Permission to Gloat?

Guess what I'm doing on Sunday.
The Art Loeb.
Guess what I'm NOT doing today.
Collegiate Road Nationals.*
Guess what I'm NOT doing tomorrow.
PMBAR.

In a weekend of interminable suffer-fests, I think I win; mine is the most relaxed and least intimidating.
Seriously though, there are 3,478 painful and terrible things I'd rather do than race Natz, and there are almost as many (902) painful and terrible things I'd rather do than race PMBAR. Good luck and many sympathies to the folks doing those painful and terrible things.

*Seriously. Road nats '09 and '10 were awful. Lower-circles-of-hell awful. Mommy-why-won't-the-pain-stop awful.

Reverie

April is waning and suddenly it's less than two weeks until my rendezvous with the white blazes. I have been making some attempts to prepare, inasmuch as one or two ten-milers a week can prepare me for a thirty-miler (the probable answer: notsomuch). I think it is helping more mentally than physically--after all, the Art Loeb is nothing but prolonged steep uphills and prolonged steep downhills, my two favorite features of Pisgah. If nothing else, I can turn my brain to the right setting for that noise.

If I really want to rev my engine beforehand, I probably ought to read Born to Run for the third time--it never fails to ignite a temporary lust for long plodding miles of singletrack. That book does the same thing for me as really good DH videos, which may be indicative of the nature of each sport. Running is my cerebral, solitary retreat, while I like riding because it is adrenaline-pumping, sphincter-clenching, and delightfully social.

There may be nothing finer than a well-made DH video. I entertain no dreams of gravity racing but those films have universal mountain biking appeal. Something about the perfect integration of images and music elevates both to their maximum potential. For example, I watched Made the other evening. Long ago I had decided that Tegan and Sara wasn't really the band for me. But on this viewing of Made I noticed how perfectly the angry, plaintive rock of "The Con" meshed with some righteous shredding at Bromont, and I fell head over heels for it. That song has now been on repeat in my head for a week.

I love how a different perspective or context can completely alter and improve a song. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs' first album always left me a bit cold because it seemed too simplistic and punky, but then I listened to a podcast that explained the song "Maps". It was a based on Karen O's disintegrating relationship and in the video her face shows unbearable pain. Another song that is now running through my brain nonstop.

Sometimes when someone I respect really likes a song or artist, I give it more time and consideration than I otherwise would. I recently downloaded the Sleigh Bells album because it got so much buzz last year. After a few plays I relegated it to the Meh pile as being too noisy and repetitive. Then it came up during an unintentional listening session with some friends, who all thought the album was great. It inspired in Rimmer this flawless gem of musical criticism: "The intro [to "Treats"] makes me want to set fire to a car, and the rest of the song makes me want to watch it burn."

Needless to say it's back on my playlist.

Forgive the tangents but this is what I was thinking about on my run today, through smothering humidity, cloudbursts, and the intoxicating smell of wet ferns. I never talk about music on this blog. It seems like a pretty personal and subjective pleasure, and similar to people who constantly label themselves "foodies", I think people who are deeply enamored with their own opinions about music are beyond annoying. But I think we all know what it's like to be really affected by something we're listening to, and that is why I feel okay talking about it.

After Careful Consideration, The Two Most Important Reasons Why I Run In The Forest Instead Of In Town

1: I like to run without a shirt but am deeply self-conscious.

2: Peeing in the woods is on my list of top five favorite things to do in the whole world.

Redefining Stupidity

my fast fit runner friend leah wandered into the bakery yesterday and casually threw down the gauntlet: 'i've got a free weekend in may and a few friends who want to run the whole art loeb. interested?'

well, yes. the art loeb is on my list of stuff i'd like to do in the next few years. but next month? ouch. she lobbed that terrifying tennis ball into my court and the only thing i could volley back was an, 'um, ok.'

it's haunting my thoughts now. the longest run i've ever done, on an insanely technical and demanding trail? sounds like...the shut-in. which, at (almost) two thirds the distance of the AL, destroyed me. however, a thirty mile group run/hike means less pressure and no entry fee to justify. there is a good chance i'll bail somewhere near gloucester gap or black balsam, so i can prepare for that likelihood. meanwhile, baker bill and i ran up bennett/buckwheat and down avery today and i felt positively spry. now my mind is buzzing with ways to prepare for the madness. laps of presley? repeats on coontree?

stay posted. i may opt out, or i may discover a secret wellspring of masochism that turns me into an ultra-endurance runner.

although the latter is unlikely.

note: leah has already survived it a couple of times, as has jbw and any number of other crazies. and i want to join their crazy ilk.

On Eating Ungulate

A couple jars of braised elk, the fruit of someone else's hunting labor, were collecting dust in my cupboard. One night in need of a quick, grocery store-free meal with a jolt of protein, I unearthed the forgotten lode. With some trepidation CK and I eyed the jar, but the seal was still intact, so we each speared a piece of the tender meat and ate it. We waited the requisite twelve seconds and no violent stomach spasms ensued, so dinner was on!

Pre-prepared meat makes dinner a snap for flesh-phobes like us. Now it's become a game--how many different ways can we associate canned meat into our nightly repast? The elk, which was bagged somewhere in the Rockies, has now been subject to a variety of quasi-ethnic cuisines. It adorned tomatoes, okra, and cheesy grits, accompanied parmesan pasta with fried egg and yard spinach, and topped couscous in tzatziki sauce. Last night it was elk tamales with piquant pico de gallo, pepper jack, and pinto beans. (Oh how I love alimentary aliteration!)

Once a majestic free spirit roaming the wilderness, this critter now graces my table in various flavorful forms.

Now we've killed one jar but there are still a few more lurking in the back of the pantry. Suggestions?

Race Reportage?

i was waiting for pictures from the weekend to surface so that i could adorn this post with something but it seems that nothing will appear, and i am buzzing off a great group ride with the fellas, so i thought i'd throw this out there.

hobby park, first real-ish xc race of the season. yes, i promise i am retired, but despite that i keep finding myself filling out waivers, kitting up, standing on start lines. an unpleasant but short winter has meant a lot more time on the trails this year, and while i'm not IN TRAINING (this is always italicized and in caps in my head), i've put in a lot of fun hours with the baby dino, who is really maturing into a lovely little Era.

after a chill start i trailed Fast Anina for awhile, knowing that she wasn't working too hard to hold me off. i caught phantom glimpses of her through the trees but worried more about Tenacious Bonnie, who stayed a minute off my back the whole time. at first i was terribly irked because if there's one thing i hate in bike racing, it's having a pursuant...or being in pursuit...or being alone...

eventually i realized that while i couldn't widen the gap, she also couldn't narrow it, and i let it motivate me. i pushed the big ring as often as possible and stayed smooth on the bike. and admired the toadshades popping out of the leaves.

it was way fun, which is not an adjective i associate with racing. this bodes well for the season (which of course is not really a season, you know, because i'm retired.)

st marie also had a good race, and don't let him tell you otherwise.

p.s. happy spring!

Good Eats

warm weather brings with it outdoor dining and late night bull sessions. this week i and my favored coterie (housemate, her mate, my mate) collaborated on some more interesting dishes in honor of the changing of the clocks. saturday night we had grilled sausage on hard rolls with spicy asian slaw and sauteed onions, washed down with a growler of craggie's antebellum ale. on monday it was stir-fried bok choy and cabbage and pan-fried tilapia over couscous, and last night we did yet another riff of our favorite cheap entree: the epic salad, this time with arugula, strawberries, homemade croutons, avocado, goat cheese, and local eggs. and of course warm chocolate chip cookies for dessert. rumor has it that shrimp and grits are on the menu for friday night. who needs restaurants?

I'm Not Moving to Florida

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

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

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

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

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

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