Autumn in Alaska

My car thermometer read 25 degrees when I set the parking brake at the trailhead. Even though it was nearly 11 a.m. on a Sunday, only one other vehicle was there. The unfamiliar crunch of ice under my tires broke the silence as I pedaled briskly up the trail, determined to get warm and stay that way.

I had a hard time getting going this morning. Today's sunrise was at 8:53 and my boyfriend/adventure partner is out of town. I could just as easily have stayed home in my jammies all day, drinking coffee, reading, putzing around, wishing I were out doing something. I know this about myself, and have developed a strong discipline to prevent such lethargy, at least most of the time, and especially on nice days.

First, let me tell you about the sun. Yes, the sun still comes up here this time of year, for approximately 10 hours, give or take (okay, just take) 10 minutes or so per day. But it stubbornly clings to the southern sky at such an angle that, unless you are traveling directly away from it, it is in your eyes. You can't see anything unless your eyes are tucked behind the lowered brim of a hat. And then you can't see anything beyond said brim of said hat.

So there I was, crunching along the frozen trail with my head cocked to shield my eyes from the sun, thinking about how quiet it was. Then I thought about the bears in their final feeding frenzy before denning for the winter. Then I thought about how grateful I was for the bear bell on my handlebars. Then I thought about how quiet it was. The ringer in my bell had frozen in place. I shook it loose and resumed the familiar jangling along the trail, reassured that any bear could hear me from a distance of at least five feet. And since I could see at least four feet ahead even with the sun in my eyes, I should be good.

With the mud hardened and the taller-than-your-head grasses frozen into submission, I was repeatedly wowed by views of snow-capped peaks as the trail wound through narrows and meadows, gradually climbing toward Johnson Pass with enough twisty descents to fool me into thinking I wasn't really climbing. I took the numerous stream crossings slow in an effort to keep my tush dry since I forgot my fender.

Wildlife encounters consisted of four porcupines, each one waddling defiantly down the trail ahead of me, and about a dozen swans, peacefully paddling along the far shore of Bench Lake in the sun. The sun, which plied the frozen trail with warmth, forming a mucky gooshiness for my return trip.

And, in retrospect, this may have been the last great day for a fall ride. It snowed eight inches that night and it hasn't warmed up enought to melt. Glad I got out there!

Breck Epic: Stage 5 and 6

Not much to say about Wheeler except that it lived up to its reputation. After all the fun I had in stage 4, I was actually pretty excited about the Wheeler stage, fully prepared for the hike over the pass then a shortish ride back in with the usual steep climb after Aid 2. By the end, though, I was thoroughly fed up with hiking my bike and unimpressed with the quality of the Peaks Trail given what we went through to get onto it.

Wheeler Pass looms at 12,500 feet and the winding trip there featured alpine wildflowers and stunning views of granite peaks and grassy bowls. There seemed little point in making the effort to get there if you weren't going to enjoy it, so I lingered to look around and take photos. Philip caught sight of me from above and shouted down, but even with his sinus infection he out-powered me on the long hike. Alex from Kenya seemed to be struggling today, so I chatted with him for a bit, and made the windy summit with Yeti Dave.

In theory the hard part was over, but the trail down was narrow, steep, eroded, loose and rocky, and I was shaking from lack of breath and the exertion of the climb. My bike handling was more drunken sailor than mountain bike racer, so I walked a good half mile of the sketchiest trail. Once below treeline, I could ride more, but some steep, rocky bits still had me off my bike.

I stopped at the junction of the Continental Divide Trail to shed a layer and remembered the adventure race Zach and I did a few years back where we hiked this section. I had cell service, so I made a quick call to Jay to let him know this section was taking longer than planned. He and Rio and Julian were waiting for me along the bike path--although not fun on a mountain bike (especially a singlespeed) those were pretty easy miles and gave me a chance to eat, drink, and catch my breath. 

A few geared riders passed me on the bike path, but I left Aid 2 ahead of them and caught two more people on the hike up steep, rocky Miners Creek Road. This climb went on far longer than seemed sane and deposited us on a heinous trail that descended back to the Peaks Trail. Rolling and rideable, Peaks led to the finish six miles south, but did not yield the fun factor I felt entitled to after the hell of Miners Creek and I rode angrily (which means I rode well) the rest of the way then shared laughs and Big Johnsons with Yeti Dave, Jay and Rio.

I think if Day 5 had been a riot, I would have looked forward to the final stage, but the frustration I felt from seemingly hiking my bike more than riding it pegged my Give-A-Shit meter near zero for Stage 6. Judging by the looks on my compatriots, I was not alone. It seemed as if Dave, Katherine, Jill, Philip and I were competing to line up nearest the back. 

This would be the least physically yet most mentally challenging stage of the race. At just 32 miles and 3,600 feet of gain, there were only two significant climbs, one at the beginning and the other more than halfway through, and both topping out at Boreas Pass on the Continental Divide. After a week, I was still gasping for air and forced to pedal slowly or walk more than I would otherwise. The first climb was long but mellow and would have been completely rideable if I could only breathe. I leap-frogged with the usual suspects and caught up to Philip a couple miles below Aid 1 at the top of the climb. My legs had plenty of gas, my lungs, not so much. I gasped and wheezed and worried I was coming down with something and came the nearest to quitting I had ever been.

Philip and I pedaled silently yet companionably through the pain cave. Our arrival at the aid station could not have been more perfect: at the sound of cheers and cowbells,we looked up from refueling just in time to see the leaders hammer through, just six miles from the finish, Wells in front, followed closely by Grant, with Takei Kayosuke, the eventual stage winner, a couple bike lengths back. Inspired by this superhuman performance (for perspective, keep in mind that Todd Wells finished Stage 5 around the time I crested Wheeler Pass with 22 miles to go...), we rolled down the road and made a hard right onto the singletrack descent. Philip waited for me at the bottom of the rough, rocky and rooty section and led the way into a flume-like trail that arced and flowed its bermed way to the final gravel road ascent.

These were dark miles, as Philip and I entered the pain cave once again, together. The grade was manageable and perfect for my gearing, but again my lungs heaved and would not process enough oxygen. I tried to start a conversation to relieve the boredom, but Philip seemed disinterested and my lack of oxygen uptake forced me to hang my head and focus on maintaining a slow but steady cadence. Philip dropped back when I had a strong moment, but I refused to pull ahead. He called a walk break at a switchback and I joined him. Then it was my turn to lag and he waited on me.

Finally, we could see the aid station a half mile away and we pedaled determinedly on after a final walk break to catch our breath. He stopped to refuel, but I rolled through, knowing there were just six downhill miles remaining and that he would pass me on the first serious descent. We pressed our knuckles together in mutual recognition of our effort.

The final miles of singletrack were actually quite fun and I was able to enjoy them knowing the finish was near and I was in no danger of DNFing as long as I rode cautiously and avoided crashing. Back at the condo, I devoured the mac and cheese left over from Julian's gourmet feast the night before and savored a hoppy Portland brew in the bathtub before I succumbed to a nap.

Breck Epic Stage 4: Attitude Adjustment

Today started out on the rough side. I had major GI issues and barely made it to the start line on time between trips to the bathroom. I felt shitty out of the gate and hoped to feel better once I warmed up, but was reduced to walking up the first gravel climb that I was able to mostly ride just a couple days ago.

Knowing I needed a positive attitude than I had at the end of Stage 3, I decided to enjoy company rather than try to push hard. The middle-of-the-back-of-the-pack was now just the stragglers at the back with all the three-dayers gone. Ty and Dave (formerly known as Yeti Boy) and Philip with a sinus infection and Jill from Ireland and Katherine from Ontario pedaled into the chill morning that was quickly warmed under blue sky.

The early miles featured some relentless climbs, but finally gave way to the first Enduro segment (I've learned to get excited when I see the arrows marking the Enduro starts because it means we're headed downhill for at least a mile or so). Aside from the long, steep climb up Vomit Hill, the stage featured more fast, flowy singletrack than we've seen all week and I enjoyed cruising through forest, meadows, and valleys up to Aid 2.

I had dreaded the "big climb" up West Ridge, but it turned out to be seven miles of a gentle grade and I cranked it out in no time to enjoy the ridge-top cruise and ensuing descent. I felt stronger and stronger as the day went on and my spirits were high as I bunny-hopped across the finish line. My time was slow at 6.5 hours, but it included my early bonk and some time helping Laurie break her chain after her derailleur snapped on the final descent, then a hike back up trail to pick up my Leatherman after it bounced out of my handlebar bag.

By far the most fund day so far and it left me feeling good about the two days to come.

Breck Epic Stages 2 and 3: Altitude Adjustment

Yesterday was the first day I woke up with no headache or bloody nose from the altitude. I had started to consider trying to go to a lower elevation to sleep since these things were so persistent. I hate that aspect of living at sea level; when I lived in Wyoming at 5,000 feet, riding or hiking at 10k was no big deal.

First, two observations:

1. a forecast of "partly cloudy" in "Condorado" means there will be a cloud or two marring the otherwise clear blue sky, whereas in Oregon, "partly cloudy" means there is a slim likelihood the sun will appear during the day.

2. "Switchbacks in  Colorado mean big, swoopy, bermed 180 degree corners, whereas the same in Oregon equals some steep, Z-shaped course reversals shored up with 2-by-4s. All of a sudden, I'm an ace switchbacker!

At this point, I can barely remember yesterday's course, other than the feeling near the end that it was brutal at 38 miles and 5,000+ elevation gain. Then today happened and almost 40 miles and 8,000 vertical made yesterday look like a cakewalk. I do remember finally getting to be on name-basis with some of the middle-of-the-back-of-the-pack regulars: Alex from Tucson, Phillip from Birmingham, Ty from Golden, and "Yeti Boy"--obviously I didn't get his name, but we leap-frogged quite a bit for two days.

This morning's start line was like a high school reunion with all the regulars lined up near the back. The first mile or so was a neutral roll-out with police escort and the singlespeed made it impossible to be concerned with start position--lots off fast flats and descents that gave the gear-heads an advantage. I  started the dirt-road climb to the singletrack entry with Gary from the Nationwide team in Phoenix; we chatted for a while, remembering the 12 Hours in the Papago race last January where his team so generously sheltered me in their heated tent during my rest breaks.

We climbed steadily and sometimes steeply to a nice rolling singletrack cruise that took us to the top of the French Gulch descent (we climbed this on day 1) that led into Aid 1. The already heinous, rocky trail was wet and greasy and I took a good spill, bruising my left knee badly and canceling my downhilling confidence for the rest of the day. Luckily I was wearing my Icebreaker knickers so not much skin came off.

I hit Aid 1 around when I expected to, spent minimal time there and headed up toward French Pass. The trail appeared to cruise along a creek through a meadow, but was deceptively hard to pedal on. It was rough and rocky and difficult to settle into a cadence. I felt wimpy for walking, but noticed I was gaining on the guy ahead of me (Ty from Golden) so I used him as a gauge of ride-ability--if he was pedaling but I was still gaining on him, I continued hiking. 

Soon I was halfway up an alpine bowl with a snake of ants pushing bikes up French Pass above me and another snake of ants pushing bikes below me. We crested French Pass to ringing cowbells and offers of beer and Skittles, lifting the spirits enough to get jackets on for the rocking descent to Aid 2. Then the four-mile gravel road climb to Georgia Pass, mellow at first, then forcing me to walk. The scenery absolved most of the misery here with views in all directions and wildflowers galore. 

As we turned onto the Colorado Trail at the Continental Divide, thunder threatened and we hastened downhill and into treeline. The first half of the descent rocked, the second half was rocky and unrideable, at least for me. Slick and wet, my shoes slid around almost as much as my tires had. 

At the bottom was Aid station 3 with 11 miles and a long, steep jeep road climb. I could ride the first half, then it pitched up too steeply and even those with granny gears were walking. A rocky descent followed and my headache was back with a vengeance. Every time I hit a bump (approximately six times per second), it felt like an ice pick stabbing me in the eye. I desperately wanted to be done. The finish was a tease: you could hear the music from the finish line but had to ride around the head of a gulch to a singletrack that went away from the finish before looping around and coming back. I thought to myself, "this trail would be really fun if I gave a shit."

Cheers and cowbells, Jay, my trail-mates, and a Big Johnson (sandwich of PB, marshmallow cream, Nutella, banana, and potato chips) greeted me and all was right with the world.

Breck Epic: Stage One

As I trudged up a rock-paved trail, pushing my bike, feeling the 11,000-foot lung burn, I found myself wondering how it was I came to be in a line of other cyclists doing the same thing, having paid a lot of money to suffer on purpose. Then I remembered: last January, feeling all full of myself after finishing a 12-hour solo race, I decided this would be the year for Breck Epic, a 6-day stage race covering 240 miles of trail, gravel road, and some paved bits, near Breckenridge, Colorado. At 10,000 feet. On my singlespeed.

I've wanted to do BE for several years, ever since I read about it in Dirt Rag or Bike or Mountain Flyer--one of those publications that evoke images of the von Trapps singing in the Alps when they cover events like this. It seemed like a grand idea from the comfort of my sofa in front of the fire with a glass of wine.

Today, as the altitude shut down my usual climbing prowess and a mild ache persisted in my head, I questioned the sanity. Climbs I could crush at shoulder-of-Mt. Hood elevations crushed me and the rocky descents ramped up my headache. But every climb was rewarded with Aspen-threading singletrack or stunning mountain backdrops or wildflower meadows.

The climbs weren't as endless as I expected, the descents weren't as rocky, and the dreaded switchbacks at the end were more S-shaped than Z-. Other riders were friendly and the aid station volunteers had my bag waiting and eagerly refilled my Camelback while I ate bananas and oranges. And to top it off, Jay met me at the finish line with hugs and what he calls my bottle of EPO for recovery.

Tomorrow's course sounds enticing, with more and smoother singletrack. I can't wait. But first I'm headed to bed in a burger, roasted potato and red wine-induced stupor.

Echo Red to Red

The first mountain bike race of the year snuck up on me, catching me off guard and completely out of shape in early March. I spent the winter nursing a hamstring/IT band injury suffered in the last cyclocross race of the season and doing dog-friendly activities with Tucker and our foster dog, Chloe. But, I figured, you gotta start somewhere and it may as well be a 30-mile mountain bike race on my single speed. Echo is a tiny town in Eastern Oregon and frankly a surprising place to hold a mountain bike race. The appeal of dry trails draws riders by the dozen from the Willamette Valley, and the area is also accessible from Idaho and Washington towns that otherwise have very little in the way of race opportunities. This year, 400 people pre-registered and at least another 100 were expected to show up on race day.

The race starts on Main Street and follows paved and gravel roads three miles or so to a network of swooping trails in the rolling hills of the Echo West Ranch and Vineyard. My fuzzy memory of last year's course is that I thought it would never end. Every time I thought we were nearing the trailhead, we entered another loop, switchbacking up yet another sage-covered ridge. This year, I ran with the assumption that the end was never near, that way I avoided being disappointed by false passes by the exit point.

Given my fitness level, I established two goals for myself: 1) to finish and 2) to have fun. The first was certainly achievable, but not necessarily when combined with the second. I had grand visions of being the last rider to cross the finish line. To quash any competitive instincts, I entered myself in the single speed class, which was mostly (48 out of 50) men. Since guys, especially single speeders, are likely to be faster than me anyway, I felt less pressure to do well than if I entered the Category 1 women's field--a class of elite women who are quite strong and likely more fit than me.

The race start was a neutral roll-out along a mile and a half or so of paved road, with the race officially beginning at the turnoff onto a gravel road which we followed for about anther mile and a half. The common objective is to gain a good position entering the singletrack, after which time it becomes quite challenging to pass. My single speed gearing didn't give me much to work with on the road portions, which forced me into taking it easy the first few miles. Solidly in last place at first, I did manage to pass a couple stragglers and rode the first few miles of trail with a fellow single speeder who had forgotten his bike shoes and was riding in sandals with socks.

The flat tires started even before the race and continued throughout the day. The sagebrush hills are also full of goat heads, little burrs than embed themselves in the tire and puncture tubes for those behind the times enough to still be running tubes. I've never seen so many flat tires! At any given moment on the course, you could see at least one person on the side of the trail changing a tube. As I finished on the gravel road, several guys were walking in with bikes on shoulders. I stopped several times to offer assistance and later chastised myself for losing so much time to benevolence. I felt a twinge of guilt when I failed to offer my sole tube to female racer less than a third of the way in (justified in part by the fact that she had 26-inch tires and my tube was 29 inches) but validated my decision a short while later when I came upon my Showers Pass teammate who flatted and only had a 26-inch tube for her 29-inch wheel. I traded her tubes with the promise that if she came upon me in a similar situation, she would stop and help stretch the tube to fit my tire. I later gave away that tube to a guy who was walking his bike with a third flat of the day with three miles to go.

The wind. Oh, the wind. It howled. It was a tad breezy the day before during the pre-ride and I was hoping for calmer weather on race day. Instead, it got much worse and continued to pick up throughout the day. The race photos show racers hunkered down, keeping a low profile. One time, on a rare flat section, I was standing on the pedals just to stay upright, barely making any forward progress. A few times, it was actually a benefit, like a hand on your back, pushing you uphill. The real challenge was that you never knew what effect the wind would have as you changed directions. Sometimes you even had to pedal downhill to make decent time.

I kept a positive attitude and spirits high, in part by pretending to be the iron-willed, indefatigable, never-phased-by-anything Rebecca Rusch leading the pack in La Ruta even though I was really just trailing the pack in a day-race. It made me feel tough and strong. Although there aren't any sustained climbs, the course is deceptively punishing with eternal ups and downs, arcing down just to plunge back up again. By the midway point, my legs were feeling worked, but my winter's core work was paying off as my low back was holding up well to the strain of standing on the pedals, forcing them over slowly on the steeper pitches.

As I exited the main loop and crossed the road to the river bottom and vineyard finale, I found myself in a small pack and ended up passing a couple guys and a pair of women before making my spinning way home on the road. My time was seven minutes slower than last year, 100 percent attributable to the wind, but I felt much stronger this time around.So I wasn't last after all and had a heck of a lot of fun on my trusty Niner!

The Girls' Ride

CODY, Wyoming, 1995

My running partner, Rickie, talked me into attending a weekly event known as The Girls' Ride one summer Wednesday after work. Until now a running purist, I loaded my K-Mart Huffy onto the cheap trunk rack I attached to my little Ford Escort and arrived at the bike shop a little before 7 pm. Maybe a dozen women of various ages (plus a couple of guys) rolled away from the shop and up the hill toward Red Lakes for a rollick along the singletrack that flowed through canyons and along ridges, pausing occasionally to pass around Scary Mary's flask of whiskey as we admired the sprawling Wyoming evening landscape.

Our arrival back in town coincided nicely with the onset of darkness and we convened at the Silver Dollar Saloon for pitchers of Killian's Red and potato chips dipped in ranch dressing (we were starving and the grill was closed). We knew nothing of Night Riders and had no need to lock our bikes outside the bar.

Recognizing the limitations of the Huffy, the following week I took a rental bike from the shop. The week after that, I bought the bike, a lightly used purple Cannondale M500, aluminum with no suspension. The Girls' Ride was a habit and an addicting one. I groped my way through Thursdays on a hangover and lack of sleep, often rolling into bed around 2am. But they were so worth the fun and camaraderie of our Wednesday night escapades.

During the next two years, our adventures included missing sunset and feeling our way along the trail in pitch dark, or if we were lucky, by moonlight; trips to the emergency room when a fellow rider crashed while A) riding too fast along a dark trail, B) riding the stairs by the Buffalo Bill statue, or C) riding too-steep sections of slickrock near the petroglyphs; expeditions that involved car shuttles and late-night flat tires; and best of all, the group getting so big that we banned boys altogether and started splitting into groups.

My last summer in Cody, 2000, it was common to have 20-30 people on a given Wednesday night. This in a town of 8,000 people!  The Cannondale, front suspension added, served me well for 9 years and the boy I met one Wednesday night in 1997 is still with me today.

The First Century

Last weekend I completed my first century. Sure, I've done three 100-mile mountain bike races, but until now I've never ridden that far on the roads. The Harvest Century raises money for Community Vision. The sponsor of my cycling team, Showers Pass, is the presenting sponsor of the event and asks that we volunteer.

Two years ago I froze my ass off at an aid station after getting lost in the Bermuda Triangle otherwise known as Washington County. Last year I stood in the pouring rain policing the entrance to the beer tent. This year I registered early and scored a position as a course marshal which meant I would actually ride the course. Along the way I was expected to ensure turns were adequately marked and provide directional guidance if there was confusion.

As soon as it was light enough, we were released to ride the course. I left in front to get to the first intersection I was supposed to marshal, then waved riders through the turn until the pack turned to a widely spaced trickle.

I generally consider myself to to be fairly well connected in the Portland cycling community. I rarely attend an event, drop by the shop, shred a trail, or even ride around town without running into people I know. But I began to notice that I knew no one here! The century crowd is different. More casual. More recreational. Sure, there are guys out there who want to finish first or within a certain time, but this isn't a race. There are no prizes. It's a cycling tour with lots of rest stops. At the second rest stop, I finally saw a couple I knew--Mike and Betsy were riding as an on-course mechanic and medic.

Riders pedaled through rural Washington and Yamhill counties, Portland's bread and wine basket, on everything on two wheels from $8,000 carbon road bikes to big box store commuters, recumbants to mountain tandems. They wore everything from team kits to soccer shorts, RAGBRAI and RAMROD (knowing what those stand for is part of becoming a cyclist ;-) )jerseys to cotton t-shirts.

Unlike the past two years, it was a fine day for a bike ride. The day started cool with low clouds and a bit of fog, but it warmed up to the mid-60s and the sun came out sporadically. Well-stocked rest stops (salted red potatoes, donuts, oranges and bananas, candy, sandwiches, chocolate milk, Nutella and graham crackers) were roughly 15 miles apart. The pastoral scenery included orchards and vineyards, organic farms, acres of dahlias in bloom, llamas and alpacas, goats, stables and kennels. We crossed the Willamette on the Canby Ferry just before entering the Wilsonville Rollers--a series of steep ups and downs that are just long enough to be taxing after 75 miles, but short enough to prevent the legs from finding a groove.

Compared to the mountain centuries I've done, this wasn't especially hard--just 35 miles longer than what would have been a comfortable ride. The frequent rest stops and casual pace made it easy to keep going. And the following day's cyclocross race a little more challenging!

Solitude and Singletrack

I woke up stiff and sore, feeling every day of my almost 42 years. But when I unzipped the tent at 6:30 am, the sun was already high and the sky clear blue. I made coffee, walked the dog, had a light breakfast, read for a while and cleaned up camp. Too cold to sit around. I slowly filled my Camelback and changed into riding gear. With no other tasks to aid procrastination, I threw a leg over my aging Stumpjumper and slowly pedaled toward the trail, a mere 20 yards from my campsite.

My legs protested at the effort of the first 100 uphill yards. Then they settled into an easy granny gear spin as we started up the switchbacks toward the fire lookout. Only 50 degrees, despite the warmth of the sun, and the only sounds were the wind whispering in the pines and my heavy breathing. I startled a deer as I crossed the forest road onto the main trail.

Having company might have lent more enthusiasm to the ride, but it wasn't long before I was enjoying the solitude of the quiet forest and the comfort of my own leisurely pace.

Not quite 30 minutes uphill to the lookout where the sun was warm but the wind cold, so I didn't linger. A short but fun downhill led to another road crossing where I startled another deer before starting a short, steep climb followed by more mellow climbing. Then another short down, a right turn, short climb to the beginning of a 3-mile descent, twisting alongside a clearcut and dropping over roots, fast and furious.

The last time I rode this trail, I was with a group and on my Niner single speed. Today I was grateful for the gears, legs tired from a week that included two races and a quad-busting hike, plus a road ride and a trail run. Only two months away from a 100-mile mountain bike race I entered months ago and this is supposed to be a training ride. Instead, it's just a pleasant solo spin on my favorite trail system, finally clear of snow but not yet eroded from too many treads rolling over it.
My shoulders are relaxed and still, hands firmly (but not too firmly) wrapped around the bar ends, chest forward, legs pumping a steady cadence as I deftly steer Stumpy up and around and around and up. Still breathing hard, but my heart rate has settled into a sustainable rhythm.

Finally, I crest the high point of the ride and start down a series of wide switchbacks. They would be so fun if the trail weren't paved in pea-size gravel, inviting the tires to slide out and dump me in the brush. Til now, I haven't seen a soul, save five deer along the way. But I roll through the main trailhead and see two cars and riders getting ready to roll. Then my favorite part: the sweetest three miles of single track I've ever ridden, smooth and fast and flowing, requiring only the occasional brake check until the switchback down to the creek crossing, then mostly downhill back to the campsite...where I was disappointed the ride was over.

But I felt a bit smug as I enjoyed my post-ride beer in the sun as others rode past to begin the climb...

The Last ('Cross) Crusade

Photo by Matthew Haughey.

Well, no call-up today, so no pressure to get out fast. Would be nice to get a decent start, though. Oh good, my number group was called third. Close enough to the front. The Master A's are off. Thirty seconds. Right foot clipped in and pedal poised near the top. Horn goes off. I push off. Clip in. Pedal, pedal. Click, click. About 10 people just passed me.

We head down a paved hill, then enter a gravel flat with a foot-wide clear path down the middle. There's a bottle-neck as riders jockey for the clear line. I get cut off twice. I should be more aggressive in these situations. No, I should stay safe and sane. It's a long race with plenty of opportunities to get ahead. No need to risk a high-speed crash on gravel right at the start. But really, I need to be more aggressive.

I tuck into the single file line around the first turn and hold my position on the short downhill. Another bottleneck as riders aim for the narrowest point of the puddle. Sissies. I keep left, plow through the puddle and pass two. Still staying left on the bumpier line toward the first run-up, I pass three more. But I'm on the wrong side for funneling around a pile of boulders and have to squeeze in. It's my turn, but a rider from behind tries to force me out. No time for courtesy here; I push my way through.

The first run-up: I swing my leg over, coast a bit, then step down and start quick-stepping up the rocky, muddy hill before I even get my bike on my shoulder. A din of cowbell and shouts of encouragement. I may have passed a couple here, but I'm not sure. Head down, left arm swinging, right arm locked around my frame. I remember the squats and lunges I did last week. I can do this.

Crest the top, gasp for air, swing right leg over saddle, stab at the pedals until I find the sweet spot with my cleat. Five, six, maybe eight pedal strokes before the barriers. Swing leg over, step down, lift bike high to the side and jump once, step, step, jump again. Run, run, swing, stab. I really need to work on my remounts; I'm about to get eaten alive. Still, I gain ground as I pull away from the barrier and sail past several others on the long gravel flat.

Breathing starting to stabilize, heart rate under control, the adrenaline of the start is fading and I start to find my groove. Coming up: a steep, off-camber descent that I know I can ride well if I get a clear shot. In preparation, I move into the drops. There are two lines, left and right. Scanning ahead, evaluating the throng, wanting to set up for the most open side. The entrance is completely clogged with riders off their bikes or dismounting. Not good. I downshift and slow my cadence, giving myself time to evaluate, plot.

Spectators always gather where the viewing is most likely to yield excitement. I hear screaming and cowbells, even cymbals. A bike lies across the left line, mid-hill. At the last second I swerve right around a woman pushing her bike toward the precipice. Don't hesitate. Just do it. A little brake to check my speed, then I let off. It looks slippery. Too much front brake could make the rear end start to slide around to the front. Fuuuck, I say. Out loud? Maybe. My stomach is in my throat. But then I'm down.

A turn to the left, then a hairpin to the right, cross a bridge, left turn, hairpin right, then a slight downhill to the singletrack. Looking to see who's in front of me. Can they ride it? Or will they freak out, walk, wreck or otherwise impede my progress? Can I shoot around one or two before we get there? No, it's too late. Tuck in, ride it out.

I'm right behind Tori. I lock onto her rear wheel. She can do this. But in front of her: one walking on the left, another sprawled in the brambles on the right. Tori shoots the middle and I follow. Over the roots, down then up then down, keep the pedal up so you don't bash it on the rock. Hard right turn onto the pavement. I'm still locked onto Tori's wheel. Nice job there, I think but can't say.

Water is streaming through my shorts. I'm sitting in a mud puddle.

The pavement is a neutralizer. Anyone can do this. I lean into the first turn. I pass. I get passed. A hard right and the track narrows. A puddle, more gravel, then the second run-up. I down-shift (big ring for the pavement--won't like that when I remount at the top). Elbows and cleats. Handlebars and derailleurs. I pass. I get passed. The usual clumsy remount and we're off again, downhill, hairpin at the bottom, then left, then right. A slight uphill; I stand and pass again. Flat, straight, then left into another uphill. I stay left in deeper mud but pass again. Stand the climb; another pass. A long, flat straight.

There's a pack ahead. I want to pass, not be passed. I'm closing in. Then a 270 through some mud and trees before dropping back into the gravel pit to close the loop for the first lap. Whoa! I hadn't seen this on the course preview. Not hard, but requires single file. Brake. Lean. Point. Shoot. Then down the first hill.

Repeat.

There's a girl in orange. We trade positions a couple times. I pass her on lap 3 as we exit the singletrack. She got pushed over and I heard her say ow. I asked if she was okay as I shot past. But she catches me at the top of the second run-up.

Mud in my eye. Blink blink. I try to wipe but my glove is so muddy it doesn't help. Racers wear mud masks. Faces all look the same. My vision is blurry. Did I lose my left contact? Great, mud in one eye, no vision in the other. How many more laps? Maybe just one. That would be good.

I stand and scoot by Orange Girl on the climb to the straight-away by the fence. Hammer. We're lapping the beginners now and have to pick and choose a way around. I take the left side. Bumpier but clear of riders. I swoop in front of a whole pack just before the 270. I check my watch. Maybe this is the last lap? Give it all you got. Click click click the rear derailleur. Big gear to hammer through the gravel pit, through the mud puddle, downshift for the soft stuff behind the boulder pile. Above me, I see riders heading out for another lap. Oh, no! Can I do it? Yes. Yes I can. One more is good.

Swing, step, lift, hug frame to body. Head down, arm swinging, legs lunging upward. Frantic cheering. Cowbells go wild. Near the top, I hear the announcer: they're finishing up now. Okay, this is it. Orange girl is just behind me. I can see her to the right. I push harder. From the crest, just meters to the finish. I risk running over a clumsy remount. Sprinting now, as hard as I can go. Head down, pushing bike. Wow, no one is passing me. Two more steps. Orange girl shoots past and across the finish line.

After the finish chute, we high five, heaving and gasping. Another Cross Crusade season is over.

"The Velodrome Was Full of Women"

Alpenrose Dairy in southwest Portland. Opening day of the 2010 Cross Crusade series. It was a pleasant but overcast day with cowbells ringing and aromas of hot steel cut oats, waffles, and french fries wafting from the expo area.

Since I finished in the top five overall last year, I was lucky enough to get called up to the front of the start line. As I surveyed the sea of women amassed behind me, I was grateful not to be at the back of the pack. "That is a lot of women on bikes!" I thought to myself.

The start whistle blew and in about 20 seconds about 20 riders had already passed me. I'm a terrible starter. I've never been quick off the blocks, either in running or cycling. On a day like today, a good start would come in handy. After just a few hundred yards, we dropped into a rutted and dusty technical descent that curved through a horse pasture and made a 6-inch drop in a 180-degree turn at the bottom before climbing steeply back to the velodrome.

The first lap is always chaos as the field inevitably bottlenecks in a technical or narrow section. Today was no exception, but I managed to circumvent a crash at the bottom of the hill and power my way up past several riders. For the rest of the lap, though, it seemed like I just got passed. A lot. I was not having a good race.

By lap three, the tables were starting to turn. Those who went out hard were starting to tire and fade. I still felt strong and focused on riding clean lines and taking advantage of passing opportunities. The two climbs on the course were my best friends; every lap I passed at least a couple people on each climb.

Unfortunately, they would often pass me back as I struggled to remount my bike after a barrier run. I've never been known for my grace or coordination, and the dismount and "superman" mount unique to cyclocross do not come easily.

In the end, I was satisfied with my 7th-place finish (out of almost 70 riders in my field). But the best part of the day was seeing so many women having fun riding bicycles. I can't even remember who, but after the race someone was telling about watching the from the top of the velodrome. The course enters the velodrome and snakes its way around in a series of spirals and s-turns before exiting. From above, you see a steady stream of lycra flowing in a pattern.

"The velodrome was full of women," my friend said. Awesome!

Tis the Season for Mud and Cowbells

It seems a bit early in the season to break out the Michelin Muds and the rubber boots, but today was a pretty perfect day for not much of anything other than a cyclocross race. So I started my second 'cross season off with a tradition I began last year--entering one race prior to the start of the Cross Crusade series.

I like to get a practice run under the belt before subjecting myself to the madness of the Crusades (680 racers at Barlow today vs. the nearly 2000 that will undoubtedly turn out at Alpenrose Dairy next Sunday. Still recovering from a cold I've been nursing ever since last week's 7-hour ride in the rain, I vowed not to over exert myself but to use this as a warmup/practice/trial run for the rest of the season. Well today's performance leaves nowhere to go but up!

Today was the most pathetic performance of my short 'cross career. One big fiasco--beginning with missing my start and rolling through one disaster after another. The start thing--I was lined up on time with all the other ladies, listening carefully to all instructions. But I couldn't quite hear which group was starting first and assumed it was the Master As since they always started first at the Crusades races last year. Well, apparently the Bs went first and they were 100 yards away by the time I realized my mistake.

I took this as a blessing in disguise since it forced me out of the race and I could just ride my bike at a comfortable pace and kinda get the hang of this 'cross thing again.

Did I mention that it was muddy? And not just in places, but the whole course. And racers had been churning it to bits for hours. It was a 1.6-mile loop of slippery, off-camber muckfest. A thick, gooey mud that clung to the rear triangle and the front fork/brake pad area to prevent the tires from rolling. On the back side was a treacherous downhill slip-n-slide leading up to a knee-high barrier and a steep, rooty, run-down followed by a horrendous run-up bolstered by railroad ties spaced way too far apart.

In case you're not familar, cyclocross was started a couple hundred years ago when some drunk Belgian decided he wanted to ride his skinny-tired road bike around some steep, muddy, off-camber, hairpin turns, occasionally getting off to carry the bike over several obstacles. For some reason, modern cyclists have continued the tradition, although installing narrow knobby tires for slightly better traction and wearing colorful spandex skinsuits to distinguish themselves for the spectators.

I flailed around the course like a beginner, unable to pull off a decent remount and stabbing repeatedly at my pedals before finally clipping in. My Michelin Muds served me well, as I could spin through sections that others had to walk or "run" (this amounted to sliding backward twice as far as you went forward, resulting in three times the effort to make progress--I experienced this myself numerous times until I quite trying to run and just walked).

I slipped and nearly fell on the first barrier; I learned my lesson and just walked all the rest. There was a side-sloping fenceline where spectators gathered to heckle and jeer. I had the most success riding high, right next to the fence, but always faltered at some point. I overheard one of the hecklers talking about someone who grabbed onto the fence and used it to stay steady and upright--I tried it and it worked!

Hecklers also shouted instructions, encouragement and insults from one of the offcamber hairpins--one that you approached in an out-of-control downhill direction then had to somehow shift your momentum uphill and around the corner without falling down or sliding into the row of spectators. On the third lap, I thought about dismounting and handing my bike to the loudest heckler and saying, "here, you do it."

But he probably already had.

Adventures in Hotel Huffys

Let's face it: as cyclists, we're constantly sizing up other cyclists (and their bikes) and categorizing them. There's the newbie commuter in street clothes on a big-box "mountain" bike, the wanna-be pro racer who rides to work in full team kit, the homeless guy towing all his belongings and a bag of cans in a homemade trailer, the social/fitness riders riding three up on mid-level road bikes, etc. Then there's the ultimate sizer-upper of all, the Bike Snob.

It's human nature to scope out other people and establish where you fit into the hierarchy. I graduated to clipless pedals quite some time ago, now ride a fairly nice bike, and even own a team kit (although I refrain from wearing it on simple errand-running missions), I think I fit into a category of relatively nondescript cyclists seen in cities across the nation.

Due to the nature of my job--I spend three nights every week in hotels (a different hotel each night) and traveling with a bike is not a viable option--when I get the opportunity to ride a bike provided by the hotel, I take it. A bike greatly expands the territory available to explore and gives me an outdoor exercise alternative to running.

Invariably, hotel owned bikes are heavy and of poor to mediocre quality, often having come from big-box retailers and even more often not receiving any regular maintenance. On a good day, the tires are hard and the chain is freshly coated in WD40. I seldom have room to pack a helmet and cycling clothes and so end up tootling out of the hotel parking lot in whatever workout clothes I ferreted out of my rollerbag--usually a pair of running shorts and a t-shirt or running top, a sports jacket if it's cool. And the hotel-issued helmet which almost never fits properly despite being of the "one-size-fits-all" variety. Dorked out to the max.

When I ride, I usually give a nod or a wave to fellow riders. But dressed as such, I try to remember that my exterior does not reveal my inner cyclist. I am not in the club. The kit-clad roadies have me squarely pegged in the "newbie commuter" hole and even though I could drop most of them on a good long climb, I'll get no respect with my current appearance. So I keep my head down and pedal on by.

I've even been known to take questionable hotel bikes on mildly inappropriate adventures. In Spokane I discovered a park with dirt trails just off the Centennial Trail. I quickly accepted that the rugged singletrack was beyond the performance of the machine I was riding, but that didn't stop me from riding to the top of a steep, rough, dirt road. The combination of suspect brakes and the too-wide seat that prevented me from shifting my weight back made the descent quite an adventure.

The rusty clunker from the Travelodge in Sidney, BC, carried me to the top of a small mountain where I locked it up to run on the summit trails. In Medford, I once took the three-speed city cruiser on a rolling, 14-mile round-trip journey to Jacksonville.

Moral of the story: all Huffy riders are not as they seem.

Welcome to The Cyclist Diaries!

I wanted to call this blog "The Accidental Cyclist" because that's what I am. But that url was already taken by some chick in Texas who does triathlons. Couldn't she call herself The Accidental Triathlete or something like that and let me have my blog title?

Oh, well. The Cyclist Diaries it is.

I was never meant to be a cyclist. In fact, I really wasn't really athlete material at all. I spent my entire school years being picked last for dodgeball, ducking volleyballs, and running desperately after stray tennis balls. I finally decided it was easier to just run than to chase after or run from anything.

And so began a moderately successful years-long running career that isn't the point of this blog at all except the part where my college running coach decided that we should "cross train." He would send half the team down a trail on foot and the other half down the road on bikes. We would meet up halfway and switch. We thought it was a form of torture, right up there with water boarding.

After college, I kept up the running and happily skipped the cycling until one summer day in 1995 when my new running partner invited me to something called the Girls' Ride. This will likely be the subject of a future blog post, but in short, the Girls' Ride is a Wednesday night women's mountain biking affair in Cody, Wyoming, where I was living at the time. So I hauled my Huffy out of the shed and showed up at the bike shop after work the following Wednesday. I was immediately hooked on mountain biking. This led to the purchase of an actual mountain bike--a rigid aluminum Cannondale that would escort me down sweet singletrack in Wyoming, Utah, Arizona, and Oregon for the next eight years.

For most of those years, though, running was still the main thing. I trained for my first marathon, then a faster one, then Boston, then faster still. I traveled to run marathons all over the country. Finally, my hard life began to catch up to me and my low back simply hurt too bad when I ran too far or too many days in a row. Over time, I ran less and cycled more. I took spin classes, commuted 15 miles to work, and even went on the occasional road ride. And I grew ever more passionate about mountain biking.

Now I run two days in a good week. I race Cyclocross and read BikeSnobNYC. I canceled my subscription to Runners' World and subscribe to three cycling magazines. When I see someone running on a favorite trail, the first thought that crosses my mind is "why would you run this trail when it's so much fun on a bike?"

Somewhere along the way, I accidentally became a cyclist.