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.

Layover

Too many people and a place between places. Far from home, far from my destination, and I’ve got three hours to fill with hundreds of strangers wearing carefully chosen travel outfits. I’ve met two children under the age of two in the last hour.

Woman carrying two tennis rackets. Androgynous being in khaki and plaid. Ziplock of beef jerkey. Surprising tattoo. Girl with uncombed hair, smelly purple vans, and ridiculous helmet-shaped tanlines…

The fine folks at TSA yanked me back through security because my bike box was leaking a “mysterious white substance.” Good gracious. Luckily it only took a roll of paper towels and a mangled explanation of the wonders of stans to get it back onto the plane. I was psyched to go behind the ticket desk, where I’ve never been before, but then they wouldn’t let me reach in to adjust my shifter, which I could see was going to rub on my fork. Ah, well.

And I was going to avoid the token security joke- but really? Do you people really think I could cause more potential terror with a full bottle of shampoo than with two skewers, a set of wrenches, a shock pump, chain breaker, bolts, cleats, pedals, and a set of very-throwable ninja brake rotors? Really?

You might not be able to tell because I’m still a little sore about my bike, but I really do love airports. I especially love seeing what people have come up with to direct the huge numbers of other people all trying to go places; the little arrows to siphon currents, the icons and alerts- it’s an imperfect system, but usually we manage to fill the gaps. Sometimes not.

For example, after walking through a series of tunnels leading away from our last plane, my flightmates and I encountered, shockingly, a locked door. It was a dead end in the maze we hadn’t known we were in, and suddenly no one knew what to do. The tunnel began to fill up, and people started looking uncomfortable. Luckily, and to our collective relief, an attendant soon opened the door. We trickled out into another series of dividers and arrows, which directed us eventually towards new terminals and the baggage claim. Brilliant.

This time last year I was driving to Monterey from the LUNA summit in San Francisco. I was en route, somewhat unwittingly, to the annual pseudo-alcoholic industry circus that is Sea Otter. Of course I greatly underestimated the effects of baja fogs on race performance, but it was exhilarating to be at the epicenter of all things bike for a few days. I’m on my way back this year a little warier, a lot fitter, and ready to race after a rejuvenating week of ski touring with good friends. Poison oak? Fireroad? Pavement? Bring it on.

Going

When I started bike racing I was infatuated with the concept of going. All I needed was my two-wheeled magic machine and I could go anywhere- away from school, away from home, to different towns, different states- even different countries. I was astonished, at age 15, by how far my own two legs and a set of wheels could take me. Going gave me a sense of power and purpose.

Then the going wasn’t just physical. I realized that training was a good excuse for almost anything, and that racing was an even better one. Soon I wasn’t just getting out of the house; situations, relationships, and problems couldn’t touch me either. My bike could get me out of anything.

It was really pretty convenient- I could entertain any sort of life I felt like, and then when it got boring (which used to happen pretty often) I could just… go. I loved leaving. What I didn’t count on was that I, too, would eventually find myself torn between places. Without exactly meaning to, I’ve gathered some moss, and for the first time in my life I don’t feel that great about ditching it all.

Yep, packing the car for my first trip this year was hard. The word “sacrifice” kept repeating in my head, and I realized for the first time why everyone says this lifestyle can be so difficult. I’m not just leaving a place; I’m leaving my chances of getting any sort of paying job, leaving the comforts of home, and sacrificing (yes, sacrificing) time with the people I love. Yet I’m still doing it. Why? I had plenty of lonely car time to think about it.

The word “sacrifice” is a funny one. To me it’s always had a self-serving, unnecessary sort of drama to it, and when I hear it I picture either a hysterical woman in a frilly dress, wrist clamped theatrically to her forehead, or some kind of frightening ritual involving antlers and blood. Maybe that’s why it was so surprising to me that “sacrifice” was the word in my head this week. I looked it up to try and figure out why. Here’s what I found:

Sacrifice: to give up (something important or valued) for the sake of other considerations

Something important or valued. That was the key. The word was in my head because basically, this was my first taste of sacrifice: somehow I met some important, valuable people who made biking, my magical two-wheeled escape, into merely “other considerations.”  Yet I’m still journeying, alone, a couple states south. It is a sacrifice, and although it lacks antlers, blood, or dresses, it still feels kinda dramatic. Sorry, Important Valuable people…

Unfortunately the universe wasn’t content to let me just leave it at that. By the end of this first drive of the season I’d learn the meaning of sacrificing important valuable mufflers, important valuable headlights, and important valuable sanity (not to mention important valuable money, time, and energy), all to the cause of “bike”.

are you sure your cat can drive?

 

It started when I sacrificed “control” and played skating rink with my car in Idaho, doing a few (graceful) revolutions on the highway before slamming sideways into the snowbank and knocking a bunch of things off my car. I was facing the wrong way, but luckily the semi behind me had been following at a reasonable distance and had time to move over/not hit me. I pulled into the auto body shop (conveniently about 100 yards away… hmmm) and spent about fifteen minutes just trying to control my shaking. Next thought: are my bikes ok!? The mechanics said they thought I’d need to change my pants.

Luckily my dad has some awesome friends in SLC, so I got to stay in a real bed, eat real food, and talk to real (and cool) people that night instead of huddling alone in some godforsaken hotel room. I got my still-cracked muffler wired back into place, scoffed at the $180 it’ll cost to get my headlight fixed, and got back on the road by noon the next day. All good, baby. Sacrifice: take that.  I’m stoked to be alive!

And suddenly, going is still going. I got to Saint George at twilight and smelled the grass and water, saw the red dirt, and started to remember why I make the sacrifices.

Todah Israel

It was getting dark in Jerusalem, but Michelle and I were not going to admit we were lost. We’d gotten distracted by a little shop full of ancient books, and now we were in a part of town with no English subtitles.  We weren’t worried; we were wearing sturdy shoes.

Back at the shop I’d made my purchase and chatted a little with the dredlocked owner, who had mentioned that there was coffee and wifi upstairs. Picturing, irrationally, a sort of mystical Borders-esque interwebs utopia, we’d hurried up the narrow staircase, only to find a coffee pot on a rickety table and some pillows on the floor. It was a cool spot- there were local paintings on the walls and some college-aged orthodox jews playing chess in the corner, but the wifi signal was nonexistent. Ah, well.

Michelle and I were now marching through a dark, eerily undeveloped plot of land, and I started talking loudly about my judo moves, just in case. “Yeah,” Michelle added, “last week some guy said something I didn’t like, so I kicked his head off.” Michelle is tiny and blonde.

“I hate when I have to do that,” I agreed.

As soon as we got to a lit street, we hailed a cab.

The driver, like all Israelis, had his opinion on the current conflict, and upon finding out that we were essentially tourists, he let loose on a bit of a tirade. “It’s brainwashing! It’s inundation!” he yelled, meaning the Jewish birthright, or traditional trip to Israel. “Those tours show the beautiful things here, and they try to get you to make Aliyah, [immigrate] then you foreigners come and buy houses, spend money- it doesn’t help anything!” He was gathering momentum; “They don’t understand- the Palestinians are hurting. They’re trapped. They see more and more people coming, spending money,” he repeated; “it doesn’t help anything! You must know there are many things about Israel that are not beautiful.”

We’d seen many things that were not beautiful, and as he spoke I was remembering our trip through Ramallah a few days before. We’d had to switch to a Palestinian driver and bus to get across the border, and even then, people had stared. Half the buildings had been hollow, with stories upon stories of dark, abandoned window holes; every other lot seemed filled with rubble.

A few more days previous we’d seen the Northern border. “They’re listening to us right now.” The fatigued IDF representative had assured us. “There may even be a target on my back.” She’d pointed out the stands of Lebanese trees, presumably full of forts and hidden weapons, then we’d all turned away and taken photos next to the tanks.

Even the town of Sderot, near Gaza, had blended the beautiful and the ugly. I’d been struck by the colorfully graffitied bus stops and the cement playground structures- especially once I found out they were all bomb shelters. One spraypainted wall had read simply,“I love you,” another, “TUPAC LIVES 4 EVER!”

All I could think to say to the cab driver was, “I’m not Jewish.”

“So why are you here?” he demanded.

“I’m curious.”

Sometimes when you travel, the experience fits itself into your life. You leave what you know for what you don’t, and once there you find a way to see new things in familiar ways- to regain your balance. Other times it’s just the opposite; there are places that simply defy familiar paradigms, and they force you to fit your life into a radically new context. The experience then doesn’t become part of you- you become part of it.

Project Interchange is a program aimed at educating future communicators about the conflict in Israel. I applied with little more than a mild interest in the place, and was absolutely stunned by the wealth of information I got in return. I don’t know how they managed to gather such a range of speakers, but throughout the next week we had the honor of talking with officials, correspondents, mediators, students, citizens and religious leaders, (as well as the occasional taxi driver) all with different specialties and unique perspectives. They were Jews, Arabs, men and women- each with a story to tell, and each more open-minded and articulate than the last. If nothing else I learned that it’s just part of being Israeli to have an opinion- and to share it. It might sound dull to spend a third of winter break voluntarily sitting in what was essentially a classroom setting, but I was more engaged in that week than I’ve been in years of school.

We arrived Tel Aviv at 4AM, only 11 hours late after braving the complete apocalypse that was six inches of snow at JFK airport. The group had trickled in to New York from various delayed/cancelled flights and had congregated, haggardly, at the standby counter. It was a long and uncomfortable night, with the only sustenance being ridiculously expensive, stale sandwiches bought at 2AM from surly baristas. Luckily there are few things like camping on concrete to bond a group of complete strangers, so it was with friends that we entered Israel.

Similarly, it was with friends that we began to realign our preconceptions with the reality of the place. Who is the Jew? The Arab? The Israeli? The Palestinian? Where is Palestine? What is Palestine? We all had vague ideas, all of which needed at least slight adjustment.

One of my favorite stops on the trip was the community center in Jaffa where Jewish and Arab kids of all ages were encouraged to participate in sports and dance classes together. It was a relatively safe, comfortable building, and everyone in it seemed to decompress, if only a little. One of the things each speaker throughout the week seemed to stress was the importance of communication- of mutual recognition from both sides of the conflict- and what better way to establish connections than through childhood friendships? Of course there are still people building walls and firing missiles, but there are also people seeking to sustain contact nonetheless. It was inspiring to see.

One speaker characterized Israel as a land where “antiquity and modernity are constantly in play” and it’s true. In one day I got lost in the old city, was yelled at by shop keepers and wailing wall guards for taking pictures, broke bread with a local rabbi and his family, then ordered Gold Star (Israeli Beer) at a throbbing, smokey club downtown. I got the dead sea in my eye while a bunch of pasty tourists posed behind us, and petted one of the many parking lot camels. I even found some new friends who, like my friends at home, love nothing more than to geek out on mountain bikes over pizza and tea. Their dog was named Guinness after the beer, and we all greeted him with a hearty “Shalom!” when he came inside after his adventures in the yard. The very next day I found myself examining the curled metal petals created by hundreds of exploded Hamas rockets in Sderot.

It was the constant contrast that left my head spinning. Any given interaction could be as warm as the knowing, playfully challenging glance I got from a priest in the church of the holy Sepulchre, or as hostile as the hotel worker who wouldn’t even look at me as she handed me a replacement key. The Israeli people, as one speaker put it, are like cactus fruit. They kvetch and criticize, and they thrive on crisis rather than longterm planning, but ultimately, they’re all just trying to make the desert bloom.

One of my favorite images (not captured on film, due to the aforementioned yelling) was of a young woman at the wailing (or western, to locals) wall. She was about my height, and dressed like Avril Lavigne in a black skirt and tights, black jacket, and cutoff black and red striped gloves. Her nails were painted rave-sparkle gold, but her hands were pressed so hard against the stone that her knuckles were white. Her heavily made-up eyes were closed tight and she was muttering a prayer.

The area near the wall is partitioned into male and female sections- the mens side is about twice as large as the women’s and is essentially a mosh pit with dancing, singing and general rowdiness. The women’s side, on the other hand, is subdued. There is dancing, but it’s slower, and those nearest the wall tend to be crying, albeit quietly.

I’m not a huge fan of segregation, prayer, or reverent sobbing, but I found myself affected by the place. I wrote two words on my piece of paper and crammed it into a crack, lightly touching the polished rock and feeling the gravity of collective belief.

It’s an extremely complex conflict going on over there, and you almost have to see it firsthand to make any sense of it. Indeed, after a week and as much information as I could cram into my head, I’m still not sure if I have a grip on it, but I know that I know a whole lot more, and more thoroughly, than I could ever have gleaned from the news articles at home. It was an outstanding trip and an incredible experience, and has, like all real experiences, doubtlessly changed the trajectory of my life.

If you want to go next year, click here to check out the program.

If you want to get in touch with Israel’s best tour guide, email her here

If you want to see a cool site with both Israeli and Palestinian perspecitves, click here

Some other Media I’d recommend/that was recommended to me:

The Lemon Tree, by Sandy Tolan

Born to Kvetch, by Michael Wex

Budrus (documentary)

Barrier, Isabel Kershner

The Source, by James Michner

Startup Nation,Dan Senor and Saul Singer

Seasonal Changes

For me, the words “World” and “Cup” have always been tied to ski racing. To be a part of the World Cup, to me, still means conquering bulletproof ice, pee-your-pants pitches and a  slew of powerful European skiers who punch their coaches or scream like animals in the start gate. At the most, it is the reward for all the hard, cold training days; and at the very least it involves foot-crushing plastic boots and shiver-inducing speed suits. In my mind the World Cup has always been the big leagues, but I somehow didn’t realize that for me the discipline (and the season) have changed.

See, for years I dreamed of skiing faster than those Swiss girls, but I still have yet to dream of beating any on a mtb. In fact, the reality of it didn’t even really hit me until I started chatting with my seat mate en route to Albany. That’s when I got to hear the words “World” and “Cup” come out of my very own mouth, along with the unfathomable addition of words like “I,” “race” and “going.” It suddenly gave me chills, despite the lack of speed suits involved. “I am going to go race the World Cup.” Unreal.

She, incidentally, was on her way to see a Shakespeare play in the Montreal. Sure we had different destinations, but I noticed we were both wearing Polar HRM watches. Hers was definitely cooler…. Big leagues. Fo sho.

Anyway, thanks to USAC it was pretty absurd how little energy it took for me to roll up to my first start. My bike got some lovin, my legs were feeling awesome, and I was stoked for a good hard ride. At the back of my mind there was still a little doubt, because I’ve always had bad luck at Windham, but things actually went surprisingly well- I did not go over my bars on the climb, I did not hit any trees, I flatted neither once NOR twice, I did not forget my CO2, and I did not experience even the slightest hint of full-body rebellion- it was a good day for Windham. Still a slow day, compared to Miss Pendrell, but that’s

dh partay

something I’m willing to live with, for now.

I had a great time riding with girls from all over the world (they’re not exactly coach-punching types) but once the adrenaline wore off and my wheels had been stationary for a little while, the truth of the effort I’d made finally started to sink in. Or rather, my body started to tell me about it.

I noticed that my back in particular was pretty messed up, and by the time I started my warm-down spin I couldn’t pedal with my left leg at all. The muscles next to my spine had gone from from being mildly irritated to totally pissed-off in a space of about fifteen minutes, and suddenly every revolution caused some pretty nasty cramping on the whole left side of my body. I guess this is a pretty common side-affect of short punchy climbs and bumpy descents at insanity pace, but Bernard soon fixed me up, and luckily I was feeling less like a geriatric by the end of the night.

Not bulletproof ice, but something like it.

We spent another day in Windham, then packed up our stuff and hit the road for Quebec. It was a long drive. Because of the heat I’d opted to not wear recovery tights, and because of the extra jiggle I’ve been noticing in the rock gardens, I opted to bring just one sandwich. Both were bad, bad opts on my part; by the time we arrived at Mont Sainte Anne, my Iegs resembled two useless sausages and I was deep in the hunger cave (apathetic and just about ready to eat the van seats.) To say the least I was not a happy camper.

Yet once I’d gotten my hanger taken care of and a taken a nice, circulating spin for my cankles, I realized this place is pretty cool. I started off riding through a sketchy french-ish neighborhood, but after cutting through a backyard or two I found myself surrounded by a seemingly infinite network of sweet single track. I guess that’s why these people are kind of good at bike riding- they’ve got gnar wherever they look.

On the road to the venue I saw Jack checking out the course, sans bike. To give you a quick idea of what things look like- he needed both hands and feet to make it up the trail. World Championships, here we come!

Montana’s OK

When I left Bozeman last spring I had one working arm, a bruised ego and a morphine hangover. It was sleeting as usual and I did not feel the least bit sentimental as I was shuttled away in my mom’s mini van- I wanted out, bad, and I didn’t care if I ever came back. Since then (and since the shoulder healed up) I’ve been playing bikes all over California, Europe, Colorado and the Northwest. In all my travels I really thought I’d find someplace better, but it turns out that only one place has been really calling me back. You guessed it; shoulder-munching, sleet-ridden, freeze-the-snot-out-of-you MONTANA.

But I’ll rewind through another 12 hour manic solo road trip, back to Seattle time. After completing a satisfactory number of toursit-y obligations, I chose one last race in Washington to finish up my Northwest experience. It was a short circuit race, and I actually almost skipped it- the day was grey and, having carbo loaded a little too diligently the night before and fallen over a fence, I was finding it difficult to scrape up the motivation to go pedal. I waffled around for the entire morning wondering what I’d do, and although I don’t remember actually making an active decision for or against racing, I found myself standing, zombielike, under another registration tent in another parking lot, writing another check and filling out another USAC waiver. Sometimes racing is easier than not-racing.

Put me on skinny tires but don't take my tall sox!

Sure enough, as soon as I started pedaling I was glad I’d come- I had a great ride and got to mess with roadies, which I always love to do when I’ve got the legs to do it. I got into some trouble on the last corner before the sprint so my finish was nothing special, but I was satisfied with a good hard effort. It was a casual yet well-run race- perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

I’ve been on skinny tires more than I’d like to admit in the last two weeks, but I think it’s doing me some good. I feel like my will to compete is finally returning and I’m enjoying the racing again. Afterwards I drove home, blasted some new tunes, and ate a sandwich from Haggen, which I think is the best name ever for a grocery store, managing to be both unappetizing and mildly offensive. Like are you offering me haggis or calling me a hag? I don’t really like either option, thanks. But I will have a sandwich.

As always, it doesn’t take a whole lot more than friends, a good race, and some food in my belly for me to feel alright, despite whatever limbs or attitudes get messed up. I guess it’s kind of a lot to ask, but I’ve got it all right now- it’s good to be home.

Why yes, I DID photoshop the shit out of this image!

On the Road

I’m getting really good at fitting all of my belongings into my car. It’s true that I’ve jettisoned many of my belongings in order to do this, but to me there’s something calming in the fact that I can fit every object that’s important to me into a box with wheels. I’d make a great tortoise if I could just fit all my bikes on my back.

This latest solo road trip included all the usual levels of insanity. For the first few hours I felt adventurous and optimistic and still enjoyed my music. Then I hit Wyoming and began to make up goals. One of these was to “learn to sing really well by practicing for eleven hours straight” Outcome: Failure. After a few state lines I began to alternate between sinking apathy and intense reflection (i.e. how impressed will people be when I tell them how many miles I drove this year? Answer: not at all.)

Then things got weird. I rolled the windows down so that my hair became one giant dredlock, then I rolled them up again, combed it out, and repeated.  I began to loathe every song I heard. I turned the volume off. I turned it up as high as it could go. I started taking pictures of my dashboard. I thought about food a lot and debated knocking down occasional strings of traffic cones. My sunglasses began to hurt my ears. My car became covered with bugs and I wondered constantly if it was breaking, burning or had one flat tire or three. I wondered what was happening in other peoples’ cars. I attempted to drive with my left foot or steer with my elbows, and for a while sat cross legged so I could pretend I was on a couch. It was in the depths of this phase that I became aware of another of a relatively new road trip habit; searching for singletrack.

I think it started after an episode on another road trip this year when I pulled over mid-drive in Oakland and got on my bike. After weaving through a neighborhood and talking to a local or two, I hooked up with a network of cool trails twisting between graffitied walls and thick NorCal greenery- it was a just a little system on a small island of city land, but people with bikes had obviously been playing on it and giving it some love. I had an awesome time, and it made me wonder how many trails are quietly growing out there without  IMBA or spandex or standardized drainage features. After all- the only things you really need to build a trail are dirt, motivation and maybe a pulaski.

Once my concept of “trail” expanded past sanctioned trailheads and known wilderness areas, I began to see more of the telltale signs- a pile of tracked gravel on a shoulder, a break in the grass along a ridgeline, a dent in the bushes- singletrack is everywhere. Whether or not it’s actually been built or used by mountain bikers is almost beside the point- what strikes me most is that it’s almost always there if you just look.

So from the depths of driving insanity in the forgotten parts of this country, these trails are what keep me going. And it’s not just the knowledge that I could pull over and ride almost anywhere I go, but that other people could too. That even in the most downtrodden town in the most barren plain, there will be a line in the grass where someone on two wheels could, and maybe already has, found their bliss.

Trail in Twin Falls ID

Jet lag and Puffins

So, after sending out my last round of 400 race reports (maybe an exaggeration) I’ve decided to enter the narcissistic world of blogging. Hopefully my mom isn’t the only person who finds this useful, though that might very well be how things turn out. (love you, mom)

I just got back from a three week break-from-reality based in Kirchzarten, Germany, where USA cycling held three camps this summer aimed at giving u23 riders some “international experience” or, as I like to call it, “Euro-spanking”. The idea being that if we know early on what to expect from the freakishly fast europeans, we’ll know how to tailor our training and racing so that someday we’ll be the spankers, rather than the spankees. I was actually surprised to be invited, partly because I don’t think my results have been all that impressive, and partly because my application included a long ranting letter about the exclusion of girls from the camp announcement, which makes it sound like the only way you can qualify is if you’ve won or placed at a mens race. Yet despite results, the misleading announcement and my consequent rant, I was lucky enough to find myself in Germany on June 17th, pedalling my bike through the misty black forest.

The following three weeks of racing and training were some of the  most intense I’ve ever experienced. The races were short, gnarly and fast, and the girls were gnarlier, faster, AND they had better clothes. As expected, I did get fairly spanked the first race, placing 29th in a field of 44, 13th in the U23s, and fifteen minutes behind the leader. What i didn’t expect was that in the next two races, the time gap between me and the leaders started to get smaller. Maybe it was the fitness I was gaining, or the experience, or a combination of the two, but by the end of the camp I had halved the gap. It was cool to see such quick progress, especially in a context that had been so intimidating for me.

Dull timing and rankings aside, I’ve never been so challenged by such a variety of conditions in a race setting. Having raced mostly in Colorado and the Rockies all my life, I’ve come to expect the ski hill format- lots of up followed by lots of down. What technical riding I’ve done usually consists of rocks or sand, and I’ve developed a liking for flowy, rolling trails. (who hasn’t?) What I encountered in Europe was a whole different species of racecourse; the name of the game over there is short, steep, and slick. For example in Winterthur the major climb was on an 18% paved road through a nieghborhood, and the singletrack twisted through the muddy woods of a city park. Engelberg featured a descent down an comically steep grassy hill, and one particular root section in the woods that crashed me five laps out of eight. The final race in Frieburg included a section of the famous Rosskopf downhill- which we climbed up. Everything was off-camber, shock-busting, tire burping, seat-of-your-chamoise-fun, but if your legs weren’t feeling good there was no where to hide. None of the laps were more than 5k long, which meant we did lots of them, really fast. Plus there were tons of spectators lining the whole course, which meant that any time you crashed, the odds of having a little German child point and laugh at you were pretty good. The majority of the people were super positive though, and hearing them cheering in a variety of languages was awesome (why does “allez” sound so much cooler than “go”?) I’m not sure whether the short courses draw spectators because it’s easier to watch (kind of like a ‘cross race) or if Europeans are just  way more fanatic about cycling, but it was nice to see such an outpouring of enthusiasm. Their energy gave me energy.

In between the flurry of race days, life was almost oppressively simple. I was perpetually either recovering from a ride or preparing for the next one, and my entire day became centered around fueling, rehydrating, and resting. The time on my bike started to seem like the only time I could really relax, and it got extremely difficult not to overtrain.  Eventually it was the off days that proved to be the biggest challenge- with no riding to break up the hours I was faced with a huge expanse of time and nothing to fill it except weird German television, a bookstore of German books, and a town full of Germans who just looked at me with pity whenever I sheepishly asked “sprechen sie english?”. I never realized how isolating it would be to have so few people around me speak my language. While we did do our share of sightseeing- to Frieburg, the French town of Colmar, and to the Van Goh Exhibit in Basel- at the back of my mind there was always the creeping guilt that I was toasting my legs for my next ride.

To add to the challenge, the riding around Kirchzarten was incredibly good. Linked by an extensive system of trails, bike paths, and fire road, Kirchzarten and the surrounding area provide an endless maze of glorious mountain bike fodder. It seemed like there was a perfect trail for any kind of ride or interval I needed, and enough scenery and disneyland architecture to keep the pain at the back of my mind. The forests alone were full of interesting things; on a given ride in the middle of nowhere you might see a wind turbine, a zipline, a wooden elephant, or a herd of goats. On one ride up the Feldburg we saw what looked like the entire French Army, out marching around with their machine guns. Some smiled and said “bonjour!” as we rode by. The signs all seemed cheerfully obscure, and no matter how lost I thought I’d gotten myself, I always seemed to pop out in some picturesque little town. By the second week I’d already gone over my planned ride-time by about seven hours,  so I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just the sightseeing that had my legs feeling noodley by the end of the trip.

The ride home went smoothly, despite a moment when woke up in the van to Jimmy driving like a maniac through the rainstorm of the century. I was trying to figure out how to cleverly frame a comment about hydroplaning, but dozed off again instead. Chicago lost my bag as usual, so I couldn’t give anyone their cool chocolate goodies till today.

Now I’m dealing with my jetlag, my fun new letter from peak property management, and a list of emails to write. I think I’ll go enjoy another bowl of peanut butter Puffins… THE BEST CEREAL EVER!

aren’t those white spokes pretty??

yum.

Feldberg

Wildflowers!

Pain Train

engelburg