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!

It's Not Fair

Tyler and I were in Boise for the weekend, officially to work a beer event but also to eat at his favorite burrito joint multiple times, see his grandparents/take advantage of their hospitality, and mountain bike on dry trails with the pup.

I stole his Iphone to peruse social media for a second and a notification from a Fitzy member popped up on the team page: this news item. I didn't comprehend it at first and then it hit like a sledgehammer.

They all worked at the company next door to Tram Bar World. I only knew one of the men, and not as well as I would've liked. AJ was our neighbor, and taught our avalanche course in December, and was the best racer of the Fitzy team. He radiated competence and kindness and humor, and wrote riveting trip and race reports on his blog, which I read before I even met him. I don't have any ownership over this grief. I am not his loving family. Once I stuck my head in his house looking for a star hex wrench. He wasn't there but his visiting father, as lanky and trim as AJ, was doing yoga in the foyer. He didn't even mind when my dog stepped all over his mat. That friendly man must be so unfathomably sad. I am not his chipper, involved wife, or one of the dozens of NOLS students that he mentored, or one of the equally mellow but intense skiers with whom he did crazy backcountry tours. Those people have to learn to use the past tense, and deal with the sucker punch of grief every time some little memory surfaces.

I am gutted with empathy for all of them, and sad that I had finally decided he was approachable and was going ask him to show me the guerrilla mountain bike loop in the hills behind our neighborhood. It feels wrong: someone who went after big ski-mountaineering objectives, someone who was healthy and beloved and influential, felled by something as stupid and terrible and unexpected as a plane crash.

No one in the community is unaffected by the tragedy. Driving back into town, I imagined a pall over the valley. I think this is the part where I should talk about how everyone pulls together and takes care of the bereaved and sees the silver lining but I don't want to say those things, because I think this thoroughly sucks.

Valley Problems: Too Warm to Ski, Too Wet to Ride

I got so much attention for the last post that I've been resting on my laurels for a month, which sounds better than "I am a slacker and my life is boring." People in real life, people who are not constant blog stalkers like me, would come up to me and enumerate the reasons why I am so a Teton Valley resident. "Julia, you own three bikes." "Julia, you drive a sticker-covered Subaru." "You make granola for a living." "You date that guy," (indicating Tyler in all his mustachioed, Carhartted glory). Yeah, yeah, y'all. I know.

It would appear that I sneezed and winter ended, so seasonal affective disorder has set in. Tyler, with no outdoor outlet, comes home from work frustrated and unloads his unhappiness on the counter like a grocery bag of old fish. I listen and sympathize and we talk about some of the unsustainable elements of our existence here: his grindingly heavy workload, the housing crisis, the labor shortage that will probably hamstring my company's attempt at increased production, global warming. Sobering.

But it's St. Patrick's Day and my bike shop throws a party every year, so we suit up in any over-the-top green attire we can find and ride over to the venue. All the cyclists have crept out from wherever they've been hiding all winter and we greet each other with great cheer. There is a new ski company in town, and before the young owners had even moved here we adopted and/or ingratiated ourselves with them, so when they arrive we all cluster together at a noisy table. People stop and say hi. The Kate makes a surprising appearance and we talk about anything but work. The party is a good representation of my tiny Victor compass rose: beer shop, bike shop, ski shop, Tram Bar World. I bask in happiness.

It fixes my perspective for the time being. Our issues are manageable and the payoff is significant. Being a part of this community and living in a mountain playground are worth the minor compromises we make.

Nine Reasons Why I'm Not A Very Good Teton Valley Resident

As I might have mentioned once or twice, I really like Teton Valley and feel that it suits my lifestyle well. I even got a dog so I could fit in better. But I realize now that I have certain shortcomings that will forever prevent me from being a true Valley girl.

Warning: gratuitous photo-stealing ahead

1: I don't backpack.

Or even camp for that matter. I just bought my first tent last year. Everyone around here will go spend the night in the woods at a moment's notice. Not me. I haven't figured out the mechanics of sleeping outside and sleep deprivation gives me a gnarly headache. And there are more civilized ways to remove your contacts than by the light of a headlamp, balancing your contact case on your knee while you root around in your eye with fingers that smell like campfire. Also, I don't like walking, particularly with something heavy on my back. Too slow. Fast-packing appeals to me far more, but in order for that to happen I need lightweight gear and a willing partner, and as of now I have neither. 

Typical Teton Valley residents backpacking
Pic courtesy of Ashley

2: I feel pretty meh about Yellowstone. 

Some people treat this like a blasphemy, because it's nearby and a national treasure or something. But A: it's a park, which is code for "no mountain bikes allowed", B: it has no big mountains to speak of, and C: two million visitors annually. 'Nuff said. 

3: Crossfit. 

Oooo, gonna step on some toes here. I would much rather get doughy on the couch while watching Taylor Swift videos than work out inside, and Crossfit, because it's expensive, isn't within walking distance, inspires fanaticism, and is often paired with weird and obnoxious dietary trends, is by far the easiest workout program to hate on. But there are two Crossfit gyms in the Valley. That equals a lot of acolytes.

4: I don't listen to jamgrass/psychedelic rock/"polyethnic Cajun slamgrass"/insert hippie noodling jam session festival music genre here. 

People who live in mountain towns love going to shows and festivals and watching artists perform long-winded solos. I'll tag along, but only if it's free, within walking distance, and very danceable. I will spend money, time, and effort only on shows where I can mouth along to every word of every song in a haze of joy, and Phish/Leftover Salmon/Yonder Mountain String Band/String Cheese Incident do not fall into that category. 

Typical Teton Valley musical performance
Pic courtesy of Idaho Falls Josh

5: I have an aversion to Floating. 

Teton summer weekends are like unicorn butterflies: shortlived and magical. You gotta grab those suckers and hold them tight for as long as you can. The way I do that is by mountain biking or doing other high-intensity stuff. Floating, i.e. joining a bunch of people on rafts to meander down the Snake River and drink lots of beer, is a very popular and common summer activity, but is entirely too sedentary for me to waste a unicorn butterfly on. And let us not even speak of Fishing. 

Typical Teton Valley resident Floating the Snake
(This particular resident probably climbed the Grand the day before this picture was taken. I am not implying that Floaters are inherently sedentary.)
Pic courtesy of Dapper Dan

6: I can't handle my whiskey.

Or any liquor, honestly. I think most activities are improved by a beer during or after, but the hangover I get after a single shot of anything hard is unbearable. Admitting this will probably get me kicked out of the west. 

7: I'm reluctant to go to The Desert.

Everyone goes to The Desert at least once a mud season, to climb or mountain bike. I have no Desert experience yet so my reluctance is unfounded, but these weekend trips always involve at least a ten hour drive each way and Lord knows I'm not traveling that far to rock climb. I'm hesitant to mountain bike there because A: I love trees and green stuff and roots and B: every time I go riding after a six month hiatus it's a scary endeavor and if I ride in The Desert I'm afraid my inaugural crash will be something especially unpleasant like plunging my front wheel into surprise sand at the bottom of a five foot rock drop and performing the mother of all endos. Seriously. This scenario replays itself in my head every time someone mentions Moab.

Typical Teton Valley resident visiting The Desert
Pic courtesy of Andrea

8: I'm not enthused by the frontier lifestyle. 

Good Teton Valley residents garden, have chickens, tend to their wood stoves, and hunt, or at least speak of those activities with longing. I'll be okay without ever bagging the obligatory elk (and it's amazing how generous friends are with their meat when they realize a whole elk won't fit in their chest freezer). For the most part I'm too lazy to take care of other living things, and I include wood stoves in that category because they're almost as high maintenance and demanding as chickens or gardens. Maybe I'll buy a share at the CSA. And then I'll turn up the thermostat. 

9: I can't grow a beard.

Trust me, I'm bummed about it.