On Vanity

These girls! Mountain bikers with their artful side braids, trendy matte visored helmets never awkwardly tilted, never exposing unseemly forehead. Their logo'd raglan three quarter length tees look suited for playing sandlot softball but hug curves and wick moisture like butterfly wings. Their shorts are tailored but not tight, never gaping above kneepads, never riding down in the back to expose undershorts or the dreaded crack. Even at the most unflattering, posterior-widening, torso-shortening angles these girls look perfect, "shred-ready" but approachable. You want to buy them a beer and ask for their number. Even if you are a straight girl.

These skier girls. Winter outerwear presents a more forgiving profile but I still get it wrong. Certain colors and brands scream "I am here on my bi-yearly ski vacation from Florida." I don't want to scream that, or even whisper it. These girls with their bug-eyed reflective goggles and be-stickered helmets, artful side braids again poking fetchingly out from their protective headwear. Uber-technical shell jackets, dirty on the elbows from 100+ days of riding lifts but still appealingly color-blocked with contrasting zippers on trend for this season. Pants that are neither too tight (poser? tween?) nor too baggy (boy butt? ski bum saddle bags?). Even the way these girls stand, on skis or at the bar, natural, unselfconscious, athletic. They probably do yoga in the off-season. Photographers love these girls.

I will never be one of these girls.

My ass is too large to be disguised by light breathable bike shorts.

I always miss the memo on this season's outerwear trends.

I don't own goggles or sunglasses that hide my eyes, which always beseech the viewer: am I doing it right? Do you approve?

My side braid is never artful.

But maybe it's OK. I still get to experience the lifestyle that these girls represent. Even if I will never look as cool/effortless/beautiful while living it.

Stir Crazy

It's been a couple years since I've faced WNC-style precipitation...

This month has been a great reminder of how demoralizing week after week of drizzle can be.

Before the rains began some of the lower trails in the Valley were free of snow and dry so we all got a fleeting taste of after-work rides in the lengthening evenings and long weekend dirt pursuits. The overall precip totals are nothing compared to the downpours of Brevard but the dry, porous earth has reached saturation point from the daily weather and now it would be irresponsible to brave the rain and send it, Pisgah style. As I've mentioned, the trails here are delicate flowers.

 A quick scan of possible getaways this weekend reveals that everywhere within a five hour radius is getting the same soaking. You'd think I'd be more used to this after twenty years in NC but apparently I've lost my coping mechanisms. Now I just want to drink heavily and post snarky remarks on social media. Apologies in advance.

Um...Oops

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.