It's Not All Butterflies and Rainbows

For the past year our landlords have kindly given us the pleasure of paying thousands of dollars to live in a 600 square foot apartment above a garage, but the main house recently went on the market and when we begged to go month-to-month until it sold, we were brushed off.

I thought when we were on the hunt a year ago that the rental situation was dire, but this year the supply has dwindled even more, the demand is higher, and prices have skyrocketed. We've followed every possible lead (along with every other responsible, fully-employed twenty- and thirty-something couple in the valley) and best case scenario, we'll be homeless for a month, house-hopping and depending on the kindness of our friends. Assuming our current best option doesn't fall through. Worst case, sign a Draconian lease in an exorbitantly expensive place outside of town, figure out how to cope as a one-car family, and hope the landlord lets us pack the house with ski bum friends in similar straits.

I don't care how small my home is but I want a permanent non-mobile place where I can keep my toys safe and prepare the same breakfast every morning. I love our tiny apartment and I love the neighborhood. It's a themed subdivision but the theme is so appealing: energy efficient houses filled with outdoorsy people, where everyone waves to each other as they bike by and friendly dogs run amok. Buying a home has never been so attractive but we're just not quite there yet. It's not the immediate fix we need and even if we were to start the onerous process, there's a low likelihood we could afford the house we want.

My worries have spun around in the rock tumbler of my brain until they're smooth and hard and invulnerable. Anxiety has my chest in a vise grip. Yesterday I felt too tired and sad and stressed to go to high school mountain bike practice so I just simmered in my unhappiness on the couch instead. This morning a coach sent out an email chiding everyone--apparently I picked the same day to flake that most of the other coaches did. This added some nice guilt and a heightened sense of obligation to my stewpot of unpleasant emotions.

I went for a run hoping to alleviate some of the choking anxiety. I followed a little guerrilla trail that I'd never explored before. The wet itchy grasses slashed my thighs and I felt leaden with hopelessness. I could barely muster up the energy to yell greetings at the megafauna that was undoubtedly hanging out nearby. ("Hey moose! Go away moose!") At a downed tree halfway up I halted, nonplussed, and had a big ugly cry. Even this small obstacle seemed insurmountable. Sophie stopped terrorizing all the resident squirrels and chipmunks long enough to come see if I was ok.

Eventually I got bored of standing still and kept going uphill, still crying a little. I got to the top of a minor ridge where the trail petered out and I studied some of my favorite ski lines across Stateline Canyon. They look steeper in the summer.

I started running downhill and all the bad thoughts that had been clinging to my brain got jostled around until they let go, leaving my mind serenely empty for the first time in a while. It wasn't much of a workout, and my legs developed little rashes from all the vegetation, but I got twenty minutes of mental silence. I guess sometimes that's all you can ask from a run.

The Grand Enduro

The morning was really hot and the sun intense as I stood in the long registration line at the Grand Enduro, squinting and wearing my knee pads loose around my ankles because that's how everyone else's were. I was feeling antsy because I knew there'd be no time for a warm-up and the first stage went right off the lift onto the Traverse Trail and Sticks'n'Stones, a real ass-kicker. 

It's easy to make fun of enduro racing but after I registered, I found myself caring really hard. It was a new discipline for me, on home turf, that challenged newly acquired skills, i.e. going downhill. I studied the course, talked strategy with friends, and stalked the pre-reg list trying to glean some confidence. 

Targhee is the tits
Pic courtesy of Fisher Creative

The first stage, like I said: ass-kicker. Sticks'n'Stones rewards smoothness, flow, and good body English as you ratchet your pedals over a couple miles of square-edged rocks and pray you don't slam the back wheel hard enough to flat. I was conservative and timid with a bunch of the Cat 2 guys buzzing past me, but I saw at least half of them again as they repaired flat tires next to the trail amidst the wildflowers. 

The first stage was over, smooth. There was a crew of riders clustered at the end so I stopped, uncertain, and asked an official if I could go ahead. "You can do whatever you want in an enduro." 

Mellow pedal. Stage 2 was a quick smilefest down Colter's Escape, fast and curvy. Then I sat at the bottom and prepared for the 38 Special transfer and what I would consider the Queen Stage. The climb was long and hot but I soft-pedaled happily and chatted with a couple locals.I love not racing uphill! I thought as I took in the incredible views. I had left the bro brigade behind and the field was spread out. Stage 3 was Peaked Trail and Andy's, a long descent speckled with climbs. The uphills were long enough that I sat down and mashed like an XC racer instead of standing up and charging like a DH racer. 

Another stage finished, still no mistakes. Tyler and my Sego friends spotted me in the woods and started hollering. I pedaled up to them grinning and full of happy words. Tyler was shocked. Bike racing usually makes me grumpy and unpleasant, but I was having a wonderful time. I did the quick climb to Stage 4. Micheal, my favorite crusty mechanic, was there and I said, "This is the most civilized way ever to race a bike! Stoke levels at an all-time high!" I did Stage 4 with little ado, fun forested singetrack with occasional rock drops. I greeted some more friends at the base, ate a Tram Bar, used the facilities (so civilized!) and hopped on the lift for the final stage, Buffalo Drop and Bullwinkle. The liftie said there were only five dudes in front of me. I wish that was an actual indicator of race success. 

The ride up was serene but I started getting nervous at the top, reviewing the major obstacle ahead: Buffalo Drop. It's a ten-footer that I don't hit but the go-around is a steep loose chute that is easy but committing, and the Third Law of Bike Racing is that if you're going to screw up a line, it'll be at the feature that attracts the biggest heckling squad. 

Heckle crew at Buffalo Drop. If you look closely
you can see Tyler with a cowbell.
Pic courtesy of Mitch

I started the stage and quickly came to the drop, but my line was roped off! I choked out, "Where's the go-around?" and the course marshal pointed right, to a line I'd never seen before. It was a steep, dusty, awkward switchback with some root and rock action in it, and I almost lost my front wheel but rode it out. The crowd cheered loudly and someone even yelled my name. I gave an answering whoop and rode off. The last trail was Bullwinkle, a long series of rocky blazing-fast tabletops and I chanted don't flat don't flat don't flat as I flew downhill. 

I didn't flat. 

Five stages with no mistakes, barely a bobble. I was extremely pleased with myself. I decompressed with a bunch of friends, clustering in pools of shade with our dogs and our beers. Eventually the results surfaced and I went over to peer at the screen. I couldn't understand the numbers and times at first but then felt my ego bubble deflate. I didn't win. Amy the lanky Montuckian beat me by about ten seconds on each stage. Ouch. And there were only two of us so I went from exuberant to...lame. Second of two. The insults piled on as I realized if I hadn't raced Cat 1 I wouldn't even have been on the podium. All the Cat 2 women were sandbaggin' ripper chicks. Double ouch.

I recovered from the massive blow to my ego with more beer and kind words from friends, and by taking over the spraying-champagne duties when Amy didn't show for the podium. 

At least I won the podium...
Pic courtesy of Hannah

Even though I lost, it was the most fun race I've ever done, the organizers did a phenomenal job, and you couldn't have asked for a better venue. Enduro, I think I love you...?

Floating?

I woke up on Sunday with a bump on my noggin from flipping in a kayak, cuts on my soles from clambering barefoot over pebbled river banks, and incredible soreness in unusual spots like my shoulders and outer thigh muscles.

Saturday was Cellarmaster Max's birthday and he was going to float. He likes to toss my blog phrases back in my face sometimes so we were invited with the acknowledgement that it would mean "giving up a magical unicorn butterfly day." Tyler RSVP'd a firm yes for both of us but then his mom said she was coming into town that day and he opted to go for a ride rather than risk being on the river until dusk. But I was committed. My pride was involved. I didn't even flake when some acquaintances said they were riding the Big Hole Crest. Nope. Floating.

Good job Subaru
Pic courtesy of Andrea

 Andrea and Shannon picked me up and we braved the Pass with two borrowed creek boats strapped to the roof of Andrea's Impreza. She got her river permits in the Park and the ranger handed us a pamphlet about floating the Snake. The stretch we were aiming for, Moose to Wilson, was classified as advanced, with lots of alarming advisories like "fragmented channels, snags, and logjams make for difficult navigation" and "swift current can be dangerous for inexperienced boaters." Don't worry, my friends said, this is directed at the lowest common denominator, and I looked around the GTNP visitor's center at the crush of humanity and felt better. There are indeed idiots amongst us.

Our motley flotilla arranged a shuttle and put in: one driftboat, one raft, two creek boats, one whitewater canoe, and four inner tubes. As my competent friends fiddled with straps and coolers, the bizarre realization dawned on me: I've never been on any sort of watercraft on a river. Yeah, I've paddled and SUP'd and waterskied on lakes before but I've never even tubed on the French Broad, preferring to mock the tubers from shore. My parents were California river rats in the long ago and my dad got into whitewater in WNC but when he suggested teaching me to roll a kayak I heard "trapped upside down underwater" and never again considered river sports.

Could not have asked for a nicer day

I admitted this and everyone laughed gently at me. I got a spot in the driftboat, the driest and steadiest of vessels, and devoured the views as we meandered through the wetlands at the feet of the Tetons. We startled a young bull moose and he splashed across an inlet behind us.

The whole gang!
Pic courtesy of Ashley

Our raucous party stopped regularly to carouse on sand bars and eventually, my nerves soothed by liquid courage, I volunteered to man a creek boat. It was a Corsica, a kayak my dad used to own and love. I remembered a tiny bit from paddling around Laurel Lake but the broad fast-moving Snake presented new challenges. The rapids broadsided and swamped me almost immediately so I dragged the boat to shore, drained it with help, and got back in, vowing to pay better attention. (Jenna is cringing as she reads this because I don't know any paddling lingo.)

And I thought about rudimentary bike skills and how applicable they are to other sports. I don't know shit about boating but I know how to look forward, take a dynamic stance, widen my knees and arms, and engage my core. I consciously hit oncoming rapids on the perpendicular and pumped over waves like they were bumps on a trail. Do kayakers call it pumping? Probably not. But I started riding the water like singletrack with better form than I usually have on the bike (familiarity breeds laziness) and suddenly I was having a blast! I started figuring out which paddle motions were more effective and chasing down the little white riffles that meant interesting water. I kayaked the rest of the way while everyone else got chilly in their boats and I was sad to see the Hwy 22 bridge that indicated the take-out. We had traveled fifteen miles and somehow it was already almost 7:00.

Appropriate
Pic courtesy of Andrea

Then we all grilled out and lounged in hammocks and listened to 90's music and ate birthday cake. A great day. I'm not going to start floating all the time but I was pleasantly surprised that what I assumed would be a sedentary day was an active outing that left me crippled with soreness the next day. Win!

Hammock life
Pic courtesy of Andrea

Around the Rock

I toed the start line for a local race on Wednesday evening but I was already thinking ahead to Saturday. Ten mile XC race? Nothing new. 155 mile road/dirt ride? Something else entirely.

The race was fine. I got third, same as last year, but managed to shave almost two minutes off my previous time, without going completely anaerobic, on the Stag, a bike six pounds heavier and with two more inches of squish than Lisa. Fitness is a cool thing.

With that race over I could direct my attention to this looming event, Around the Rock: a solstice ride that circumnavigates the Grand Teton. Figure out how to prepare for eighty miles of gravel with literally no amenities (unless you bring iodine tablets). Borrow a bike--a cheap commuter cyclocross bike from Fitzgerald's--with less aggressive geometry and a gentler gear ratio than the Deutschbike. Better to go with possible comfort than definite discomfort, I guess.

Together for the last time
Pic courtesy of Fitzy

At six-thirty we met at the shop, eleven antsy participants. Fitzy said, "I don't like to call this a 'group ride'. Think of it as more of a 'shared experience'." His words proved to be so true.

We took backroads to the hinterlands of the northern valley. The first 45 miles of navigation were tricky and while I had written a little cue sheet, I was very motivated to hang on the leaders' wheels until at least the Jackass Meadows road. We were going hard and the groups had already broken apart, but I stayed cranking in the big ring up and down rutted farm roads. The pace was unsustainable but I had a strategy: I will blow up and slow down at some point (soon) so get as far as possible with the help of others.

I was right, of course. As soon as we hit forest service roads with tough climbs and technical descents the lead pack splintered. I ate and drank pretty well but my whole body was already sending out distress signals as I jolted over the washboarded rocky dusty hot road.

On the final technical descent I felt the front tire slam the rim with a sense of finality, and then all the air was gone. I sat down on the side of the road and fixed the flat as mosquitoes dined on my sunscreen-flavored skin and all the other riders passed me by.

I tried to give chase but knew I had lost something essential in those eight minutes. Finally I reached Flagg Ranch, the end of dirt, the beginning of concessions and tourists. Some of the group was still there and I was thankful for their presence. Cyclists with heavier baggage milled around and after eavesdropping I realized we were on the Tour Divide route. Those absolutely crazy people! They do back-to-back rides like the one I was on...for weeks.

I chugged water and ate my salami sandwich and fruit leather and got on the bike again. Everyone who trickled out alone made noises about accruing a peloton and crushing the miles once we hit the park roads. I kept waiting as I struggled through the headwind, but we were too spread out--the promised peloton never materialized. Thus I spent miles 45-145 riding completely by myself, which was so, so hard.

Riding through Grand Teton National Park was crowded, but the shoulder was ample and the feeling of smooth tarmac orgasmic. Of course the park is a scenic marvel but I felt a compulsion not to stop or take pictures, and besides, a cursory Google search will yield much more beautiful images than my shitty camera can.

Seriously, it's really pretty

So I took one picture
Cletus the Crossrip in front of some big rocks

Many hours of pain later I was in Wilson, facing down the demon I had been dreading all day, all week, ever since I decided to ride Around the Rock. Teton Pass. It's not too long (six miles), it's pretty steep (2,500 feet gained), and my god it's daunting after 135 miles. I sat outside the convenience store, ate a Snickers bar and a cucumber of all things, drank a Red Bull, hid my Garmin so I wouldn't have to stare at its devastating readout of "3.5mph...3.2mph...2.9mph...", and saddled up.

Yeah, it sucked.

Then at the halfway point an angel floated up next to me with a cheerful greeting. Matthew was a friend of Fitzy who met up with us at Flagg Ranch to do a long ride and pull along anyone who was struggling. I gasped with happiness just to see someone else, and pedaled a little harder to keep him in sight. And survived! We regrouped at the top, we bombed the descent, and then he gave me the kindest gift ever: he pulled me at high speeds across the eight or so flat windy Idaho miles to the brewery. There are a couple little rollers at the end; he stomped the pedals and I, to my utter shock, answered the intensity in kind and finished 155 miles by blazing into town like it was Tuesday Night Worlds. Earlier finishers and friends crowded the lawn and cheered for newcomers. After I laid on the ground for a minute one of the shop guys handed me a pint and I sat with a bunch of friends who were full of kind words. Best part of the day.

Days later I'm still dehydrated, covered in mosquito bites, sore, and I get ravenously hungry once every three hours. I did not get sunburned, which I am inordinately stoked about. White armwarmers look nerdy on a hot day, but after using them for twelve hours of exposed high-altitude solstice sunshine, I am a convert. I also fueled and drank well; seems like I'm finally figuring that one out. I don't feel any need to embark on that particular adventure again but I'm glad I did it. All the way Around the Rock.

Dad

A lot of women sense themselves turning into their mothers, experiencing that amused wince when a phrase escapes their lips and directly evokes mom. I more often find myself acting out Billisms, sometimes with delight and sometimes chagrin. The other day I was extolling to Tyler the virtues of our new barmaker (finally!), raving about her efficiency and attention to detail and that specific sort of intelligence that fits the job so well. Without looking up from his magazine he said, "It's like I'm listening to Bill talk."

My parents impressed upon me very salient lessons about quality of life, about worshiping at the altar of nature, about generosity of spirit and living with passion. They've never pressured me with bloated expectations of A Good Education, A Real Job, Grandchildren. When Bill and I used to go on our weekly long runs in the muggy rainforest of Pisgah, we'd end by soaking in a creek, him with a beer cracked, me perched on a rock because my body temperature had already plummeted. That's when we'd talk about everything and the subject of happiness came up often; he let me know they respected me for living in joy and contentment.

Bill was creating me in the image of himself very early on, giving me mountain bike lessons with utmost patience, bringing me to trail work days and participating as a mentor in youth sports (both of which I can do now in the Valley; trail work days happen all the time and the Tetons now have a high school mountain bike team). He taught me to never settle for a long bullshit commute to work, to listen to podcast compulsively (I've finally figured out how to stay informed on current events! And yes, Emily Bazelon is great.), to obsess over fine food and drink, how to work your ass off for no greater reward than personal fulfillment. In the year and a half at my job, I've battled small flare-ups of carpal tunnel syndrome, eczema, and plantar fasciitis. I found methods to beat each issue but it gave me new respect for (and incredulity of) his lifetime of manual labor.

I went through a pretty monstrous phase when I was younger. Bill sat me down once and told me what empathy was, and how it enables us to function as decent human beings in this world. I went on my wretched way but that conversation stuck with me and when I outgrew terrible tweendom, I embraced it and tried to exhibit empathy as much as possible.

Bill, I cannot adequately express your influence on me. Happy Father's Day.

Ride All the Rides

May was moldering, melting, melancholic. The daily dirge of bike shop and bar small talk was always, the rain, the rain, the rain. Never torrential but perfectly timed to usurp motivation and slicken singletrack.

Tyler and I escaped to Sun Valley where it was a touch drier, a hair warmer. Busy trailheads greeted us but the usual maxim held true: half a mile in, you're all alone. The inner networks are well-signed and designed to be sustainable crowd-pleasers, but up a little higher, in a little deeper, you reach intersections where the wrong turn* has a whiff of backcountry, the essence of isolation, and you know you could pursue adventure indefinitely over ridges and into coves, on beaten-up ATV trails and through groves of blackened tree carcasses. Such is this magnificent state. The realization came that a map would be a worthy purchase, and I spread it out on the counter and drooled over it for hours.

*Wrong only in that you have a dog, a limited water supply, and a boyfriend who is anti-death march. Wisdom dictates you stick with the predetermined route.

In the burn

Back in the Tetons yet another week of rain struck us dumb and unpleasant. Then Friday brought sun. I went to work beaming, knocked out production fast, hurried home, dragged out the Stag and the boy and the dog. Backyard trails! Pass laps! The next day: hard old school trails with my boss leading and a new shop friend happily tagging along, muggy greenery and unending climbs, log obstacles and rip-roaring descents. More Pass laps in the p.m., narrowly avoiding a violent cloud burst that pressure-washed the mud off our bikes in the parking lot. Sunday: gathering a posse to ride the most beloved trail in the Valley. We all moved slowly up the climb, but after reaching the relatively low-snow resort we turned around and blasted down, scaring ourselves with daring and speed, then relaxed into the creek barefoot with beers, watching the dogs play.

Under the radar, on top of it all

The Pass

Tuesday: a group adventure ride, the organizers trying hard to shake off any recreational riders with the online ride description: "If you don't like hike-a-bike, this ride is not for you. Bring your sense of humor, rain wear, and bug dope." We loaded vans and trucks and drove way up north and east, not far as a crow flies from the northern terminus of the Teton range. Mosquitos swarmed and branches slapped our faces and only the GPS saved us (eventually) from several forays off track, but we satisfactorily navigated the undulating ribbon of old overgrown singletrack from car to car.

Successful navigation through the wilds

Today I had planned to attend a trail work day but felt some umbrage that it was on a trail within wilderness that saw no bikes and plenty of careless, destructive horse traffic. A friend invited me to go ride elsewhere and do some more meaningful maintenance by helping to clear downed trees. He strapped a Husqvarna to his back and still kept up. At two intriguing intersections we did casual reconnaissance up drainages, riding sidehill and shouting at phantom bears in the bushy creek bottoms. On the drive home I queried him about the backyard trails and in a "why the f*ck not" moment, we rode them too, to clear some more trees and so I could get a better handle on the game paths that snake through the hills behind my apartment.

The backyard

I crave novelty and variety and I feel a little envious and petulant when I encounter a blog like the wonderful revelation that is Zen on Dirt, but then I get a good reminder that this valley and this state and this region have a lifetime's worth of adventures and I feel ok about it again.

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.

Mom

In our family the kids are sort of off the hook for Mother's Day (although Bill still takes good care of her; she got a dropper post for her mountain bike this year). Debbie doesn't expect cliche cards and flowers and while a Sunday phone call is appreciated, she is not the sort to slather on the maternal guilt if the call is tardy or truncated. But I recently talked to her for half an hour about very pressing Grown Up Matters because I have been carrying around the idea of home ownership and worrying it into little pieces like Sophie does with her many bones and antlers. Debbie gave me some insight and a good dose of reality (for example, it is unreasonable to even consider houses over $200k).

Talking through Grown Up Matters with her is always helpful because she is already well-versed on all this stuff and has thoughtful answers; she is a smart and canny woman who is supportive but doesn't hand-hold. I was a little peeved as a teenager to have to pay for my own car insurance and gas while my moronic peers swanned around with their most recent Vera Bradley handbags, but I eventually figured out and appreciated Debbie's game plan. She nudged me and my sister towards financial responsibility and independence very early on but also arranged for us the precious gift of a debt-free college education. Now she helps me negotiate the waters of insurance, credit, and savings without ever entertaining the idea of a parental hand-out.

The folks are coming to visit around Labor Day. I've seen a lot of parents circulate through the Valley, but after a couple days' worth of majestic views and mellow footpaths, my friends get a little bug-eyed, knowing the only form of entertainment left is the clusterf*ck that is summer-time Jackson, where they listlessly browse all the turquoise and leather shops with their non-active families. They get envious and incredulous when I say my parents will be mountain biking together every day and drinking beer every night on the brewery lawn. "Even your mom??" Yep. She has only gotten more adventurous and badass with age.

So happy late Mother's Day, Debbie. Keep on reading voraciously, planning incredible trips to Europe, falling asleep during movies, "liking" posts on Facebook, and shocking employees with your foul mouth. Love you!