oops

the days and weeks continue their inexorable march and i have failed to document them. after each race or "race" i attend, i delay blogging in the hopes that i will come across a photo or two to adorn an otherwise stark entry...and every time my search fails. the world wide web does not deign to acknowledge my existence.

and so a month has passed.

in that month i poached a couple of tiny cross races to make money while skirting anything challenging for the most part...except for hendo. my first ever uci race and LORDIE was i outclassed. i stayed strong the whole time and didn't piddle around moping about my poor performance, so that's something. fighting tooth and nail for 19th place is a new and humbling experience. plus, uci races require FOUR NUMBERS, UGH, so needless to say i'll be avoiding them in the future.

i would like to get into cyclocross shape, but suddenly it's december and the season seems to have passed me by. now i'm getting a bit amped about next season, despite all my protestations about "retirement" and such nonsense. i just bought a sram XX crank for my sweet baby dinosaur and am close to puking with excitement about it--nicest component i've ever owned, sexysexy industry nines aside.

have you ever seen anything so beautiful? i mean, besides my bike.

of course, st marie heard about my purchase and upped the ante by ordering a couple of new carbon xc bikes and a dh bike, so......dick move.

what, you're still talking about that? here's proof that i actually did the shut-in, although my face is lying. it says: 'i am taking a merry jaunt in the woods,' while my brain says: 'i can't feel my left leg and this was the worst idea you've ever had. i hate you. i'm going to sleep now.' pic by paul christopher.

cross in tennessee. there are better pictures hiding somewhere and i'll post them, but for now believe that it was veryvery muddy and veryvery fun. not pictured: me slipping and sliding around on a full suspension, grinning from ear to ear. also not pictured: t cowie eating it in a race that consisted of him, himself, and he.

sorry.

i am also all a-tingle about next year because (and understand that my plans are entirely fluid and liable to change) so far scheduled:

santa cruz in january, to visit my cousin and ride as much mtb as possible

saint pete in march, to hang out with caitlin and do silly florida things like drink wine on the beach at night...in 70 degree weather...

crete in june (and maybe london beforehand), to play archaeologist with some of my favorite bc professors.

more proof that i am deferring 'life' in order to live.

And Now, Without Further Ado...

Before delving into my own personal sufferfest, I want to extend high fives to other people in this long weekend of sufferfests. Here's a vague high five to everyone who raced that marathon in New York or wherever, and to everyone who did the Iceman, which looks super stupid, and to all the loud and encouraging spectators who swarmed the Shut-In. A very specific couple of high fives to Jenna and Lydia for being wonderful volunteers on the deserted, snowy Parkway. And a whole round of "up highs" for all my friends who crushed the Swank. The KOP proved that he will probably get faster every freaking year until he is eighty, Geoff B got fourth with a broken rib, and Derek finished strong on three different bikes, which tickles me to no end.

So.

Confidence, which is supposed to have all kinds of miracle uses and magical results, has never really done good things for me in competition. Whether it be soccer games, XC meets, or bike races, I perform best when I've achieved a subtle blend of grumpiness, pessimism, apathy, and disgruntlement. I approached the Shut-In feeling prepared, eager, and confident of success, and just like those malignant clouds over the mountains, I should've known this peppy optimism did not bode well.

Dear Julia: Fear me. Love, the Parkway

No, I can't really blame the awfulness of the experience to some abstract concept like a good attitude. Contributing factors included: the cold; the cramping; the coldness of my calves; the coldness of my water; the coldness of a single GU lodged in my gut, which kept me from eating anything else the whole run.

All right, no more excuses. The Shut-In was very hard, very painful, somewhat rewarding, and veryveryvery beautiful. Even as I zombie-staggered up the brutal final two miles, sobbing from oxygen debt and hating the panting progress of other runners as they passed me, I couldn't help but notice the sun piercing the snow clouds, and the glitter of the frost-laced puffs of weeds lining the path. If I had to die the dramatic, absurd death I was envisioning for myself, at least I would be in heaven on earth.

Oh, and to everyone who said, "Beat Baker Bill,": not even close. He had a great race and beat me by ten minutes. Despite falling apart, I did meet my target of a sub-4 hour finish (which I realize now was not an especially lofty goal).

A less than rosy experience after the finish did not help matters, but eventually we escaped the sub-freezing windy venue and returned to real life in the valley below. It's kind of hard to walk now, but safely ensconced in my warm bed, I am (as usual) forgetting that promise I made to myself during the last ten miles: "Never again, never again, never again."

Maybe again.

The view from the top (images courtesy of Ian Hilley)

Four Weeks in 500 Words or Less

i'm settling into life post-college quite nicely. apparently all i ever wanted was an ambition-free, responsibility-free existence. it's possible this pleasant floating sensation won't last, but for the time being i'll enjoy my leisurely breakfasts, relaxed work schedule, and the occasional late night out.

the shut-in is in two days. perhaps after this weekend i'll give that a more in-depth treatment, but i've shirked a couple of race reports now, so:

at the tree shaker 12 hour sycamore cycles had a mighty showing, taking first and second in the three-dude team category. kwood, derek and i had to battle to the final hour for that podium spot, but in the end we got it. third place was well aware that they had been chicked.

some bakery patrons are still congratulating me for the collegiate team's showing at tahoe, and i have to gently remind them that although i WISH i had been there, i was slinging pastries while the kids racked up the stripey jerseys. i am super proud of them, especially captain america and tina.

i joined a posse of brevardians in boone this weekend for halloween festivities, downhill races, and some cross. i registered for the cross race to spite myself and i never stopped complaining, from the time i woke up until i pinned on my numbers. (two of them! ugh! nccx, it's like you HATE me!) by around thirty minutes in, when i remembered how to ride a bike and decided i was comfortable with my eighth place position, i started enjoying myself (sort of). it sure didn't compare to last year's second place, but it was the most encouraging crappy finish i've ever had.

and now those familiar symptoms, in remission for two years, are quietly regaining strength. hill repeats? carbon forks? series points? UGH! cross fever is like malaria...once you've caught it, all the quinine you take can't hold it at bay.

baker bill informed me that his sole purpose during the race was to make the course markings his bitch.

I'm Hungry

The Shut-In is looming.

These days I've got some good options when I want to hit the trails. On runs with my dad we explore the epic ups and gnarly downs of Pisgah. When I go running with Joh, we (subtly, with great nonchalance) try to bludgeon each other into submission. When I'm on my own, I do long loops on the old faithfuls and get lost in my thoughts. Today I did the Big M backwards and forwards and only came into contact with people twice; I skirted the work crew on Sycamore, then ran into T Cowie and T Had near the end. Squirrel had only a few, oft-repeated words of wisdom for me: "Don't forget to eat and drink." He knows me so well.

During the hours of vaguely addled solitude, I decided to name all the different ways that I go downhill. What follows is an unabridged compendium of all my descending styles.

1: The Rag Doll:

All about gravity, feet flopping and arms flailing. I do the Rag Doll down steep, wide open

descents. It's like running it WFO on a bike. It's the fastest way to run but the feet take a beating.

2: The Real Runner:

This is less of a free fall than the Rag Doll. This style uses more muscle for braking and control, and actually pay attention to where each foot goes. Better for technical downhills and hurts less.

3: The Jackalope:

This bounding style is ideal for thick, soft surfaces like mud, heavy leaf cover, and especially snow. It's crazy fun but only works when there's something to catch and cushion each foot fall.

4: The Holy Sh*t:

I reserve this cautious half-run half-walk for only the scariest, most ridiculous rock faces,

boulder fields, and slippery switchbacks.

5: The Prairie Dog:

'Nuff said.

The Long-Awaited Worlds Pictures...

...All five of them (in no particular order):

Here we have the "chicken line" on the XC course. So-called by the course official, in heavily accented English. I fell off my bike about a foot after that last pointy rock.

RACHEL! WOOO! She may not have claimed a podium spot but she claimed my heart.

The 4x finish line. Please note the oodles of people, if you can note anything in such a poor-quality pic.

Lookout tower on the top of MSA. Dramatic clouds, scattered showers, panoramic view of the St Lawrence River and adjacent mountains. Delicious.

Trials is weird. And fascinating.

So, Worlds

[I promise there will be pictures, as soon as St Marie gets his rear in gear.]

We took a much less stupid way back so the drive home was quiet and uneventful. Not a moose to be seen. It was still eighteen hours in the car though, and when I wasn't listening to old mix CDs from high school, eating goat cheese, or guffawing along to Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, I thought about the weekend. And concluded that it was kind of the most awesome thing ever.

Friday saw lovely weather and a sprinkling of rain, just like I'd hoped. Suddenly traction everywhere was tacky and ideal. Armed with a map and several sandwiches, we set out from the B&B for a long ride. A bike path, the wonderfully named Marie-Hélène-Prémont Trail, connects the town to the mountain. Once there, we were expecting more of the same thing we had ridden Thursday: tight, loamy, challenging, delicious. Turns out the trail rating system at MSA is a wee bit perplexing. Sometimes "Très Difficile" means tricky singletrack and sometimes it means brutal fire roads that go updownupdownupdown without providing any real sense of accomplishment. Regardless, it was a good ride and left us time to watch some XC and some trials (weirdest discipline ever).

On Saturday the weekend's festivities were amping up. The crowds were huge to watch the elite XC races. As we wandered through the pits we brushed by a veritable bevy of big names in mountain biking. I feigned nonchalance when I saw Melissa Buhl, Aaron Gwin, and Irina Kalentieva, but when Gee passed all I could do was stop and stare. St Marie regretted not wishing Adam Craig and Carl Decker good luck as they stood beside us to watch the ladies blaze through. I probably won't ever be inured to celebrity spottings--it took me hours to recover when Steve Martin stopped by the bakery, and he doesn't even ride bikes!

The women's XC race got me more worked up than anything else, I think. Watching Willow duke it out with the Euros and Pendrel was crazy intense and St Marie had to chase as I sprinted all over the course trying to get the best views. The best part was yelling "North Carolina" at Willow...I got to say hi to her after the race and through the red mist of competition she actually heard the shout-out!

The men's race was a success because Burry got a medal, but the US guys sucked it up, and anyway I was saving my voicebox for the night's 4X race.

Oh. My. God. Most insane awesome bike race ever. Words can't even express. The best part was watching chicks hit the huuuuge doubles, and seeing the Czech edge out Jared Graves in the final stretch to take the win. Then we watched the music from a hillside overlooking the venue as the light show illuminated the low-hanging clouds.

And there was still more. On Sunday we elected to ride the entire XC course to see if it really was that gnarly. And yes, yes it was. At the Rock Garden (which everyone spoke of as if it were capitalized, because it was so ridiculous) I took a hard tumble on the chicken line and struggled with the tech stuff for the rest of the ride. I do not envy the racers. Then we splurged and got lift tickets up to the top so we could scope out the whole DH course. I yelled for Rachel like there was no tomorrow, but the crowd saved its loudest love for Steve Smith, the Canadian who took a surprising second after Sam. Then, suddenly, it was over.

At frequent intervals during the car trip, unable to contain my glee, I would turn to St Marie and say, "That was the coolest thing ever." Pause. "That really was totally awesome. What a good freaking idea." He offered little in the way of disagreement.

And that was the story of my trip to Worlds. Soon to be augmented with pictures.

B&B?

We're staying in a bed and breakfast in Sainte-Anne de Beaupré and ever since we booked a room, I had been looking forward to it. Working at the Red House gives me a peek into a magical world of luxury where other people stay in clean, beautiful rooms, return every evening to fresh towels, and enjoy delicious breakfast served by a charming, sunny woman and her tall English husband. And entry into this world is only around $100 to $200 a night.

So I kind of assumed all B&B's shared these fantastical qualities.

But in Beaupré we were greeted by a fat, sweaty-looking woman cradling a shivering rat-dog named Yoda. Without offering a smile, she informed us that we could not check in until five and had to find something to do for the next two hours. Fair enough. Then it got worse.

The house was filled with kitsch and clutter. At breakfast (a tawdry spread made better only by coffee and homemade crepes) the proprietress laid down some more laws. We had to pay for a three night stay in (foreign) cash. We had to vacate the house from one to five, which required that we kill a whole lot of time in chamois up at the mountain. One to five in the afternoon was her "cleaning time" and yet upon our return our room was untouched--no fresh towels, unmade bed, no trash removal. We shared a bathroom with the second floor guests, accessible only by a creaking attic staircase. And when I fearfully requested an earlier breakfast on the final day, I was shooed away with a brusque "non".

I am not really, really complaining--after all, we still had a nice bed, edible breakfast, and a place to shower after each day's ride. But at the ATM, withdrawing a wad of Canadian twenties, I reflected that I don't usually pay to be bossed around. At the Red House we are flexible to the point of obsequiousness, but here the Saint and I found ourselves trying to placate this large, unpleasant woman. It has been une expérience étrange.

Up North

Aside from an unplanned detour through Manhattan (and yes, we played "Empire State of Mind" like the dorks we are) the drive was uneventful, if excruciating.

On Tuesday after three hours of sleep at my grandparents' lovely New Hampshire estate we ventured out to Bretton Woods in the hopes of riding some good singletrack.An hour later, hopes shattered, we reemerged from the network of cross country ski trails--rough, weedy doubletrack--and investigated the resort's ski slopes. Two fools on bicycles, we climbed the never-ending and painful service road up the slopes and found nary a trace of the "black diamond bike trails with manmade features." But as we bitched and braked down the mountainboard course (stupid), a ladder ride tucked in the woods caught St Marie's eye and we had finally found singletrack. Tight, rooty, loamy. Very much like the slopes down south. We returned the next day and St Marie applied his big bike to the job of finding more black diamond rides.

While not biking in the great white north, I've been trying to recreate the summers of my youth--cookouts at Camp Jack, swimming in Burns Pond, shows at the Weathervane Theater. Unfortunately, it was difficult to fit six summers' worth of nostalgia into two days...and so we headed north again.

Pancake breakfast at camp, just like the good old days

Mont-Sainte-Anne was everything I had hoped and more. The venue is crawling with competitors, vendors, and spectators speaking not-American and riding around anything from massive DH rigs to tiny alien trials bikes. We rode a few trails and part of the XC course and I loved it! The mountain is covered in a foot of moon dust and corners are loose as poo. Perhaps racers will escape without experiencing that wonderful east coast mud...but I'm hoping for rain.

Now I understand when people take pictures of Euro-drops and then say "It's a hundred times worse than it looks." Because they are.