Surprise, surprise, part 2

As if coming back to racing after missing the whole season from chronic fatigue couldn't get any more surreal, I got upgraded to Cat 3 on the last night of track racing.

The MVA threw us a bone and generously allowed the Cat 4 ladies to do one whole big stinkin' race on the last Friday night of the season. Seventeen gloriously fit and muscled women lined the rail to give the crowd a hell of a show. It was by far the fastest, best race of my colossal racing career. Lots of attacks, lots of speed, lots of close calls. Major thrills in the 3x5. Rock Star Jane took the first sprint, as I knew should could and would. I snuck my way past another girl and took the second sprint at 32 mph (hello...where did everyone go? It was like a bullet train), but then I fucked up and didn't get with the lead group for the last sprint until it was too late and took 5th or so. That last lap will haunt me til next year. Position, position, position. Don't sit back cuz it WILL be too late. Jane and I ended up tied for 2nd overall in the race and she was quite thrilled.

Afterwards in the beer garden, the announcer botched up my name and called me to their booth. I had no idea why, feeling more like being called to the pricipal's office. Maybe it was the MVA apologizing for being such asses to women's racing. Instead I found myself with the USCF official who politely informed me that I had enough points to upgrade and asked if I'd like start the next track season as a Cat 3. "Are you kidding???" I was absolutely stunned. Bright lights, lots of people, even more bikes, and an official asking if I wanted to hit my dream for the year after being on the sidelines for nearly all of it. (That was a yes.)

So I got a tiny line-out on my USCF card crossing out the "4" and replacing it with a neatly penned number "3", her initials and today's date. I'm carrying it around like a proud parent. I keep looking at it in total disbelief. I don't know what was in those vitamins, but they were good.

Surprise, surprise

Showed up @ Marymoor last night for my return to track racing after 3 fat and lazy months off. At Sunday's workout Hyun prompted me to replace my 16 with his 15 so that I could get the power I needed to race. Spinning like mad at 30 mph on my 81" wasn't going to do it in a real race. Winding up on the track it felt pretty big, esp on my weakened quads, but at speed I could tell it would make a difference. We did a bunch of jumps and efforts in the hot August sun. I felt dynamite, like I didn't do much of anything, and even took Rosemary out for a spin that afternoon.

Last night I wasn't feeling quite so spunky and resigned myself to just sitting in and getting back in the groove. Butterflies started to flutter as I watched the 14 other girls warm up and chatter on the infield. Many people came over to say hi and wonder where I'd been all season. Even Phil hobbled over to catch up and wish me well. My man came with me last night to cheer me on, but rather than get amped to race, I was starting to feel mighty cozy on the blanket huddled next to him warding off the evening's chill wearing his jacket. Finally Carol rode by and said, "Come on! Let's warm up!" It made me feel so welcome and I laughed at the thought of sitting on my ass all night.

First race was an 8-lap scratch, so that's 7 laps of nothing followed by 1 lap of all-out. I was content just sitting in and watching the wheels ahead of me. We rode in a tight pack bumping and wrestling for position, just like Nascar (like I'd know). No reason to make major effort. It felt great just to suck off wheels and chill. The pace wasn't particularly challenging and at the bell lap a few ladies went off the front and I chased on someone's wheel. Now we're movin'! I was waiting for the group to put in some more effort, but by Turn 3 I was growing impatient so I went around and zipped past the group. I figured they'd jump and grab my wheel and suck me up at the end, but when I turned back my head I was a good 10 meters ahead of them all. Ha. Ok. Did I really win? I seriously thought I fucked up, but everyone headed to the infield so I guess it was over. I asked Jane if I really did win and she just gave me a high-five, so I guess that was a yes.

As I cooled down in the infield, Phil teased me with "I'm SO sick...I'm SO tired...I'm just going to sit in...". Zack walked toward me with an astonished, shit eating grin on his face. I just smiled and said "Oops" and laughed it off.

Race #2 was a 2-lap heat where 5 girls race for 2 laps, then the top 2 finishers went on to a final round with the other heats' winners. Again, I just sucked wheels the whole way, although Carol pushed it a little more. My quads were a bit irritated with my previous effort so they whined a bit and I momentarily thought of blowing the race so I wouldn't have to do the second heat, but I finally told myself to shut up and forge on. Carol made a jump at Turn 3 and I rode with her towards the finish until I was clear enough with no one challenging either of us so. I backed off, took 2nd, and waited for the winners' heat.

I wasn't terribly motivated for this heat. I'm not a sprinter, I still had a 4x4 to do later, so I wasn't out to blow myself up or win. We started pretty slow, but they pushed it the bell lap and I let the sprinters have it. I rounded out in last or second to last place. No biggie.

Last race. 4x4 progressive points. The first person across every 4th lap gets a progressive amount of points - 2, 3, 4, then 5. Being a greedy, competitive person I planned to hog the third and fourth points. The first 8 laps I again just sat in the pack and sucked wheels. Some girls went nuts for the bell laps, but why? Why have the pack go all out only to slow down to 18? Let the 2 girls have their points and tire themselves out. I'm not wasting my energy. Finally my lap came up. The girls weren't pushing, no one seemed to want it, so I just went ahead at Turn 3 and took it the whole way with no one in site. I looked at my computer and hit 30 mph. Ok. Time to slow down. I waited til the pack came under me, then sucked wheels again for 3 more laps. Ding ding ding ding! Bell lap! Let's go! A few girls dashed again and I sucked one of my teammates wheels. What the hell? Is this as fast as you can go? Screw this, I'm taking off. If I win this lap I have a chance at winning the omnium and I want it. I blasted ahead and had no one around me. Not one person on my wheel. WTF? I roared over the finish line and knew I'd done good today.

After a nice cool down and lots of continued teasing, I checked the final results. Fuck an a. I did win the Omnium. 14 points and the next girl had 10. No too bad there sicko. I saw Phil and he called me a sandbagger. Hey I was supposed to be a Cat 3 months ago! He said with tonight I was already 1/3 the way there, and some points from last year would count too. I'll race again next week and hopefully do well and prove last night wasn't a fluke. That'd be rad if I could be so close to upgrading, not that it matters much in the winter. Otherwise I'll be in good form for next year. When I race the entire season. Sandbagger.

The season's just begun

God I just inhaled a whole chicken breast smothered in feta and avocado and downed it with 2 glasses of raspberry lemonade and cleansed my palette with the last half of a chocolate bar. So much for not eating after 6 p.m. I was HUNGRY and my body wasn't having any of this willpower stuff.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. Food.

I started training again 3 weeks ago and so far so good. It's been wonderful to be back on the track and enjoy the camaraderie that I missed all summer. Summer...where did it go? It's like I've been in a time warp and it's still April, but the rest of the world has moved on. I looked up one day and saw Jenny's sweet new DeSalvo. "When did you get it?" I asked. "A few months ago..." she answered. Uh, yeah. It's been a few months since I've been out. Two other women that I was supposed to move up with this summer have already made it to Cat 3. And now I'm just a Cat, I dunno, is there a Cat 6? All the other girls are burned out as hell and want the season to just go away. Me, I'm like a puppy excited about all the new stuff around me. Yea workouts! Yea Marymoor! Yea jumps and 10 lap efforts! Isn't this fun! I can't wait to come back and do more! Come on girls! The season's just begun!

When I first got back on Rosemary exactly 4 weeks ago I wondered who put on the 100" gear. I couldn't push her! And Louisa...shit the banks were like hills. But in these 4 weeks I've come pretty far. I'm not sucking as much wind, sustained 25mph is not out of the question, and I can get up the usual hills without getting passed by an 80 year old. Although tonight I couldn't complete the hill assault workout I planned in my head all day. Back in April Rosemary and I had a sweet route of 4 big city hills with the last one repeated 3 times. Tonight on the way home from work I could only muster 2 hills total and almost had to walk parts of the last one. One gear? On big hills? Was I on crack? I'll chalk it up to the 10# in my backpack and....I'll think of something else totally lame.

Five weeks til the first CX race. Back to the gym tomorrow and maybe an easy ride. Track workout Sunday and an eye towards the Wed race. I'd take a DFL just to prove that I came back from the depths of chronic fatigue and lived to turn another crank revolution. It's just for me and if I get a little emo just pat me on the head.

Ode to Susan Butcher

Susan Butcher passed away yesterday of leukemia at the age of 51, the mother of two small girls. Susan was a huge inspiration to me in my younger years. She inspired me to dream of a world beyond the midwest, of a life in far off Alaska where the days never end and moose roam your back yard. She was a real life Northern Exposure that was so real. She inspired me to dream of being a grown woman, tough and independent. She is one of the reasons I dreamed of moving west and made it happen. She is one of the rays of life that made me who I am. She climbed Denali with her dogs and a ragtag group of men yet never made her sex be an issue in her accomplishment. She could do anything men could do, and more.

Alaska. Where men are men and women win the Iditorod.

I am so saddened that such an amazing woman could be taken from us from such a horrendous disease. Why leukemia? Why couldn't she die of old age with her dogs and her husband and children in the wilds of Alaska? She was too young and had so much left to do. I am so sorry that she had to be in such pain, and that her family had to endure it also. She should have lived to see the sun set on the Alaskan tundra and watch the arctic flowers glow with color before seeing the night again. The northern lights should have danced above her family's cabin for so many years.

Susan, I'll never forget what you gave to me, even though you never met me. Thank you so much for being who you are and slicing a path in the cold Alaskan snow for all of us. You will never be forgotten.

SusanButcher.com

Recipe for pure happiness

In one life mix:

- One tall, dark, handsome guy
- His deep, chocolate brown eyes
- His beloved bicycle
- A bouquet of rich purple and indigo blue gladiolas sticking out of his backpack
- A smile a mile wide as he stands in the door to hand you the flowers
- A bar of organic dark chocolate mixed with ginger in the kitchen
- Him loving to see you smile

Mix gently with lots of love. Store in a glass jar forever.

Defending Rosemary

I had a dream last night that a bunch of us were vacationing in some busy touristy town on the water, kind of like Martha's Vineyard. I locked Rosemary up to a bike rack with a hundred other bikes so we could wander about on foot. For some reason I didn't get back to her until the next day. I found her at the bike rack locked up with a new lock and with a cotton candy pink disk wheel on her rear end with various prices written on the disk wheel in colored markers (I couldn't tell what the prices were). I was furious so I stormed into the shop she was locked in front of and demanded to see the store's owner. A fat, middle aged slob came out and said that I had left her there for too long and now she belonged to him and he was putting all the bikes on the bike rack up for sale.

"She's not for sale!" I yelled at him. He countered that she now belonged to him and he'd do what he wanted. Incensed, I tackled him and we wrestled and tumbled all over the ground in front of his store with me yelling that Rosemary was mine and not for sale and he bellowing that she was now his.

Finally, still twisted in a heap on the ground, I reached between his pant legs and grabbed his small, squishy nuts and twisted them enough to grab his attention. "She's not...for...sale!" I yelled again. "Do you understand that?"

The fat slob, realizing the severity of his position, finally relented that I could have Rosemary back and I let go of his squishy nuts and walked off to my bike.

The end.

Thank you Bike Stork!

The bike stork dropped off a bundle of joy on my doorstep whilst I was away this week. My new 2005 red Surly CrossCheck, courtesy of my dad's hot eBay hands. He won it by $2.50!! I'm going to strip off those obnoxious stickers, have it powder coated red with gold flecks and I'll call it "Mon Petite Pomegranate." I'm stoked for CX season. Give me another shot in my rump so I can get a movin'.

Ben, Jerry, and my Sweetie

A much needed indulgence after a long, stressful week. After downing half the pint I eventually shared with my Sweetie. mmmmmmm Phish Food. I love that marshmallowy goodness. Thanks to Mr. D for the pic.

Epstein-Barr or bust

I saw my doc today to go over my lab results from 2 weeks ago. I had asked her to test me for any and everything because I was still not convinced that all my fatigue was adrenal gland related. I don't work 80 hours a week, I don't have 3 kids, I don't work on Wall Street. My life is pretty stress free. So she agreed that there could be a virus behind it all and tested me for Mono, Epstein-Barr, Lyme's disease, and celiac disease.

When she opened my file she looked at me and said I had the highest levels of Epstein-Barr that she's ever seen. Then in the most serious tone I've ever heard from her she said, "You need a month of bed rest and you need to stay off that bike."

Wha??? I told her that I've been feeling really good though! I've even thought of going back out to the track to play around and to start a bit of running to get the legs ready for CX. She was totally perplexed at how I could be feeling so great with these numbers running through my blood stream. "Well, ok," she said. "If you're feeling better then you must be doing something right. Just keep taking it easy and listen to your body, but don't go overboard. If you're recovering this well you should be back in no time."

Whew. Evaded that sentence. Continued fat-and-lazy therapy plus lots of good vitamins and weekly shots of a vitamin cocktail in my rump.

So what is the EBV and how did I get it? May never know. It's a chronic, mutated form of the regular Mono virus, which I must have picked up at some point, months or years ago. When the body is put under severe duress, it wells up as the EBV. Most people are put on serious bed rest and it takes months to recover. I can't imagine what my numbers must have been like back in May when I was so fatigued it left me in tears. How I've managed to recover is a mystery. Chalk it up to mass dosages of Vitamin Z.

One theory is that I may have picked up some Mono while down at Katrina last fall, and then some sort of stress this spring made the EBV flair up. What kind of stress? Hell all I was doing was training for track. Nothing I haven't done before, but my immune system may have been compromised enough to make me this vulnerable. My doc said that in conditions like the Katrina response, the body's immune system is extremely vulnerable to infection. It happens very often in emergency personnel and the military. In fact, she said that the Gulf War Syndrome is thought to be linked to the EBV, and the Iran hostages from 1979 developed the EBV. Once they were set free and brought home they were able to make a recovery.

Now I'm not putting myself in the league of Gulf War veterans or political hostages. If I got this from doing some good in the Gulf Coast, I can live with that. Just getting the word out that it's a very common virus linked to high stress and can mask as a plethora of other ailments. Now I'm on the road to recovery and riding my bike. Lots.

Community bike luv

Now that the CM thing has calmed down a bit I can lounge around on my bed catching up on what our Emerald City friends have been writing about the past week. Like I've emo-ed before, the support of the local cycling community has been so humbling this past week. Seeing what our friends have taken the time to write is, again, emo-ific.

- Wright Bros opened their shop as a drop-off area for witness statements and typed up a little blurb on their web site about the CM Showdown. Nice to be in the company of hot vintage bike pics on their site.

- The men of Cranked also put news about this event on their Clog. Thanks for getting the word out via your sweet mag yo. Plus y'all look so damn fine in a suit. Yo mamma would be proud.

- Bikeseattle.org had two newspieces, one with KUOW's report on the second hearing, then another about Ron "I 8> CM" Sims condemning the arrests. Too bad bikes can't vote, Ron.

- Alastair over at .83 has volunteered to put on a fundraiser race Sunday, July 30!! If I have my way, you'll be hauling around town finding witnesses, doing shots at Wright Bros (my gift to you), getting paper cuts making a thousand copies on the xerox machine, and getting your mug shot taken at the King County jail.

- And the week wouldn't be complete without a post by the coolest rocket scientist EVER.

Desert rain

Talked to my man tonight, who is finding some solace in the high desert safe with another extension of his family and friends. He called and it was raining heavily outside, a warm summer storm like we never have in the PNW. He walked outside so I could hear the rain better. The drops pounded the ground and sounded like a wall of water coming over my phone. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the lightning brightening up the entire sky over his head. Deep sounds of thunder rumbled a few seconds later, vying for attention from brother lightning's electric show. I told my man to sleep with his windows wide open tonight, the sounds of the clean desert rain baptising him anew.

CM Arrests press

Blah blah blah blah. Maybe it was just a slow news week around town? Or maybe people really give a shit about what happened to us? Either way I can't help but feel like a little kid who made a little stink about something and now the grown ups are all in a tizzy about things. Considering the gravity of this little stink, that's ok by me.

Charlie's managed to make a collection of the news coverage.

This is so surreal it feels like we're in the high school newspaper. Kids like us don't wind up with our pics in the city papers:

Seattle Times @ the rally

Seattle P-I @ the rally

Seattle Times photoshoot (starring Freki from FGG!!)


Best word crafting of the week, from the closing paragraph of the Stranger's article:

"Two weeks from now, (Zack)is supposed to present his University of Washington graduate thesis in mathematics. Overnight in prison, he played chess with other inmates using ripped up scraps of paper."

But nothing, NOTHING, beats having The Don of editorial cartoons, David Horsey, do a cartoon about you [insert little kid snickering at how crazy surreal this is]:

CM Showdown pics

We released several troubling photographs to the press, but these are more personal ones that I'm happy to share with my own little world. Many thanks to Denny for his thoughtfulness in capturing them (and my ass). These are the very happy moments when we busted my man out of the pen, then took him to Myrtle Edwards park to bask in the evening sun and to take a salt water cleanse, per his mom's advice (of course we also heavily advised not ingesting any of the water).

Interdependence Days

Well this has been an interesting week. To put it mildly. I can only relate the intensity to the initial days of the Hurricane Katrina response when at first we had no idea what was going on, then once we did and got into full fledged response mode there was no stopping the synergetic energy of working towards a common goal. Sleep? Nope. Food? Nope. Adrenelin? Extra heavy helpings please. It was an all out assault to get information into the command post and then out to the decision makers to solve problem after disasterous problem.

So I guess I was trained pretty well to deal with this past week. In the world of ICS (Incident Command Structure), which is used by all federal agencies to respond to any event from oil spills to forest fires to terrorist attacks, people are given specific roles to complete essential tasks that provide the information and resources to get the job done. At various times during the week I couldn't help but think I was working in my own little ICS land. This week starred (in actual ICS roles, not that they knew or cared):

Incident Commander - The coordinator, the leader - Guess that was me

Legal Council - Keeps us out of trouble - David our attorney

Information Officer - Coordinates with the media - Charlie the Tireless (I want what he's on)

Safety Offcer - Ensures a safe work environment - Guess that was me again since I prevented the Seattle Times photographer from breaking his leg standing on a broken chair when he was doing Zack's photoshoot. I made him stand on a cooler instead and made sure he didn't break that either.

Volunteer Coordinator - Ropes the volunteers to do all the sharking and odd jobs - Me again

Finance Leader - Keeps tabs of the money - Lee the Faithful

The Command Post - The warroom where the IC works - That would be the idyllic home of Zack's mom out in Fall City. Ample cell reception and Internet connection allowed us the freedom to become grounded walking in the thick green grass, holding a black kitty, playing on the swingset, and nibbling on blueberries.

And there were all the other players who filled in to keep the cogs turning: Joby, Neil, Denny, Ashley, Davis, and Ilsa, plus all those who were just there providing unspoken support and love. The energy that surrounded me is the only thing that kept me going all week. It was an enormous battle, but we won it together. I can't begin to say how grateful and humbled I am by all of your support. I thought that my work at Katrina and the teamwork I enjoyed could never be duplicated, but this has come damn close, and without all the nasty disaster stuff on the side.

Ironic how this all happened over the Independence Day week, but Zack's family and I celebrated it as Interdependece Week. We couldn't have done it all without you!

WWLD

That stands for "What Would a Luddite Do." Move on with their life I suppose. The past few weeks of dead air are brought to you by the asshats at Comcast who couldn't figure out why my 21t-century internet service wasn't working. Two weeks and at least 3 hours on the phone got me nothing but "You must have a program on your machine that's blocking the IP. Gosh I'm really stumped. I don't understand why it's not working." Leave it to my heroine, Jane the Magnificent, who spent 5 minutes in her jammies yesterday deducing that my network adapter had gone to that big black box in the sky and fixed it all for free. Jane is pure gold and she can sprint like a bat outta hell. We need more friends like Jane in the world.

I'm still on doctor's orders to be fat and lazy. Rode today for the first time in 8 days and felt quite zippy. Could also have to do with my heavy weekend dose of vitamin Z. Need to bottle that stuff up. A thousand vitamins couldn't come close. Or be as tasty.

666 Slayer Race

Dragged my ass out of the house and rode up to Cappy Hill to join a throng of bike afficianados for the post-666 race at the Summit. A better summer evening could not have been spent among a crowd of sweaty bikers swilling beer and swapping stories. My man came in 5th out of 40 or so. His prize (under my direction) was to walk around all night sporting an all-too-small black PBR wife-beater jersey . If a girl can't drool over her own hunk of meat then no one can (or better).

The devil, evidently more a listener of Metallica than Slayer, also made a special appearance today and layed waste to all the jackass drivers who felt a need to take out cyclists:

Turning the page

I turned the page in my day calendar today and found the following Buddhist poem. Odd how when you need some guidance it has an unexpected way of finding you.

Everything is changing
It arises and passes away.
The one who realizes this is freed from sorrow.
This is the shining path.

To exist is to know suffereing.
Realize this and be freed from suffering.
This is the radiant path.

There is no separate self to suffer.
The one who understands this is free.
This is the path of clarity.

Rat City AWESOMENESS

A bunch of us went to see the Rat City Rollergirls last weekend in one of the hangers at Magnuson Park. I had no idea that such a mess of fun was to be had at this event. The Rollergirls are by far one of the best kept secrets in Seattle. Sexy hardass chicks racing around a flat track on 4 wheel skates, blocking each other, getting penalties, scoring over and over, smacking down, checking each other into the crowd, husbands and boyfriends and girlfriends in the crowd holding signs up high and screaming for their girls. This is no cheesey Playboy Bunnies do the EcoChallenge. These chicks kick fucking ass all the while showing how sexy cunning, sporty women can be.

Four teams make up the whole Rat City program: Grave Danger, Throttle Rockets, Derby Liberation Front, and the Sockit Wenches. Two teams play each other in two 20-minute bouts, then the other 2 teams play, then they switch after half-time. Oh yes the half-time. It changes each time, but ours included the talented young ladies of the Aerialistas sporting pink and black cheerleading outfits climbing, dangling, swinging, and doing all sorts of amazing shit from ropes hanging from the hanger rafters. Two words: AWE SOME. I saw Cirque de Soleil a few weeks ago, but these girls get the prize for cuter outfits and girl-next-door accessibility into every boy (or girl's) fantasy.

Jane and John were all grins yet at a loss for words:



The Rollergirls' next bout is Saturday, June 24, again at Magnuson Park. Tix are available through their web site and sell out fast! There is seating for general admission where you get to sit on the floor ringside and potentially get a Rollergirl knocked in your lap, or there's the reserved bleacher seating where you get to sit in the stands behind an 8ft tall chainlink fence and can buy $4 PBR tallboys. A Rollergirl in your lap, or $4 PBRs? And to think they charge more for the bleacher seats.

More pics that I stole from someone else. If you think these look cool, they don't come close to seeing the real deal in action:

The chick with the star on her helmet is called the Jammer and tries to lap the pack and score. The chick with the stripe on her helmet is called the Pivot. She stays up front, sets the pace of the pack, and is the last line of defense to block the opposing team's Jammer. See there's strategery!

Pia Mess. Get it?? Get it?? ahhahahahaaaaa....

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr...blocking the Jammer

Ohhhhhhhh that's gonna hurt. But that's part of the fun and the crowd digs it.

Later on we came up with my Rollergirl/track derby name: Princess Slay-ya. I'm hoping to debut at the Marymoor 100 next month. Gotta work on the costume.

Stumptown calf-off

Things are getting heated down south at TVFY's calf-off. My tally:

#1 - Smooth, enticing, potentially excellent flavor

#2 - Skinny white boy needs to see some sun

#3 - Ah-nald called and he wants his calves back (but the sheep socks get cute points)

#4 - These legs scream FAST. And WAXED.

#5 - Ewwwwwwwwwwwww. Like if my grandpa's legs had no hair.

My final vote: #1. Strong yet au natural. The rest - muscles and tendons should not jump out like they're going to throttle you. Scary.

Take Your Bike to Work Day

I managed to stop at 5 commuter stations on the way in this morning. That's 5 stations worth of water bottles, cliff bars, cliff shot powdery drink mixes, ouch patches, and maps. Of course I was let down/disappointed/sad/bummed yet again that there were no mini Toblerone chocolate bars at the stations. Whoever organized that giveaway years ago did this city, or at least me, a huge disservice cuz now I go to every Bike to Work Day sniffing around for delicious chocolate and get handed a nasty cliff bar instead. Sigh.

The best B2W story has to be from my coworker. She lives in Snoqualmie and drives her Toyota Tacoma truck every day to Sandpoint. Sometimes it takes her an hour, sometimes it take over 2 hours to drive in. And the gas....her truck is a climbing/sailboarding/skiing/big furry dog carrying machine so you can do the math yourself. She's an amazing athlete and used to race bikes and skis like a banshee (shrugs off those "no fall" zones), but she's never abandoned her truck to ride to work. This week, however, given the amazing sunny weather we've had and a little cheerleading from her annoying officemate (me), she decided to give it a whirl and ride part of the way to work. We poured over the local commuter maps and decided she'd drive to Eastgate's P&R, then bike over Mercer Island, up Lake WA Blvd, through Montlake, and up to Sandpoint. An easy 17 miles one way. Piece of cake!

Friday morning's dawn broke. Her alarm went off at 6 a.m. She turned it off and rolled over. Off to a good start. She finally raised herself an hour later and got her gear together. She pulled on her spandex knickers and realized she put them away wet after a CX race last season. Now as she hikes them up they reek of mildew. Tasty. Not to be one put off by odd smelling clothes she throws her bike and backpack in the truck and sets off. Traffic flows through Issaquah and she nears Eastgate, but the anxiety of a new routine takes hold and she realizes that she doesn't know how to get from the P&R to the bike trail. "I'll just go to the Mercer Island P&R," she says out loud. She continues on and sees the exit for this next P&R, but is stunned to see a huge "CLOSED" sign across the exit. Shit! No time to think or pull over or investigate the nature of this barricade. A few seconds later she's zooming across the I-90 bridge en route to the city. By now she could admit defeat and drive straight to work, but she knows of one more P&R on 65th. It's not quite the noble feat of riding in 17 miles, but it will be something.

She gets to the 65th P&R and lets out a deep breath. Finally out of the car. She pulls her bike out of the truck and loads up for the ride to work. Except she doesn't know the best way to get from this area to the bike trail. Shit. Think fast. She does know that 65th runs straight to Sandpoint by way a numerous straight-up and straight-down hills not to mention no bike lane and horrendous potholes. Onward she rides. About a mile later her seat starts wiggling around and nearly falls off. She realizes that when she switched seats last night the seatbolt didn't get tightened the whole way, so she stops and pulls out an allen wrench and wrenches the bolt down. Someone rides by her and comments, "Doing a spring tune up?". Jackass.

Our heroine continues on her way, finally intersecting the Burke and rides it half a mile to Sandpoint. She's surrounded by green trees, no cars, it's quiet, serene. Her blood pressure drops. The cloud of anxiety lifts. She's almost done. The commute is almost over. She enters the campus and isn't sure of how to get to the backside of the campus to park her bike. She rides the wrong-way down a curvy, one-way access road and is almost immediately taken out by a service worker in a huge pickup. Disaster avoided, she finds the back entrance, parks her bike, takes a huge breath, and starts her day. She comes into the office and we give her a round of applause, even though she waves it off and just laughs and tells us the story of her morning adventure. She has a huge grin on her face. I congratulate her and give her a water bottle and mango-orange Cliffshot recovery drink.

The best news is that she's excited about the possibility of riding to work. The hardest part was plunging into a new, unknown routine and she faced (hopefully) more than enough challenges and still kept going. She thinks that riding 2-3 days/week would be totally feasible and could even take the bus part of the way from Preston. I rode with her back to the P&R to show her the not-so-hilly way and she was so chatty and excited about riding her bike again. Her head was swimming with the possibilities of commuting this summer and beyond. I was so happy to see the beginnings of another satisfied bike commuter. Cars and gas and politics be damned. We have another convert.

My arsenal

Yes I know that was the title of a really lame Morrissey album. But this is more dictation for my current whinefest called "My Endocrine System Sucks More Than Yours."

I saw my acupuncturist today. I explained what's been going on and that Doc #1 thinks my former bouts with fatigue that I resolved with acupuncture were not actually resolved, but only healed my chi, but not the adrenals themselves. So my current state is from an accumulation of unresolved adrenal fatigue, probably going back at least from my tour of Louisiana and CX season last fall, if not further. She agreed that's probably what happened and her acupuncture probably didn't heal everything. Um yeah. Did you ever think of clueing me in that I might need more help than a few needles in my skin? Lesson #1 in today's chapter of my book called "Looking Out For #1 Cuz No One Else Obviously Is."

I told her about how unusually tight and sore my quads have been in the weeks since I haven't been riding. I've been drinking lots of water, but my legs seem to be full of lactic acid for no reason. "Oh that's probably a magnesium defeciency. You should put some Emer-gen-C in your water to help your body absorb it and rehydrate." My body needs magnesium to absorb water? Why do people wait until I'm this old to tell me such things? Lesson #2.

After she poked me she asked if I was getting a series of vitamin B shots. Well no, I only got one shot last week. So now she tells me that they usually do them in series of 6 because people are so deficient it takes a few weeks to get levels back up. Ok, Lesson #3 for my book. I drop my drawers and she gives me a shot in the rump. It stings like hell, but I know that it will be all good in 30 mins when it starts bringing me back to life.

"What about licorice?" she asks. Huh? I can't stand licorice. Nasty stuff. She explains that black licorice is excellent for the adrenals and she's surprised Doc #1 and Doc #2 haven't put me on it. She suggests mixing it with hawthorne extract to sweeten the mix and make a tea with the two. It will boost my adrenals and help raise my blood pressure and metabolism. $50 later I have 2 small 4 oz jars of the two extracts in my backpack. Luckily I don't have to use much for the tea and she says it should last a few months. An expensive Lesson #4. My adrenals better love me now. More ammo in my endocrine arsenal.

Otherwise things are looking a tiny bit brighter. I did about 35 miles throughout the day yesterday, at a silly slow pace. Part of it was the Ride of Silence with about 1,000 other cyclists. I was most thankful that the pace was supposed to be slow and I could use that as an excuse for being lazy. I was pretty pooped at a few spots - going down 15th and up 2nd, then up 4th and Eastlake. Well I guess that was most of the ride. But I didn't quit, just went slower and kept breathing. I finished the night and could still brush my teeth, which was an excellent sign. Considering I could hardly pedal this Monday and Tuesday, this was pretty good. I was a little more pooped today, but the shot in my ass should help me recover.

The first track race was last night. Word on the street is that my girls kicked ass. Izette took the night's points. She is not long for Wed. I look forward to screaming her on from Turn 4's beer garden on Fridays. I'm happy being able to commute for now. Not looking to race for at least another 4-6 weeks.

Tomorrow is Bike to Work Day. I plan on hitting 6 stations along the way in to pick up some swag. I'm rooting for Toblerone chocolate again. I'm glad I can ride. A few weeks ago I told myself that I'd drag myself the 10 miles to work this day even if it took 3 hours, but I would not drive no matter how weak I felt. So tomorrow's ride is for all those who can't participate. I know how much it sucks.

Has anyone seen my hormones

Cuz they sure as hell aren't with me. I've been dealing with chronic fatigue the past 2 weeks (6 weeks if you count the denial), courtesy of a well orchestrated conspiracy by the players in my endocrine system. Adrenals: you suck. Thyroid: you suck too. Thanks to their little game I have the energy of a 90 year old woman. I noticed last month that I wasn't recovering from my workouts as well as I should, but I wrote it off as dehydration or not using one of those fancy squidy recovery drinks. But now I see it was a precursor of what was to come, total adrenal fatigue and now I'm struggling just to ride to work. I've commuted to work 3 times in the past 2 weeks and each time left me exhausted at work and struggling to keep the cranks moving towards home. When I get home I collapse on the couch and want nothing more than to sleep for a few days. I've had to drive to work because of the lack of energy, and I still collapse after a day of sitting on my ass. I've had smaller bouts of fatigue the past few years from my Hashimoto's disease, but this is the grande dame of fatigue and it came without warning, no stress, no epic dramas, no reason to pull the plug. Yeah your body really does hit the fan once you turn 30. Yippie! Just in time for summer!

Oh and racing. Can forget about that. My last workout was over 2 weeks ago and I couldn't even finish it. Hills look like Mt. Everest. The thought of a track workout makes me ill. Right now it would be a miracle if I could pedal around at more than 8 m.p.h. The first Wed night race is this week, but I won't go. It will be too depressing to see everyone chomping at the bit, so near the top of their game, while I sit around as miserable as if I had the flu. My one doc told me today that I can expect to take 2 days to recover for every 1 day I've been off. Great. Maybe I'll be back in action in time for CX season.

But the hormones. Yes it's all their fault. My adrenals have crashed, my cortisal levels in the toilet en route to the great sewer system in the sky. My thryoid isn't talking to my mitochondria so energy production is at a stalemate. T3 and T4 hormones have abandoned my metabolism and gone to Tahiti. Add a touch of anemia and hypoglycemia and my system is short wired. Thanks guys. Feeling great here. No need to hurry and return system to normal. I'll just sleep through the whole disaster, ok?

I'll sleep through it all and take the 19 pills (yes that's 6 doses of a hypoallergenic multi-vitamin, 6 cortisal pills, 4 tyrosine pills, 1 iron pill, 1 cytomel, and 1 levoxyl. Yum.) plus 1 DHEA spray every day and wait til you come back from your little hiatus. Feel free to send a postcard: "Wish you were here." Yeah I wish you were here too.

Wedded bike bliss

Down south in the Bikeopolis of Portland, a life-long union was blessed when a girl and her beloved Vanilla bike (jealous!) were married in front of friends by an ordained minister. How utterly splended! The bride wore a light blue satin dress to match her bike's baby blue and white color scheme. They laughed, they kissed, they rode off into the sunset....around the block...and will live happily ever after. Their vows:

Do you, Vanilla promise:
…to dissassemble easily for travel…
…to stop and to go…
…to bomb and to climb…
…to shift smoothly and roll swiftly…
…to bear Elicia wherever she may take you…
…to have and to carry till death do you part?

And do you, Elicia promise:
…to ride Vanilla like a stallion…
…to oil him down…
…to lock him up…
…to bring him in out of the rain…
…to use him in that special way…
…to take him with you everywhere?
…to have and to ride till death to you part?

And check out the new bride's Princess Leia tattoo. Kick ass! My only beef is where was Sacha?? Hello - a custom Vanilla titanium ring!

I can't keep track of what states have legalized same-sex marriages, but Rosemary and I would do well to take eternal vows. I see the wedding in the San Juans over looking the water, lots of multi-colored gerbera daisies, she sparkly and clean for once in her life, me out of my stinky wool and in a dress for once in my life, friends surrounding us with their shiny bikes too. Girls holding bouquets of fresh flowers. And men in bow ties! And a huge beachside fish bake to celebrate with lots of brandy to go around. But no PBR! Blech!!!

The little egg that could

It was about a third the way through our first 400-meter jump this morning that I almost hurled up my egg sandwich breakfast. I was stuffing my face with it as I tried to leave the house a few hours earlier with my bag of gear, Louisa, and cup of coffee in hand. Nope, two hours is not sufficient amount of time to digest something so tasty, yet so revolting as your body tries to shut down your stomach in an attempt to supply the rest of your body with an adequate supply of fresh blood at 30 m.p.h. Nor is there enough room in your guts for your lungs to expand to intake more O2 and push out the used air. Yup, not much room for that egg sandwich to lay back and slowly makes its way through the journey of life called digestion.

When the first sprint finally ended my little egg thought he was home free, but that was just the beginning of the intense workout. Three more 400-meter jumps, and then 4 more 10-lap pursuits were ahead. As I was riding slowly around the track recovering from that first effort, I said out loud that I almost hurled my breakfast and of course someone shouts back, "It's not a good workout until somebody loses their breakfast!" Yes haha Funny Man. Turns out that more than a few of us were having the same dilemma about bad food choices before a hard workout. At least I didn't have a swarm of black beans or cheese chasing down my little egg friend.

After another hour of sprints and egg burps, my belly was nearing normality and my energy was beginning to flow more in my favor. By that time everyone else was leaving for the day, but I still wanted to get out and ride. I moseyed out onto the track and Jane, Molly, and John followed out. What started as a nice cool-down paceline turned into John and myself doing yet another hard series of pursuit laps. Round and round. Again and again. Neither of us was counting laps so I just relied on my body to tell me when it had had enough. After a few more miles my body finally made contact with my brain that it was time to lay off and go find my flipflops. "I have 3 more in me," I yelled out to my partner. "No....5 more!" he yells back.

"That little shit!" I think to myself. Fuck he knows I won't back down. Two laps down and Jane yells out the bell lap, thinking we were almost done, but John the Devious shouts back, "No 3 more!" And onward I pedal.

John is an excellent training partner and knows when to push me that extra step. He knows I don't whine or quit and can go harder than I pretend. I push and pedal and spin like mad and try to do my 1/2-lap pulls as smoothly as possible so I don't lose any speed. It's one of the trickier aspects of racing, esp with only 2 people.

"Ding Ding Ding!" yells Jane as we zoom by her one last time. Fuck I'm so wasted. My legs are nearly blown. I can't hold the pace much more, but John yells to keep going. I spin and grimace and charge a little more. Zoooooooooooooooooooom past the finish line and we're done. Time to back off and let the bike take over and let the heart rate find its way back to earth. An excellent end to the morning, again pushed out of my comfort zone, but with my little egg intact.

Stop

I spent most of today catching my breath. I slept in. I made a pot of delectable black coffee. I read the last 3 days worth of newspaper. I made a list of what to do this weekend. Taxes. Done. Flexable spending account. Done. Deposit for new double-paned windows. Done. Two week of laundry. Done. Two months of recycling. Done. Clean the fridge of decay. Done. Get 21st century Internet service. Done. Relax on couch, drink more coffee, and finish Memoirs of a Geisha movie from last night. Done.

All day the sky had been dropping fierce amounts of rain and tossing the trees outside my window with harsh winds. Recently a pair of crows have taken residence in one of the trees and built themselves a nest. I must have blinked while they were building it, because the mama sits in the nest all day and the dad stays no more than a few branches away looking after her. Once in a while he will fly out to get her some bugs and peck her on the cheek, but then he's back to his post. I worried a little as the wind punched at their tree and wailed at their little black bodies, but I remembered the pair that resided a few trees down 2 years ago and how they did just fine in the springtime storms. If there is one thing evolution has taught them over the years it's how to build stormproof nests. Soon I will see 3 or 4 little heads peeking over the brim of the nest, eyes still shut with newness, beaks held wide open as they strain for the sound of mom and dad coming with their meals. And then one Saturday morning as I sit down with a cup of black coffee and a newspaper I will look over at my neighbors and see that they are gone. An empty nest with only the ghosts of springtime.

A few days of rest had brought my energy back so I was eager to take Rosemary out on a few errands. I wasn't off to set any speed records so, enjoying my day of rest, I made a glass of my favorite new drink - blackberry brandy, lime concentrate, and whatever juice is in the fridge. Mmmmmmm tasty. Sipping my drink I checked the local weather radar and saw a break in the weather. Finally with a reason to get out of my jammies, I donned the typical winter gear and Rosemary and I set forth to invade Ballard.

With one pedal stroke I knew it was good to get out of the house despite the early evening hour. The wet, fresh, cold air. The blue-gray storm clouds streaming from the south. The air was alive. The world awaits the moment you leave your door. One of the most fortunate things we encounter as bike commuters is the ability to go slow enough to not pass up the sky. In a car, it would be like taking a scooter through the halls of the Louvre. As I rode over the Ballard Bridge I looked to the west and saw the sky overtaken by the bottomless maw of an ice blue crevasse. A blue like this doesn't happen every day. I could imagine laying on my belly peering over the edge of a crevasse on Rainier, the same dark icy blue staring back up at me from the center of the Earth. I smiled at the sky's presence and felt sorry for the drivers zooming over the bridge en masse at 45 mph, not once glancing out of the comfort of their car to see what lingers overhead. They miss moments like this every time they shut their car door and start the ignition. They seal out out the paintings of a god.

Down to the Ballard Market to return some rotten cheese (EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW), then down to Fred Meyer for an outdoor thermometer. Rosemary and I hadn't gone 2 blocks when the sky opened up again and began pelting up with.....rain? Hail? I don't know what it was, but it hurt my face and pinged against Rosemary's pink steel. I tried to laugh, but I couldn't see, despite being seduced by the beams of sun that were trying to emerge in between fat bulges of gunmetal blue sky. We raced the few blocks to the megastoreopolis and I parked my girl under the protection of the roof overhang. I looked back to where the storm was coming from, and sure enough, to the west was a league of golden, sun streaked clouds, while abutting them to the southwest was a plague of darkness. I smiled at the fortune of seeing such a dramatic moment in the day, when just an hour ago I was content in my home. The world awaits the moment you leave your door.

When I came back outside, a fellow rode up and parked his old Peugeot next to Rosemary. He was dressed in a big purple seed company jacket and a generic baseball hat. Jeans and tennis shoes. His bike had seen years of use. Even half of the front chainring guard was missing. He asked about my chopped handlebars and whether I have enough hand positions and if they're comfortable enough. I answered. Then he noticed that I only have one brake. I explained. Then the oddest thing happened: without prompting he told me the story of when he rode 850 km around the Burgandy region of France to attend the 60th anniverary of D-Day. His eyes were shining and he smiled so much as he told me of the people he met and camping in fields. He flew over with a bike box from Recycled Cycles and unpacked it the airport and off he rode. The trains were a great way to get around, sometimes having a whole traincar for bikes, but other times you have to make a reservation. He told me of the food he ate, and how it was all so wonderful that he didn't lose a pound. "But be careful!" he told me. "The stores close at 8 p.m. so make sure you have all the food you want until the next day!" He laughed at how hungry he'd been some nights, and I laughed thinking about how I eat everything in sight when my metabolism finally kicks in. "Just be prepared when you go," he finshed. "My name is William," he told me. I shook his hand and he left to do his shopping. I was left dumbfounded because my friend and I have been flirting with the idea of riding our bikes around France. Two girls, two bikes, lots of wine and lots of cheese. And chocolate. I don't know how William knew.

No one in cars meets people like William on the sidewalk of Fred Meyer. No one bothers to stop and strike up a conversation at a red light or pumping gas. They'd rather race and scream and blow their horns and bring terror into our lives. I gotta go I gotta go I gotta go! You're in my way!! I gotta go! But quietly crossing paths with other souls makes us alive. We're all human and we do need each other. Sometimes we need to stop and realize how lucky we are to be here. Every raindrop, every ride home in the dark, every bad dream, every frustration at work. Every odd duck that we meet on the street that reminds us of that dream. They all have their purpose in crossing our path. It's all precious. Just stop and savour it all.

Love Wins

The past two months have been rather awful for those of us in Seattle. A number of fellow cyclists have been maimed by wreckless, heartless, selfish drivers. It nearly brought me to the point of becoming a Vigilante Mom, my heart ripped and temporarily irrational in an attempt to protect my brood. Never underestimate the strength of a mom's devotion. Even if she's just mom to a bunch of grown up men with the hearts and minds of 12 year olds.

Last weekend a 37 year old, Cat 1-2 cyclist died from a heart attack during the local Boat Street Criterium. He was married to a wonderful woman track racer whom I admired. His life was full of bikes and the local bicycle community. Everyone knew him and called him 'friend.' Surreal. Young, active, loving people like him are not supposed to be taken away "doing what they loved." They should live lives of love and adventure until a ripe old age with plenty of stories to tell their friends and grandkids.

Then there were the kids gunned down in Capital Hill on March 25. Innocent, jovial, artistic, loving, young people. There is no sense in the tragedy and never will be. Hearts were ripped open and lives ripped apart. Hate and anger took these precious souls away, even the one who took his own life.

It was just after the Capital Hill tragedy that Zack called to tell me about what he saw after his kung-fu class. He was unlocking his bike after class when he looked up and saw a car with a small bumper sticker that said, "Love Wins." It was so simple. Such an omen. I needed to hear that. I'm sure he did too. I've had those two words ingrained in my head the past 3 weeks, playing them over and over like a mantra. Not as a hippy, new age stoned-out epiphany, but as an awakening of religion or a philosophy. You have to believe that love will overcome anger. That prayer will overcome hate. That one day the storm will cease and warm rays will fall on your face. Christians and Buddhists and Jews have been prophesying for thousands of years to explain what these two words have brought so succinctly: Love Wins. The anger subsides and peace prevails.

Then today on my ride home I decided to take a different route and pick up some movies for the weekend. I didn't have my lock and was hesitant to bring my bike into a store, but I threw caution to the wind and kept riding there anyway. As I slowed down for a stop sign there was an older burgandy car parked on my right. Out of the corner of my eye I caught a small, black bumper sticker not 4 inches wide. It read, "Love Wins." It took my breath away and I circled back to see if what I saw was true. It was still there staring back at me. The non-descript burgandy car. The small black sticker with white letters. I smiled. It really was true. Love wins. You only have to believe.

In today's news...

From the Too Much Information Department:

Lots of talk over at .83 about guys getting their nuts shaved and their little swimmers evicted. My only comment was that they not get waxed down there. Unless you're a hit and run driver.

Spent this past Saturday at the Olympus Women's Spa, soaking nekkid in the hot baths and getting a body scrub. I'd never received a body scrub and it's the closest I'd like to get to being in a slaughter house. They bring you into an open, tiled room with 4 white, rubber covered beds with lots of hoses and water buckets constantly rinsing the floor and the women on the other beds. You lie down and a friendly Asian woman procedes to exfoliate the living crap out of your skin with hard rubber scrubby mitts like prepping a turkey on Tday morning. When she's done with one side of you, she tosses a big bucket of water over you (close your eyes! hold your nose!) and the bed and washes all the nasty dead skin onto the floor where it's rinsed yet again down a drain. She tosses and turns you all around and continues the rough rubbing and rinsing and hosing. Women come in, women come out. Water is tossed, the floor is rinsed, the rubber beds wait for the next sack of flesh. It's like a factory line. Finally you are free to waltz out of the room with your new skin and soak a little longer with your friends. I leave the nastiness of dead skin behind and sink like a baby into a hot tub.

Now that spring is officially here, it's that time of year when you don't really know what to wear in the morning on the ride into work. Sure it's chilly, but after a few miles you've warmed up plenty and find yourself unzipping everything in an attempt air out. So at dawn do you bundle up or strip down? This morning I decided to strip down, but that also leaves me open to the perils of not wearing a bra when riding in the winter. Why should I? I'm layered in god knows how many pieces of wool and polypro. One more stringy piece of cotton/lycra is only going to get stinky and fill up my laundry basket. So for 5 months of the year my girls go commando. This morning was one of those borderline times though. To bra or not to bra? My girls aren't exactly mistaken for size A's. Hell with it. I don't like to be bound. I had on my thin base layer and sweet blue wool Fiat jersey. Comfortable? Yes. Warm enough? Perfect. But being commando my girls were strutting their thing and all I could think was that I gave a few commuters something destracting the first few hours at work. Enjoy it, commuters. Summer is just around the corner and I'll have to reel the girls in.

Happy Spring Equinox

Spring! Daylight! Warmth! Flowers! Greenery!

Despite the cherry blossoms' fading blooms and tulips ready to burst from their bright green husks, I come home shivering in my cold cold house. My old windows leak like rice paper. Had to crank the heat up and wait an hour for the numbness to dispell. Feels an awful lot like it did in November...and December...and January and February. It feels like this every year but we stubbornly insist that this year will be different and we'll get summer a little bit sooner and won't have to suffer through another month of high heating bills or heavy clothing.

And we wait. For summer. But the spring equinox is a mile marker on the road to warm summer bliss. Closer. But not yet here. I'll watch the changing folliage pass before my eyes and try to acknowledge that it is indeed real and not a moving canvas. One day I will wake up and it will be warm and the days will last until midnight and we will play like children free from school.

But right now time stands still despite the etchings of the sun.

One big happy family

I was a bit worried about getting my precious new wheels home tonight. I finished gluing the sewups on last night and let the wheels sleep over at their fairy godfather's shop so I didn't get glue all over my existence. So tonight I went to the shop to swaddle them in blankets and take my babies home. Everyone oohed and ahhhed over them (note: I was not raising money) and asked about the spoke pattern and hubs and rims and tires. My fairy godfather answered all the questions like any proud father. He smiled and laughed and held them up high. He should have had a cigar!

Finally it was time to pack the babies up and bring them home. Before I started lashing them to my pack, my fairy godfather said, "Wait! I want you to have one more thing." He shuffled into the backroom and appeared a few minutes later with a black nylon Campy wheelbag. "Here, you have to protect at least one of them so they don't bang into each other." He tucked the rear wheel into the bag and gently zipped it up. Wow! A Campy wheelbag. I'm so official now! He wants the bag back, but for the next 20 minutes on the ride home I'll look like I know what I'm doing.

I lashed the babies to my pack and with many cheerful goodbyes we rode off. I had a little concern with how loose the wheels were on my pack, but they weren't anything I hadn't handled before. A nasty storm had blown in and the sky was black and rain began pelting my face. Not so bad riding down the trail. I had one hand on the Campy bag so it didn't swing too far to the side and one hand on my bars. We navigated through Fremont and Ballard and cut the u-turn onto the pedestrian path on the Ballard Bridge.

Now, I love the Ballard Bridge. We have a great relationship. People condemn it to hell and are scared shitless of it, calling it a mass of aged concrete and rebar. They loathe walking or riding across it, saying that the cars are too close or it feels like they're going to fall into the water or the bridge is about to collapse. BAH. This bridge has history and glory. This bridge is like a salty old fisherman with so many stories he'd keep you up for days listening to tales of what he's seen. I look forward to every trip across the bridge and looking down into the water and across to Fishermen's Terminal and all the boats who have sailed the cold dark seas. And the murals. How can you not love the murals??

But you know, on stormy days the bridge kind of sucks. It faces south and any weather is unimpeded shooting up pretty much from Oregon straight onto the bridge. You get the wind and rain right in your face like a train. So tonight as I started south over the bridge, my precious cargo, not lashed down particularly well (hey it's only a 2 mile ride), and one wheel nestled into a nylon bag disguised as a sail, decided to take flight and wave uncontrolably around my bike and I. I was torn between steadying the wheels in place with one hand or holding onto my handlebars with two hands and attempting to stabilize my bike that was being tossed around the walkway like a mad kite. The decision was quick. I had to hold onto my bike and my babies would have to fend for themselves. The cars whizzed by and splashed water across the berm. The wind tossed us about. The sleet and hail pelted my face. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the one baby waving around saying hello to the cars. "Stay closer!" I barked, but she was having too much fun out in the new world. As the bag flailed around she tossed me even more. I kept envisioning myself being flung across the berm and onto the windshield of a passing car. I kept pedaling and the end came closer. Closer yes, but also closer to the lightning that has now begun. Oh great. Hail, sleet, insane wind, rush hour traffic 2 feet from me, and now lightning. I'm a giant lightning rod. I can see the paper tomorrow: "Girl struck by lightning, found dead with two sweet wheels lashed to her back." My friends would stand around at my wake pitying me, "All that work and she didn't even get to ride her new bike and those sweet wheels. (pssst...does anyone have dibs on them yet?)"

But we made it. We turned west and out of the direct wind. I put my left hand back on the wheels to keep them close and they regaled in the fun they had just had. Damn kids, I thought. We got home safely and they are dry and on their new bike. One big happy family.

N.A. Handmade Bike Show 2006

Ok, enough of the malicious ranting. I'm centered. On to more enlightening moments of the week.

The North American Handmade Bike Show ended this past weekend. A major showing by some of the remaining true artisians of our time. Artists who still feel liberation in the molding of hot metal and the expression of love in the steady swirl of color. Sacha from Vanilla represented the Northwest as only he can and won Best in Show from cyclingnews.com. A tricycle. A titanium seatpost. The most orgasmically smooth handlebars I've ever laid eyes on. Crafters from old Fat City created some sweet cable guides like a dancer's hands wrapping around steel tubing. And lugs, lugs, and more lugs.

If you stop in a mainstream bike shop you miss out on pieces like this. The art. The love. The history. They are bikes, but they aren't meant to be machined by robots and mass produced. They're made with an artist's hand. Granted, if the mass-produced bikes reach the right person, they will be loved and given their own identity among the hoards of aluminum machines. They might even get to sleep next to their owner in a warm house. But to have true artists still create simplicity of motion is a special place and time that we need to hold on to. I don't want a machined piece of plastic. My bikes have soul, like children, they are unique individuals. They carry me to my own world. And it's artists like these who go there with me.

Adios KEXP

A few months ago the Seattle Weekly (not that I endorse this paper) published a story about what lurks behind the financial and managerial doors of KEXP. It not only explained why the station and its board failed in making its South Sound broadcast succeed (fucked up decisions, way to go asshats), but also that the station's dj's make upward of SIX DIGITS. I don't make 6 digits. I never will. KEXP is a non-profit, public radio station, paid for by its listeners. I've been listening to 90.3 FM for 11 years, since it was the pubescent station called KCMU. Now its djs are making over twice as much money as I am? And they can't get a fucking signal to extend past fucking Tacoma??? Yet they can stream to Antarctica and take the show on the road to fucking NYC and create Podcasts (whatever the hell they are), but they can't fucking get a signal past North Bend or down to its loyal listeners in Olympia.

Fuck that. Fuck you guys. You say you're not commercial radio, but you're all about the fucking money. How far around the world can we extend. How much fucking money can we raise during our membership drive to create more technology that our real core listeners don't have the time or resources to appreciate. How much fucking money can we raise to make our djs approach the salary level of commercial djs.

And then to top it off, to really show how distanced you are from where you came from, John and Cheryl, the other morning you had to ask listeners at 7 in the morning to send in their pics of the precious children. Like that wasn't a blatant, whoring request for parents to give you money after you oohhhh and ahhhhh over pictures of their children. Give me a fucking break. That was the last straw. You play nothing but emo music, you've lost the element of rawness where you came from, and now you want to look at pictures of precious children to dish up more money for your six digit salary. You've sold out, kids.

Enjoy your whoring during the memebership drive. As my friend who lives in Olympia put on her membership renewal notice this month: "Who??? You want what??? You want more money from me? I'm sorry I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU!!!"

(Oh, and Riz, you still da Man.)

She's Piste

After my tumultuous on-again/off-again twelve year relationship with snowboarding, I've given it the finger and found the nirvana I've been searching for, where I can skin up mountains free of thought and descend in quiet solitude: skiing. But not just normal skiing. No I have to bump up the difficulty level by making it telemark skiing. So not only am I attempting to figure out how to guide two planks down a hill, but I'm supposed to bend down at every turn with the grace of a debutante picking a flower. There are no flowers at my feet as of yet. I'm not nearly as clumsy as yard sale victims would have you believe your initial foray into skiing should be. I've been out five times and can safely rock the bunny hill, even the steeper parts of the bunny hill. A few times I've tried to take my confidence to the steeper blue runs, but quickly retreated back to the fluffy bunny hill with my tail between my legs. Right now those blue runs have the appeal of leaping off the Empire State Building. I have a 2 hour lesson next week with a Norweigen instructor named Nils, the kind of guy who looks like he was born in a Swedish chalet and slid into a ski suit and mini-skis before he hit the ground. After my first lesson with him he said I was doing great and naturally athletic and that by the time my lessons were done I'd be an advanced intermediate. Oh god is he naive. If only he could hot wire my brain so it would coordinate with my legs and that could be true.

Arrrrrr Pirates!

Pirated the Chilly Hilly with 20 or so others. Had no conscious in that decision. I've done the CH twice before and got nothing in return. No free chilly, no free snacks, nothing but a stupid number and sticker for my helmet that people insist on wearing 6 months after the stupid ride. Rode my singlespeed with slicks and made it up the hills just fine, but overall the gear was waaaaaaaay too low (60" anyone?) to get anywhere efficiently. Freds that I passed going up hill got much delight in passing me on the straightaways or, god forbid, downhill. About half of our group did the ride on fixies and finished a good hour before everyone else. What a bunch of animals. They even ate all the food before the rest of us arrived. Arrrrrr!

I did meet a few noteworthy Freds. One guy shouted out, "Hey Fat Chance!" as I rode uphill. He caught up with me and was riding a full suspension mtb with knobbies. Turns out that he owns two Yo Eddies, but can't ride them anymore because a snowboarder collided with him 4 years ago and broke one of his vertebrae. So now he's relegated to full suspension and sitting upright. But he finds joy in the riding he can do and has also filled his life with a new wife and baby girl. It was so fun to ride with him. I think he enjoyed his trip down memory lane and heckling me as he shifted uphills.

The next day was even better when Aaron's picture appeared in the Seattle PI as the one representation of the CH ride. So not only was a Pirate representing the ride, but he's riding a tall bike and not wearing a helmet. Those Kaskaders had their lycra in a wad over that one. Go Aaron...let's all just ride bikes.

Jacked up

Had a proper bike fit done by my friends at Real Rehab. What a freakin revelation. Using all their gizmos and widgets they began by jacking up my seatpost over 2 inches. My knee angle went from 27 degrees to 13. They'd like me to go down to 9 degrees, but would save that for later. "Are you serious???!?!" I asked them repeatedly. There was no way I was supposed to ride like this. It felt like I was on my tiptoes and bouncing all over my seat, but they insisted that it was a vast improvement and it opened up my legs and muscles and would make me far more efficient. They said I was an old skool "masher." Yeah maybe. Now I need a new seatpost because my Campy one is an inch above the max limit. They also reeled in my brake levers and moved up my seat so I wasn't so spread out. Oh...I'm supposed to reach my brake levers...how interesting.

The best part about the bike fit was that they agreed my new track bike was a perfect size. "Put a 100mm stem on that and you'll be golden." Shit are those good words to hear or what? All I've done the past 4 months is worry endlessly that my frame would be too small. Me? On a 54?? Those frame builders (who have been doing this for 30 odd years) don't know anything!! Ok, well now maybe they do cuz my bike is coming together quite nicely. Whew.

FINALLY

Got my new track frame. Fin-a-fucking-ly. Columbus Zona steel tubing. Pink. Black. Chrome. Damn she's light as a feather. All you carbon tuber and aluminum posers are missing out big time. Or maybe you should just stick to your game and leave us steel devotees to ours. We'll meet in 5 years and see who still has their frame .

Tour de Denny

My fellow Aquarian, Denny T, put on a marvelous alleycat in honor of his bday. He had us huffing and puffing up and down every damned hill in Seattle in search of all things named "Denny." Denny Hall, Denny Park, some dead guy named Denny, bombing down Denny hill, into the bar at Denny's. Not only was it his bday, but the race happened to fall on one of the windiest days on record. We were nearly standing still trying to pedal down Lake WA Blvd, then slingshot north up Cappy Hill. My calculations showed almost 2100 ft of elevation gain in 20 miles. I was on Rosemary who delighted in reminding me of how my climbing legs have disappeared in the past few months. I swear her 70" gear grew up to 90" that day.

Denny and his lady put on a most excellent post TdD bash, although a few dozen stinky, drinking bikers quickly degraded the air quality in his small apartment.

January Greenlake Race

Last night's bday celebration ended when I passed out last night and the repurcussions began the second I opened my eyes this morning. Holy hell. What did I drink last night? More importantly what did I eat last night?? I haven't felt this sick in years. I can barely stand up so I go back to bed. A few hours later I try to muster the energy to make coffee and go to work, but....my stomach makes me go back to bed. Must...go....to...work. Around noon I finally get up. Any other day and coffee goes into my system before oxygen, but this morning/afternoon nothing is going down. Must....go...to...work. Why is the sky so bright? It's cloudy but not cloudy enough. Where are the black boiling clouds when you need them? Work. Why is this monitor so BRIGHT?? All I want is to crawl under my desk and sleep. Oh god why am I here. No one else is. Oh I see they were expecting me early. Thank god I have understanding project managers. I slide through another late Friday.

Everyone says that I need to show up to the Greenlake race tonight. DUDE I can barely sit or stand and you want me to pedal FAST for over 3 miles???? At midnight? I go home and nap. Zack calls and says that we need to do the race. Oh god the pressure. What is this whole "need to prove thing?" I need to prove that I did enough last night and want to be left in peace. I fall out of bed around 9pm and make some coffee. I pack my bag (oh did I mention we're going skiing tomorrow too????) and my bike and I'm off to his casa.

11:51 p.m. - We leave the warm confines of Zack's house, 2 blocks from Greenlake. By the time we reach Greenlake we're soaked and cold.
12:00 a.m. - At the Greenlake stadium hiding under the stadium overhang. It's freezing and raining. Not just rain. POURING rain. Heavy rain. Hurting rain. And it's cold. Shiver me timbers cold. We line up for the race and Derrick shouts GO and 20 or more riders are off, riding blindly out onto the Greenlake path. Shit they're fast. Why are they so fast? It's only January. Slow down, man. I haven't exerted this much bloody energy in months. My chest hurts. This path doesn't end. It's weaves and twists and turns. Oh great. Now we're heading around the south end and the wind is roaring in our face. Thank god I brought my road bike or I'd be standing still. I get passed by someone on a fucking tall bike. Not just passed, but PASSED. Like blink and you miss him passed. God this sucks. I want it to be summer. In the summer I'd be in better shape. I wouldn't be cold. It wouldn't be raining. And I probably wouldn't still be recovering from my birthday night of revelry.

Somehow the stadium nears and I can stop. My stomach hates me. My lungs hate me. I hack and cough. Everyone is there so I figure I'm dead last. But hell at least I'm done. As we mill around we get to watch Denny and Aaron battle it out for the trackstand contest. Denny is zen. Aaron is wearing a weird raincape. One hand. No hands. Aaron puts a footdown and Denny wins! The winners are called out. Denny's new trophy is a triumph of engineering. A silver chalice with the Greenlake path etched along the base. The race winner is a sly, closet Cat 1-2 who joined the race at the last minute. And he's wearing SHORTS. Alas Denny did not win the chalice this month, but he does go home with a huge bottle of cheap beer. And me? Shit if I didn't come across first for the ladies. I had no idea. But you want to give me a bottle of blackberry brandy? Hell ok! I haven't had liquor in my system for about an hour so it's time to replenish. Thanks!

12:41 a.m. - Back to Zack's place dry and warm and tucked into bed. Not bad for under an hour's work.

The newest Master

Today beget a new participant in the 35-39 Masters racing category. I am now half way betwix 30 and 40. It's been a terrific ride so far. We'll see how much of an advantage I get over ladies 5 years older than me. Masters Nats? If I ever put down this bottle of beer long enough to get serious and train.

Did spend the happy day with the best gang of biking hooligans a girl could ever ride with. A few of us met at Shorties for pre-ride pitchers and they even bought me expensive beer! No PBR tonight. Off to Westlake to meet up with everyone else. Daniel greeted me with mini chocolate cupcakes! Half of them were gone and some of them were smooshed, but dang what a thoughtful jesture. Off to Uwajimaya for a differnt kind of menu. Sake and bean cakes and seaweed oh my! Then up up up to Cappy Hill to see the new 2020 bike shop in the works. More beer and seaweed for everyone. Alex is going to have a sweet shop there. Perfect neighborhood and perfect friendly shop for bikes in need. We left Alex and his dog Beanie to race down 24th off Cappy Hill. Some of the kids flew down the hill unclipped...in the rain...Rosemary and I leaned on the brakes and cranks. I just turned 35 and don't want to end it now. We regrouped at Husky Stadium then rode up to Pies n' Pints where Zack surprised me with the most awesomest cake ever made: A Guinness chocolate cake with Baileys icing. Holy YUM! He was so sweet and bought the whole cake so everyone could enjoy. More beer, more fun. More riding. Off to the Nickerson Saloon. At this point I barely remember where my pedals are, let alone how to ride. Not something you necessarily want to admit. But somehow a few of us stayed together enough to navigate down Stone Way and over the Fremont Bridge to the next locale. At this point I was done and could only intake water. Unfortunately the grill was closed but - aha! I still had a sandwich I bought at lunchtime. And the beancakes from Uwajimaya! Nothing like squishy powdery mystery globs when your at the end of a night of drinking. Everyone devoured them and only briefly mentioned how nasty they really looked.

Tired. Must. Ride. Home. Somehow. Lordy lordy if I could count the number of times I've had to muster the fortitude to drag my ass home after a night a fun. I've made it this far I'm sure I have a few more nights of strength in me. Rosemary took care of me and navigated home. The cranks turned. The forks lay straight. The wheels kept their momentum. I'm home. I'm going to bed. I'm going to have another great year.

23 Days

It's rain. You live in the fucking PNW. Get over it. You have a roof over your head and warm clothes and hot food. You are not a member of the Squamish or Makah or Salish tribe from hundreds of years ago who had to endure this weather year after year in shabby clothes and puny shelter and hunt and gather your food. Give me a fucking break you whiney bastards. Go download some shit for your Ipod and sit in front of the computer and whine a little more. If you can't handle a little rain that replenishes the watersheds and gives life to the trees and flowers and salmon then move the fuck away. 23 consecutive days of rain. Oh fucking no! Heaven for-fucking-bid that nature gets her turn to get some rest and soak up some goodness and wash herself of the toxins we coat her with. I for one enjoy being hydrated. It makes my blood run smooth and strong, it makes me fast and fleet, it purifies my soul. Enjoy skiing much? Then shut the fuck up. Enjoy the free, cheap water that flows out of your tap? Then shut the fuck up. Enjoy the moss and cedars and ferns that make this the Evergreen State and not the pallid, gray Northeast? Then shut the fuck up. Take 60 seconds of your precious life to consider what those ever more precious raindrops do for our earth. Drink up, my dear Gaia, drink up.

Where the sun hides in winter

Started the New Year in good form, just returned home from a week in Puerto Vallarta. Aside from the hoards of Large Midwestern Americans who think they're Cortez and have claimed Mexico for themselves, it was a tan and fabulous adventure with mi amore. Temps in the 80s, sunny skies, warm water, pelicans, humpbacks, beachcoming, surfing, mtb-ing, drinking, eating, sleeping, repeat. We fled the tourist hell of PVR and tried to find the smaller, slower essence of true Mexico. We were somewhat successful and my sweet natured tour guide did a smashing job of connecting with the locals and receiving the most rewarding gesture of any trip abroad - laughter and smiles united among the tongues of two languages. Our mountain bike trip brought us to a remote mountain spring where we dipped into the cold, refreshing pools, and soared above the hawks as we climbed above the valleys and then bombed down the hills in a fraction of the time that it took us to slowly inch our way up the dry, dusty roads. We surfed with bronze gods and goddesses who call these warm water shores their home and even got a few nods of acknowledgement and kudos. We chowed on quesadillas and tacos made from scratch in front of our eyes by two women at their stand on a cobblestoned street on the edge of where other tourists dare to wander. We took the local bus and relied on our feet and scattered words of Espanol. Starting out the New Year among new faces and sunsets, remembering what a splendid world it is outside your narrow walls and what it means to stretch out and touch what lies beyond.

To A New Year

No bad poetry or dreadful essays. Just a few words:

Simplicity

Compassion

Strength

Live well and be good to each other in the new year.

My new toy

Santa loooooooooves toys. Especially toys that beep and record superfluous data. So when I asked Santa for a heart rate monitor, sans bells and whistles, I should have known better. Turns out that not only is Santa an alpha-nerd, but his bike buddies include the head of physical therapy at a major university and several senior Olympian cyclists. I can see them at their favorite cafe midway through their Sunday bike ride drinking cappacinos, nerding out, and throwing down all the latest stats for HRMs on the market.

So here I sit with this fancy gizmo that wraps around my chest and synchs up with a watch the size of Paris Hilton's engagement ring that synchs up to my computer via infrared lightbeams. It beeps a lot when I hit the buttons. The backlight is not in the same league as Indiglo however. It has a cute little bike icon when it records my HR. It comes with installation software and an instruction manual obviously written by a man. That is to say, the instructions go no where and never answer my questions. Finally after two days I figured out how to set the date and time. Getting the HRM to actually record my HR was surprisingly more simple than the date and time. I even downloaded the data to my computer in minutes. HaHA! A graph! The numbers go up and down and across. Figures, numbers, data. I can relate with this. I am to know these numbers and learn their patterns so that I can unleash my potential. But for now, I play.

I wore my new toy to last night's Thursday night ride. I wonder if Polar ever anticipated people monitoring their HR while they downed mulled wine in the rain or played tandem footdown or waited for their friends at Dicks or threw darts whilst drinking nasty PBR. Yeah I don't think so either. But herein lies my graphing of +7 hours of being strapped into my HRM:



A few peaks of exertion interspersed with lulls of libation. Pay no attention to the elevation. I still have to figure out how to reset that. Shouldn't be so hard to do since I live at fucking sea level, but I'm sure it will beep a few times to tell me what a moron I am.

CX season's snow capped finale

Well that was interesting. They said that Jerry Baker had predicted snow for the last race of the year back in September. They don't call him The Godfather for nothing. Our final race in the ECC series was down in the hick town of Bonney Lake, WA, about an hour south of Seattle. I predicted that the weather would be cold. Ok smarty pants that wasn't hard to figure out. As we got closer we could see frost on the ground. Ok. Some black ice on the roads. Ok yeah. Hmmm that looks like a nice covering of snow on the ground. Interesting. We pulled into the Kelly Creek race area and were met with 3 inches of snow and ice as far as the eye could see. Fields and fields of crunchy, slippery white stuff. I had to put my jeep into 4wd to get into a parking place. (Note to self: the 4wd still works, we're good for mountain travel this winter.) I got out of the jeep and just started laughing. There was nothing else to do but get the right attitude off the bat. My friends were rather dumbfounded. They had never mountain biked before this cx season let alone ridden on snow let alone on ice. They were about to get a quick lesson. One junior reported back that it had taken him 20 minutes to ride around the course in some ridiculous granny gear. Great. I didn't have a choice in gears and would have to make do. I worried about having to slog through the entire effing course. Great. Everyone else and their silly gears. So much for going all ballz out on the last race of the year. Well if I wasn't going to do well then neither was anyone else. haHA!!

We did a few warmup laps and I got ample satisfaction when it proved that everyone else was having as much difficulty as I was. Slipping, sliding, swerving, swearing. Going no where fast. I did notice that after a hundred people had taken a few laps that a nice track was forming to make the going a bit easier. Hmmmm. This might be possible. There was still ice in spots, but having some semblance of trail would make things much more doable.

We gathered at the start and everyone was bundled like Ralphie's little brother from A Christmas Story. I was still showing some skin on my calves thanks to the Greyhound Juice I rubbed on them. Intimidation is 90% of the battle I say. The first Masters group was off up the icy hill and a few of them took some tumbles. Great. The second group of Masters took off a minute later and several met the same fate. Tumbles, sliding, chaos. I needed to get ahead of the pack and out of the way before they started bumbling up that hill too. No need to slow myself down due to others' incompetence.

"10 seconds ladies.....GO!!" And we were off. I tried to stay behind Jenny, the series leader, but I quickly had words with the icy road which had other ideas for my tires. It was a mix of trying to stay upright, trying to stay on one line, trying to watch who else was swerving into you, and trying to keep up with who's in front. Damn, somehow a dozen girls got ahead of me up the hill. Oh well, I shall pick you off one by one my minions.

I quickly realized that passing girls would be the trick to the whole race. The narrow track that had been worn down in the snow was the only way around the course. If you tried to pass by going around in the fresh snow you instantly sunk down and slowed to a stop. Fuck. I stubbornly tried it twice and finally relented to Plan B: Pass whenever an dry spot opens up and go like hell. It worked. Boom, pass two girls on a well worn stretch of snow. Boom, pass a third over a bumpy dry section of roots. Tennis Shoe Mom was on the side of the trail with a mechanical. Sorry honey. The race was slow and like playing hopscotch. I'd catch up to one girl and have to pace behind her slow ass until I could pass her. But it worked. At every opening I hopped past her like she was standing still. Aren't you going to try and catch me?? Jeez what's your deal? Tired already? I have a feeling I pissed off a few of them as I recklessly bombed past, but damn girls it's a RACE, it's not a debutante ball. I'm not going to be polite about this. Not now.

Two laps down and I've passed another 5 girls or so plus a few odd Masters men. I impatiently try to pass another guy and I stall in the fresh snow. Dammit, and little junior racer Devon takes my spot. I jump back in and sit on her tail for another half lap. We swap spots a few times. I feel like we're the only two girls racing this thing and everyone else is just out for a Sunday stroll. Finally! Someone to play with! I pass her on one slight uphill, then she passes me at another opening. We're on eachother's tail the whole time. Half a lap left. I know that there is an open spot in the trees before the runup. I can see it in front of me. If she goes left, I'll go right. I try to anticipate where she'll move and go for it and it works. She doesn't have a chance to jump and catch me. I'm off in the snow again heading for the runup. The little shit is 20 years younger than me and could easily get me on this runup, but I gun it. I can hear her team cheering for her to catch up with "that lady" so I gun it even more after I get to the top and back on my dinosaur. I'm not having a junior catch me.

Down the off-camber and across the ice field. I'm cautious not to fall, but am I too cautious that she might catch me? I have no idea where she is now. I can't hear her. The cowbells and the snow and the cold air on my face provide me no answer. I gun it as much as I can in this stupid snow. I'm across the last part of the cow field and approaching the final icy climb. Is she behind me? I can't tell. Is the crowd is cheering for everyone or for me or for a final showdown? I pick my line and gun it up the hill. I pass a few more guys who have lost it all. The announcer calmly calls my approach to the finish and says nothing about my rival so I finally realize that she is no threat. I cross the line and hear my placing: Third. Not fucking bad! Sweet! My best placing yet and I feel like I'd hardly ridden at all. The snow and the pacing behind others didn't take it out of me. It was more a race of patience and strategy and knowing when to make your move. Hmmm somewhat like track. A good lesson to carry over the next few months until I feel that surge of competition again.

Singlespeedo

Major kudos to this guy who braved a Portland Cross Crusade race to show what he was made of (quite literally). There really, really, REALLY needs to be a dedicated Singlespeedo category next year. Come on guys, DO IT!!!! Show these race fans some CX meat!!! Give 'em a reason to ring that cowbell!!