Watershed: Spring Thaw XC May 15, 2010

I think there's a relationship between how far I have to drive for a race, and how long it takes me to write it up.

A couple weekends ago, I drove over 1600 miles, round trip, to race twenty some miles in Ashland, Oregon. The siren song that wooed me north: the legendary Spring Thaw cross country mountain bike race.

Ok, I admit, it wasn't just that race that inspired me to spend twenty-seven hours in a car by myself. I lived in southern Oregon for two years; Cycle Analysis in Jacksonville was the first shop to invite me onto their team.

They host a local short track series that I raced in the spring of 2006, during which I famously attached my toddler's portable high chair to the leg of the registration table. With him in it.

I checked on him every lap. He was happy watching all the wheels go by, I swear.

I did win the series, but it wasn't that much of a feat, as there were precious few women racing in the B's. Still, at awards, I stood around while Richard Hogan tossed prizes from the back of his truck. Heather, who swept the elite category, got the new handlebar computer she needed. "Someday, I'll catch her," I vowed admiringly.

Right about then, Richard sailed a team jersey in my direction. It was what I very wanted. For the next two years, I rode up the same mountain every Wednesday night with Cycle A, returning at dusk to a home cooked meal that the shop owner set out.

I did catch Heather, eventually, but only because she took some time off to lead Brownie troops and help her husband organize pocket bike races. Last year, they watched my children for five days so I could race at Nationals. Friends are the family members you get to pick out for yourself. If you're really lucky, they'll adopt you in return.

My husband didn't think our old van should make the trip, so I indulgently rented a car. The fine gentlemen at Hertz in Pacific Beach upgraded me to a Mazda 6. The engine sounds the most smooth at 90 mph. Not that I would know. But it really does.

It took me so long to get through Los Angeles that, even with occasional illegal pedal pushing, that after twelve straight hours, I had only reached Redding, and it was after one in the morning. I rented a room at the Motel 6 and took a very expensive nap.

Sometimes, changes in plan lead to unexpected delights.

Saturday morning, race day, I left Redding in the dark, and reached Mt. Shasta just as the sun came up. The mountains glowed in the morning light as I wound my way up and out of California. State of Jefferson, metal cow, dragon.

I crested the pass and dropped down the foothills of Mt. Ashland into the Rogue Valley. The weather was perfect, but a rainbow still welcomed me. Hooooooome, the engine purred.

I usually feel queasy before races, better-bring-a-bucket sick.

Not this morning.

I greeted the batch of single speeders. Twenty guys, and me. One of them was Joe Davis, director of the Cycle Analysis team. Trip after trip up John's Peak, I used to make fun of the way he paper routed his single speed up the hill. "I think I'll need my knees when I'm old," I said from my perch on a geared bike.

Two years later, there he was, still smiling, twenty pounds lighter and in a monster gear, ready to exact some friendly revenge. All those guys must have been part Sasquatch, because no one had a gear anywhere near as easy as my 32/20.

The original Sasquatch sighting is only about fifteen miles from Mt. Ashland, did you know that? I've been there. I didn't see anything.

At the start, I also chatted with Jeremy Whose Last Name I Don't Know But See Him At Race After Race In San Diego. He was up north on vacation with his family, and decided to try out the Thaw. He was confused by the lack of leg markings, category signs, perceptible starting gun.

Ready, go, and all the categories left at once in a mass start. There was plenty of road to sort ourselves out, though. Miles of it, in fact. Miles, I tell you.

Just when you think you can't stand another foot of fire road, you reach the Horn Gap singletrack. And ride up that, too. Those deceptively pretty pine trees drop lots of needles. Vertical duff is as soul sucking as cyclocross sand pits.

But at the top, there's an aid station, and a left hand turn onto the rim road that circles the Ashland watershed.

Twelve miles of fire road that slope slightly downhill.

Next year, I'll bring a bigger gear. A bouquet of big gears. If I let my leg hair grow out, maybe I can run a 36 on the front like the locals. And don't doubt me that I'm driving up again. The 2011 race will be the 20th annual, not to be missed.

In any case, around the back, I spun tiny circles for an eternity and a half. The trees all looked alike, with no view of the valley, and it started to feel like I was on a stationary trainer with video footage sliding past. Everyone I passed on the way up caught me and then left me in the dust. Even the guy with white tennis shoes. Dang. I am not judging your footwear, sir, but I do feel that I should be able to keep up with you since my clipless pedals theoretically grant advantage.

Oh, just shoot me. I spent well over an hour pedaling in an aerodynamic crouch, trying to eke every last bit of momentum out of the bike.

Much of the day and change that I spent driving to the race I daydreamed about the endlessly long downhill, the payoff for all that climbing. Catwalk, Alice, Toothpick, BTI, I'll be there soon. Sooooooon. Oops, speeding again.

By the time I got to Four Corners, though, my back hurt so badly that it was all I could do to navigate safely down. I cruised down the pavement toward the finish with my right thigh on the seat, bent over so I could rest my upper body on my leg. I wasn't trying to blaze across the line; I just couldn't sit up any longer.

Two hours and forty-one minutes put me 18th out of 21. Meh. I did catch Toe Clip Guy on the way down, but still never achieved the sensation of flight that keeps me paying entry fees race after race.

As much as the race itself was mildly disappointing, just being there at all felt like a miracle. Awards were held at the Lithia Park bandshell, and I shared a blanket with Joe's wife and sweet babies, the second of which I hadn't met before.

Beautiful day, beautiful mountains. beautiful people. Who's in for next year?

Idyllwild Spring Challenge: Mountain Mama

My five-year-old likes to boast to his siblings that he can be President. Of the United States.

Technically, he can, while my two older children cannot, because they do not have actual birth certificates. After the recent election, I doubt that their Certificates of Birth Abroad would qualify them.

But really, can my ambitious boy lead the nation someday? Who knows. At the moment, he thinks he can.

I never thought I could ride a mountain bike down the face of a five foot boulder. But at Saturday's Idyllwild Spring Challenge, I did. And jumped over creeks, rocketed down gullies, bunny hopped logs and splashed through creeks.

After months of sedate urban lap races, I was finally back in the mountains.

I've never been to Idyllwild before, and drove nervously up the hill Friday night. My maiden voyage on the course promised a welcome infusion of technical single track, though, bought and paid for with nearly 4000 feet of climbing over nineteen beautiful view miles.

The tireless race organizer, Katie Hedrick, helpfully posted topos and trail descriptions on the Idyllwild Cycling site. The morning before the race, I got a big cup of really bad coffee from a little diner, and pored over the contour lines. Up. Down. Right. Left. Up. Up. More up.

I am not a pure climber. I have a lousy strength to weight ratio. In a sport where hill ability is measured in mere grams, elite female racers underweigh me by fifty pounds just getting out of bed in the morning. In terms of wind resistance, my long legs do provide an edge on long flat stretches; I have effectively neutralized that advantage by riding a low geared bike.

And then there's that training thing with three kids and a job, real estate issues that necessitate both parents working, health issues, and pretty soon, I've talked myself out of public office.

Enter something called "ability belief." If you think you can't, you won't. Ever.

Superstitiously chanting engine songs may not guarantee a first place medal, but it doesn't hurt. I may not have preridden the course, but my husband did teach me to read a back country map. That, I can do.

So I mosey my front tire up to the duct tape starting line with a pretty big crowd of women, including two (two!) other single speed women. Abundant sunshine, cool temperatures, and the intoxicating scents of pine and sage wafting over the Spandex. Can we go yet?

We made the right hand turn out of Hurkey Creek Campground, down along a creek bed. When the track started popping Sagebrush style moguls, I knew it was going to be a good day.

I took off, doing my best Sue Fish moto impression. I was well ahead of the pack. For about three minutes. Then we started winding toward the summit.

Dorothy Wong, pro cyclocross racer, passed me going uphill. She was legitimately running with her bike slung over her back, not employing my patented slow speed twinkle toes jog.

Bye bye, Dot. A dedicated advocate of women's cycling, she has doubled the amount of female cyclocross racers in the last year, and has set her sights on getting more women out on mountain bikes. Watch out, world.

The other single speed woman passed me next, riding her bike up a hill that I had to hike.

Great. Oh, and looky here, there go a batch of geared women.

Course strategy caffeined int0 my brain, I repeated my think-I-can lyrics.

Patience, patience, patience.

Lesson learned from last week, I got off and pushed the bike well before I tipped over from exertion. The first long single track climb finally ended, we cruised along Johnson Meadow, and then the fun began.

I was not disappointed. With names like Tunnel of Love and Exfoliator and Rage Thru the Sage, those trails demanded every ounce of skill and courage I possesed, and then some more after that. Rocks, turns, drops, stumps of death, and ruts that could swallow my van. When the going wasn't tough, it was don't-try-this-at-home fast. Fast, I tell you.

Honestly, ask anyone who rode with me in 2005 how frightened and clumsy I was. There's a ledge drop by my house that I used to sit at the top of for long minutes, trying to make myself ride down it. I took a girlfriend there once and she cleaned it on the first try, on her first bike ride, ever. It was another year before I could make myself roll over the lip.

The magic thing about racing, the intangible something that keeps me coming back, is the way it transforms that fear. Am I going to give in to it and waste the entry fee, or am I going to let go of the brakes?

In his discussion of ability belief, author Gavin de Becker says this, "no single influence is more powerful than social proof, seeing someone else succeed at the thing you might have initially believed you could not do."

I have followed so many people down hills I could not would not never have ridden in real life. In a race, if someone sails over a Jaws style rock garden, I don't have time to think about whether I should follow. Over the years, I have come to love double arrow signs.

Take me home, country roads.

I eventually passed most of the people who dusted me at the start, came in second to Dorothy, and ahead of most of the women of any age on any bike riding that same course. As far as the business end of the Idyllwild Spring Challenge, I pretty much rode like a rock star. If I do say so myself. Just this once, I promise. Because no one was there to see it.

On a loop that long, you often end up riding by yourself. You, yourself and you... and your memories of every hero who ever rode in front of you.

Black Mountain Race Report: Not So Fast

Racers and Chasers.com

Black Mountain XC

Sunday, April 25

No, that's not my little sister. Put your hands together for Rachelle, who turned in an impressive 1:07 lap time at the Black Mountain XC race on Sunday. On a single speed. She demolished the entire field, men and women, in the beginner category. Oh, wait, she was the only entrant on a single speed bicycle in that category.

I raced with the Sport men; we slogged two ten mile laps. Robert Herber, the race director, created a category for women's single speed, so Rachelle and I shared the podium to receive our blue ribbons. She promised to upgrade to Sport. And then there were two...

I confess that, not having any women to compete against, I play possum on mass starts. I'm usually lined up with thirty or forty guys, all of whom insist on being the first one to the single track. I'd rather let them all go on ahead than mix it up in the rolling scrum. However. The race was only half an hour north of where I live, so all the guys from my bike shop showed up to spectate the start. One of them took a picture of us crowding onto the baseball field at Black Mountain Open Space Park.

We sprinted across the wet grass, took a sharp downhill left through the Lusardi Loop Trail gate, and tore down the fire road to the entrance to the single track.

I made it into the first half of the pack, and got to enjoy bombing down a rocky trail. Due to the long line of bikers in front of me, I couldn't really see where I was going. I could definitely hear the gentlemen breathing hard right behind me, though. Do I get bonus points for not nudging Jeanne's wheel?

After the brief downhill party, we were treated to riding up and down power line access roads. A couple of them were so long, I almost had time to finish writing the novel that's been rattling around in my head for the last decade.

Aware that my bike shop friends, as well as title sponsor, would be milling around at the start, I pushed hard to finish that first ten miles. For which I was rewarded with a debilitating case of vertigo. My brain doesn't like it when all the blood goes to my legs, and pulls rank by turning off my vision. The only way to get the lights back on is to put my head down around my knees. Which wasn't too hard, because I was already pushing the bike.

More than one person commented on how miserable I looked when I lapped through. There are even pictures, which you couldn't pay me enough to post here. The second time around, I hopped off the bike well before I started to hyperventilate. Oddly enough, dismounting earlier left enough oxygen upstairs for me to actually run up a couple hills. Counterintuitive note to self.

I actually finished miles eleven through twenty in less time than it took me to complete the first ten. And, I was only a minute or so off the back of the Sport men.

I paid a $40 entry fee for those two hours of suffering, about $2 per mile. At the finish, I certainly felt I'd gotten my money's worth.

Thanks to Racers and Chasers for putting on another quality local event, and for all my friends and family who came to cheer me on.

Windy Windy Windy: Santa Ynez Race Report

It’s a myth that you don’t have gears on a single speed. And I’m not talking about the well-trodden joke about the choices being pedaling, standing, or pushing. You can have as many gears as you can afford. You can have a stack of cogs piled high on the shelves in your garage. But once you leave the starting line of a race, your options close out.

So, the the day before I drove north for the Santa Ynez Classic, I indulged in the usual the neurotic perseveration about what to install on my back end.

I pored over the course profile, tried to remember what it was like last year on a geared bike, polled friends. Friday night found me back at the bike shop, wheedling the owner into putting a 22 tooth cog on the back. He raised his eyebrows.

Yeah, well.

I left San Diego early Saturday morning, committed to my wimpy gear. For the first time, I traveled with a pit crew, my 10-year-old son, Evan. We pulled into Charlotte’s Meadow and set up the tent. It was a spectacular afternoon; recent rains scrubbed the sky and the afternoon light lit up the spring-ish green hillsides.

I left Evan at the pump track and headed up to check out the course. After, ah, pushing my bike up the first two hills, I actually felt worse about the easy gear. If I’m hiking the hills anyway, shouldn’t I have a harder gear to go faster on the flats?

When my race went off the next day around noon, mechanical questions were the last thing on my mind. The weather had turned in the night, and the day dawned cloudy and cold. I warmed up for half an hour in a thick jacket, and I was still chilly. Should I wear it in the race? Or would I get too hot?

The starting line looked the dressing rooms on a Nordstrom’s sale day, with people piling on layers, stripping off arm warmers, handing over or receiving jackets from the spectators lined up on the rails.

But then we were off, everyone locked into their choice of gearing and apparel.

Two laps of a nine mile course; the first half would find the beginners on course with the us Cat 2s. The men in the single speed category were strong enough to get past the initial switchbacks without being caught by the fifty people who started behind us.

Me, not so lucky or strong. A lot of the time, I was off the trail, pushing my bike in the soft hillside, having yielded to the granny gear people who could actually still pedal. And despite the spitting sky, I was getting rather roasty toasty.

At the top of the first hill, I peeled off my jacket and tied it to a fence post. Which was a good move, because as soon as I remounted the bike, the sun broke through. But also not so auspicious, because I had left my glasses in the jacket pocket, and wasn’t wearing sun screen.

The first lap was a blur of bikes going past, bumpy bumpy trail, and wind that threatened to blow me off course. I am not exaggerating. My front shock isn’t incredibly plush, so my wheel bounced around unpleasantly. Every time the tire broke free of earth, it would come back down several inches to the left. Or right.

Is it meteorologically possible to have a head wind and a side wind at the same time? The sun went away after about fifteen minutes, and the weather turned nasty again. I spent a fair amount of that race in an unfocused delirium, with the wind blowing my hair into my eyes, and the bumps rattling my head so badly I had a hard time focusing my eyeballs.

Despite the pony-tail-in-the-face effect, I actually thought the wind was pretty fun. I’ve never ridden in that kind of gale, so entertained myself by seeing how far I could lean into it and still stay upright. It was like lounging against a wall. Or, sometimes, like riding in place on a stationary trainer. Kept my mind off the general slogging feeling.

With the 22, I could actually ride the back three hills and rolled through the starting chicane feeling pretty good. The beginners had finished their one lap, so I set off on my second and final round in relative peace. With the wind chill, I didn’t need my extra bottle of water, which is good, because Evan was still doing laps on the kiddie jumps. Hi, Mom!

That course was really, really hard without gears. But no whining here; I still love the simplicity of making a decision and then living with it.

I came in last in my category, as usual, but also know that there were very few sections where I could have worked harder. I generally like to have a narrower gap between my time and the rest of the guys, but Santa Ynez is known for being a power course. And I confess I don’t spend enough time running hills.

Because I loathe running. That’s why I compulsively race bicycles, instead of perpetually entering 5Ks. But maybe I should make peace with my tennies, so that I can get out of the infamous pushing gear a little more.

Meh.

Party Party Party: Santa Ynez Race Preview

It's not really a race. It's more like a timed bike ride wrapped in a barbecue hidden in a vineyard underneath a festival.

The cross country and downhill races provide an opportunity to qualify for Nationals, so you can still expect people to take their time on wheels pretty seriously, despite the distraction of vendors and bonfires.

I have a reservation at a motel in Buellton, but I think I'm going to camp at the venue. Wedged in between the grape vines and the Chamberlain Ranch, the meadow next to the course will be colorfully filled with several hundred tents.

Blessedly, it might be too early in the season for the traditional earwig infestation. Last year, some guys loaned me their pickup truck bed cover for added protection under my sleeping bag. Then there was that time some other guys zip-tied my rim brake cantilever together the morning of the race. Or when friendly mountain biking firefighters explained how AV and SV nodes work so I could control my heart rate better. In 2008, a professional trainer whose name I'll never know took it upon himself to help me recover from heat exhuastion.

If I were to give the full Oscar list speech of everyone who's looked after me during this strange stay-at-home-mom turned bike racer trip, the stage light would start blinking and you'd all wish you were at the after party.

Did I tell you about the first time I raced Santa Ynez? Five years ago, my third ever race. My craigslist bicycle ripped off the roof rack an hour after I left San Diego. While I was doing 85 miles an hour on I-5. The officer who ran the traffic break didn't have the heart to ticket me. He recovered the carcass from the middle lane and I tearfully drove home.

When I got there, my husband transferred my saddle and pedals to his own bike. He took the front wheel off so bike could fit inside the car, and I started off again. After preriding the course, I absentmindedly left that front wheel leaning against a tree somewhere. Half an hour before the starting gun, and I still couldn't find it. The parking attendant loaned me his. It had a hybrid tire, the kind with a bald road tread down the middle. So I raced on an unfamiliar grip shifter bike with a tractionless front wheel and brakes that only sometimes worked. Ha ha! No wonder I ended up covered in blood and dirt. In the Beginner women old lady age group.

But I finished. After the race, the Red Bull girls handed me a sample, and I sat under Bachelor Andrew's giant outdoor deck thing, alternating sips of energy drink and free Firestone beer. An announcement came over the loudspeakers that someone had found a lost wheel.

New to the sport, I sat by myself and watched people mill around, discussing every last singletrack switchback climb. They leaned on bikes worth half a year of my mortgage payments. They populated a parallel universe of athleticism, kindness and intimacy with Earth's terrain. Could these be my people, someday?

I've never raced well at Santa Ynez. Since it is early in the schedule, I'm usually struggling at the back of a newly upgraded category. Beginner, Sport, Expert, I pretty much roll in late. Sometimes very literally when the cows come home. I lost precious time once in a stare down with a giant horned bull.

This year is my first full season on a single speed, though, and I've never been readier to throw down. Except I'm the only woman in a field of guys, and will probably maintain my consistent losing streak on those golden hills.

But after I finish, and I will finish, I'll tip back the glass of inspiration this venue never fails to deliver.

Marshmallow Chicky

My five-year-old's very first word this morning: "Easter!"

Can we fast forward to the chocolate bunny part? I'm struggling with the other celebration traditions.

A very good friend came over last night, and we ate grilled asparagus and lamb and artisan cheese. When they weren't playing hide and seek in our dark back yard, her two boys joined my three children in an intense Pokemon swap-a-thon. The grownups opened a second bottle of very good wine.

"He's not answering his phone," my friend wondered about her husband, who had left in a huff upon their arrival at our house. "When do I call the police?"

Wait, what? When Doug and I argue, which of course never happens, and one of us goes for a long walk to cool off, the other's first impulse isn't to dial emergency services. Speaking of skipping ahead.

"Maybe his cell battery is dead."

My friend gathered her sons and headed home to see if he had called their house. He hadn't.

But the ER had.

Her husband had been beaten up and was in intensive care. And guess what? This isn't the first time she's taken that call.

He has terminal brain cancer, and the tumor is slowly destroying his judgment. He doesn't understand why the owners of antique cars get upset when he tries out the front seat. He likes to visit the house he used to live in; the woman who now owns it pressed charges.

This morning, my friend's children were unhappy that mom didn't have a chance to hide the eggs like she promised.

Cue slow speed train wreck. While my friend deals with the news that there is more bleeding on her husband's brain, wrestles with whether to authorize surgery again, I'm ironing button down shirts and hunting for dress socks.

Irreverent, I know, but I am so not in the mood for resurrection-new-life-hallelujah anything.

I really just want to ride my bike. When is my next race, again?

Mountain bike racing is pretty silly, isn't it? What I spend on electrolyte powder would feed a Haitian family for a month. What is the point of sausaging oneself into Spandex and riding in circles?

Because it IS a closed loop. The course is marked. There are no forks in the road to contemplate, no chance of being lost or confused. Marshals keep dangerous traffic off the trail, and obstacles are clearly marked. Racing a single speed bike simplifies life even further. Pedal, don't pedal, can't pedal.

Best of all? There is always a finish line. And I always, always know how far away it is. Stop here, you're done suffering. Applause.

The lure of racing is precisely that arbitrary stop of the clock. When I'm concentrating on not falling on my head, or chasing someone up a hill, nothing else matters. That endorphin fortress is impenetrable. I invite you to try it.

Willow Koerber posted on her FB page this quote: "Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional."

My own quote: "Brave never feels like it at the time."

I wish my courageous friend could get off this crazy thing, but she won't be done for quite some time.

My next race, by the way, is in a week, in Santa Ynez. A pretty big deal event, a US Cup race offering both Kenda qualifying and California State points.

I wasn't going to go; too far, too costly.

However.

In a week where my friend gets the worst possible news, I get some of the best. After five years of paying race fees out of the milk money, I've been picked up by a sponsor, 3dyn, llc, who is going to help with some of my costs.

Road trip!

3dyn makes stuff. I don't quite understand what, but it has to do with carbon composite products that go in airplanes and submarines. Perfect match for a single speed racer: strong, light, and unyielding.

Please celebrate with me, and while you're at it, lift a glass for my friend.