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?

will travel

The old fishing town of Vang, on the Danish island of Bornholm, is essentially a bend in the road- and the road ends shortly after the houses do. We’d been dropped off in the middle of a field outside of town by a well-meaning bus driver, only to find that the address we’d scribbled down for climbing beta was in fact for a random and deserted farmhouse.

One can get a good sense of their relationship while co-carrying a duffle through 3km of nettles; we thought it was mostly funny.

After pitching our tent and spending one night in the storm of the century, we discovered 1) a fishing hytte, perfect for brewing tea under a roof in the morning, and 2) an active quarry south of town with a lot of rock and a few bolted routes. We met a guy there named Dan who somehow already knew we were camping on the edge of town and cooking in the hytte- apparently word travels fast in Vang. He told us the whole place is about to become some sort of sports destination. I think that eliminating the running tractors and bewildered tourists would detract from the Vang experience, but I’m no expert. The beautiful rock, ocean views and funny, balancey routes speak for themselves.

Next we went North to explore sea cliffs. As someone relatively new to climbing, I was struck by how a solitary bolt in a slab of rock could feel like a missive from some long-lost friend. Among the masses of other tourists tottering around almot-too-cute historical sites, these little bits of metal gave us what felt like an exclusive peek into the island’s gritty granite soul.

Between climbs we spent most of our time rambling through the sort of woods where the appearance of a troll or fairy would not have been the least bit surprising. Hans Christian Andersen is from Denmark after all- it wasn’t hard to see the source of his inspiration.

Gigantic orange slugs were plentiful and slanted wooden gates separated the properties, which were strung together with well-beaten trails. One of the things that really impressed me about Bornholm was the omnipresence of bike paths; there was at least one dirt cyclevej to get you anywhere you wanted to go, and most of the other dirtbags we encountered were traveling by bike.

We talked about country music over grilled veggies (a delicacy!) with some Danish bike adventurers, and a few nights later we met some Poles who were nice enough, but who hinted through the language barrier that we’d somehow stolen all the hot water for showers, despite their having showered before us.

All we could do was shrug apologetically.

At this point we’d relocated from Vang to a farmhouse near a town called Allinge, which was much bigger and featured not one but two grocery stores! The farmhouse provided a nice mowed lawn for tents and an outbuilding nextdoor with three toilets, a shower, and sinks for hands and for dishes. It was a sort of camping hostel run on the honor system; cold showers: free, hot showers: 20krone. Natureplatts: 20krone per night per person. Deposit payment in the mailbox on your way out.

I just had one question: Who takes a cold shower??

We spent two nights there in ultimate luxury for the equivalent of 20 USD, and while it felt unbelievably good to scrub six days of grime off our bodies and to use (gasp!) real toilets, the coolest thing about the farmhouse was more evidence of people like us come before.

In the communal cooking shed, we found these photos of a nearby quarry, with routes drawn in and named. Helmets adorned the walls and antique, rock-cleaning crowbars hung by the door. We found ourselves checking out the forearms of the house owner as he ambled out to his tractor in the morning, completely ignoring us; could he be our mystery pal, the route-setter?

We’d never know. But we did go play in the quarry, which featured, again, some beautiful solid granite and fun climbing. Again an active tractor barred the entrance, and again we found a trickle of tourists peering curiously down from the tops of the pitches.

After a particularly trying day on a spider-infested, sulfurous quarry wall elsewhere on the island (the only bad rock we ever encountered) we attempted to recoup back at the farmhouse by playing board games and drinking hot chocolate- our best impression of normal humans. Unfortunately relaxation fails to hold either of our attention for long, so we found ourselves back at our go-to quarry in the late afternoon, hoping to redeem our last day on the rocks of Bornholm. 

I was exhausted by mid-climb, scared and generally over groping rocks for the day. Things began to dissolve into a minor tantrum on my end of the rope while CJ waited patiently on belay in the fast-weakening light. The whole thing was similar to the duffel bag situation as far as relationship tests, but eventually I got fed up enough to claw my way up the rest of the climb. I’m sure it wasn’t pretty, but as the edges and definition of the rock faded I had to resort to climbing by feel, which illogically lent me confidence.

I anchored in at the top with bats circling my head, then lowered back to earth through the dim purple air, decidedly more at peace with myself than I ever would have been after playing Danish judo all afternoon.

We shuttled the duffle back into town at dawn the next morning, savored a few last, sublime pastries, then caught a ferry back to the mainland. The fact that we were back in Copenhagen in under four hours is a testament to the efficiency of the Scandinavian public transit system- but the city nearly overloaded our little country mouse brains.

After attempting to shop and getting saucer-eyed, we ended up taking a nap on the grass in the vast city park, then visiting the (incredibly) free national art museum. We capped off the day with a little (ok, a lot) of all-you-can eat Chinese buffet, which provided a foreshadowing taste of home- MSG is apparently the same the world over.

This is literally the only picture I managed to take in Copenhagen, and it’s of algae.

Now I’m back in the land of the free and the home of the brave. My legs are so riddled with scrapes and spider bites that shaving them is pretty much pointless, and I’ve got a bag filled with a mixture of of cams and severely mildewed clothes.

It doesn’t look like most peoples’ idea of a romantic getaway, but for us it pretty much fit the bill. Guess the Sonics had it right.

Also this

Dog Days

Three rad chicas, one mellow pup, some rocks and a day-old scone.

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.