Oprah goes to the 'drome

(I'm too lazy and brain dead to re-write this tr so here's the one from the BF. I toned down the enthusiasm. Can't stand to recreate such overly energetic text when I sound like a kook.)

Leaden skies held their rain on Saturday as Marymoor velodrome in Redmond, WA, held a fantastic women's 4 hour intro to track racing clinic. 18 women attended with varying degrees of ages and experience, from casual bike rider to Cat 3 road racers, cyclocross, and mountain bikers (the Group Health women's team was there to represent). One lucky gent from Marymoor Velo Assoc acted as ring leader and coach as a few more experienced women acted as mentors and led us through the basics on the track. We did various drills such as getting comfortable riding above and below each other, holding a paceline, double paceline, bike handling going elbow-to-elbow and hand-to-back, and jumps off the top of the bank. The day ended with everyone in groups based on speed for our first Scratch race. It was a blast! Me, I hardly knew what I was doing, but it was so fun to race around with the other girls after only a few hours and feel that adrenaline on the bell lap and the surge across the finish line. It will not be the last time. MVA and the whole group made it such a fun, encouraging atmosphere for beginners that you can't help but want more of the camaraderie and challenge. With the clinic you get to race at the Monday night beginner races and also join the women's training on Tuesday nights.

Personal highlight: the revelation after the first 5 or 10 warm-up laps that the bike and I were not going to plummet down the side of the bank like a sheet of ice (although all the bird shit on the one bank from the osprey nest above still made me nervous).

God my ass hurts: Brooks Day 10, 250 miles-ish

Wrinkles are starting to appear in the leather, although I'm starting to question the purpose of the copper rivets besides major style points. I swear I can feel them poking through my ass. Saw two cruiser style bikes down at Pike's Place Market yesterday that must have strayed from the Gay Pride Parade up on Cappy Hill this weekend. Pretty streamers adorned the bikes, along with the oldest looking Brooks saddles I've ever seen. They were the super wide models with the fat springs underneath. Tanned leather and sway-backed like a cowboy's saddle, they could have been used in Carson City circa 1875. I think Rosemary enjoyed their company.

'punctured

I could have scheduled my acupuncture appointment last Friday a few months ago. I knew that all the traveling I've been doing for work the past many months and emotional upheaval my heart had been enduring would wreck havoc with my endocrine system and would eventually leave me a weakened mass of flesh. Just a matter of when the light switch got turned off. Then it's no spirited bike rides, no jovial conversations, no spunk when the alarm goes off in the morning. Just sleep, exhaustion, yawns, slow motion, delayed responses and the real sign - driving my car to work.

Acupunture is voodoo. It's magic. I don't care what it is, I just know that it works. First Denise feels around my wrist for the pulse of my various organs. She feels for what ones are strong and what ones are weak and need some help. I have no idea how she can surmise such information from feeling around a few square inches of both my wrists. Turns out that my spleen is linked to my endocrine system. Whodathunk. It only takes her 40 mintues to let me "cook" with 10 or so needles in me. Lying on my back, they always go in my lower legs, one by each thumb, sometimes in the foot, occassionally in my abdomen, and my favorite - right between my eyes.

There is nothing instantaneous about acupunture, it usually takes a day to feel improvement. The only immediate result I ever had was after my first appointment and Denise let me cook too long. I went to my friend's house afterwards and was doped out of my mind. Couldn't focus, couldn't speak, couldn't do more than sit and watch everything around me with a silly grin on my face. It wore off after an hour or so, but there is absolutely no other way to explain what happened to me. Then the next day I was bounding around and even went for a run in the hot summer sun after work. Unheard of for me. After last Friday's session I was out riding this weekend and feeling strong again. Back to being me.

Yeah this acupuncture stuff has something going on. It is the only cure I have found for my bouts of lethargy and exhaustion from my endocrine malady. Luckily I don't need it often, but when I do it shocks my system back in order.

Thanks Denise. Thank you all the wonderful ancients who crafted such an amazing practice for our health. I'll be back for more.

God my ass hurts: Brooks Day 6, 150 miles down

Thin bike shorts padding: Very bad
Thick bike shorts padding: Very good

Survived a weekend of riding in Olympia wearing thinly padded shorts. Ended the last ride just as the saddle was getting a little to sassy with my arse. Didn't quite need the ice pack. Rode in some thicker shorts today on a long ride and all was well. Yup I'm a quick learner.

God my ass hurts: Brooks Day 3, 70 miles down

You know you've made a mess for yourself when you're in so much pain that you feel utterly nauseous and have to slow down to keep from hurling, but in slowing down you only prolong the pain. The familiar ugly waves travel up from your gut to your chest, shoulders and brain and you want to stop, keel over and give up, but the tough guy in you wants to make it home first. A little game you play. Yes, that was the last 5 miles of my ride home tonight. I'll try and blame the nausea it on work, germs, too much exertion recently, but all I know is that my bottom half is making me double over.

Yesterday things seemed to be splended. I put the saddle on Rosemary and we galloped away. (Granted the saddle isn't her type, she'll get the white Selle Italia back soon.) Today, however, my junk seeks revenge. On the ride in I stopped to raise the seat thinking I was putting to much weight back. On the way home I got off to adjust the saddle and point the nose down more since that's what guys do and they know all about painful junk. No help. I get off the bike in my parking lot and would sit on an ice pack if I could bring myself to do it. Maybe I'll take tomorrow off from riding. Maybe I will find an ice pack.

God my ass hurts: Maiden voyage

Put the new Brooks on the Serotta and rode 30-ish miles down to Seward Park and back under sunny skies. Lots of other peeps to chase down. Legs had a fun time on a geared bike, but were screaming as I tried to zip up the hills. Must work on that. Ass returned home in one piece, no aches to report.

God my ass hurts: My new Brooks saddle

I don't know if it's all the Rivendell Readers stacking up on my nightstand or the recent hours I've been lurking in the Touring forum, but this past weekend I had an insatiable desire to own a Brooks leather saddle. The history, the culture, the legendary ride. I already have 5 saddles and couldn't be happier with what I have, but I needed to own a Brooks. My arsenal already includes:

- Selle Italia Turbo Ladies - HUGE thumbs up, plush, but not too squishy, a Rolls for your purty ass. I own two: one black one white. Big props to my man for opening the door to them for me.

- Avocet 02 Titanium Womens - It's hard to part ways with this one, but I've had it over 10 years and it's on the downhill slide of its lifespan. Despite the raggedy appearance and tears, it still holds my ass very, very well.

- Terry Liberator - My first Terry saddle from about 8 years ago and I hate it, but rode it for a few years cuz I didn't know better. Too short in the nose so I feel like I'm falling off. The 'love channel' does nothing for me but give my precious pieces a crevasse to fall into and get more smooshed.

- Terry Damselfly - Thought this would be the bees knees, it's ultra-light and hela-cute, but Terry should have her ovaries revoked for selling it. Unbelievably narrow, as narrow as a men's racing saddle. There is no way this should be marketed as a women's seat. Tried it for a week and felt like my seat bones were being ripped apart.

So onward with the Brooks. I spent all morning researching what type to get, what fellow chicks recommended (both men's and women's actually), care for the thing, etc. Being the responsible, meticulous bike chick that I am, I measured all my saddles for width and legnth to ensure that the new Brooks would meet my measurements. There is not much of a return policy on the saddles and since it takes a good 500 miles to break it in, you'd better get the style right the first time. The measurements showed that I should be safe with a 150-160mm width saddle.

Checked out the various models and decided on a black men's Pro. The women's model is too short in the nose for me and the men's is as wide as my other women's saddles with a nice long nose to perch upon. Sounds good.

Found the one (1) shop in Seattle and the eastside that actually carries Brooks in their store, so I was off to Elliott Bay Bikes just north of the Market downtown. 130 bones and some entertaining chatter later, I was on my way home with my saddle of choice. Score! Instant gratification rocks.

It was dumping rain all day so no maiden voyage with the saddle today. Lots of Proofide and staring amorously at my new toy. Tomorrow, my pet. Tomorrow.

I like big butts

A guy I work with commutes on a red Fuji track bike. I saw him today and he was complaining that riding a fixed gear makes his butt big from pushing a big single gear and that his pants are tighter because of it. I laugh at the thought that I could use this as an excuse for my tight jeans, but he says, "Oh no....don't get me wrong...it looks great on a girl, but not on a guy. I don't want a big butt." I think in his own meathead way there was a complement in there somewhere.

A Bike in Dutch Harbor

Why I Ride

I recently found myself in Alaska for the first time. Work was sending me to the outpost of Unalaska Island in the Aleutian Islands to spend two weeks in the cowboy fishing town of Dutch Harbor (a small drinking town with a big fishing problem). I was excited to bring my recently fixed purple mtb with me for my first foray into Alaska, my noble vessel that has always helped me discover new terrain. Life is a unending series of oscillating waves and I was in the midst of one of the bottom troughs. Experiencing Alaska with my bike was one way that I saw myself arcing to the crest of the next wave.

Before flying out to Dutch I planned to spend an extra day in Anchorage to ride around town and along the Tony Knowles bike trail that traverses Turnigan Arm. It would be an excellent start to my trip. Alaska Airlines, however, had a different idea. In addition to being delayed for two hours, they managed to lose my beloved bike. After waiting at the terminal for almost 2 hours to see if it would show up on the next plane, I left for my hotel pulling my one suitcase behind me sans purple bicycle.

From the 8th floor of the Sheraton I could see Turnigan Arm and the start of the bike trail. The late afternoon was cool and gray. The city was surprisingly flat and small. It beckoned me to ride, but I was trapped in a tower with no vessel. I could have gone out and taken a walk on the streets, but I held out for the airline to call with my bike. What I thought would be a rewarding day of self liberation quickly turned into an afternoon under the covers weakly fending the cool and gray side of my conscience. The merciless wave wrapped around me and dragged me into its arms. Completely alone and far away from all that I loved and trusted, my suddenly weakened state had no chance against what had settled in my head. As I watched the sky outside and the bare streets below, tears flowed for what I wanted and could not have. I cried for what I could not control. My heart ached at what was being lost. My bike being out of my grasp was another twist of the knife in my quickly failing heart.

The minutes slowly progressed into evening and I remained under the covers. Sleep would not have pity on me and I lay awake in front of the tv. I kept myself locked in room 816 not allowing any more unwelcome vestiges into my life. I ordered room service and picked at the food and stared blankly at the colors of VH-1. The Surreal Life or I Love the 70s or other comfort fluff. The tumult of sadness tormented me and teased me for thinking I was strong, that I was still adventurous, that I could overcome love. It beat me and made me weak. This is your life, you really are sentenced to nothingness.

And then the phone rang. Alaska Airlines had brought my bike to the hotel. My mind broke out of its black, cast iron shell and greeted the new hope. The bellhop delivered my vessel to my door. I dragged it inside and began the cathartic process of putting it together. My tools, the Phil lube, the pieces and parts that make it complete were reminding me that I can be complete too. I pulled on some pants and wool jersey, a helmet, gloves, and shoes, then we left room 816 behind to discover this new Alaska.

The second I swung my leg over the saddle and pushed off I found myself again. I was not the sad girl hiding in her room. I was the girl eager for life and new wonders. I was transformed. My bike and I rode toward the entrance of the bike trail and passed over a bridge with dozens of fishermen casting their lines in a fast moving, brown stream. It was 9pm and the life in Anchorage was like any other city in mid-day. Why stop now when you have nearly 4 more hours of daylight? We found the trailhead and set on our way along Turnigan Arm. The tide was way out and heavy gray mudflats hugged the coast before slipping into the arctic water.

I was reminded of a story about a tourist who ventured out onto the mudflats to look for sealife. The mud sucked on her shoes and she only panicked a little, fancying the novelty of mud in Alaska. But with a few more steps the mud became wetter and stickier and she quickly sunk down to her knees and thighs. She squirmed and pulled to get her legs out of the muck, but only sank further. The quiet tide had shifted from ebb to flood. Her husband floundered for a way to help her without getting caught in the mire himself. Soon rescuers were on hand, but they were helpless to pull the woman from her capture. Like other aspects of nature in Alaska, things are different here. The bears don't eat just berries, the mountains don't always let you go home, the waters don't warm your heart. The mud was different also. Heavy with clay and sediment it was actually rather devoid of sealife. As the tide inched closer to the woman, a helo was called in to pull her from above. A harness was wrapped around her waist and the helo advanced gently upward. Her bone and tissue were tired after the hours of struggle and saw no reason to fight anymore. Part of her relented to going upward towards the sky and the other to remain with the cold, soft mud.

I rode onward along the trail in hope of seeing moose that I heard were frequent visitors. Mountains broke the horizon. A kayaker paddled out at sea. There were many other people on the trail on this Saturday night. Walkers and families. Roller bladers and recreational bikers. We rolled along and I slowly spun in rhythm. My legs and breath in movement. My bike has taken me out of my cavern and reminded me of my strength. Of my independence and ability to live on my own. There are days when you forget you can move. You become so entwined in the movement of others that it escapes you how you ever moved on your own before.

My bike is my best friend. It reminds me of things I can't see for myself. It asks nothing of me but gives everything back. Especially my freedom. I feel the air of the midnight sun because of my bike. It held my hand and pulled me out of my quagmire. Thank you bike. Thank you for helping me remember who I am and that freedom is not dependent on other people. You must walk out the door yourself. In my case it helps to have a friend take you out for a ride.