Cyclocross, Again

Last month I won a race that I didn't expect to win.

I first fell in love with cyclocross in January of 2007. I had joined the university's cycling club and there was a big CX scene in the Triangle area, so I borrowed someone's bike, got a hasty barriers 101 lesson, and raced. It wasn't great, predictably - there's a special kind of hectic disorder that comes with being in a crowded field, trying a new discipline, making what feel like race-ending mistakes. That's become my most salient piece of advice to people who are trying it out: stay relaxed the first couple of laps, because the chaos will subside.  

Race one of many

The next season, after buying a used Redline that I was really excited about (I spent the first evening of ownership bopping all over the urban trails and back alleys of Chapel Hill, a trend that would continue in every town I lived in), I raced most of the NC series and got addicted to podiums and cash purses. After I moved back home I focused more on mountain bike racing (and road, against my will) but still traveled occasionally for cyclocross. 

That's the face of a girl who really loves podiums

My dad got really into it too. The only time he ever spent in cars for a decade or so was driving to races around western NC and eastern TN, equipped with a thermos of coffee and a tupperware of oatmeal, listening to Sound Opinions. He started doubling up days by racing singlespeed and masters, and obsessed about handlebar widths and gear ratios and embrocation. 

There was a cross course in Teton Valley and a race series when I first moved there, but it dwindled down to nothing when no one wanted to take on the burden of organizing the event. I went to one race in Boise and was reminded how great it was, but that was my last showing for seven years. (I appreciate that every half a decade or so I write a blog post about loving cyclocross.) 

Moose Cross in front of the hometown crowd in Idaho

I'm better at it than any other discipline. Forty-five minutes to an hour is my sweet spot for effort and I can go pretty much as hard as possible in that time; any longer and I start to blow up. I also like racing among people, because I can ease up or push more depending on other riders' strengths or weaknesses. If I'm left alone on a course, I lose motivation. It requires good bike handling skills but none of the bravery of an enduro or even a techy XC race, and seems to attract roadies more than mountain bikers so I usually have an advantage there. I know my actual CX technique would hinder me against an elite field (my barrier form is garbage) but I would be intrigued to do a real race again and see where I stack up. 

We've had a few local cross races and while I'm so grateful and happy to be living somewhere with a series that I don't have to travel for, the turnout for women is a little disappointing in such a bike-obsessed town. I wish any of the mountain bikers I know were interested in trying it out, because I keep promising them it really is an addictive sport. My friend Gina is the only one I've managed to convince so far, and she enjoyed it so much that she signed up for a second race right after her first one. 

Racing on a BMX track three miles from my house? Yes please 

I kind of sheepishly have won a few races and taken a bit of shit for it. (What am I supposed to do? I don't want to race in the men's field.) Yet I had to be convinced to head down to Seattle for what was billed as the biggest cyclocross race in the country - last year it had over 800 registered riders and blew that out of the water this year with over 1,100. I was afraid I'd be humbled in a real field with sponsored riders, but I did want to witness the spectacle, and snagging a ride down in a minivan full of Bellinghamsters instead of having to drive cinched the deal. 

I wore my old college skinsuit because no matter how much mockery they inspire, skinsuits are the absolute best for goin' fast. After the girls leading the series got called up to the front row, I settled in all the way at the back because I wasn't comfortable elbowing my way forward when I didn't know where I stacked up (even though I always tell women to line up higher than they think instead of letting themselves by handicapped by their own insecurity). 

I looked down and noticed the woman I was directly behind was only one cog down from her easiest gear. Yikes, I thought, and shuffled away from her so I wouldn't get caught behind her in the first sprint. I still had a really bad start, off the back - the video is hilarious. The pace was high but a lot of the girls rode tentatively through the muddy off-camber chicanes and there was a long-ish uphill section in the middle of the course, so I made up a lot of ground cornering and climbing, and started clawing my way through the field with aggressive passes.  

I latched onto the wheel of a woman that someone had warned me was fast, and rode behind her for a lap. When we hit a paved section, she slowed down, which I assumed was a request that I share the burden of setting the pace instead of sitting on her ass, so I took the lead from her, but then she fell off my wheel. 

Flying the colors of the old alma mater

Gina, cheering on the side of the course, told me I was in second. Oh shit, I thought. Cool cool cool. Then I caught sight of the woman I supposed was probably in first. Spectators yelled her name and ignored me (understandably - I was an unknown) as we battled through the barriers. I eventually attacked her on a hill and smashed the pedals to extend the gap in the final laps. 

Every time I passed through the start/finish I noticed that the race announcers, who had been very communicative in earlier waves, were looking me in the eye but not announcing my name or that I was (maybe?) the race leader. 

Their surreal silence made me start second-guessing my position - there was probably a woman or two so far off the front that I never even saw them. Around five minutes after I finished, I saw another women roll through and the announcers called out that she had "just snuck through to do one more lap." Everyone finished on the same lap as the elite men, who had lapped me once, so I wondered if she had been so dominant that they hadn't lapped her at all (turns out most of the women's field was lapped twice).Then I pulled up the live results and saw only four finishers, myself not among them. I learned a couple days later that due to a computing error the announcers didn't even have an accurate start list of the elite women's field pulled up in front of them, which explained a lot. 

At the awards ceremony, the race organizers asked for participants in the women's race who "thought maybe they were in the top three" to please come up for a conflab. They asked me and I posited that I was perhaps second place. Then they announced the women's podium and I strolled up to claim a spot, but the supposed first place finisher looked confused, and we locked eyes. "Oh, I beat you," I said, the realization dawning that I actually had won. 

Still love podiums, even when they're surprise podiums

And thus ended the saga of the most anticlimactic and confusing win I've ever had. 

Why am I fixating on the minutiae of one non-UCI cyclocross race? I don't know. I was really, really surprised to win. It's been so long since I've lined up against serious cross racers, so I'm curious how much of my success was fitness and maturity and how much of it was a not very strong field. It made me want to try a higher stakes race, but there are only a couple UCI races anywhere near this side of the country, and they're early in the year, so I probably won't get the chance. 

Fortunately there are two more local races, and I'm going to continue proselytizing (crosslytizing?) to everyone I know until someone shows up and decisively kicks my ass. 

These Are the Days of Miracle and Wonder

On Halloween everyone went to the Knotty and a local band performed all of Paul Simon's Graceland. It's the kind of album I forget about until I hear it and sink back into its wonderfulness. Today a line from "Boy in the Bubble" scrolled on repeat through my brain while I was running.

The November sunshine and warmth tricked me and Tyler into attempting a trail ride but the freeze-thaw resulted in greasy thick mud. It was nice enough to run though, so I rallied Cy and Patrick for a run up Taylor with the option of continuing on to Moose Creek.

The morning was cold and the ground was hardened in the shape of hikers' boots braving yesterday's mud. We pushed up to the ridge, reaching snowline and stomping steps into the suncrust. At the summit the Tetons jutted up to our north, the Palisades spread to the south, the Gros Ventre loomed impressive across Jackson Hole, the Big Holes rippled brown over Teton Valley.

Stoked dogs and snow on the Taylor ridge
Pic courtesy of Patrick

We plunged down the west face of Taylor in deep sugary snow, skiing on the soles of our feet, eating shit and laughing. Sophie and Mya porpoised through the snow, mocking our lack of grace. For those couple of miles skis would have been the weapon of choice, but then we got back to tromping through sagebrush and ankle-deep snow, with wet feet, scraped shins, and an awkward gait from all the slippery sidehill.

I kept us moving toward the idea of a trail and we finally (sort of) found it, a worn-in ribbon through the trees, primitive and plagued by blowdowns. At the bottom of the drainage it got willow-thick and moosey, then we abruptly popped out on the horses' muddy highway, Moose Creek Trail, and ran back to the shuttle car.

I am now happy to store my shoes away. I have done some really incredible runs this season and was fortunate to find a running buddy who does not appear to have the word "No" in his vocabulary. I ran through and over mountains, more for experience than exercise. I chased sunlight down the slopes of the Village, looked at the Grand from every angle, posed for pictures on summits, flushed moose from meadows, bushwhacked through bullshit, glided on ridgelines, stood in alpine lakes, and absorbed the unbelievable beauty of this range.

Days of miracle and wonder, indeed.

The Magic Loop: My Introduction to Bikepacking

The only time I've ever gone quasi-backpacking, my then-boyfriend chided me for walking too fast. He said it defeated the purpose. The only time I've ever gone quasi-bikepacking, I ran out of water and lay awake all night plagued by biting flies.

Bikepacking is very trendy in Teton Valley. Schedules finally align so that I can tag along for a weekend trip with Bruce and Kat, experienced outdoorsfolk who promise to be patient with my incompetence. Nan and Erica outfit me with all the necessary gear. The southern Big Holes are beset by fire so I pick a different mountain range and the Smithhammers, with some fine map-reading and a little social media stalking, create the Magic Loop.

Our playground: Caribou National Forest and the Palisades Reservoir

We disembark and I immediately have to fiddle with my entire set-up--this is rubbing that, this is cumbersome, that is rattling. Bruce says that every bikepacking ride starts this way: "derping and dicking around." It becomes a theme of the trip.

I am tentative on the heavy Krampus at first, but it feels so content fully-loaded. In its natural state. It works well all weekend, except when shifting from the big to little ring. That requires five minutes of murmured incantation to the drivetrain gods. We pedal for awhile and then turn up a seasonal road and begin climbing. Roadie Julia could happily climb on this road forever: butter smooth surface, perfect grade, big views.

Cruising through deciduous trees=eternal happiness
All pictures kindly provided by Bruce

We descend the other side and pass parked RV behemoths, fat people and children in ATVs, the little metal trailers where shepherds sleep. We pass a riverbank flooded with naked sheep and a watchful Great Pyrenees assesses our threat, bays once, remains at rest.

After reaching our goal for the day, we convince ourselves somehow that there is a marina down the road, perhaps with a shop that sells beer to thirsty boaters. Kat and I decide to investigate while Bruce moseys up Bear Creek to fish. We pedal farther than expected and find a boat ramp and a campground but no other amenities. Foiled! We go down to the beach, eat snacks, touch the moist sand where the reservoir has receded during the season. Maybe we can pedal the tiered shoreline around to a shortcut and skip some of the road. It is surreal riding, choosing the widest and most stable tier, the sand crumbling under our tires, the smooth pebbles rainbow colored. No one has ever ridden bikes here. The shore steepens and we decide to be smart instead of adventurous. My IT band begins to hurt on the ride back to camp, but a few minutes of singletrack soothes it.

Camp and a pile of calories

We eat food out of little cups and talk about that which sustains us: love, careers, adventure. After dark I hear smashing through branches. I'm frozen under my tarp, ears perked, wondering if a bear has found our food cache strung up in a tree. In the morning Kat says it must have been a moose--too loud and clumsy to be a bear.

We spend all morning making slow progress up the Bear Creek drainage. Infinite redundant creek crossings and beaver dam navigation. Thwacking through claustrophobic willow and cottonwood groves calling, "Hey bear!". Climbing and descending narrow slate shelves above the creek, sometimes tripod-ing on the unreliable slope. Every time we begin to doubt our path, a signpost appears to give comfort. We consume enough calories to maintain a positive outlook.

Bear Creek

At the source of Bear Creek, the Loop, sensing our fatigue with rough travel, bestows upon us fast miles of perfect gravel through a vast basin. It is a playground for motoheads, criss-crossed by dirt tracks and surrounded by mountains. Big and little raptors coast on thermals and fly mating dances and swoop into the brush.

We climb out of the basin, growing concerned that we might have to dry camp, worrying about the dark clouds hurrying in from the west. Then the Loop provides a sheltered campsite next to a brook. At night it pours rain and I scooch around under my shelter, waiting to get wet. I never do. In the morning I examine the tarp--soaked and plastered in pine needles. Little piles of hail dot our campsite. I marvel at modern camping gear.

We pedal to Caribou City, an abandoned mining town, then hit singletrack, alternating between fun descents and wallowy, horse-stomped climbs out of muddy drainages. We snack and admire the views and then start a trudging hike-a-bike (the Krampus growing heavier with each step) but then Bruce and Kat double check the Loop so we backtrack and descend instead, forever and ever, down an open, mellow drainage with deeply saturated fall colors under an indecisive sky.

Delightful downhill

We agree it is one of the finest days ever spent on a bike. But we are miles from the truck, and want to avoid riding the busy highway back to Alpine. The Loop again provides, with dirt roads that turn to powerline cuts that turn to cow paths meandering along the Salt River, finally delivering us into an empty subdivision a quarter mile from our desired turn-off. We change at the truck and hightail it to the closest bar. I wash my face in the bathroom and try to absorb the weekend.

A solid crew

It is loud in my house but I go lay in the grass outside, feeling like I'm underwater. Bikepacking wiped my slate clean, pressed refresh in some essential way. The dull roar of my thoughts relented to a quiet whirring in the background. It is so thrilling to know you can travel out in the woods, carrying all you need, and just exist. You can't pack along your job worries or money troubles or crushes or grievances because you need to leave room for your headlamp and instant coffee and trowel. It feels primal and simple and good.

I am about to spout my revelations to my roommates when I realize: everyone who has ever gone backpacking already knows this. I'm just late to the game.

I am already hunting through gear websites for my own set-up.

A Painstakingly Thorough Cataloging of All Emotions Experienced During a Static Peak Run

Excitement

I was buzzing at the Death Canyon trailhead, hopping up and down after the long drive. We had a solid crew of six, friends from both sides of Wydaho. Everyone was tying shoes and buckling packs and smearing on sunscreen and I wanted to RUN! 

Pics courtesy of Erin and Cy

Nostalgia

The miles passed in a blur. The smell of shale and serviceberry and pine needles and the feeling of sweating and running and power walking up loose pitches was so evocative of Tahoe, but the landscape was so unlike Tahoe, thick with rampant greenery, forested to 10,000 feet, ice cold melt feeding the stream that rushed through the canyon. 

Impatience

Our group had varied paces and I waited a lot. Somehow it was not too terrible, lying on a rock in the sun over some incredible vista, eating Oreos, unconcerned by the usual worries of temperature, time, or daylight. 

Hubris

Patrick, a freelance marketer for cool companies, commented that I could net a lot of free gear with my athleticism, my blog, and some more effort on the social media front. My ego puffed up like an airbag but quickly deflated. I have such conflicted feelings about social media and smartphones and the commodification of image. On one hand, I'm as much of a narcissist as anyone and would love the constant validation of having a real following, and the pleasure of possessing some good images of myself doing quasi-cool things. On the other hand, I feel like enough of a compliment-fishing dork sharing my blog, and feel uneasy with the emptiness of documenting every experience to further promote yourself instead of existing in the moment. I could write a treatise of indecision on the topic. 

Awe

I couldn't go five minutes without stopping and, with a manic grin, throwing my arms wide to absorb every bit of beauty. What an amazing world we live in. 

Joy

Cy and I were moving faster than the rest of the group so we opted to summit Static before the questionable clouds to the west shut us down. The views from 11300ft prompted from me a string of joyous profanities. After luxuriating in the panorama and taking pictures with American flags (that social media thing...) we picked our way back down to the saddle to hide from the wind. Our gang caught up and the skies cleared so we decided to rally for a second summit. Just as wonderful. 

Pride

I was peeing the whole day. This denotes unprecedented levels of hydration, even after I dug myself into a hole racing bikes and drinking in the sun the day before. 

Smugness

The final homeward stretch was clogged with couples and families going out for a holiday weekend hike. I sprinted past, uttering pleasant "Howdy!"'s and less pleasant "Scuz me!"'s when the groups blocked the trail like oblivious cattle. I felt so much cooler than them, dusty limbs and stripped down gear instead of wicking polos, Crossfit attire, and hulking overnight packs. But pausing at the gorgeous Phelps Lake overlook, I had to adjust my stupid localler-than-thou attitude. 

Gratitude

Hundreds of thousands of people come here to this sacred and breathtakingly beautiful place, traveling long distances in cars and planes to spend time in the stoney embrace of the Tetons. I live forty minutes away...ten as the crow flies...and I take it for granted too often. I can't wait to spend more days in the park, getting slapped in the face with majesty. 

Vignettes

Cool things have happened but while I had a half-written blog post for each floating around in my head, time passed and my thoughts dissipated into the ether. So instead, the past month, fast and dirty:

Beer paired dinner
Pic courtesy of Katie

After our incandescent experience last year, and with everyone's cellar close to overflowing with sexy beers, some of the brewery staff and various significant others decided to have our own beer paired dinner. We each brought a course and several exciting beers to consume in the best possible company. The fact that I can recall each course a month later speaks to the fineness of the meal.

Appetizers were bruschetta with chevre, sage, and balsamic-reduced onions with a rich "triple Tripel", and rare elk backstrap in a summer roll presentation with an herbaceous pale ale. Next was grilled peach, almond, and peppery arugula salad with a piquant selection of wild sours. Then over-the-top potatoes au gratin, the smoky bacon enhanced by a smooth porter on nitro. The main course was short rib sliders on a parsnip puree with extra horseradish, paired with a couple big brassy barleywines. We retired to the garage for a while to play ping-pong, let dinner rest, and drink lighter fare: week-old IPAs from one of the best breweries in the country, some delicate Berliner weisse, some easy-drinking pilsners. Dessert was salted caramel brownies with ice cream and the big guns came out to play: the bourbon barrel-aged quads, barleywines, and porters with their individual boxes and heady backstories. Dinner lasted a languid six hours, and we lined up thirty dead soldiers to photograph; hundreds of dollars worth of beer and a priceless experience.

The folks, doing the only touristy thing I permitted
Pic courtesy of Debs

I had been looking forward to my parents' visit for a very long time and it did not disappoint. As I'd hoped, they drove through Jackson from the airport, and having seen the kitsch shops and faux old-timey wooden sidewalks, did not require me to waddle around all the crowded hotspots with them. Instead of being tourists, they just fell easily into my routine: lots of reading, mountain biking, taking my spoiled little dog on runs, cooking great dinners, hanging out at the pub. We had some uncharacteristically late boozy nights talking about beer and life and real estate. Debbie was every bit the financial advisor/fount of wisdom I needed her to be, and Bill provided running commentary on, you know, everything. They met most of the really important people in my life and came away (I assume) with a much better understanding of why I can't pry myself away from the middle of nowhere Idaho.

Attempting to charge
Pic courtesy of Grand Targhee

Instead of racing Pierre's Hole again, I turned my sights on another Targhee race I knew would be less well-attended and that offered an obscene pay-out. It was a 25 mile XC and a long DH and the combined best placing on the same bike won the overall. I felt pretty good about that. Bill decided to race the XC too, to my delight, and finished strong, an impressive feat on a tough, high-altitude course, on an unfamiliar bike, after an extremely stressful summer. My fields were small and a little short on competition but I did spend the first half of the XC duking it out with a couple ladies. During the DH I had little confidence in a win after my humbling enduro experience but had a clean, fastish run and got to stand on top of the box for both races and the overall.

Teton Region High School MTB team (some of it, anyway)
Pic courtesy of Todd

Last weekend saw the first ever Idaho high school mountain bike race (hosted in Wyoming, ironically). The kids on our team are not only great riders, they're also some of the coolest, friendliest, most positive kids I've ever had the pleasure of hanging out with. We scored a good number of podiums, all from the middle-schoolers and underclassmen, which means the team is only going to get stronger. Almost two hundred kids participated and the atmosphere was full of infectious stoke. I was really happy to be a part of it. 

Now it's forty degrees and raining, with all reports indicating snow on the peaks. I am more than happy to put a great summer to rest and sally forth into winter.

Skip This Post If You Get Sick of My Obnoxious and Repetitive Joy Spewing

I was interviewing for a job, sitting at ease with the macchiato the owner had made for me perched in my lap, when she asked, "On a scale of one to ten, how lucky do you feel?" I suppose the question could've meant either statistically fortunate or endowed with a great life, but without hesitation I interpreted it as the latter and said with a laugh, "Right now? 9.5." 

See what I did there? In media res: starting a story in the middle to draw in the reader (all three of you). More about the job interview later. I just need to explain why I'm operating at a 9.5, and every time I sit down to write this post I'm distracted by another awesome thing in my life, so now instead of any kind of cohesion, I'm just throwing out bullet points.

1: Everything is green now. Except that which is still snow-covered. The snow is receding daily and the talk of the town is which trails are clear, which trails are about to clear, which trails are THE BEST and will probably clear within a month.

2: Eastern Idaho has a huge quantity and variety of raptors. I almost wreck the car every time some broad-winged bird of prey soars overhead or preens on a fencepost. I swear I'm going to buy a book to identify them.

3: Trail running! My favorite drug!

Other sports???

4: Tyler, while frustrated and stressed out by his job, has gained the reputation of being one of those priceless above-and-beyond employees. Everyone at work loves him. He is great.

5: Mountain biking! After some digging on Saturday we had an afternoon of good old fashioned dirt jumping/pump tracking at the town bike park and I finally remembered how to ride a bike. I went out with The Kate on Sunday and between the dirt jumps, the leg strength from six months of skiing, and the arm strength from aggressive bar-making, I was feeling pretty fantastic.

Riding bikes in beautiful Swan Valley

6: I went back to Tahoe for a hot second and got to catch up with some very important people. It made my heart happy. I also successfully got Camp out of my system after having pined for it all winter.

Same as it ever was at SSC

7: New job! I'm still making bars of course, because I would never ditch such a great company, but over the course of a couple group rides I chatted with the owners of the LBS (not to be confused with LDS) and they're hurting for help. They're a really cool couple and I hate to see good folks overwhelmed by the trials of owning a business so I offered my free afternoons to them and after a couple conversations and semi-formal interview the general consensus was hell yeah. I'm starting at the shop tomorrow as salesperson, barista, and token female.

I might have forgotten a couple points in there, but no matter. Living the dream, as usual.

Broken Record

Do I have to say this ad nauseam? Sammie insists that I blog again but I have nothing new to report: I live in an amazing, beautiful place with a bunch of incredible people. As excited as I am about the upcoming transition to a more "grown-up" life of partnership and stability (and permanence?), at the same time I want the passage of days to slow so I can exist in this little space for as long as possible.

Fitness has fallen by the wayside because I'm too busy carpe-ing the diem. It doesn't result purely from laziness; escaping the tyranny of nonstop exercise fixation means spending time with a wider array of people, doing things that don't necessarily burn calories or leave me joyfully exhausted and sore, but still satiate some hunger within, the hunger for lingering experiences and a sense of togetherness. Sure, railing tacky berms before work is still the rush it always has been. And the other day we set out for a run on a rainy cold morning and were rewarded after only 500 feet of elevation gain by soft snowfall on autumn foliage, and we luxuriated in the western cliche of radiant yellow aspens in a white-dusted landscape.

Twelve miles of heartbreaking beauty

But piling out of a caravan of cars and behaving typically touristy with a huge gang of coworkers in an old mining town in Nevada, or in the apple orchards of the Sierra foothills? 

Camp escapees, Apple Hill tourists

Taking a casual bike ride down the road to see the kokanee salmon spawn and die by the thousands? 

Poking dead salmon with sticks (I never outgrew it)

Watching the sun sink over a shelf of rolling granite from our campsite next to the cascading pools of the American River? These are feelings I won't relinquish any time soon. What did I do to deserve this lush technicolor life?

Special Places

This spring I bemoaned my own jadedness and assumed camp would never hold the same magic for me as it did last fall. 

I have been eating my words with gusto all month. 

This fall has been even better than last. I feel really close to so many people at camp and now, not only do I say yes with regularity, I also instigate once in a while. In September I've found myself in so many special places with special people. 

Doing a relay triathlon with two girls who got to experience the undeniable rush of the podium for the first time.

Riding up and down snow-dappled mountains with my favorite fellow masochist.

Partying with people who will get dressed up at the drop of a hat.

Celebrating a stunning eastern Sierras vista.

Enjoying an omelet on top of Tallac at sunrise.

Cruising to the hot springs in the most majestic of seasons.

Dispatches from the Western Front

Monday was Tyler's birthday and he pulled some strings at work and got us a party boat. Ten of us piled on and doused ourselves in sunscreen and blasted "Blurred Lines" on repeat and set to work on the mimosas and Torpedoes in the cooler. When it got really hot we jumped in and climbed up to the Tea House, the quaintly named rock edifice in the middle of Emerald Bay. Paul drove donuts at the mouth of the marina before we headed back in with the setting sun. It was the most fun I've had in a long, long time. Clearly the best place to enjoy Tahoe is from the middle of it.

The Tea House

Too. Damn. Good.
(Pic from Katie)

After a surprisingly successful return to "competitive" running (a firecracker 5k barely merits the title), the bug has bitten. Again. Sigh. In September I will have the great pleasure of running up the mountain I skied down all winter, and with my padre nonetheless! Riding in the Graeagle area last week got me thinking about the Lost Sierra Endurance Run and I've actually managed to get my ducks in a row for that as well. I even did a long run yesterday, a long, hot, flattish run that ended as usual with a plunge in Fallen Leaf, and that made me feel pretty good about a 30k* in two months.

*Not 50k because I'm not insane

Office run
(Pic from Merril)

And I got a new pair of fatty fat skis for my powder-centric future plans.

So sexy

Every Friday night at camp the musically endowed counselors set up on the deck and perform for an hour, and every Friday night I stand at the huge window overlooking the lake, in my palatial office, and watch the show, and every Friday night the musicians finish with a rousing rendition of "American Pie", and every Friday night everyone dances and sings along, staff and toddlers and grandfathers and surly teenagers and tipsy soccer moms, and every Friday night, despite the disturbing sense of deja vu, the communal happiness and wistfulness at the week's end is palpable, even from the second floor. And then the sun sets and every Friday night, it's the most beautiful thing ever.

The view from work
(Pic from Nichole)

Best Year Yet

on the facespace everyone is chit-chatting about what his or her 2012 entailed, stuff like learning, loss, personal growth, and travel, or crazy shit like marriage and babies. all this reflection triggered in me a weird euphoric revelation: 2012 was by far the best year I've had, to date. permit me to quote myself, circa december 31 2011:

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.

well, lo and behold. most of those things happened. i shook up my life pretty drastically and was a very happy person for it. in 2012 i accomplished almost nothing athletically speaking, but some years are just like that. instead, i ventured very far south of the mason-dixon line for a variety of shenanigans, picked up and moved across this grand country, found a job in a place that takes my breath away, established myself quite contentedly in a new town, pursued a new sport with a pigheaded determination to not suck at it, and fell head over heels in love, despite my previous conviction that i was too cool for such nonsense.

no complaints here.

and a most excellent 2013 to everyone, as well.

The Shift

i climbed up to the bench on the tahoe rim trail yesterday and while it was lovely and warm, the wind was blowing fiercely and cirrus clouds were creeping eastward over the crystal range.

everyone is talking snow.

the forecasts claim six to twelve inches above 7000 feet on monday or tuesday, and then lake level is getting a wallop a bit later in the week. this is very late in fall for the first snow, but i still can't decide if i'm nervous or really excited. the buzz is contagious; almost all the staffers have scored their ski bum jobs and leased their ski bum houses, and now everyone is just waiting breathlessly for the weather to turn for good. 

i feel like i have my shit figured out, in the best way possible. i've rented a big house with a bunch of friends at brevard rates, i've sent in my absentee ballot, i'm going to downieville on thursday (!!), and (i think) i scored not one but two jobs at heavenly. i'll be working the front desk at HR until january and then go follow my true passion of makin' coffee at seattle's best.

if i had known moving cross country and setting up a new life was going to be so fun and easy, i would've done it a long time ago.

Life at Camp

I have been remiss in my duties.

Also I inexplicably broke the camera Dan gave me, so I will now resort to stealing photos from the internet because I'm classy like that. 

So here's my life in a nutshell right now: 

A couple days a week I work a 9-5 in the office. This frightened me at first, because of the sedentary nature of the job and more so because of the hulking, complicated beast of a phone that crouches on my desk, ringing constantly. I am not the best receptionist, but I'm learning, and after overcoming my stage fright I've started to really enjoy the office because it's challenging work, and we function as the hub of the whole operation. I love always knowing what's going on and where everyone is. 

On other days I work a shorter office shift and get some other random shifts too. Sometimes it's housekeeping, or working at the camp store/bar/coffee shop, or serving lunch, or setting up social hours for boozy guests. 

I, along with everyone else, am always alert for the meal bells so that I can scurry to the dining room for fish tacos, beef tenderloin, curry, or whatever else the kitchen chooses to put out. For breakfast I like to read on the deck overlooking the lake, drinking cappuccino and eating yogurt and raspberries. Other meals are a more collegial affair and I set my plate down wherever there's room, and laugh and gossip with whomever is available. 

The boat dock is right outside my cabin

When I'm feeling motivated between shifts, there is time for sunrise yoga, a morning paddleboard outing, some beach volleyball, or a trail run. Sometimes I prefer to just read or paint my nails on my cabin's little porch. After work is over I grab a beer from the Fountain (just put it on my tab) and join the raucous crowd at the smoker's circle or sit on the boat dock with my feet in the water or chat with my roommate and neighbors.

We get two days off a week, which seems downright luxurious. Rebecca and I have the same day off and so have plans of one epic mountain bike ride per week. The first outing was Mr Toad's Wild Ride, a roller coaster of rock gardens and stunning views that earned its reputation as one of the best descents in Tahoe. At some point a day trip to Downieville is on the agenda. 

Toad's was all about maneuvering over big rocks and

through a foot of moon dust.

On my other off-day I have a posse of like-minded hiking buddies. We're into really hard hikes with insane views and possible detours for swimming in alpine lakes. On Friday we scrambled and grappled up a moraine chute to Mount Tallac, at 9700 feet. It was by far the best hike I'd ever been on, even though we ended it sunburned and deeply dehydrated. 

You can see Fallen Leaf and all of Tahoe from Tallac.
Desolation Wilderness stretches out endlessly in the other direction.

I keep waiting for the magic to fade but it just gets better as I get to really know my coworkers and feel competent at my job(s). I would recommend this place to anyone--seriously, if you've ever considered temporary work, add this link to your favorites bar and apply for the spring season. 

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.