What is Hard?

Last night I went to a yoga class because that's what women of leisure do. My friend Bria was teaching. During the guided meditation, she instructed us to think of something hard we had done in the week prior. 

Sprawled in some sort of baby pose, I was struck by a wave of guilt at my privilege. I hadn't done anything hard in a week. 

Backpacking to hot springs? Cold, but not hard.

For the past few years, hard meant putting out a paper I was (usually) proud of every week, poring over mean Facebook comments despite myself, driving past fast food restaurants that advertised a higher starting wage than I was earning as editor, saying sorry, saying no, or saying yes and committing my time to important things, mundane things, repetitive things, heartwarming things. Hard was having people say to my face that they had stopped reading the paper because of how biased it was. Hard was watching a former coworker constantly try to scoop us in covering the most controversial stories, then giving out my publisher's cell phone number to people so they could complain to him about the work I was doing. Hard was staying up late when Cy was on SAR call-outs, knowing that I would have to write about the grim outcome, but also knowing I couldn't use everything he told me - the information had to come from official sources. Hard was attending as many high school sports games and matches as possible and still hearing from a small but vocal group of parents who complained that we didn't pay any attention to their (deeply mediocre) teams. Hard was never turning it off. I didn't work crazy hours and often bailed to go skiing or mountain biking, but I never stopped thinking about the job, the community, and there was always a chance I would have to get home and cover some horrible breaking news. Hard was also telling people I respected that I was leaving. 

Visiting family? Awesome, not hard

But when I was mouth-breathing into my yoga mat last night, all of that hard had gone away. I spent my week skiing a ton, deep cleaning the house (and fretting over how many possessions we have in the face of a move next spring), cooking dinner before sunset, and beginning to chip away at a new (exciting, overwhelming) project. None of it was hard. It all felt good, and satisfying, and incredibly selfish. 

Skiing amazing early season snow? Definitely not hard

This year I quit two things that have defined me for a long time. I gave my notice at the paper in late July and finally made it out the first week of November. But before that, in spring, fighting tears, I told the head coach I wouldn't be participating in NICA this year. Cy had been kicked off the team for what I felt was not a great reason, and that decision was the final straw for me, proving that retaining enthusiastic, passionate, and committed coaches wasn't a priority for the program. It broke my heart to quit, and I did burst into tears when my favorite mom called and asked if it was true. I felt wretched, and again, so selfish, but it did mean a yawning chasm of free time had opened up for me, after seven years of five to ten hours a week of unpaid practice from June to October and four to six race weekends around the state every fall. 

I loved coaching NICA so much but it was a huge volunteer time commitment and this year I ended up not missing it as much as I expected. Especially because I got to ride with my favorite kiddos in ways that weren't allowed within the program - gravity laps on Teton Pass (introducing girls on XC bikes to the idea that the pass is for everyone), lining up against them in enduro and downhill and cross country races, and going on a couple big training rides with two exceptional athletes that I've coached since they were in sixth grade. I was so grateful that the parents we've developed relationships with over the years didn't hold our exit against us and were still happy to let their kids ride with us. 

Seeing these girls grow into total crushers? Inspiring, not hard

So now I'm wallowing around in my lack of employment and involvement in the community, and trying to avoid the question when people ask what I'm doing next. Because at the moment I'm just enjoying myself. Taking it easy, I guess, after a lot of hard. 

Dealing with a dog that is incredibly needy but also very poorly behaved? Kinda hard

Ectopic Pregnancy

This happened four years ago. We paid off the substantial bills for two hospitals and an ambulance a year later, while in the middle of a major house renovation, and I wrote about it a year after that.  

The cramps first started in December, one evening before a work party. We had both showered so we had a quickie. At the end, instead of an orgasm I was struck by a wave of vicious cramps that shut down my abdomen. Cy was confused and apologetic as I writhed on the bed. Gasping, I sent him away, and emerged in a dress and tights thirty minutes later, still in pain. 

A few more episodes struck aggressively over the next few weeks, and the bleeding started mid-month, first spotting then a regular flow that at some point started soaking through pads like my period never did. 

I was convinced my IUD was misbehaving. I did one quick Google, found nothing substantive, and left it at that. The thought of my warmhearted doctor fiddling with the IUD like she had when she inserted it, sending incredible pain through my pelvis and causing months of side effects, made my skin crawl, so I did nothing. 

Finally I made a doctor's appointment because the bleeding was so heavy and the cramps left me supine on the ottoman trying to find a position where the muscles in my stomach would leave me alone. I decided my solution was to get that little U of metal and plastic removed and then discuss other options. My appointment was in two days. 

But that night started to feel like a fever dream, the pain spreading upward like terrible suspenders into my shoulder. I started having dizzy spells and feeling too hot, too cold. While editing pages after hours at work I had to go lie down on the floor of the manager's office a couple times until the desire to faint had passed. After going to a city council meeting, I made it home, groaning as I shifted my carcass out of the car. I ate no dinner and went straight to the shower, and when that felt too intense and black spots danced before my eyes, I sat down and had a bath. 

Cy sounded more worried than I'd ever heard him, but I waved him off. I have an appointment. I can't go in any earlier, I have to get the paper out tomorrow morning. The ER is way too expensive, and what if I get a male doctor? He won't know what to do with me.

Sleep was hard to come by and after a few uneasy hours I came awake unable to breathe deeply or lay comfortably because of the pain in my shoulder. I took a piss, took a drink, and Cy was awake, and asserted again that we needed to go in. This time I said yes, I do need to go to the ER. 

We packed water bottles, books, and snacks, me distrustful of hospitals and wait times and how long we'd be away. No bra, no contacts, I walked into the ER with Cy, and a nurse I knew greeted us. He realized I was a mess. IUD issues, I told him. 

Other men checked me into the ER, took vitals, tried to absorb the information I provided. To my relief a female NP soon parted the curtain and started questioning me. She didn't seem to take in what I was saying though, or I wasn't explaining my symptoms in the right order, because she was most concerned about the shoulder pain, not the wracking cramps. She asked if I had been doing manual labor that made me sore. Yes, I've been putting in flooring in the house I just bought but I am intimately familiar with the sweet feeling of muscle soreness, I tried to say. 

A technician ushered me toward the X-ray room and I thought about all those articles I had read about hospitals performing unnecessary tests. No, I don't need that, I told him. The NP came back in and demanded to know why. I told her I wasn't concerned with my bones, it was my abdomen that was killing me. I peed in a cup. Got an EKG, although I suspected I didn't need that either. 

Twenty minutes later she returned and her demeanor had totally changed. Maybe I was no longer the hypochondriac with a sore upper body. 

She told me I was pregnant. I burst into tears. She explained it was most likely ectopic, outside the uterus, and they didn't have an ultrasound technician on call. She said she was going to send me to Rexburg (the hospital there is just a baby factory, she said) so we got ready to head west. 

At the desk they confirmed with us that Cy was fine with transporting me, but then my ears started ringing, my vision blurred, and I bent over to right myself. Their voices, sounding far away, grew loud with alarm, and they sat me in a wheelchair as I shook and sweated and heaved into a bag. I had apparently almost dropped to the ground, almost hit my head on the desk, but Cy caught me in time.

They put an IV in me and watched my color return. Ambulance it is, then. Two EMTs hustled me onto a stretcher and into the back of the vehicle. One of them, a sturdy young woman, stayed back with me and murmured comforting things and had me gauge my pain. She warmed up the little room until I stopped shivering. She pumped a dose of painkiller into my IV. Isn't fentanyl a pretty gnarly opioid? I asked. She considered this and then said she preferred it to morphine. 

I drowsed a little but didn't feel much of my pain being killed. I saw the headlights of my Subaru through the back window as Cy chased us going 80 to Rexburg. 

There, the first nurse I interacted with called my malignant growth a baby and chastised me for leaving the ultrasound tech waiting for an hour. I was on enough drugs to knock out a horse, having asked the EMT for more to little effect. I decided I didn't need to apologize to her. 

The ultrasound tech was younger than me and very apologetic for the extreme discomfort she was putting me in. She said nothing about the mysterious clouds showing on her screen, so I just gritted my teeth and dug my nails in as she manipulated the wand inside me. 

An unpleasant male doctor with a flat head, a shapeless belly, and a stilted manner asked me a couple questions but then tagged out - the specialist had arrived. He was much more pleasant without any air of judgment and was the first person to lay out possible solutions as well as the cause of the pregnancy. 

He was weighing the options but felt that surgery was the right move. Cy agreed to talk to my mom and call the newspaper to help direct them a little bit, as I gave up the last shred of control I had over the situation. They put drugs into me that had me passing out as they wheeled me into the operating room. 

I came to with a sense of noise and light. The word salad bombarding my brain eventually coalesced into It went well. It wasn't ruptured.

I felt hazy and quiet and hurt. Cy sat by the bed feeding me water, gently scratching my back under the hospital gown and letting me know what my friends and family had said while I was under. 

Finally the specialist returned and showed me a sheaf of photos of a red bulbous object inside me. The procedure worked - they drained the blood from my abdomen (the blood that was pushing up into my chest and causing shoulder pain), eliminated the growth, and double and triple checked my reproductive organs. 

He told me they caught it just in time. Ectopic pregnancies can be deadly. I didn't let my mind linger on that. And IUDs seem to increase the chance of ectopic pregnancies. This same thing happened to my wife. Also once you've had one you're more likely to have another. 

Cy later told me he had Googled my symptoms a lot more thoroughly than I had and saw pretty clearly what it was, but didn't want to pressure me. 

I was still hurting but could sense that the badness was gone from my system. I sent out some texts. Asked Cy to grab me a Sprite when he went out - he was clearing starving and running low on fuel after a hungry, intense night and morning. I had dressed myself (slowly) when he returned. An aide wheeled me to the curb where Cy picked me up. Every little bump on the drive shook me with pain but I felt clear-eyed and full of new life. Well, that was something, I thought. 

The Ogre 24

It happens over beers at the Wolf, as so many good things do. Dan mentions he tried to put together an Ogre 24-hour team with some TCSAR buddies but they couldn't do the race as a co-ed team because they didn't have a woman. I swore long ago I would never do the 24 because it always involves water and sleep deprivation but for some reason this time the idea creeps into my skull and bounces around in there. Dan does water stuff - he has the equipment and knowledge, so I can just be a passive byfloater. And while I reliably fall apart during the Ogre, that's always with Cy, and there's something to be said for doing an adventure with people who are not your main source of emotional stability. You have to keep the bad attitude inside. 

I pour another beer from the pitcher and tell Dan I want in. Cy raises an eyebrow. 

We start a text thread with the two Jackson boys. It comes to light that Ian doesn't even own a bike, Steve doesn't own one that's appropriate for the race, and Dan has only recently purchased a Surly, but is not really a cyclist. I propose a test run where we bushwhack from Teton Canyon to Spring Creek, ride Aspen, then take gravel roads back. It's a pretty good indicator of the Ogre, and I feel optimistic, ish. 

The race starts at 2 p.m. on a Saturday, a time frame that lends itself to a lot of dicking around. We make piles, allocate piles, pack piles, put glow sticks on our watercraft, pare down our first aid supplies, attend to one poorly maintained borrowed bike, prepare for the different transition areas and different disciplines. Then all of a sudden it's noon and we have to go to check-in and start studying our map. (The venue is a block from Dan's house and we're the only local team competing, which certainly counts for something.) 

We start with a neutral rollout along the bike path to 5500 and I caution the boys not to crash - there are a lot of really sketchy bikers in the pack. Then the race starts and after pacelining down the gravel road and wading with bikes through the confluence of Fox Creek and Teton River we've taken the lead, weirdly. We're the first team to arrive at Henderson Canyon, drop our bikes, and start trekking. There's a trail network here that's not on any map so I make some navigation guesses based on familiarity. We are being watched online, theoretically, our little dots moving in real time, and I wonder if our friends and family can see that we're doing well. I'm filled with the optimistic glow that happens literally every year when I mistakenly entertain the idea that the Ogre can be won in the first couple of hours. Before I remember that winning teams have the ability to somehow walk with laser focus from one checkpoint to the next instead of dithering around trying to find the orange flags in the woods. 

We hike up through wildflowers and down steep ravines grabbing checkpoints (and a moose paddle) and for the first of many times, I'm grateful that Ian and Dan can handle the navigation because I never learned how to read a compass and can't associate small physical landmarks with their paper counterparts - minor highpoint, periodic creek, steep ridge, etc. I know the area better than anyone and am moving fast, and that's good enough for me.

After a long interlude (during which time we encounter several enraged grouse) of trying to find a tricky checkpoint in the inaptly named Lizard Lake, we run down out of Mahogany across half the valley to the South Bates river access. The sun is setting, I'm playing pop music on my phone, we're passing tons of people. I'm not even mad about the road miles. 

After inflating our duckies and donning PFDs and dry gear (thanks Sarah) we get on the river and paddle a frenzied quarter mile upstream to snag a CP dangling from a willow on the bank. Once we point it downstream I begin to realize how unpleasant this endeavor will be. Twelve miles of nonstop paddling down slow moving water in the dark and cold, covering far more ground than necessary because of the river's incessant meandering, Ian and Steve speeding away in their boat because I'm not a good paddler, and the river is sooooo boring and my gloved hands and sleeves are soaked quickly and with every pass into the water my paddle squeaks against the rubber kayak and is very annoying and embarrassing. 

Two eternal hours later we take out at Packsaddle where many teams are recovering, shivering in front of the fire, drinking coffee, facing the long night ahead of them. After everyone's hands stop shaking we deflate and pack up our kayaks and schlep them into the Uhaul, change into warm clothes and socks, and strap on our bike lights. We depart around midnight. The race director said he was stuck there until 5 a.m. waiting for people in basketball shorts on stand up paddleboards to recover from the first blush of hypothermia and start biking.

We begin the not insubstantial climb from the river bottom back into the Big Holes, up gravel roads and double track to the cirque of Relay Ridge. It's a long ride, with several extended breaks to accommodate the mixed pace of the group. Once we reach the cirque, we drop bikes and start wandering around. There are quite a few CPs up here but we decide to be kind to ourselves and only shoot for a few of them, enough to allow the sun to rise so we don't have to ride downhill in the dark. At first morning light I have a donut and a can of iced coffee, which everyone is deeply envious of. 

I tell the boys that if Abby and Jason are awake, they're probably watching the livetracker and are happy to see that we're at a stunning overlook of the whole valley and the Teton range at sunrise - that's the kind of race directors they are. 

After a couple of scenic CPs on cliff bands and nearly an hour of flustered searching for one last flag in a sinkhole (which turns out to be a very big obvious sinkhole that we manage to overlook for too long) we head back to our bikes and point it downhill, accidentally blowing by a few intersections before making it down the steep technical final section to the Horseshoe-Packsaddle road. No injuries, no mechanicals. Shocking. 

We eat lunch next to a creek, slap on bug spray and not enough sunscreen, and I promise to lead them out for the rest of the ride - it's the Horseshoe Canyon network, which I know well, and I'm still feeling pretty good. It's nice being an asset and not at all a weak link. We catch a few more CPs and Dan, who is deeply unflappable and hasn't struggled at all during the race, admits to me that riding singletrack after twenty hours in motion is really taxing his concentration and bike skills. It's a moment that I hold onto to share later with friends, most of whom can count on one or two fingers the number of times they've seen him crack. 

I feel grateful for the many many many hours of hard mountain biking I've done. It's a huge advantage to be able to ride on autopilot when dealing with cumulative fatigue. 

The sun is fierce as we do the final unpleasant pedal from Horseshoe to Driggs (not via the most direct route of course because adventure racing). After what feels like five hours of spinning circles down gravel roads and listening to my increasingly noisy drivetrain, we arrive in town and collapse in the grass at the finish line. 

Even though our team name is In It For the Après, our après is shortlived and subdued - a beer each before Steve and Ian drive back to Jackson and I take a nap. 

The next day I feel surprisingly chipper, not really sore at all except for my shoulders. Dan agrees it just feels like the aftermath of a big ski day in Grand Teton National Park. 

We have 24 CPs total. The winning team, which includes two children who have done the Ogre several times and seem to be impeccable navigators, got all 31 CPs. We place fourth in our category and fifth overall out of 30 or so teams. Not too shabby for a group made up of two non-cyclists, one non-boater, and three non-adventure racers. 

This is the only event I keep coming back to. Playing the oldies: 

2016 Ogre 

2017 Ogre 

Cy and I also raced in 2018 and 2019, and did the Covid navigation challenge (poorly) in 2020. 

Location Shopping Part II

 After leaving the Olympic Peninsula we stopped for the night in south Seattle near the airport for a reset - showers and a hotel bed. In the morning we came out and noticed a large pool of gas on the rain-washed tarmac that upon inspection appeared to be coming from the van. Joy. Someone had repeatedly punctured the van's fuel tank (to steal gas in a clumsy and ineffective fashion, I guess?) although miraculously they hadn't taken the catalytic converter, usually the first thing that gets stolen these days. A friendly contractor who was staying at the hotel paused at the vehicle while we were looking at it and told us all the parking lots in the area saw routine vandalism and theft.

Seriously?

I told the hotel clerk, who gave a cursory sympathetic murmur and slid the Xeroxed incident report form across the desk but made no offer of redress for the utter failure of the night security shift. Cy, being the very competent and capable person he is, started walking the two miles to the auto parts store to get some epoxy and radiator patches while I filed the police report and insurance claim. The contractor saw Cy jogging through the concrete hellscape of traffic sprawl and gave him a ride back to the hotel. Cy laid out a rug on the ground and started patching the holes while I talked to the wildly helpful insurance adjustor, who immediately sent me payment for the temporary fix plus labor plus lost fuel, and started drafting the estimate for replacement. A diametrically opposite customer service experience than the hotel clerk interaction. 

This guy is the best

We went for a walk along the Interurban path while waiting for the epoxy to cure, and talked about the sad fucked-up-ness of humanity in all its myriad ways. Every battle being fought is overwhelming and insufficient. I don't know how we could ever begin to fix all the things that are wrong with everything, with the cities and the sprawl and the pumping arteries of cars, and the scary shacks in the hollers and the pervasiveness of drugs and the grinding poverty and the sweeping entitlement and crushing lack of empathy, where people living in vehicular wastelands need a car to get around and need to steal half a tank of gas, and hotel clerks are so burned out dealing with the constant miniscule demands of guests that they treat actual crimes on premises with the same beleaguered attention as an empty coffee carafe. It just feels like people are sad and broken and isolated and hamstrung, and I don't know if there's any way this ship can right itself. 

And yet...there is still beauty

Sobered by that experience, but with a functioning vehicle, we went to Bellingham, checking frequently that the tank wasn't leaking gas. Cy's internet friend turned real friend Sarah was happy to go for a muddy evening ride with us and all was well with the world. After we cleaned up we headed to a brewery dance party celebrating Sarah's new can art and it was so fun to be among a bunch of likeminded people dancing to music targeted with laser precision at the 28-35 demographic. Sometimes being in a bubble is refreshing. 

You can't tell but this is the biggest gap I've ever hit

We spent most of Sunday meandering all over Galbraith, including an interlude at the Transition Outpost where Cy always gets love thanks to his large paintings hanging on the walls of the shop. I had some minor biking breakthroughs and was feeling pretty good about myself, partly because I was riding on flats and I can now proudly claim pedal ambidexterity. 

Pushing my comfort zone on slabs

After Vietnamese food we had a beer down at Trackside on an evening that was pure propaganda, crisp rays of sunlight illuminating the deserted paper mill structures as people enjoyed the first hint of summer on the bay and hordes of children pedaled, strider-ed, or stumbled around on the big pump track next to the beer garden. What is this world.

Too good to be true

As if that wasn't appealing enough, Cy learned that the local LGBTQ bar had a weekly Sunday drag show so we stayed up past midnight for the third night in a row - unheard of. At the bar I picked up a newspaper for idle perusal and was impressed by its thoughtful government coverage. Later research revealed that it's a new print offering with a super exciting mission and staff. Sigh. Stop it, Bellingham. 

Who doesn't love a Sunday night community drag show?

On Monday after a delicious gut bomb of a breakfast, we met up with another Instagram friend to ride. We quickly polished off the big mellow climb interspersed with mean hike-a-bike, and then hit the steep rutted descent that, because of the wet conditions, was at the absolute edge of my abilities and bravery. I was stoked to end the trip feeling depleted and accomplished. After eating poke bowls in town we enjoyed one final hang with random internet people, crashing a wheel-building session at someone's garage. Bullshitting and drinking beers with bike bros - always a fan. Cy got to see in real life an art collaboration he had done with a tie-dye apparel brand. It's kind of wild how many clients and fans he has in Bellingham and surrounding areas.

Finished off my trip with a good hard ride in the mist

And then I flew home. He continued on his merry way doing more things that exactly fit his emotional needs - volunteer trail work days, art store visits, weekday race hang outs, jumps, and scary trail rides. I settled back in at home, gave the neurotic dog as much attention as possible, and started plotting in earnest how we could move there. 

Location Shopping Part I

On the brink of burnout at work and in a valley where it feels like we've been making the most of pretty meh weekends for the majority of winter, I take off a big chunk of time at work, more than I ever have. It's scary, it's exciting. I feel privileged and entitled because in addition to the occasional long weekend, I do take off for about a week straight every year, usually to go to weddings in North Carolina. This time though we're going to Washington and doing some location shopping. 

We load the van up with bikes and ski gear, arrange loose dogsitting plans with our friends that live nearby, and hit the road early on Saturday morning. Drive through boring, hazy Idaho and windy, snowy passes in central Oregon, make it up to Hood, above the rain line, back in snow. We wander around Cy's old haunts, the massive hewn logs of Timberline Lodge, stunning in its magnitude, the beauty of the Works Progress Administration writ (very) large. 

After a cold night that frosted the windows of the van, we prepped early with cold hands for the ski, but not early enough, we later learned. We made very quick work of the first 4k of vert - Cy has long legs and I've been skinning a lot in hopes of getting faster. It's steep and boring, although the view of the massif in front of us is gorgeous. But we hit a line of people, both skiers and hikers, walking past the Devil's Kitchen fumarole, moving agonizingly slowly with heavy, inappropriate gear, and we can see in front of us the only way to the summit, a 500-foot headwall clogged with humanity, the bootpackers' progress frozen under the hangfire of rime ice, rocks poised to fall, and fresh snow turning into slabs as the sun ratcheted up the temps.

The crush of humanity on the headwall

Not the day for it, another skier said to his companions as he ripped off his skins. His quick hand pit broke a slab clean with an audible pop. It was exactly the inducement we needed to decide to head downhill instead of summiting. The ski over to the picturesque Illumination Rock was touchy and grabby. We snacked then skied very flat groomers back to the parking lot. 

Inoffensive skiing but not great

The base area was shrouded in a heavy, moist cloud and it was only 11, so we figured we might as well go for a ride in the valley. Sandy Ridge was deliciously not sandy - damp, mossy, rooty, it was a gentle introduction back into mountain biking for refugees of the snowy Intermountain West. We sprawled on the warm pavement in the parking lot afterward, so happy to be back in the land of trees and dark, clingy dirt. 

Multi-sport day

We have a friend across the river gorge in Washington and I had a newspaper to put out, so we slept on his couch in the small, imminently charming burg of White Salmon and worked a full day Monday. After sending the paper we pedaled around a scrappy little bike park a quarter mile from town, then walked across the street for good beer and bar food. 

I am constantly wondering what I really want in a community. High on the list is trails that are within walking distance. When Brendan got home we talked for a long time, about life, about being disappointed in places that seem like a good fit. 

We moseyed west on Tuesday, stopping at Dog Mountain for a short steep run above the Columbia to appease my incessant need for motion. 

Appeasement

Our next stop was Olympia. We wandered aimlessly around the state capital, admiring its mini-Portland feel. After grabbing some cans from Three Magnets Brewing that were adorned with Cy's illustrations, we found a good home base for the next couple of days in Capitol Forest, which we agreed was not close enough to town. The stub road we parked in had the remnants of a hard weekend - trash everywhere, a syringe on the ground, a charred pile of debris next to a fire pit - but it was quiet and only feet away from Mr Bones, the trail that would be featured in the next day's Free For All, a weeknight downhill race whose promotor is one of Cy's favorite clients. We couldn't resist doing a lap on the course that night and I was convinced to register. 

Van camping is pretty glamorous

On Wednesday we managed to do a ride that was plenty big, incapable of saving the legs for the race. The trails were delightful and not too challenging, although I took a weird line on a steep rooty switchback and went ass over teakettle, miraculously my only real crash of the trip. The scene at the race was cool, albeit bro-heavy. Riders could attempt as many laps as they wanted in the two-hour window, but everyone was shuttling, which doomed my plan of pedaling for laps on the steep, curvy logging road. I put in one clean run and returned my timing chip - no need to mess with fate. Turns out I still hate time trials in all flavors, especially DH. Cy went back for more and we were both handed very mediocre mid-pack results. Whatever, it was fun to get a taste of the grassroots Olympia bike culture. 

I liked the race course

On Thursday we headed up and around the peninsula to Port Angeles, admiring the beautiful coastline and bemoaning the inescapable rain. We strolled around the quirky, scenic town, which felt on the cusp of being "discovered," surprising in such a bikes-breweries-and-Sprinter-vans region. To Cy's delight we came across an aquarium and touched sea urchins and watched prehistoric-looking rockfish being fed chunks of mackerel while marine biologist nerds told us everything we could hope to know about the ecosystem.  

Aquatic life, meet terrestrial life

Driving around the outskirts of town trying to plan for the next day's ride, however, changed the feel. There were plenty of properties plastered with No Trespassing signs of varying ferocity, huge Trump flags everywhere, and yards full of decrepit cars, rotting cardboard, sagging lean-tos - no. Not a place I would feel comfortable if I was out for a back roads ride. This exploration culminated in the Rat Hole, which a bike shop employee had warned us about - gated land that according to most sources was probably a militia stronghold or libertarian commune. We parked on logging land and went for a muddy evening walk through a clear cut. 

Friday's ride was pretty dang cool, quasi-unsanctioned trails off the Olympic Discovery pathway that were a very open secret, fun and not too hard (except for one, which was ridiculously hard) and plenty of miles. I did long for the clouds to clear so I could see the glaciated peaks that were just above us, but we were generally satisfied with the experience, so we headed to Seattle. 

2021 Adventures

I am sometimes guilty of being a martyr about work, at least in my own brain if not out loud (too often) but now with the benefit of a fancy pocket computer I can scroll back through pictures of the past year and think, it's been pretty fun. I took plenty of time off, went to cool places, had adventures. Just delightful. 

We started off the year with the most Covid-safe NYE possible, skinning up to a yurt in the Big Holes with Briandrew and a cold little dog to drink champagne and think about the year past (which was pretty gross) and the year to come (less gross, but not not gross).

I got pretty into snowblading which is unavoidable when you hang out with Cy too much, and he and Dapper Dan and I did a strike mission down to Nevada to ski Terminal Cancer Couloir, which is hilariously busy but a very aesthetic and easy-to-access line.

A big gang of us went to the San Rafael Swell for an overnighter. We had to carry like ten liters of water each because we weren't sure about water sources on the route, and then we camped next to a nice creek and groaned about the 20+ pounds of water each of us had strapped to our bikes in the place of enough booze. Fun outing but I continue to not love the desert.

In 2020 I used my wedding as justification to throw a bunch of parties and go on a bunch of trips so Chrissy and Whitney and I decided to keep that train rolling in 2021. In spring we went to a bougie hot springs resort for Grachelorette Part II and did a big lovely gravel ride through the southeasternmost part of Idaho and were very basic at the resort.

Andrea gave us a great excuse to finally make it down to Crested Butte in June and it rained on us the whole time (this is a theme for me) and we piloted a boat through shark-infested creek waters to watch her get hitched on a cliff.

We took a really quick trip up to Silver in Kellogg because it's truly the best bike park, i.e. doesn't feel like a bike park. It was super fun meeting up with a bunch of people for gondola shenanigans and ridiculously dusty loose riding through bomb holes.

Got to finally visit the infamous couch rock in the Palisades on a 20-mile run with Deanna, who predictably whupped my ass while claiming she was slow. I miss running. Also running sucks.

My lovely and charming sister got married and it was so so fun.

Nearly all of the Tellman and Tellman-adjacent clan gathered for Em's wedding and it was pretty dang awesome.

Gosh I sure do love Pisgah. It was really nice actually not getting rained on the entire week I was there, and we did some wonderful rides and runs. With modern bike equipment and half a summer of riding under my belt, I actually got my Pisgah root-charging groove back the last day of the trip, of course.

I got to ride bikes at Kanuga with Joh for the first time in like a decade and even off the couch (motherhood and stuff) she is still the fastest rowdiest woman I've ever ridden with, it's so hot. I remember when I used to be super jealous and intimidated of her skills...guess that hasn't really changed.

Another year of coaching kids and being so pleased and proud of them, particularly the girls, who are hungry and fast and strong and funny and great.

Central Idaho hot springs are maybe the best part of traveling for NICA races.

C and W and I went down to Park City on a lark for Chrissy's birthday in November but it had snowed and was pretty stupid. Also Park City is very very touristy. At least we got to ride bikes north of SLC for a couple hours in the dry, on a quirky little network of jump trails.

I bought a new(ish) bike and it is a sexy dreamboat, I'm fully a 29er convert now.

We went to Bellingham to ride bikes in the rain in late fall and ate tonnnnnnssss of Asian food. Even though we were wet almost constantly and had to manage moisture while sleeping in the van, it was a really delightful and eye-opening trip.

This isn't even everything! I am spoiled rotten, seriously.

Hot Springs

We leave the ski resort outside of the state capital right after helping tear down the bike team's tent area. We learn later that the team won the overall title. There was a podium and everything. 

On the highway as dusk settles, the van's headlights illuminate an elk and her calf next to the road. Both of our hearts stop but the large animals don't move toward their doom. Cy flashes a warning to the next car coming past but the driver just thinks he's telling them to dim their brights. 

We pull into the campground and muddle around trying to remember where the parking for the hot springs was. It turns out to be obvious. Without a campground host, we decide to coopt a site without paying. We'll be gone early anyway. We quickly suit up and walk with headlamps down the wide path. 

Lights bob toward us. The lights become two women, who say they saw animal eyes in the dark. Could be bears, they say fearfully. Not terribly troubled, we keep walking - this is central Idaho, not Yellowstone or Glacier. 

We light up the green eyes in a small clearing and see the flash of muley rumps as the deer turn and flee up the slope. The women have followed, empowered by our seeming bravado. They have mason jars full of Christmas lights, for a romantic evening, they say. 

The four of us walk to the springs which are below us on the river bank. We hear children's voices and see an eerie ring of candles encircling one of the pools. I freeze, put off by the weirdness and the perception that there is a horde of people. Cy soldiers on. 

We splash through the pools trying to find one that's the right temperature, stumbling over rocks and trying not to aim our headlamps at any bathers. I am aware of the women disrobing behind us, which makes me feel better about getting naked. Not like anyone can really see me. The moon is a thumbnail clipping. 

The women seem mollified by our presence as we test different pools and settle into a pretty hot one. They join. We exchange the usual hot springs stranger banter - a little bit of showing off, inside jokes, a "what brings you here," all that. 

It gets more interesting though. What are you passionate about, one of them asks, probably the best hot springs conversation starter ever. They're over the vibe in Seattle, where it never feels like they're gay enough, and they're moving home to Iowa. One of them is a nurse with aspirations of midwifery, and the other admits she's a cop, and says it's not something she talks about a lot with strangers. I think about what it's like to be a queer woman in a police department, how it must feel to defend yourself both from your coworkers and from a community that thinks law enforcement is the enemy. 

When Cy lets it slip that he's a recovering cult member, one woman asks, did it shape you in both positive and negative ways, which is a kind and nuanced way to approach the topic. He is appreciative and willing to talk about it - this is how he's working through it. 

They sheepishly ask if they can leave when we do, because animals. I in turn ask if we can walk over to their campsite in the morning for breakfast. They briefly meet Jolene, who is more interested in running around in the dark than receiving pets. 

In the morning one of the women sticks her head out the window of the short converted school bus and calls to Jolene, who is thoroughly nonplussed. 

After we've boiled water for instant oatmeal we poke over and are welcomed into their clean warm well-decorated bus. They are amusingly honest about how annoying and impractical the conversion has been, and how the cabinets rattle loose and the wiring is faulty and the little propane oven doesn't actually work when it's stored in its nook. 

They cook an inadequate amount of steel cut oats slowly in a pot on the stove, then have to augment their breakfast with instant oats. 

It's a very nice morning interlude. 

When we are brushing our teeth in preparation for leaving, a familiar wrapped van passes the campground on the way to the springs. It's Jay and Tracey. She says she hasn't brushed her teeth since Friday and he says gross. 

We laugh at what a small world it is. Central Idaho hot springs, everyone loves them. 

I Want Immediate Results

When I was in high school my father said once (or multiple times) that cross country skiing was "the most aerobic activity you can do," one of his many factoids of unknown veracity that is permanently lodged in my brain. 

Thus, living here in the snowy wasteland, I've always been XC-curious, but never had the gear and always had other recreation interests taking up my attention. Of all the things one can do on a groomed trail, fat biking is the least interesting, while classic skiing looks too akin to flat skinning, which I get my fill of every winter during big GTNP tours. But skate skiing is this fascinating, graceful, fast, hard sport, like running but with enhanced technology and requiring of immaculate form. 

I finally laid hands on a skate set-up this year and realized the Nordic trails in Teton Valley are stellar—there are miles and miles everywhere and although before I had an academic understanding of the value of the local nonprofit grooming organization, now I really get how wonderful it is to have regular, high-quality grooming very close by (including one track within walking distance, one within biking distance, and one accessible by bus—be still my heart). Unlike any other sport I enjoy, I can do this one alone, in repetitive loops, with headphones, for just a sweaty hour, without fear of avalanches or serious injury, and actually feel satisfied in the end. 

But now I have to learn how to do it. 

This has been the first time I've approached a new sport so methodically—I chased others in downhill skiing and backcountry skiing until I got "competent" enough, but I still regret never getting formal lessons, and I started running and riding too young to care, but as a real grown-ass adult I want to get the fundamentals right, especially because in skate skiing technique truly separates the anguished flopping from effortless gliding, and using good form right from the beginning seems really important. I took a free lesson (thanks, work) and want more, I want second-by-second body movement analysis, I want someone to tell me the secret to going really fast.

I have a few moments of deep, angsty frustration every session, but it never feels too distressing. I am an uphill athlete. I really enjoy aerobic activity and when I feel slow I always know I can do better if I try harder. 

Ever since I started mountain biking competitively I surrounded myself with people who valued being rad more than being fit, and it has dogged me ever since, the feeling that I am not rad and the knowledge that I am not the kind of person who can get past my own brain and be rad. I do love going downhill so much in any sport but in the worlds of biking and skiing, competence is inadequate—if you can't fucking send it you're not worth shit. It often frustrates me to tears, wanting so bad to send it and knowing that will never be me. 

On the other hand, I'm pretty dang good at the fitness stuff, even though I haven't tried being race-fit in years. 

I haven't had a breakthrough in skate skiing yet, but I'm so hungry for it. I want to somehow be a natural, be a stellar skier right off the bat. I'm actually using Strava to compare times on the same course on different days, to try and track incremental improvement, which I never do with other sports because it seems irrelevant. And I'm not letting myself fall into the gear nerdery just yet, because I want to get it figured out before I let myself blame my equipment (it's the start-on-a-hardtail rule). 

And then of course I can't resist eyeing the race calendar, but I know right now I can't hang, and I don't like doing races in which I can't hang. I still remember that feeling you get when you're totally blown right from the start line because you go too hard and you have no idea what you're doing. It's not fun. And that's obviously where my already tenuous form would fall completely apart. 

All I want out of racing is to impress people who will say Wow you only learned to skate this winter? You're amazing! I am at my happiest when someone tells me I'm doing a good job. I need constant positive feedback, maybe just to confirm the inner voice that is always saying I'm pretty sure I'm fucking awesome and quiet the other voice that says God why am I so lame. That is not a good enough reason to sign up for a race, so I'm resisting the urge...for now. 

So in other words, I'm obsessed with becoming a good skate skier as soon as possible so I can go really fast and hurt a lot and finish (win) races.  

Pretty sure I'm doing it wrong, but fortunately the photo is too small to confirm.