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!!

A sweet portent

I had a dream while I was in Baton Rouge last month:

It was a cold, rainy fall afternoon in Seattle and I was walking down a sidewalk with the rain dripping down my face. I was smiling and enjoying the wet, sleepy day because by my side was a fellow whose company I enjoyed. We were bundled up in our northwest woolens, huddling close as we walked to avoid the raindrops en masse. We opened the door to my Fairy Godfather's shop to get out of the rain. It was warm and dry inside and his windows were steamed up. We only stayed for a little bit, then continued on our walk to a coffee shop down the street.

I thought I woke up after this dream, but apparently I didn't, because you've been by my side this whole cold, rainy autumn, riding next to me as we go to the shop to enjoy its warmth, new toys, and endless stories. Then again I must be awake because I can look into your brown eyes and feel your fuzzy face against my cheek, what no dream could ever provide, no matter how much I tried. Yes I must be wide awake.

The miracle of rest

All ballz out for 2 months of singlespeed cyclocross racing plus a few alleycats and drunken weekday rides thrown in for extra merriment. The knees had cried uncle. The mind and the body had thrown in the towel in search of rest and recovery. I could barely pedal my bike let alone walk up a flight of stairs. The race at Steilacoom had pushed my right knee to the edge of tolerance. One too many steep hills. A dozen too few gears. The thought of getting up in the dark on a Sunday morning to race made me roll my eyes and pull the covers back over my head. Fine. I'll rest. I'll take a few weekends off from racing and pull out the geared bike to let the knees recoop. Rosemary can stay in the stable chewing her alfalfa and getting fat. Her mom can get lots of rest and enjoy the freedom of sleeping in late and nuzzling up to a well trimmed beard when the day finally awakens us from slumber.

Ahhhhhh rest. It was wonderful. But something was unfinished. We went to the Evergreen race to cheer on our friends who were still gunning it for 4 laps every Sunday morning. The people. The colorful kits. The pinning of numbers. The laughs. The blown lungs. The bulging eyeballs. The fog. The cowbells. The fleece. The mittens. The wool hats. The hugs at the end. The relief of testing your body and succeeding by crossing the finish line. The mud. The sweat. The hamburgers with lots of ketchup and freshly sliced tomatos and lettuce. The $2 bottles of Henry's.

I wanted to return. My three weeks off had done me good. I stirred. My legs wanted to throttle again. My mind was eager to challenge myself and others. I wanted my points back! I had averaged 5th place out of 30 ladies in every race. On my singlespeed dinosaur mind you. Only two races left in the season and I was not ready to call it quits. South Seatac's sandpits called my name and I etched it on my calendar.

The morning broke with cold sunshine. It was SWEET! The rain from the preceding days had formed a slick layer of black mud along the shady singletrack while the sandpits absorbed the rain and formed a firm track to ride on top of rather than sinking down to your rims. Jane pinned my number, I rubbed some Greyhound Juice on my bare legs, and we warmed up twice around the course. At the start line I was no longer called out front with my top 10 placings so I resigned to the back of the pack. Bah. No worries. I shall pick you off one by one. GO! We set off up the hilly pavement and I passed half the girls as they contemplated what gear to shift into. The sandpits, the dismounts, the slogging, the bottlenecks, PASSING YEE FRAIL SOULS, the singletrack, the mud, the cowbells. I loved it! Tick tick tick I passed them all save four. I sprinted the last 200 feet as Tim egged me on to pass one last lady. Flying through the finish line and came to a stop and leaned over to hurl, not my breakfast shake, but a mouthful of warm spit. I watched it drip off my heaving lip and into the mud at my foot. I love this shit! Hugs all around. Faces splattered in mud like we're six years old. Mud in teeth. Mud in ears. Mud up your ass. What a fabulous return. Next week at the Kelly Creek final it's all ballz out. The last race. The last hurrah. I'm ready to eat more singlespeed love.