? A quick hour and a half in the morning and I'm a happier person. I will do this again.

I believe one is contractually obligated to take a photo at this vista if one pedals to Targhee.

Skeeters and Smiles

The first practice of the year is on Saturday morning. We all stand in a circle and I gape at the number of kids. Unmanageable, amazing. Fortunately we have enough coaches to break into small groups. Instead of getting to know new kids, I just want to ride with the fast gang, the veterans that I’ve watched progress over the last two years. I take the lead on the singletrack and they doggedly hold my wheel as their noisy drivetrains grind out a cadence.

This gang of speed demons made me work hard to stay in front.

After practice Cy and I pack up, marveling at the absence of stuff. Bikepacking requires so much less than car camping.

It is hot, finally, blessedly hot. I coat myself in sunscreen. Not bug spray though, unfortunately. My skin is now a patchwork of red bumps that I’m trying so hard to resist.

That's a one-of-a-kind dry bag right there.

I have only a vague idea of the trails I want to hit, no map, only an untrustworthy phone app. We have a day and a half to poke around the Caribous and no plan.

Wet feet, wet chain, wet butt.

Start on gravel, turn off on two track, mellow climb through greenest meadows under a heavy sun, sit in a creek, purify water, start a smooth singletrack climb off the edge of the mental map, relish having a granny ring and a bulldozer of a bike, gain a ridge, make a decision knowing that to drop into another unknown drainage means inevitably climbing back out, navigate erosion ditches and moto ruts, meander along a creek on a brown ribbon of dirt through overpowering greenery, encounter a familiar trail, recall with little fondness its swamps and bushwhacking, find a grassy flat spot next to a stream unadulterated by beavers, perform little camp tasks, drink a single warm beer, eat Indian food, burn sage and stand directly in the smoke to hide from mosquitoes, retreat to the safety of the tent before the sun sets.

Oh, Bear Creek, I didn't miss you.

Wake up, do camp chores, eat oatmeal, attend to mud encrusted chains, don used chamois, pack up quickly, the systems already growing rote, mentally prepare for the climb out of the Bear Creek drainage, pedal and push slowly, pouring sweat, wiping away the minor irritants of cobwebs, hair, mosquitoes, and sunscreen, muddy gloves leaving streaks, then summit, surprised at the ease, see other mountain bikers for the first time and they are valley friends, descend smooth trail through the woods, entirely content, seatbag only occasionally buzzing tire, sit in the same creek, polish off the last of the salami, purify water, climb more doubletrack, clean steep sections only because the surface is dry and tacky, watch butterflies glance off hands and leaves and bags, top out on a beautiful ridge with views and wildflowers, prepare to go downhill, swoop down roller coaster doubletrack with wall rides and whoops, and finish on gravel.

Gratuitous posing with the extremely capable Half Chub.

Remove wet socks, gloves. Leave piles of detritus around car.

Dangle feet in the Snake River. 

Reflect. Bask. 

Bikesbikesbikes

On Sunday a bunch of us rode technical singletrack to a lake.

One of the reasons I moved west was because I was feeling burnt out on riding in Brevard. I still got stoked about the big nasty loops but groaned every time someone proposed riding Maxwell to Black or parking at Lake Imaging for some Dupont meandering.

There was a raft on the shore, so of course it had to be put out to sea.

I'm still a fiend for novelty. I'll always pick a new ride over a familiar one. But out here I discovered a much better way to manage that constant nagging desire: take six months off from biking every year.

The vessel could not by rights be called a two-person raft.

By October, I'm always so over it, so jaded, noticing every creak of my bike, annoyed by the constant maintenance costs, numbed by the sameness of the trails. Then I ski from November to April and it's glorious and I love it. Then my outerwear gets too dirty and my skis haven't been waxed in forever and my boots are causing blisters and strange growths on my feet and the spring snow is too variable to be fun.

Those who felt the craft was not seaworthy contented themselves with rock skipping and Dead Trapper Horseshoes.

Everyone starts talking about sun and dirt and mountain biking with palpable longing and I'm right there with them, not wanting to wear layers or stiff heavy footwear, or carry avalanche gear and shoulder the fear that accompanies it.

A feral creature, washing his moose skull before he caches it.

Bikes! The joy and bliss that those first rides bring is unquantifiable. The pleasure of traveling through the woods on the most perfect steed, chasing friends, getting muddy and sunburned. And it's an ego boost. I'm a reasonably confident skier after five winters but that's nothing compared to a lifetime spent riding. Being on a mountain bike feels so intrinsically right, especially after a long hiatus. I am a mountain biker. And I'm so glad it's finally May.

There was actually a little bit of mountain biking too.

The Gravel Pursuit

Two weekends ago now, the Petervarys put on the inaugural JayP Backyard Gravel Pursuit, a 60/120 mile gravel grinder in Island Park, ID. Tyler was out of town so I took Sophie to have a sleepover with some of her best friends at SegoHaus and snagged a ride north with Gary, a fellow gravel grinder. We joined up with a solid Teton Valley contingent at the campsite and after some pasta and beer I had the best night of outdoor sleep I've had possibly ever, thanks to perfect temps and a massive thrift store Coleman airpad. 

The 60 mile start line

All pics courtesy of JayP

We started at eight. I coveted the other bikes. Most people these days are either riding modern cyclocross bikes (disc brakes, big tire clearance) or actual gravel grinders* (mountain bike geometry, huge tire clearance), but I am still on Deutschbike, who is perfectly engineered to goreallyfast for 45 minutes on a dry cyclocross course. Whatever. I spent my whole bike budget on the fun stuff.

*I just realized I used the phrase "gravel grinder" to refer to an event, a person, and a bike. It's so utilitarian! 

After five miles of dodging people and puddles I finally felt awake. I caught Gary and together we blew apart the woman who had been stubbornly sitting on his wheel. Then we hit pavement, a long unexpected climb with a civilized grade. Long gentle climbs are the one thing I truly love about road riding. Every hill crest brought another incline and I was overjoyed, because the more miles of paved uphill there were, the less of a disadvantage I'd be at with my tiny tires and inadequate brakes. I was reeling in dude after dude (ok, so there are two things I love about road riding) and I was on fire. At this point I was counting every unhatched chicken I could lay hands on. Victory, victory, I thought in time with my pedal cadence. 

Then, after the climb, on some unremarkable flat gravel section, I heard psssshhh.

Shit. 

Fixed the front tire pretty quickly (for me) but half the women's field had passed me, looking strong. I settled in for the chase. The feeling of invincibility had disappeared. 

During the grind I didn't forget to look around. We mostly traveled through nondescript lodgepole pine forests but sometimes the course surfaced above the trees and the views were breathtaking. The cobalt sky graced a lush green valley dotted with bright gold aspen groves and surrounded by slate gray peaks. 

Yeah, that view

I came through the aide station for the second time, still sitting in third with eight miles to go, still in no man's land. The next stretch was insulting: very slightly uphill in kitty litter gravel with a headwind. I followed all the other tire tracks as they tacked all across the road on the hunt for firmer ground. 

A huge pick-up came barreling toward me and as I concentrated on holding my line in the soft shoulder, I blew through an intersection. After riding five more miles to the highway without seeing a finish line, I turned around, shattered. I castigated myself when I realized there had been no tire tracks on the road for the entire last stretch. Back at the intersection, I saw an arrow that I'd passed. It was being buffeted by the wind, but to my right was another course marking reassuring me of the turn. I followed and saw lots of tracks again. Whew. 

Unfortunately, I had no idea that the finishing stretch was the same as the start, and that I was following the morning's route deeper onto the course. I had apparently absorbed nothing of the first ten miles because nothing looked familiar. But I started feeling deeply uneasy as I continued traveling south with no sign of the finish. Without any idea of why the arrows had led me astray, I started looking for a road that would cut west toward the highway. It was several miles before one appeared though, and I was too nervous to backtrack, because I was out of water and didn't have another spare tube. I had to stop several times on the never-ending ATV road and rethink the steps I had taken, but they still seemed sound. I knew I was going west and I couldn't be more than five or so miles from the highway. While on my first wrong turn I was cursing and sprinting, this time I was more pragmatic, knowing if I didn't figure out a way back I would truly be up shit creek. 

Finally after six agonizing, thirsty miles of second-guessing myself, I found a paved road and an RV couple who gave me directions and water. I was another seven hilly miles from the lodge but it was paved and I had water, beef jerky, and a tailwind. 

JayP's Backyard Pursuit (left) vs. Julia's Backyard Pursuit (right)

I mashed back into town feeling strong and happy. I had to check in with all my worried friends and just managed to catch JayP before he went out looking. I felt like a huge asshole. He'd told us the night before: bring two spare tubes and bring the course map. But I'd thought since I was doing "the casual distance" that such warnings didn't apply to me.

We stuck around to cheer on the other participants who were still rolling in, the hardmen who raced the 120, the gently stoned recreationalists who relished every lovely mile, and the midwestern family of four on fat bikes that had rallied and finished the 60 with smiles on their faces. Seeing their perseverance and good attitudes humbled me, and I decided a little less swagger and a little better preparation would probably serve me well in future endeavors. (But how many times have I learned that particular lesson, to no avail?) 

Riding in fall is the finest

At the racers' meeting the night before, JayP had said, "This is the inaugural Gravel Pursuit, and when this race gets huge, you will be able to say proudly, I was there for the first one." I absolutely believe that is true, because despite my foibles, it was a beautifully designed course and a flawless event. 

Pierre's Hole 50K

I had originally planned on doing the 100k but summer got away from me and even 15+ mile rides were few and far between. The Kate hooked me up with a free entry because she is a sponsor/awesome, so I went out to the Ghee one weekend, rode most of the course, and did some race visualization. And by that I mean I visualized riding those fun twenty-five miles of singletrack, coming through the base area sore, dehydrated, and probably cranky, and having to continue out for a second lap of the same. 

I sat myself down for a talk. 

"You are not doing the 100k." 

"But people will think I'm not tough!"

"You know what's not tough? Falling apart with twenty miles to go. Remember the last 100k you did? And you were in shape that time. You're a starter, not a finisher. Your MO in all races is to get enough of a head start that when you implode, not too many people pass you. You're doing the 50k."

I went to sulk in a corner, smarting from my brutal honesty, but secretly relieved to be off the hook.

Race day was blessed by sunny skies after a week of rainstorms. The cool morning reminded me of collegiate, those first couple of weekends at ETSU and LMC when it started to smell like fall but before the rains came. I reverted back to usual race form, swaggering around registration feigning confidence, whining when it was time to kit up and warm up, sipping week-old water from a five-year-old bottle while everyone else carefully spooned electrolyte drink mix into clean, labelled bottles. Team Fitzy was out in force and the camaraderie on the start line made me feel almost like a local. 

The first half of the lap was a long climb and a long descent. I watched Fast Jackson Woman Amy take off and was content; I knew I could only catch her if she had a catastrophic mechanical. I simply enjoyed myself and actually listened, for the first time in my life, to the voices of Squirrel and St Marie in my head. Maintain. Race your own race. Use the descents. Stay loose on the greasy rocks. Drink. Eat. Better five years late than never, I guess. The course was in incredible condition: hero dirt, tacky switchbacks, no dust, phenomenal views. I was in heaven. I saw a moose and said, "Hey moose." I got to the first aide station and told the Fitzys I was having so much fun. 

Local pro Amanda Carey crushing it in picturesque high meadows
Pic courtesy of TMTB

The second half of the lap consisted of mellow ups and downs through meadows and aspen groves. That's where I saw that I was being chased. In races I prefer that the chips fall early and firmly. I don't like chasing and I hate being chased. One might argue this is the point of racing. Yeah, well...

I tried not to panic and worked to build a gap on the descents, but they weren't long or technical enough and she gained on me. Finally, on the bumpy and seemingly interminable trails of Rick's Basin, she caught me. 

"Nice catch. You're (expletive removed) tenacious," I said. 

"Good riding, girl. Robin's coming up right behind us too," she said. 

With that info I had my inevitable inner temper tantrum, but tried to keep going, alternating between pushing myself and wanting to sit down among the wildflowers and NOT race bikes anymore. A detached part of me was amused by how bad my attitude was, how bad it always is. 

I emptied the tank on the last couple of miles and collapsed after the finish line. Robin crossed the line only thirty seconds after me in fourth place. Tyler seemed at a loss; he has never seen me race and doesn't know how to deal with Broken Julia. After getting out of chamois and drinking a beer, I recovered and got my stoke back. The race organizer and trail builders absolutely killed it and the day couldn't have been nicer. I raced a little smarter and a little harder than I used to, so maybe experience and maturity is worth something? Blah blah blah, lessons learned (maybe) and if you ever want to do a really awesome endurance race on great trails with incredible views: Pierre's Hole. Do it.   

The only bummer was that there didn't appear to be a dedicated photographer on course, which is a shame because a: it was crazy beautiful and b: everyone knows that all bike racers are narcissists (me included). 

Pavement Time

The other day Deutschbike and I went out riding. The fella was out of town so on my day off I had the luxury of pummeling myself into oblivion at my leisure. My knees, ass, and hands may beg to differ but my heart said, best road ride ever.

Better than riding around the lake even, because of the incredibly diverse scenery. Soft pedal out of camp along my own little lake, cut through picturesque neighborhoods, climb up out of Christmas Valley, a glade of the sharpest greens and most bountiful wildflowers with the tranquil Upper Truckee River running through it, over Luther Pass and down into Hope Valley where the craggy glory of the Sierras swallows me. Then a long and windy stretch through cow-town, the flats of Nevada with the Sierras on one side and the Pinenuts on the other. When I stop to eat a Pop Tart a big hawk peers down at me with disgruntlement and then moves down to the next telephone pole. Then a long, exposed climb through the sandstone canyons above Gardnerville, nothing to protect me from the sun and seemingly nothing holding the sand to the cliffs. Finally I made it to Daggett Pass and took the shortest route back to camp, through South Lake Trashhole, land of never ending road construction, and yet...generous shoulders, glorious weather, drivers who notice bikes. The final stretch was the hardest of the day, with a little baby climb up Tahoe Mountain and then the bone chattering road around the lake in all its pot-holed, pavement-rippled glory.

Not as long as my last big ride, but way harder: http://app.strava.com/activities/55419760
The ride resembles the Assault in a lot of ways. Big climbs at the start and finish, flatlands in the middle (in a different state, even!) Crazy beautiful, crazy tough, definitely want to do it again.

Back to Camp

I finished off the season with one last magical powder day at Kirkwood, with a group of six wonderful friends, a posse that despite its size never grew unwieldy or sluggish.

And now after a lightning fast winter, I'm settled back in at SSC, with a new cabin and a new title and, oddly, a new sense of detachment. Because this time around I have a life in town, not to mention a set schedule of forty evening hours a week, I haven't and probably won't wholeheartedly embrace the scene that is camp. It's a little bittersweet that I'll never again be a new arrival wide-eyed with wonder (like Eric, who I suspect is in heaven), but instead I can build on friendships I made last season, get to better know the full time staffers, and make some attempt to do my job well (which doesn't come as naturally to me as food service, but what doesn't kill you, etcetera).

Of course the best aspect of camp remains the same: infinite opportunity for outdoor play. The mountains and the waterfront beckon. The trails shook themselves free of snow very early this year, and Rebecca and I have been on a couple of extremely satisfying bikes rides (made all the better by several months of abstinence). On one of those days I had the quintessentially Californian experience of mountain biking and skiing in the same day. And this sunshine doesn't look like it's going anywhere.

Winter Cometh

the last couple weeks have seen plenty of upheaval so to those with whom i've failed to keep up, my apologies. the conference season ended early for me because the bosses at HR demanded my time ASAP. as a result i had to move out before most folks, but that didn't stop me from partaking of the season-ending festivities at camp. i took advantage one last time of the gear available and went paddleboarding on the still lake, and then snowshoeing in the four feet of powder in the hills above us. there was a big cozy banquet for all the staff, and a big drunken cabin crawl for halloween. there were lots of hugs and tearful goodbyes and promises made.

Disco Bingo. This is a paid shift, but I think we might've enjoyed
it more than the guests. 

Celebratory banquet and some of my favorite ladies 

Creepy folks at cabin crawl 

and now i've worked at heavenly for a week. it is a whole new world, for sure. i'm not quite sure how it happened but i definitely got suckered into the most desky of desk jobs. i'm a data entry coordinator, which means i process all the thousands of new and returning employees that come at the beginning of the season. i sit in front of a computer under fluorescent lights working in earnest for a solid eight hours each day. it's not boring, but it is grindingly monotonous and i have to stay vigilant the entire time because any mistake can jeopardize someone else's livelihood. i'll never do it again, but i don't hate it. it's challenging and tricky learning all the ins and outs of such a big operation. AND i don't have to answer the phone.

Such a cool town

and then i went to downieville this weekend and it was everything i could've hoped. it was wet and rooty and all the trails twisted along cliffs above the picturesque yuba river and the only bar in town was filled with backcountry hicks and i felt like i was home again. 

Adventurin'

the other day in a fit of brashness i hopped on the deutschbike and rode around lake tahoe. it was an 85 mile ride from camp and i fully expected to quit somewhere around tahoe city and turn back. i haven't ridden that far since 2009 and this was the longest ride i'd ever done alone by at least 40 miles. and yet somehow i was never bored and only got really hurty at the end. it probably didn't hurt that it was pretty flat and intensely beautiful, and that the weather was perfect and there were luxurious shoulders and bike lanes everywhere.

Emerald Bay, probably the most picturesque
and the closest to camp too

i stopped at the same beach we hung out at after nationals in '09 and felt a flutter of nostalgia. i would give anything for nats to be here again this year so i watch the old alma mater score its inevitable victory.


and then yesterday i jumped out of a plane. what a rush. i'd do it again in a heartbeat. would recommend it to anyone.

 

3 Days, 3 Rides

as usual just imagine i have images to grace the words.

after too much down time i got back on the bike and went explorin'. the open space minutes from the g-ma's house yielded a really delightful piece of previously undiscovered (and illegal) singletrack. then gaskin brought savannah and the man to walnut creek for some hang out time. i dragged them up mount diablo just cuz, and while it was stupid and painful, it sure wasn't boring. ok, we had to stagger up vertiginous hills, barely able to find footing much less push our bikes, cursing the sheer insanity of the road engineers, but it was so dang beautiful. she has pictures, i do not.

then today i went down to pacifica, south of san fran and perched on the ocean, crowded on all sides by mountains. my riding companion du jour was more of the bro-brah persuasion and laughed at my clipless pedals and short travel, but i did all right. pacifica offers some of the only DH/FR in the bay area and as i swept through the eucalyptus groves, pinballing off berms and dodging doubles, i was reminded a lot of galbraith, in bellingham...if it hadn't rained in six months. we could pretend i was doing this, but in reality i remained within six inches of the ground at all times.

very exciting stuff though. i do love new places. and now onward to where the riding is nearby and by all accounts magnificent. tomorrow i'm heading northeastish, and giving a lift to a young meatneck coworker. this'll be fun.

Oh, Utah

We wended our way through Wyoming and it was windy and wide-open, with striated bluffs sometimes rising out of the scrub brush. The crossing into Utah brought abrupt elevation changes, towering peaks, and rivers. Why did no one ever tell me this state was so beautiful? We met up with Joh and headed down to Salt Lake City for a potluck in the park with friends. The beach volleyball courts beckoned and I grudgingly played for the first time, and loved it, and went to bed with dusty feet.

The next morning Joh took us hiking in stunning Wasatch National Forest, where even a moderate walk yields the most grandiose views. Then we sated our mountainous appetites with huge burgers at the only pub in Samak (the tiny hamlet of non-Mormons who left Kamas and spelled their new town backwards). Joh then had to work but I wasn't finished with this landscape. A bit of sheer Facebook serendipity landed me in the capable hands of a local mechanic/bike racer, who showed me a tantalizing sampling of what Park City had to offer. I struggled a little but wheezed less than expected at seven to nine thousand feet.

Reunited

Gotta love how worthless pictures are at conveying scenery

I usually try to put new trails in context by comparing them to old, but analogies failed me now. No trails I'd ridden were like these; twisty, steep, sometimes rocky or rooty (but usually at polite perpendiculars), covered in an inch of fine moon dust, but most noticeably graced always by a majestic vacuum--the sweeping valley and heartbreaking massifs that kept snagging my eyes and ripping me asunder. There's no doubt it was the most beautiful place I'd ever been. I didn't even try to take a picture. The sun set and we finished riding in the dark. So, Utah. Never mind the wicked winters, the snobs and the Mormons, the 4% ABV beer. I love it.

Oh yeah, we also played on the salt flats

The Good

These days have seen a steady progression of pleasant events. The goings-on in my life conspire to make me feel like a complete and contented person, at least for the time being. It's funny how much I vacillate between utter bliss and antsy wanderlust, although if those are my only two settings, I really don't have anything to complain about.

Since Morgan took a wild hare and signed up for the 111k, it was only fitting that we spend a morning clambering over the top of Black Mountain. It was a stellar ride that left us both grinning. I've been doing the same sports for long enough and with enough consistency that I rarely take inventory of fitness gains, but climbing Black I definitely noticed. The whole ride was almost effortless and didn't feel much harder than the Big M. I only put myself in the pain cave on the road home, sprinting to make it to work on time.

Like I mentioned, the John Rock trail race was next up on the agenda. The parking lot was filled with locals and those poor interlopers who wished they were locals. I was reminded how cool the running community is around here: Baker Bill (of course), Cason, Jackie, Sara, Wild Bill, Chanley, Sadie, Mr and Mrs Squirrel, the dude who works at the Hatchery...It was a good scene.

The race was short and the stakes were high (just kidding) so I decided to lay it all out there, which I neverever do in running races. The kilometers ticked by and I continued to feel like a baller, and this time I took it a bit easy on the descent, not wanting to jeopardize the surprise lead. I finished twelfth overall with Chanley breathing down my back as the second woman. A beautiful day, an energizing run, and mad props from everyone--an unbeatable combination.

On Sunday my little sis persuaded me to crash a high school pick-up game, which left me sunburned, bruised, battered, and wickedly stoked on life.

It's not just the sporting life that has been treating me well. Work is going smoothly, my taxes are safely filed, the daffodils are blooming under my window. Of late there have been many memorable get-togethers and social gatherings, evenings of Wii, burritos, Coors Light, sing-alongs, club-hopping, fire-sitting, beard-stroking, playing catch-up with old friends and meeting new, going home with someone I really like at the end of the night...

No, I certainly can't complain.

Hooray

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. 

My Cup Runneth Over

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

Happiest Days

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

Ride Log

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)

Road Ride

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.