Gratuitous Dog Pictures

A month and a half. Oops. Ideas for posts have flitted through my head but for the most part they're either belly-aching (I like to keep the negativity to a minimum on the internet) or broken records (there are only so many ways to say, Happy happy joy joy). I could write an ode to technical outerwear and how nice it is to stay dry and warm in winter conditions. I could write about how I had to get creative entertaining myself outside because the snow refused to fly...but that's so two weeks ago. Now we're getting 3-5 inches a day, which has lead to very enjoyable days in the backcountry and at the resort. I could write about how scared I am of avalanches. Weird early season weather gave us and most of the west some very unstable layers that we'll have to contend with for at least the next month. But I don't want to get too far into that because my family is already unnerved by my snow pursuits. Understand this: I am very timid and at the slightest whiff of elevated danger, I'll happily settle with in-bounds skiing. The experts talk about varied risk tolerance and mine is way over at the low end of the scale.

My parents are divesting themselves of the bakery, and I'm so happy for them, but between that and the disturbing threat of loss of mountain bike access, Brevard is feeling less and less like home. (And it doesn't snow there.) This past year I paid attention to current events again after almost a decade of being an uninformed wastrel and my god there's some scary, sickening stuff going on. It almost makes me want to crawl back in my hole.

So instead of talking more about any of those topics, here are some pictures of my dog,

Sophie finds bike vanity pictures a little odd but as long as I promise to take her for a run around the neighborhood, she doesn't give me a hard time.

Sophie loves playing in the backcountry with her best friend Darby the pocket-sized golden retriever. When it gets cold she wears her pink coat, which is both cozy and fetching.

Sophie can't contain her excitement when I go stir crazy sitting around the house and decide to go for a fat bike ride.

This is my most recent addition to the quiver. Surly Krampus 29+, cheap, heavy, and bombproof. Great for the daily commute but it's not quite a fat bike so powder riding is very challenging.

At this point we're basically living in a Christmas card.

And yeah, the turns have been pretty darn phenomenal.

First Snow

The dog has been a handful. I wander around under my own dark cloud. This morning it isn't raining, only a gentle snow. I text the boss: Coming in late. We go for a run on Rush Hour. The ground is crunchy. My joints ache from too much biking, not enough running. I think, I want to buy waterproof running shoes. The dog bounds up and down the trail. We pass T-Race riding with her dogs Rippin and Chillin. Our greetings billow like smoke from our mouths. My brain turns off. For the first time since April, the dog does not want to go in the creek afterwards.

Back home, I drink lukewarm coffee and feed the dog pieces of apple. I put on lots of layers and ride to work. I am very pleased with my appropriate clothing choices. The factory is chilly but I am wrapped in a bubble of good humor. I tell my fellow barmakers, Whenever I am grumpy, tell me to go for a run. We are chatty and cheerful. We sass the boss. He always wears a wry, bemused face around us.

They leave. I continue making Tram Bar. The new barmaker comes in at three. She is still quiet and bright-eyed, not sassy. Soon, I think. I subject her to my favorite financial podcast. She claims not to mind. I finish and pedal home in the dark cold. The road is very slightly uphill. I am sweating through my puffy and my beanie sags over my eyes. I see the stream of headlights on the highway from Jackson. I think, I would never ever ever ever choose to be in a car in that long line rather than here on my bike. 

I look at pictures on Facebook of friends skiing. I download a surprise collaboration album from Big Boi and Phantogram. I let the dog out. She goes to the neighbor's yard where the viscera of an antelope freeze in the grass. I stand under the street lamp, watching the snow's silent barrage. The first fall is the most beautiful. I think, This particulate from the sky dictates my happiness for five months. 

On Vanity

These girls! Mountain bikers with their artful side braids, trendy matte visored helmets never awkwardly tilted, never exposing unseemly forehead. Their logo'd raglan three quarter length tees look suited for playing sandlot softball but hug curves and wick moisture like butterfly wings. Their shorts are tailored but not tight, never gaping above kneepads, never riding down in the back to expose undershorts or the dreaded crack. Even at the most unflattering, posterior-widening, torso-shortening angles these girls look perfect, "shred-ready" but approachable. You want to buy them a beer and ask for their number. Even if you are a straight girl.

These skier girls. Winter outerwear presents a more forgiving profile but I still get it wrong. Certain colors and brands scream "I am here on my bi-yearly ski vacation from Florida." I don't want to scream that, or even whisper it. These girls with their bug-eyed reflective goggles and be-stickered helmets, artful side braids again poking fetchingly out from their protective headwear. Uber-technical shell jackets, dirty on the elbows from 100+ days of riding lifts but still appealingly color-blocked with contrasting zippers on trend for this season. Pants that are neither too tight (poser? tween?) nor too baggy (boy butt? ski bum saddle bags?). Even the way these girls stand, on skis or at the bar, natural, unselfconscious, athletic. They probably do yoga in the off-season. Photographers love these girls.

I will never be one of these girls.

My ass is too large to be disguised by light breathable bike shorts.

I always miss the memo on this season's outerwear trends.

I don't own goggles or sunglasses that hide my eyes, which always beseech the viewer: am I doing it right? Do you approve?

My side braid is never artful.

But maybe it's OK. I still get to experience the lifestyle that these girls represent. Even if I will never look as cool/effortless/beautiful while living it.

The Gravel Pursuit

Two weekends ago now, the Petervarys put on the inaugural JayP Backyard Gravel Pursuit, a 60/120 mile gravel grinder in Island Park, ID. Tyler was out of town so I took Sophie to have a sleepover with some of her best friends at SegoHaus and snagged a ride north with Gary, a fellow gravel grinder. We joined up with a solid Teton Valley contingent at the campsite and after some pasta and beer I had the best night of outdoor sleep I've had possibly ever, thanks to perfect temps and a massive thrift store Coleman airpad. 

The 60 mile start line

All pics courtesy of JayP

We started at eight. I coveted the other bikes. Most people these days are either riding modern cyclocross bikes (disc brakes, big tire clearance) or actual gravel grinders* (mountain bike geometry, huge tire clearance), but I am still on Deutschbike, who is perfectly engineered to goreallyfast for 45 minutes on a dry cyclocross course. Whatever. I spent my whole bike budget on the fun stuff.

*I just realized I used the phrase "gravel grinder" to refer to an event, a person, and a bike. It's so utilitarian! 

After five miles of dodging people and puddles I finally felt awake. I caught Gary and together we blew apart the woman who had been stubbornly sitting on his wheel. Then we hit pavement, a long unexpected climb with a civilized grade. Long gentle climbs are the one thing I truly love about road riding. Every hill crest brought another incline and I was overjoyed, because the more miles of paved uphill there were, the less of a disadvantage I'd be at with my tiny tires and inadequate brakes. I was reeling in dude after dude (ok, so there are two things I love about road riding) and I was on fire. At this point I was counting every unhatched chicken I could lay hands on. Victory, victory, I thought in time with my pedal cadence. 

Then, after the climb, on some unremarkable flat gravel section, I heard psssshhh.

Shit. 

Fixed the front tire pretty quickly (for me) but half the women's field had passed me, looking strong. I settled in for the chase. The feeling of invincibility had disappeared. 

During the grind I didn't forget to look around. We mostly traveled through nondescript lodgepole pine forests but sometimes the course surfaced above the trees and the views were breathtaking. The cobalt sky graced a lush green valley dotted with bright gold aspen groves and surrounded by slate gray peaks. 

Yeah, that view

I came through the aide station for the second time, still sitting in third with eight miles to go, still in no man's land. The next stretch was insulting: very slightly uphill in kitty litter gravel with a headwind. I followed all the other tire tracks as they tacked all across the road on the hunt for firmer ground. 

A huge pick-up came barreling toward me and as I concentrated on holding my line in the soft shoulder, I blew through an intersection. After riding five more miles to the highway without seeing a finish line, I turned around, shattered. I castigated myself when I realized there had been no tire tracks on the road for the entire last stretch. Back at the intersection, I saw an arrow that I'd passed. It was being buffeted by the wind, but to my right was another course marking reassuring me of the turn. I followed and saw lots of tracks again. Whew. 

Unfortunately, I had no idea that the finishing stretch was the same as the start, and that I was following the morning's route deeper onto the course. I had apparently absorbed nothing of the first ten miles because nothing looked familiar. But I started feeling deeply uneasy as I continued traveling south with no sign of the finish. Without any idea of why the arrows had led me astray, I started looking for a road that would cut west toward the highway. It was several miles before one appeared though, and I was too nervous to backtrack, because I was out of water and didn't have another spare tube. I had to stop several times on the never-ending ATV road and rethink the steps I had taken, but they still seemed sound. I knew I was going west and I couldn't be more than five or so miles from the highway. While on my first wrong turn I was cursing and sprinting, this time I was more pragmatic, knowing if I didn't figure out a way back I would truly be up shit creek. 

Finally after six agonizing, thirsty miles of second-guessing myself, I found a paved road and an RV couple who gave me directions and water. I was another seven hilly miles from the lodge but it was paved and I had water, beef jerky, and a tailwind. 

JayP's Backyard Pursuit (left) vs. Julia's Backyard Pursuit (right)

I mashed back into town feeling strong and happy. I had to check in with all my worried friends and just managed to catch JayP before he went out looking. I felt like a huge asshole. He'd told us the night before: bring two spare tubes and bring the course map. But I'd thought since I was doing "the casual distance" that such warnings didn't apply to me.

We stuck around to cheer on the other participants who were still rolling in, the hardmen who raced the 120, the gently stoned recreationalists who relished every lovely mile, and the midwestern family of four on fat bikes that had rallied and finished the 60 with smiles on their faces. Seeing their perseverance and good attitudes humbled me, and I decided a little less swagger and a little better preparation would probably serve me well in future endeavors. (But how many times have I learned that particular lesson, to no avail?) 

Riding in fall is the finest

At the racers' meeting the night before, JayP had said, "This is the inaugural Gravel Pursuit, and when this race gets huge, you will be able to say proudly, I was there for the first one." I absolutely believe that is true, because despite my foibles, it was a beautifully designed course and a flawless event. 

Vignettes

Cool things have happened but while I had a half-written blog post for each floating around in my head, time passed and my thoughts dissipated into the ether. So instead, the past month, fast and dirty:

Beer paired dinner
Pic courtesy of Katie

After our incandescent experience last year, and with everyone's cellar close to overflowing with sexy beers, some of the brewery staff and various significant others decided to have our own beer paired dinner. We each brought a course and several exciting beers to consume in the best possible company. The fact that I can recall each course a month later speaks to the fineness of the meal.

Appetizers were bruschetta with chevre, sage, and balsamic-reduced onions with a rich "triple Tripel", and rare elk backstrap in a summer roll presentation with an herbaceous pale ale. Next was grilled peach, almond, and peppery arugula salad with a piquant selection of wild sours. Then over-the-top potatoes au gratin, the smoky bacon enhanced by a smooth porter on nitro. The main course was short rib sliders on a parsnip puree with extra horseradish, paired with a couple big brassy barleywines. We retired to the garage for a while to play ping-pong, let dinner rest, and drink lighter fare: week-old IPAs from one of the best breweries in the country, some delicate Berliner weisse, some easy-drinking pilsners. Dessert was salted caramel brownies with ice cream and the big guns came out to play: the bourbon barrel-aged quads, barleywines, and porters with their individual boxes and heady backstories. Dinner lasted a languid six hours, and we lined up thirty dead soldiers to photograph; hundreds of dollars worth of beer and a priceless experience.

The folks, doing the only touristy thing I permitted
Pic courtesy of Debs

I had been looking forward to my parents' visit for a very long time and it did not disappoint. As I'd hoped, they drove through Jackson from the airport, and having seen the kitsch shops and faux old-timey wooden sidewalks, did not require me to waddle around all the crowded hotspots with them. Instead of being tourists, they just fell easily into my routine: lots of reading, mountain biking, taking my spoiled little dog on runs, cooking great dinners, hanging out at the pub. We had some uncharacteristically late boozy nights talking about beer and life and real estate. Debbie was every bit the financial advisor/fount of wisdom I needed her to be, and Bill provided running commentary on, you know, everything. They met most of the really important people in my life and came away (I assume) with a much better understanding of why I can't pry myself away from the middle of nowhere Idaho.

Attempting to charge
Pic courtesy of Grand Targhee

Instead of racing Pierre's Hole again, I turned my sights on another Targhee race I knew would be less well-attended and that offered an obscene pay-out. It was a 25 mile XC and a long DH and the combined best placing on the same bike won the overall. I felt pretty good about that. Bill decided to race the XC too, to my delight, and finished strong, an impressive feat on a tough, high-altitude course, on an unfamiliar bike, after an extremely stressful summer. My fields were small and a little short on competition but I did spend the first half of the XC duking it out with a couple ladies. During the DH I had little confidence in a win after my humbling enduro experience but had a clean, fastish run and got to stand on top of the box for both races and the overall.

Teton Region High School MTB team (some of it, anyway)
Pic courtesy of Todd

Last weekend saw the first ever Idaho high school mountain bike race (hosted in Wyoming, ironically). The kids on our team are not only great riders, they're also some of the coolest, friendliest, most positive kids I've ever had the pleasure of hanging out with. We scored a good number of podiums, all from the middle-schoolers and underclassmen, which means the team is only going to get stronger. Almost two hundred kids participated and the atmosphere was full of infectious stoke. I was really happy to be a part of it. 

Now it's forty degrees and raining, with all reports indicating snow on the peaks. I am more than happy to put a great summer to rest and sally forth into winter.

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