A Lesson in Humility, or Something

In the southeast this weekend there were myriad opportunities to race bicycles of all shapes and sizes; if you're of the Assos and ass cream crowd, the French Broad Cycling Classic offered an omnium of road rallying; if you're more inclined towards Camelbaks and Stan's rims, ORAMM pitted man against mountain; and if you like your rubber big and meaty* and your pants padded and polychromatic, Beech Mountain hosted DH Nats. Although I have in the past pursued all these disciplines, this year I felt nary an inkling to enter the fray. I was quite happy merely to applaud my friends in their endeavors, particularly Jamie D (FBCC omnium crusher, decent ping pong player), Kym S (podiums at Jerdon and ORAMM, impressive beer tolerance), and Dan (great runs in DH and DS, owner of very cute dog). Spectating did not make me envious or ambitious. I think Iron Mountain may have cured me of bike racing for good. 

*ugh. I'm sorry.

Which is not to say it was terrible. It was awesome (in retrospect). I postponed writing about it because the vitriol I composed during the actual event was of course tainted by the mind-curdling bonk I was experiencing. Now, a week later, I simply regret that my bad attitude and lack of endurance meant that I didn't fully appreciate the SICK trails of Damascus. 

I felt somewhat rockstar-ish for the first thirty miles, as Katie and I rode together and chatted and passed boys on the tech climbs and lamented the endless gravel. But then, of course, I reached the four hour threshold that I never pass otherwise, and Katie pedaled harder than me, and I was left alone to wallow in a soul-consuming funk. I wanted to quit but had no legitimate reason: I had a headache and my arms kinda hurt, and I didn't want to ride uphill anymore. The complaint machine in my head refused to shut off, even as the trail played like a Greatest Hits of Pisgah mix tape. Sycamore, Heartbreak, Big Creek, Farlow, Laurel. Every descent was a delight, with the same damp Middle Earth mystique as Pisgah, and the same nasty eroded water bars and root baskets and rocks, and the same promise of breathtaking views never quite realized. And then the race was over, and, surprise surprise, I had survived, despite being convinced I was going to fail/die. Meanwhile Katie took the win in magnificent fashion (and a tutu), Sheedy put the fear into Sam Koerber and snagged an amazing third after some full-body cramps, and Gaskin blazed onto the podium after the longest ride she'd ever done. My friends are awesome. 

And now I'm just annoyed with myself that instead of being a good sport on the climbs and ripping the descents, I was busy focusing on the fact that I was uncomfortable and not winning. Lame. Next time I ride somewhere new and exciting I hereby promise to actually do the trails justice. 

 Also, everyone should go race the Iron Mountain 100k next year. It was the jam. 

And no pictures. As usual. 

Southernmost

I went to the Keys pretty well convinced I wasn't a water person.

We stayed on a lonely spit of land between Coupon Bight and the Atlantic, with iguanas doing their dinosaur scuttle through the backyard and key deer venturing close enough to pet. Deterred for the first few days by rough and persistent winds blowing off the backside of Hurricane Debby, we stayed onshore, paddling through the mangroves and fishing inside the protective islands. I learned how to snorkel behind the house and how to clean the shiny little fish we caught, slicing off paltry filets before tossing the remains back in the canal for our resident barracuda.

An odd juxtaposition 

The choppy seas eventually subsided and the Ennii eagerly loaded up the boat for long days in the deep, trolling (fruitlessly, alas) for many hot hours in hopes of catching bigger fish than I could imagine. I slathered on sunscreen and ogled the porpoise and flying fish and a solitary sea turtle.

Boat and boy. Obviously I didn't take many pictures. 

Water in my previous estimation was for clumsily splashing around in. The beaches of vacation provide only brief entertainment and the lakes of home are diverting but offer fewer amusements than dry land. But the Ennis clan is very sea savvy and came well-equipped, and I think that made all the difference. With the proper toys--with snorkeling gear and kayaks and a real fishing boat with outriggers and an able and appropriately white-bearded captain--I loved the water. I guess the same case could be made with anything: snowboarding, mountain biking, parasailing, whatever. The toys make a world of difference.

Yeah, it was good.

Rambling, Where to Begin

My apologies: once again the turgid flow of summer has struck me dumb.

I've successfully combated bike burnout by looking with giddy anticipation towards the 100k, with its promise of sparkly new trails and a women's field stacked full of my friends. I've also warded off the doldrums by fiddling with the steed--Lisa now sports burlier tires and a wider handlebar and her transformation to "trail bike" was complete when I discovered the joys of lobotomy. Lisa came with two Brains, Specialized's wicked fancy suspension platform that's better suited for Charlotte short track than the repeated beatings of Pisgah's eroded fall lines. In the interest of science I dumbed her down and found new pleasure riding downhill, because with the Brain turned off the bike squishes not when it wants to, but when I want it to.

And because it has been neither hot nor humid enough here, I'm headed south for a week in the Keys with the Ennii--sure to be a noteworthy experience.

Oh Boy!

Iron Mtn 100K
Registration: officially submitted.
Girlfriends: unabashedly pressured.
Attitude: super stoked.

I was sold on this race when the indomitable Cissy Fowler told me that last year the course made her decide to name her first child "Ridge". Talk about a glowing review!

Striking a Chord

i'm not a huge fan of this song but the lyrics are positively uncanny.

Night Ride

I've been having a trying time with the bicycle lately. With not a single race looming, I have no motivation to get faster and so must settle for watching all my riding companions power away from me up every hill. I haven't made any improvements in descending for as long as I can remember. I can't seem to stay upright for love nor money (and Dan delights in reminding me of it). Sometimes I forget why I do this, why I pursue this two-wheeled passion.

Then the other day a posse of us went off after work to partake of trails a bit off the beaten track. After ogling the brilliant green sweep of forest below us and the indigo peaks that spread out as far as we could see, we plunged down the mountain on flowy, leafy trails studded with massive boulders and slender staircases. In a last minute "can't hurt" decision I'd tossed my light into the pack and was very glad of it, because of course the drive out there took much longer than anticipated. We rode just on the cusp of night and I could feel my pupils expanding, trying to absorb every bit of available light in the darkening rhodo tunnels. I was delighted by how long we played the Jedi game but when logs began emerging unseen from the leaves it was a relief to stop and strap on lights, and the blazing fast choss road that followed was none too forgiving even with vision. Then we hit loops and switchbacks in quick succession through a pine needle forest, ducking trees and startling toads, crossing our fingers that our long-ago-charged batteries wouldn't give out. Too soon we emerged on the road under a slight drizzle, the much-heralded supermoon obscured by fog.

Oh yeah, I thought as we piled into the pick-up and I got lost in the reverie brought on by an excellent ride. This is why. 

Destination Spot

Brevard, perhaps a little slow on the uptake, has abruptly and zealously embraced the title of cycling capital of the south. Goaded on by the new guard, our town is investing in trails and infrastructure, and advertising to the young, smelly fat tire set, and opening its streets to hundreds of spandexed individuals.

I've spent several hours now at the Bracken Mountain project, and the last time I was there, running through the verdant bowls and along azalea-dotted brook beds, I realized this magnificent trick that's been played on the city of Brevard. Bracken Mountain isn't really a tourist draw, a revenue bringer, an easy connector to the forest proper. Nope, it's just another plaything for the locals, a stand-alone loop perfect for after work rides, one more feature we can brag about to those unlucky enough to only visit.

Kind of unrelated but I LOVE this shot! 

Pic courtesy of Eddie Clark and bright pink shirt courtesy of Wes Dickson  

The publicity provided by Bike Mag has been instant, unexpected, a gamechanger. The B&B where I work has seen a tenfold increase in mountain bikers, droves of them flocking here in their Subarus and Jettas packed to bursting with chamois, chain lube, and energy drinks.

And in the grand tradition started by California and Colorado, with bikes inevitably comes beer. It seems that every week the town is abuzz after another brewery's announcement; first it was Sierra Nevada, then New Belgium, then closer to home Brevard Brewing Co opened its doors (to enthusiastic local fanfare) and, not to be outdone, Oskar Blues will be on Main Street by December. We had the chance to ride with the friendly and talented Oskar Blues boys and they were suitably enamored with the scope and variety (and greenness!) of our trails.

Try the Pilsner.
Pic courtesy of Meyer Photography

Truly it boggles the mind. Hops! Malt! Jobs!! In a perfect world, I'll go out to play in the west for a while and return at precisely the right time to land a plum post in the beer business. Here's hoping.

All this hubbub brings into focus (yet again) my visceral love for this little slice of NC. It's OK though, because I want to fall in love with somewhere new, with new people and new coffee shops and new mountains. I want to accumulate more of those moments where you stop, look around, and realize nothing could be more perfect. Sure, I encounter them on top of Coontree, and riding up to the bar at dusk, and sitting in the bike shop laughing so hard I'm crying, but there's a world full of moments like that. I want to gather up as many as possible while I have the mobility and flexibility to do it.

Lots of Talking

I think it's safe to say that I'm not entirely honest when I write this blog. Because I'd really prefer that the casual reader envies me, rather than pitying me, I'm never going to air dirty laundry, talk in detail about friendships or relationships, or give too much air time to the negative emotions that we all have to deal with at some point or another.  It's a delicious truism of the blogosphere that no one ever reads what you write until you put your foot in your mouth--and then suddenly everyone is reading. (As a quiet, creepy blog reader I relish it when a distant acquaintance overshares in public...)

All this to say, this post will be a little more "dear diary" than most. Maybe because I haven't raced or traveled in a bit, or maybe because I have some stuff to process.

So I'm leaving in the fall. I'm doing it. I've said it every year since graduation, but now I'm doing it. I've just spent an embarrassing number of hours reading the posts at Geargals and I think Jill is my new favorite person. She steals the thoughts out of my head and writes them down way more articulately than I could ever manage, all while wielding power tools and fearlessly playing in the snow. I aspire to all of these things. She described what I want to do as a walkabout, which is just right; I know where I'll end up, when all is said and done, but I have to put the time in first. I need to run away from the homeland, the cushy place of easy, easy living and glorious trails and awesome people, and just get some damn experience out there in the big scary world.

I'm very envious of my friends that can drop everything and live the nomad's life on a whim. After living in the same apartment for all my adult years, I took an entire month to move into a friend's house four blocks away. I've done some hardcore purging of my possessions and tamed my acquisitive nature (no more buying clothes, ever, but I can't seem to stop spending money on my sexy, demanding bike). In this very slow, very timid little endeavor, I've found that I am not a hoarder, not overly attached to stuff, and that I can force myself to be organized and (almost) tidy when necessary. Good things to know, because if I want to take this party west, I'll need to simplify even more, be even more frugal, and to keep my shit together.

I really hate Brevard sometimes, for all of the same reasons I love it. Everyone freaking knows me. This is not gross egotism speaking, it's just a result of growing up in the bakery, going to school here, and becoming a part of the very large outdoor community. I really, really didn't want everyone to know I was planning to jump ship, but of course it leaked, and now I get the same questions every day. Where in Cali? How long? Why? So you've found a job, right?

It's okay though, because now I'm being held accountable. If I don't skedaddle come leaf season, I'll have to face another six months of conversations about it. It's all in kindness, of course, but I really. Really. Really don't like talking about myself and my plans to all the well-meaning customers and acquaintances in this little town. I'm a hermit at heart, obviously.

So. Watch this space, I guess. Also, some pics might surface eventually of wonderful weddings and picturesque bike rides...but I can't make any promises.