Toxic

My office is made up of five women, and I think not working with men has made me even more intolerant of some of the rank and casual unpleasantness that men can display. It came to the forefront at a party I went to this week.

A sixty-year-old man and his wife, both fit cyclists who loved to travel, were with us at the party. It came up in conversation that I used to be a racer. The man asked if I raced road or mountain, and I said mostly mountain.

"I should've guessed, you're not skinny enough to be a road racer," he said in a jocular tone.

I was pretty shocked by that and immediately told him in no uncertain terms that that was absolutely not something he should feel comfortable saying to a woman.

His assessment of my body didn't bother me, fortunately. While I'm not content with my weight, it's because I want to be stronger and fitter and more motivated, not because I want to be attractive to men. I don't have body hang-ups--I don't feel a need to apologize about the space I occupy.

Also, he obviously didn't know enough about cycling to know that, with the way racing works, a woman with some heft to her can make it a lot farther in the competitive road world than as a mountain biker.

I tried to think through why it made me so mad. I josh my male friends about their appearance. But I wanted him to understand that it's not his job or his right to observe me and tell me what he thinks about my body. I thought about one of my athletes, a girl who started out a little pudgy and is now a state champion in the throes of an eating disorder. What if this bozo had said that to her instead of me? That made my blood curdle with cold anger.

My friends' hackles were up too and they spent the rest of the night telling him how badly I could kick his ass on a bike. He seemed very sheepish and clearly didn't mean to sound like such a dick.

He never actually said sorry though. And then the next morning a guy we were giving a ride up to the ski hill showed up twenty minutes late and didn't apologize. Cy threw up his hands and said, "Men are terrible! Why don't they ever say sorry??"

The male gender continued to display its shittiness that evening. Later another guy, much younger, said that LeBron James was this century's Rockefeller. I said I thought that was a false equivalency, since LeBron built his fortune on talent and entertainment value rather than plundering the country's resources and using child labor. Suddenly this man started talking about how everyone who is not in the one percent is a slave, how we're all enslaved by our jobs and "the man," for lack of a more creative phrase. I think Cy and I both felt compelled by all the stuff we've read and listened to recently to speak up, to not let this person coast on his bullshit.

We both started arguing with him on his word choice, how it was flawed and stupid and inappropriate to misuse a word with so much historical baggage, how people who have to work for a living are very different from people who are bought and sold like chattel.

He pushed back hard and I felt for the first time like I was arguing with someone who trolls forums and Facebook. I interact with a lot of old school conservative people because of my job, but I had never talked to one of these put-upon alt-right men you read about in the left-leaning media. He was not interested in hearing what we said.

After Cy walked away too angry to continue, the guy informed me that he was a brainwashed liberal, which is truly laughable considering Cy grew up in a fundamentalist sect and his views have changed because he is compassionate and intellectually curious. I was shaking with fury the whole ride home.

Did I overreact? Or is it correct to keep holding these shitty men accountable for the stupid, thoughtless things they say? Is that how we fix a world where men have been unchecked for millenia? I really don't know.

RockBlock

During ORATB last year when we were riding long stretches of gravel roads on fat tires, I got it in my head that if one were so inclined one could gravelpack a big loop, combining the two local favorites of Around the Rock and Around the Block into one aesthetic circle of the Tetons and Palisades.

ORATB and RockBlock both included the lovely Fall Creek Road.

It was an unusual thing for me to want to do because I’d already traveled every inch of the loop but the novelty was in squishing them together. I hadn’t heard from anyone who had done it before and that appealed to me too.

I looked back over previous ride stats for both loops and felt pretty okay about it. Around the Rock is a big ride, half gravel, half pavement, that cuts through the northern foothills of the Tetons then follows the entirety of the range through Grand Teton National Park. It customarily ends with a climb up Teton Pass after the rider is already good and shelled. Around the Block is a 107-mile paved road ride, although there are a couple of gravel alternatives one can seek out. When I rode it in 2014 we started the loop by climbing Teton Pass. Ironically, by combining the two routes I was able to avoid the pass altogether, which I joked was the entire point.

Frequent restock points meant we could travel pretty light; we just brought basic sleep set-ups and enough snacks to keep bonking at bay.

And so it begins. 

We set out north from Driggs at dawn on Saturday. As we meandered the back roads of Teton County I compared the experience to my 2015 Around the Rock ride. The fact that we were riding two weeks earlier than the annual group ride meant everything was much greener, there were more wildflowers, the peaks held more snow, it was a little cooler, and barely anyone was driving Ashton-Flagg Ranch Road, which can be dusty and hectic in the high season. 

Those first 70 miles to the park entrance were fine, kind of boring. We didn’t talk much and the lyrics to annoying songs eddied through my brain. I picked a lupine stalk and threaded it into my handlebar bag. We were moving more slowly than the last time I’d ridden it, but I wasn’t too worried about that, assuming we’d pick up the pace in the park by drafting. Last time I was alone without anyone to help me face the wind.

The road into GTNP was closed from one direction but not the other, and a car managed to strand itself on a big snow patch. I followed suit.

We made it to Flagg Ranch in good spirits. The resort there is interesting because it’s a hub for several long distance bike routes. We met a couple that was touring from New Orleans and a man racing cross country from Oregon to Virginia, and if we had waited a week we’d encounter Tour Divide riders heading south down the spine of the continent. At Flagg Ranch, we were strange not because we were riding loaded bikes, but because we were out for such a short jaunt.

Around the Rock, which has only a paltry amount of total elevation gain, is really not a hard route. The things that make it suck are the ever-present wind and the cumulative discomfort from so many hours on the bike. There was a light headwind through the park and we were definitely feeling it as we motored around Jackson Lake and past the Cathedral Group. I remembered why I pledged to only do ATR once: it's monotonous and uncomfortable. 

Real pretty though, if you're into big mountains, I guess.

We hid from the sun in Moose for a while and watched the stream of tourists in heavy hiking boots or yoga pants, taking selfies and talking about bears and bison. National parks are kind of the worst.

The Moose-Wilson Road wasn’t as bad as I expected, because Cy pulled my grumpy ass most of the way. We made it to the Stagecoach with little ado, ordered beer and street food, and flopped down on the grass. Fooster and Sean, who were riding downhill laps on the pass, joined us.

Perfect campsite, right next to the road but completely unbothered.

After eating we were happy not to have to face a 2,300 foot climb and instead puttered down Fall Creek Road, looking for a camping spot. All the firmly worded “Private Property—No Trespassing” signs pushed us further south until, after an unexpected long climb, we set up camp behind a gravel pile in the Munger Mountain parking lot. It was a perfect site and I slept harder than I ever have outside. I woke up after ten hours to the buzz of hummingbirds and the distant drum of grouse wings.

Traveling down Fall Creek Road in the midmorning light was lovely, albeit cold. We saw a big badger hovercraft across the road and watched him flatten his body and hiss at us from the creek bank below. Any closer and I would have been nervous of his aggressive bulk.

Badger!

There was a firm headwind in the Snake River Canyon that meant instead of the fast effortless miles I expected, we were toiling on the slight downhill and I was too cold to take off my jacket. When we discovered that the gas station in Alpine was under construction I had a meltdown, convinced that the rest of the day was going to be much harder than anticipated. 

"The only guarantee on every trip is that if I say something will be easy or short or downhill, it's fucking hard," I fumed, low on blood sugar. 

Then we found a little fireworks store where I drank a restorative iced coffee and immediately felt like I could crank through the miles around Palisades Reservoir. Also the headwind mellowed, because Idaho is better than Wyoming. I was feeling good about Pine Creek Pass. Cy was falling apart because he doesn't have old lady strength, so I kept pace with him. We only wanted to present one target for the deranged drivers on the pass. I want to give a word of thanks to people in cars who see two cyclists death-hugging the shoulder and slow slightly instead of trying to thread the needle, full speed, between the riders and an oncoming RV. To everyone else: fuck you.

We turned off Highway 31 onto 9500S and moaned with relief: no more scary highway riding. The psychological repercussion of riding 130 miles at the mercy of bad drivers was even more exhausting than the physical toll of the effort.

It is just so aesthetically pleasing though.

Threading our way through quiet valley roads as the cold wind whipped at our backs for the first time all day, we were grateful to be back on the good side of the Tetons, only a little worse for wear.

Resentment

I keep relocating farther from my job. First I walked to work, then I rode a mile and a half each way, then it became three. But I still commuted by bike, all year, regardless of conditions. I only drove if it was raining or if I had to run errands or as a special treat to myself.

Winter commuting sucked. It usually made me really sweaty and really grumpy, with numb toes and a protesting drivetrain. I postholed through thigh-deep snow on the "short cut," splattered my bike and posterior with a choice blend of salt, grit, and mud, ate shit on ice, and wore holes in the crotches of all my jeans.

And yet.

I kept my riding skills extant, if not honed, all winter. I was fit enough to crash fat bike group rides and races. I didn't have to scrape my stupid windshield every day or drive nervously on treacherous roads.

But now I live six miles away, which is just long enough to bail on riding. Especially when I stay at the office until dark, and it's really cold, and I have to go to the grocery store, and the ice is too bad, and twelve miles a days will ruin my jeans even faster, and you can let excuses pile up until you haven't ridden in a month. So I rode the other day, in eight degree temps, with a sinus infection, and it absolutely sucked.

And that's why I experience irrational resentment towards people who drive two blocks to work. You don't deserve to live so close if you're not going to take advantage of it! Go live in the countryside and I will take my rightful place as a townsperson. You love the rat race! 

If you are a person who drives two blocks to work, consider yourself chastised. This applies to all.

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.

Oh Hi

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 outlook. Stay posted. I promise a scintillating synopsis of the alley cat as well.