I'm Not Moving to Florida

it was the great land of the unknown. for me, it was the opposite of milk and honey; it was the land of sweat and no elevation change. for years i had mocked this unfortunate protrusion off the bulk of the country, this elongated blister that produced so many slow drivers and so few people that recycle. my roommate, a native of that state, had suffered my not-so-gentle ribbing for too long. "julia, it's time that you shed your ignorant preconceptions of my homeland. join me in an enlightening trek southward."

florida, for all its enumerable flaws, was not quite as bad as i expected. while i went brain-dead driving everywhere to do everything, that's a feature of any sprawling wasteland, whether it be los angeles, charlotte, or the midwest. we visited pristine beaches and played in the clear cerulean water. we pretended to have a bit of culture and took in some art at the dalí museum. yes, we were surrounded by stereotypical seniors who carried on loud conversations in grating boston accents, but there are plenty of northern transplants in toxaway and cashiers too. and even though the air was filled with the sound of honking and the smell of fast food, i sometimes caught a whiff of orange blossoms and ripening strawberries.

florida is a swampy flatland devoid of character (so i thought) and i brought my mountain bike without much hope that it would see action. false. through some helpful contacts i found riding buddies for two solid days in the saddle. first i hit alafia river state park, which imba has named an epic trail system. epic it was not, but fun it was. florida trail-builders are by necessity insanely creative. the trails were snaky masterpieces carved into limestone and dirt, through algae ponds, palmettos, and tangerine groves, with plenty of heart-stopping drops and ledges. the next day i explored balm boyette with a fellow spring-breaker and we discovered the new destination trail of the area: ridgeline. ridgeline, which was built in '08, was probably the most exhilarating two miles i've ever ridden. it was a corkscrew roller coaster of out-of-control whoops, each one taller than the next. no pictures or videos do it justice, so you'll just have to take my word that it was a gem.

i, of course, took nary a picture because the only time i think to extricate my camera is when i see mountains. let's pretend i took this:

"wow," you're wondering. "how did she manage such a nice aerial shot?" don't worry about it.

so. even as i sat happily eating toast in caitlin's backyard, wearing shorts in wintertime, shaded by wisteria and grapefruit trees, the thought never crossed my mind that i wanted to live there. sorry florida. you were kinda nice, but no thank you.

Ode to Pisgah

I hadn't been running in awhile so I decided to go hurt myself on Pressley Cove before work. It was a beautiful day, just like every other day in February. My heart pounded and my legs burned as I puffed slowly up the climb, which must attain a thirty degree slope in places. Although my brain was addled and anaerobic, reasons to love Pisgah kept popping into my head.

Passing by that incongruous chimney built off to the side of Maxwell, I stopped to read the plaque commemorating it as a historic feature. I have always liked the utilitarian history of the forest. It was not protected for or shaped by hikers and bikers; before there was IMBA, Tom Ritchey, or Gary Fisher, there was Gifford Pinchot, Carl Schenck, and George Vanderbilt.

Scanning for that secret connector that would spit me back out on Avery Creek Road, I thought with affection of the trail maintenance grudgingly performed by a small cadre of forest rangers and independent contractors. For the most part they leave us to our own devices; we avoid the puddles, brush away the briars, and mold the trails with heavy travel, whether by foot, hoof, or tire.

I love the delicious snobbism that we've cultivated living here. "Oh, you have eighty miles of trails? Well, we have hundreds of thousands of acres of national forest. Oh, you have a gnarly rock garden that everyone sessions? Well, we have Daniel Ridge. Oh, you drive an hour on weekends when you want a change of scenery? Well, we have Dupont."

I love the miles upon miles of gravel roads upon which you can beat your brain into submission. I love the seasonal trails; just as the weather turns glum, we have them to look forward to like early Christmas presents. I love the glittering exhilaration in the eyes of a newcomer after that first descent of something super sketchy.

I love the friendly hikers with their day packs and ski poles. And even the not-so-friendly ones; their snarling possessiveness just means they love it too. I love the fevered masochism of people who compete in the Double Dare, the stage race, or the Pitchell 100k (sheer insanity). I love the tourists who lumber around the parking lots like corpulent dollar signs, because they never defile the quiet havens a half mile from their cars. I love the rugged, majestic views you encounter on almost every trail.

It's times like this, when I know I haven't seen half of what Pisgah has to offer, that I question my (or anyone's) need to leave here for even a few years. I will definitely go somewhere else, but I will just as definitely come back.

Nothing New Here

someone told me recently that my blog is a one trick pony because the only message i ever convey is happy-happy-joy-joy. well, this post is not going to change a thing. how can i possibly write with solemnity or dismay when i've had two cups of coffee and it's SEVENTY-ONE DEGREES OUTSIDE, and i'm about to go for a mtb ride with my saint because my lovely bosses at ye olde red house understand that going outside to play in the sunshine is more important than changing sheets and dusting.

riding laurel/pilot with some of my favorite stumpy club members

other events have also been causing a surplus of joy in my life. weather is first and foremost of course; my mood is absurdly dependent on sunshine. but even when the sun goes down i can get together with my favorite lady friends and have a good time eating, drinking, and posing for silly pictures.

luv.

last week mi madre and i made the trek to charlotte to attend a super fab cupping'n'stuff hosted by the bakery's coffee supplier. there are few things i love better than standing around in skinny jeans pretending to taste cedar and citrus in a cup of joe. pretentious coffee talk really revs my engine.

aaaand despite all those claims of retirement i found myself tracking down all the race dates of the season to add to my planner. just, you know, in case i happen to have a free weekend and want to go drive a few hours and pay dollars to ride around in a circle chasing fast women in the elusive hunt for glory and fame.

or whatever.

also i joined the new club in town because, i mean, who wouldn't want to roll with a pac?

Still Here

As usual, I have failed my reader(s) in providing that most essential element of blogging: timeliness.

So remember how I went to California? And on the last day I was there I rode Mt Diablo? And planned to chronicle that ride? Well it was one of the best and most beautiful road rides I've ever done. Then I had to abridge it because of some nasty wind up top. So I was going to call my post "The Mountain Wins Again". You like that musical reference? I did. And then somehow seventeen days passed. The post (which was sure to be both clever and lyrical) never got written.

Oops.

It was around here on Mt Diablo that the wind reached 40 mph.

And now the Icycle has also passed. As always, it was the best race weekend of the year. We enjoyed lovely weather, good friends, an appearance by the Enemy Lovers, free beer from Pisgah Brewing, lots of spaghetti, and topped it all off with a silly death march of a group ride at Tsali on Sunday. It was cool to win both races but I do wish the lady turn-out had been a bit more substantial. Come on, girls!

My mother has been spamming me with links about San Luis Obispo, CA for a few days; she is convinced it's the spot for me. I'm inclined to agree but suddenly the weather has taken a turn for the (WAY) better and I am in less of a hurry to get outta here.

Dan Bennett getting all artsy. A good shot of the baby dino in action.

Ride Log

Friday: California One Youth and Beauty Brigade

I wrote up a little cue sheet based off some local knowledge and made my way over to Highway 1. I didn't mind the brutal wind because I was too busy looking out over the water (not taking pictures). I turned around in Davenport and proceeded to skip the best part of the loop, trusting blindly to the poor set of directions affixed to my handlebars. I could only retrace my steps and eventually with some frustration got back to the house. I am cursed with a poor sense of direction and abysmal navigational skills. My only hope when in new towns is to blindly foray into the wilderness until I develop some sense of place. Chrissy's commuter bike was perfect for that.

If I had taken pictures they would of course have looked like this.

Saturday: The SC Hustle

Ah, a Saturday morning group ride! Legend has it this one has been going on for thirty years. I arrived early and explained to a woman who races for Vanderkitten (yes, I was secretly excited) that I was a noob. She and everyone within earshot seemed very worried for my well-being because there were sprint points along the ride (duh) and I wasn't familiar with the area. "You do have a cell phone, right?" is code for: "When you get dropped, you can find your own way back, right?" Fair enough. Seventy people showed for the ride and I swam along in the sea of roadies listening to their absurd chatter: "I won this sprint last week." "Hold your line!" "So this clown wasn't doing ANY work, so I told him to either get the f@#$ off the front or help us pull in the break." "I've been on the rollers for three months getting ready for the so-and-so race." "I was the third person to buy Di2 and the president of Shimano called me..." (Yeah, really.) Anyhoo, after some tepid sprints (nothing is hard when you're sitting in a paceline the size of an eighteen-wheeler) we rolled into Watsonville. The sixty-milers took off for the mountains, which were wreathed in clouds; they beckoned to me. But I only had one bottle and didn't trust my own fitness, so I took the easy way out. Alas.

A rainbow over San Lorenzo River (or, more accurately, a rainbow over the part of town where the prostitutes live).

Sunday: Arana Gulch

Off-and-on drizzle hindered me from conquering Highway 1 so I returned the road bike to Beth and went for a little run down to the harbor. This was definitely one of those DAMN, NO CAMERA outings. I followed a tiny meandering dirt path behind the harbor and found myself in a wide open meadow ringed with trees. The sky was dramatic as the rain evaporated and the sun fought its way out, and there was no sign that this lush green space was in the middle of a city.

Monday: Wow

I'm up in Walnut Creek now, and I borrowed my aunt's (teeny tiny) Litespeed for some more exploring. I started in Orinda and in barely fifteen minutes I'd escaped the bonds of upper middle class suburbia and was meandering through dank wooded tunnels. Then the road turned up and climbed to Redwood Regional Park. It was a gradual, winding scenic climb like the backside of 215. I was way happy, and the descent down the other side was not bad either. Chastened by my pitiful previous attempts to make loops, I opted for an out and back, which more than quenched my need for scenery.

The reservoir. Fyi, Oakland: I spit in it.
Not really.

Yay uphill!

Tomorrow: Mount Diablo! (Dramatic music)

I'm Never Going Home

In all honesty this trip to Cali was impromptu and I forgot to get excited about it until I was on the plane. I had no expectations and figured even if it was a forgettable week I would at least get in some good face time with the west coast family.

Apparently low expectations beget fabulous trips. Or maybe it's just the combination of A-MAZ-ING weather and incredibly welcoming friends and family. Wandering the streets in shorts and sandals, reading on the beach, and riding bikes in short sleeves has got me dreading the return trip.

My wonderful cousin Chrissy treated me to breakfast at Cafe Brasil, where they serve coffee that's like the nectar of the gods. I had some nummy poached eggs over avocado and baguette.

I asked my friend Beth if I could maybepossiblyperhaps borrow a mountain bike, to save the money and worry of shipping or renting a bike. Um...she came through IN SPADES. Today I got to ride a carbon Trance up and down a mountain. We went out early while it was still chilly (and by that I mean fifty degrees...) and met up with a group of six other awesome, fast women to ride for a couple hours. We pinned it up a long dirt road climb then descended forever on marvelous snaky singletrack through the redwoods. The five inch bike made for some durn good riding.
And as if that wasn't enough, Beth then lent me her titanium road bike for the rest of the week. I don't believe there has ever been a better time and place for some solitary wandering road rides. I think I'll go explore Highway 1 tomorrow.

This might have been called Sand Point. Right before the sick-ass descent of West...ridge? I think.

Plunder from the farmers' market. Last night we made salad with sauteed rainbow chard, kalamata olive croutons, and roasted root veggies.

I don't even like beaches. But I like this one. And it's two blocks from the house.

Mmmm Santa Cruz

This Is One of Those Things Words Can't Express

The cycling world just lost one of its most promising, talented, and friendliest stars. Carla Swart was a truly amazing individual and I can't believe she's gone.