Extra Helpings

Dessert and desert are two tricky words. You don’t want to offer someone a sandy swath of land after dinner, nor do you want to toil through dunes of ice cream. Ok, honestly, I do, but that’s beside the point- these are two easy words to mix up.

The way I remember it is that Dessert, with its extra helping of “s,” is the one you always want more of. Desert is more parched. It’s good to keep ‘em straight, although if you find yourself in New Mexico for the holidays, you’ll definitely get hearty portions of both.

Last week I went back to the Southwest for the first time post-bike. The high desert has always been a winter and spring training ground for me, so the trip was not without a little nostalgia. The tableaux of pinion and adobe, the quality of the light and the smell of the air, even the unique pale color of the sky in the morning-all those little deserty things tended to hit me when I least expected them to, and it was with some dismay that I caught my brain more and more often in bike mode.

The thought of riding has made me consistently nauseous since May, but somehow waking up last week felt pointless without a training plan. Raucous quiche breakfasts and holiday baked goods felt wrong when desert mornings (in my mind) have always been reserved for black coffee, oatmeal, and the quiet that comes before a six hour ride. My hands suddenly didn’t know what to do without a bike to maintain; my legs twitched a lot.

But what I found beneath my inner antsy was exactly what I’d been missing as a racer. Like a speedboat skimming the surface of every place I visited, when I was training I didn’t tend to find a lot of depth; all surfaces feel the same under your tires if you go fast enough. Yet finally, with a little time to actually look around, as well as some actual Southwest residents to show me the ropes, I got a chance to taste a few new layers of desert.

We started off the week with a bike tour on the banks of the “mighty” Rio Grand, though it was like no ride I’ve done in the last year. Wearing grins, sneakers and nothing resembling spandex or helmets, we ripped through bermed, rabbitty trails and ducked low hanging branches, spraying each other with dirt and leaves, v-brakes squealing. It was the almost-forgotten feeling of riding for the sake of riding, now with the added bonus of a deep-fried turkey feast afterwards.

Oh, you’ve never seen a turkey deep-fried? It takes two beers to heat the oil and three beers to cook the bird- a measure of time I rather like. Especially because we happened to be drinking homemade wine.

The next day was a departure from the horizontal world with a chimney scramble up Cabezon Peak. Named in spanish after the word “head”, the “peak” is actually a gigantic volcanic plug, which is what happens when magma cools in the neck of an volcano. When the sides of the volcano erode away, we’re left with these basalt formations, perfect for clambering around on. 

And of course, no departure from bikeland would be complete without a trip to the gun club. 

I was amazed at how profoundly I was affected by holding a weapon like this. Sure there was the basic thrill of making a really loud noise, but then there was the stunning accuracy and the realization that I was firing something designed specifically to poke holes in other people. I wasn’t about to pass up the chance to pull the trigger a few times, but other than that I felt instinctively wary of these machines; I prefer ones with two wheels and parts that don’t explode. I’d probably make a terrible soldier.

I might be beginning to miss the quiet mornings and black coffee, but I’ve seen that life post bike has a lot of richness and love if you keep your arms and eyeballs open. Last thanksgiving was spent mostly trying to stay lean in my off-season. Not only was it kind of bland and anxious, it was a losing battle. This thanksgiving I got to meet some folks who taught me about fried turkeys, assault rifles and volcanic plugs. I got to ride a bike and eat plenty of dessert in the desert, because it’s all on-season from here.

Amazing what a year can do, eh?

Eating my young

I pulled my vegetable babies screaming from the earth (or at least I imagined screaming) and then… I ate them. What you see here is the entirety of the produce from my pathetic garden; five chode-ish carrots and one stunted beet. I couldn’t even make a salad.

I guess the winter squash might struggle along- they’ve taken over the rest of the greenhouse but have yet to produce any flowers. I suspect that at this point they’re pretty much just growing out of spite.

Also, my new pal Annie on Shafthouse. The only woman I’ve ever met who can rock two pairs of shorts without looking like a marshmallow.

Another September

If someone had told me, six months ago, that I would not be in Champery this week, I wouldn’t have believed them. Sure, in March I was spending three hours a day literally crying on the rollers while my friends got goggletanned; sure I was nauseated by the very sight of my bike, but I still hadn’t realized at the time how badly I needed a change. I was going to the damn world championships in September.

What I found as I rode through the snow alone after Sea Otter was that the change had taken place in me whether I was ready for it or not. I couldn’t ignore the commercial, lonely, expensive, unhealthy and generally unrealistic side of racing any longer. I wanted my equilibrium back. I wanted a life.

I remember telling people the day I decided. It didn’t feel real, and part of me wondered if I was lying for shock value, if I’d eventually crawl back to the bike like an addict to the pipe. But as the weeks passed and my iron grip on my fitness weakened, other intriguing things began to creep into my consciousness.  My attitude towards walking is one of them.

Walking used to be something I avoided at all costs. It’s at the head of a list of muscle-sapping activities that I’d slowly eradicated from my life over the last few years of training. Bottom line was that I could ride a lot harder and longer if I sat instead of wandering around in my off time. Sure, I got to know the feeling of having a highly specialized musculature, yet in retrospect there are lot of German and Swiss and Canadian towns I wish I’d gotten to explore more.

Now I walk for about five hours a night. I carry heavy tubs of dishes and plates of food all over the place. Occasionally I even go on hikes before work, meaning that on some days I might spend close to ten hours, just walking. At first the little panic buttons I’d set up in my brain continued to go off- what are you doing? You’re wrecking your legs! How are you going to be able to function on tomorrow’s ride??

Then I discovered- riding slow, riding when your legs feel like wood, riding badly, essentially, is ok. So is not riding, if that’s what the day calls for. This unfathomable luxury to decide continues to baffle me.

Furthermore, I’ve discovered I really like walking. I love the way a landscape can unfold gradually, how you can smell and hear and see everything around you. I also like climbing, and how you can use every muscle in your body to accomplish so absurd a goal as scaling a piece of rock. I’ve been having so much fun doing other things that I’d started to wonder if I’d ever go back to the bike.

The person I was six months ago thought she’d be racing in Switzerland today. Instead, she facilitated the start of a women’s clinic, which is her best attempt to give back a little of what this sport has given her. It’s entirely possible that I’m just struggling to swallow life as a civilian while maintaining some grip on what used to make me special- but I figure that it’s not totally selfish if I help some girls learn to change a flat en route.

Then I got an unexpected night off of work. It was a cool, golden, perfect fall afternoon and I knew in an instant what I wanted to do with it.

It felt like one of those moments when two realities overlap. If I hadn’t been snowed on after Sea Otter I might have been starting a race on the other side of the globe this afternoon. In that reality I see myself as hungry and lonely, yet considerably fitter and more sure of my purpose in the world.

In this reality I’m drifting. Out of shape. Assembling pieces of my life in a mold I’m not sure I even like yet. Yet what gave me goosebumps as I found my rhythm with the sun at my back, was that in both realities I was on my bike. There are just times when you know you’re doing what the universe wants you to be doing, regardless of where or how you’re doing it.

And I honestly think I’m pedaling through the better reality.

Sibs

I realized in this last week that I am not a very great sister. I’m the sort of sibling who expects way too much, won’t help you decide what to wear/pack/eat, and will confiscate your gameboy indefinitely. But I’ll back up a bit.

Last week I drove down to Sun Valley to see my family at nationals. As I am now a definite “quitter”, I wasn’t sure how the whole thing would hit me, but it actually didn’t suck too much; it turns out that the bike world (gasp!) continues to function without me. In fact, most people hadn’t even noticed I was gone- I had to tell a lot of them that I wasn’t racing, and as I’d neglected to prepare a set of reasons why, my answer tended to vary. I told some that I’m boycotting UCI racing. I told others that I had no desire to ride my bike up a shitty fireroad. I made myself sound way nicer than I am and told some that I just came to pass bottles to Jack, and I simply told others that I quit. For some the explanation came easy, for others I almost broke into tears. So it goes.

I rode both courses (the amateur version was way cooler) touched base with the trailmaster and other old friends, and did some fun riding with my parents and brothers. The trails in Sun Valley are like flowy golden rollercoasters- totally rad. Then, after one last vegan meal with my hippie parents, I stole both my brothers and forced them to come back to Montana with me.

Did I do it because I thought they’d actually enjoy it here, or because I’m lonely and I want to have people around me who are powerless to leave? The world may never know. What we do know is that it has been a trying week for the Tanner boys.

On day one I decided to take us rock climbing. Gingerboy led beautifully, setting up a top rope for his less adept siblings- I did a lap, then tied a dubious Jack into a harness for his very first climb outside. He started off enthusiastically enough, but upon reaching the first overhang was suddenly stricken by the tightness of his shoes, the scaryness of the route, a spider in that crack etc. etc. and decided that down was wiser than up. A nicer sibling would have cheerfully lowered him back to earth, ruffled his hair, said something along the lines of “good try, sport!” But I let him hang.

I let him hang there for nearly 20 minutes and I refused to let him down.

And then something amazing happened; I watched him decide to try. His 12 year old body became fluid and adept with determination- he sent the overhang and slowly finished the climb, gradually refusing to answer our (somewhat jeering) calls and focusing instead on reaching the top. As I still occasionally see him in my minds eye as an infant just learning to sit up, this was an incredibly cool transformation to witness. My baby brother! Climbing 5.9 like a real person!

When he came down he was still mad at us. I couldn’t have been prouder.

On day two I decided to take us mountain biking. Did I realize no one had brought water? Yes. Was I going to pack their bags for them? No way. You can guess how that one turned out. I offered everyone ice cream afterwards for being such good sports (they weren’t really good sports) but the Daywalker was so traumatized that he just got a cold drink. Jack accepted some sherbert, but he didn’t really seem to enjoy it. Sorry, guys.

On day three I decided to take us to the library (This is post gameboy confiscation) It seemed like a good rest day activity, but then I realized that there’s no point in renting books from a place you’ll be leaving in two days. Still, I was fed up with hearing their voices, so I set them loose to get into whatever they could find and told them to meet me in two hours- it was not to be. I felt guilty after about 45 minutes and went to go collect them again. 

Today I think I’ll be taking them on a hike. Maybe I’ll pack water and spare clothing for them. Maybe I’ll bring a chocolate bar for the top. Maybe I’ll let them stop and rest when they get tired. Then again, maybe I’ll just run ahead and poke fun at their pathetic labors to keep up. You’ll thank me when you’re older! I’ll yell.

I just don’t know how else to do it.

Hopefully they take something positive from this whole trip because, despite how it may seem, I really do love my brothers.

The wheels keep turning

It was two thirty and we’d organized an impromptu pedalfest. Windows rolled down to invite the rainsoaked fresh air into our fart-leaden truck, we observed the gas light’s sporadic appearances and searched the trees for our trailhead.

I found myself stressing- I had work in less than three hours- would we make it in time? Visions of a twilight pilgrammage to some godforsaken gas pump flitted through my head along with the usual boss-tapping-watch and disappointed-head-shaking regulars. “YOU’RE FIRED!” I melodramatically berated myself through clenched teeth.

Then I realized that the wheels were still turning. The dust cloud behind us was still billowing, and there was still a favorite trail to be ridden in the three hours that still stretched out, luxuriously, ahead of us. If we ran out of gas, we’d run out of gas. And deal.

As it happened, we managed to not only reach said trailhead but enjoy a delectable, dryish ride, yuk it up with various other folks, and roll back into town with both gas and time to spare. The experience got me thinking about life in the moment, but I still needed more proof.

On yesterday’s ride I reached a saddle with only slight blood-taste in my throat, and as I chugged water like the recreational rider I’m becoming, I happened to check my brakes. Uh oh. I’d known about the bubble for a while, but hadn’t bothered to bleed it, resorting instead to pumping frantically whenever it looked like I was about to start descending. What I discovered at that point, however, was an un-pumpable lever. Damn my lackluster bike maintenance! I would have no rear brake for the descent.

Some dude wearing full downhill gear and a shit eating grin passed by as I continued to halfheartedly pump at my lever. Boo hoo. I had a fleeting jealousy of his squishy, presumably well-maintained, big bike. And especially his knee pads.

Yet a few minutes later, with nothing else for it, I started down. At first I picked my way along gingerly, cringingly, picturing a horrendous endo over muddy roots, down the hillside, carbon and bones splintered against trees- but then I realized that the wheels were still turning. Mud was still flinging itself up into my teeth. I hadn’t crashed yet, so why behave like I was about to?

Thus came about Lesson 233 of Things I Learned On My Bike: ride it like you’re not going to crash, and you probably won’t crash. Probably.

With some misgivings I let go of my one brake. Instantly the trees blurred into star-wars proportions. Both wheels came to be airborne seemingly more often than dirtborne, rocks and mud flying. The trail was coming as fast as I could handle it, but surprisingly no faster- it’s amazing how far a little faith in yourself and your machine can take you. Fearing the crash only brings it along faster. Envisioning the worst only takes away from the best

And a few turns later I passed my downhiller pal with a wild cry of “NO BRAKES!” To which he responded “Oh Jesus, she’s on a hardtail.”

lest we forget some truly cringe-worthy descents...

So my meditation for this week is to live in the moment. You can wait for the gas to run out or the brakes to fail or even for mundane things like an email to come or not come. You can wait forever for anything you want with a cringe in your heart, or you can embrace what you’ve got and ride like you’re not going to crash.

The Fun Factor

photo: Paolo Marchesi

I was thinking about it the other day, and I realized I’ve ridden in some really, really fun bike races. They weren’t just the ones where I felt good or enjoyed good weather either- fun races often come when you least expect them. Like when the conditions are comically bad, or when you feel so horrible that you can barely function.

Sure, some fun races end in victory, but more often they end in the coughing of blood, or a broken bike, or a broken body. The one thing every fun race shares is change; with every finish you become a slightly different person than the one who lined up to start. Fun races are why we do this sport.

Sea Otter was not a fun race. It was a lot of things- sunny, short, spectator-friendly, riddled with poison oak- but it was not, by any stretch of the imagination, the sort of race that pushes personal limits. It was a fat-tire race with a skinny-tire soul, starting and finishing on pavement with not a lot of mountain in between for redemption. Unfortunately I left my road tactics (and apparently my will to race) back in 2009.

Afterwards I went to Bubba Gump with my ceaselessly supportive and awesome relatives, stopped by the Crown and Anchor (does this make it an annual tradition?) to catch up with some friends, then un-soberly packed up my bike at around 4AM. Back to the land of the Ice and Snow- literally. We got 18 inches that night.

I went on another frigid, solo ride a few days later and suddenly realized a bunch of things all at once.

1. Racing spectator-friendly courses is not fun.
2. Training in the snow is not fun.
3. Training, traveling, and racing alone is not fun.
4. Not being able to ski, climb, or camp is not fun.
5. If I don’t start having fun riding again, I may never ride again, period.

Big changes are in the works. Images of the interim:

Pow Wow:

Mo’s Trunk Show:

A Trail Meeting

Elkhorn Shenanigans