Monday, July 30, 2012

Two views of the same ride.

How can my maximum speed be so different? Ride with gps quick and dirty summary:



















Strava summaries:






Something is wonky with Strava because I got erroneous max speeds on my commute rides today, too.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

West Alpine Do-Over

Back one rainy day in March, the Team training ride was a little jaunt up Old La Honda to Skyline, down to Pescadero via Stage Road and back up to Skyline by way of West Alpine. We then descended Page Mill in a memorable, freezing wet nine mile ordeal.

Four months later, I found myself doing a similar route; this time we climbed Kings Mountain Road - something I had done twelve years ago and remembered with dread. It turns out, training works. Kings Mountain Road was not the monster I remembered it to be. It is long, sure, but fairly gentle in grade, with only a few steep pitches. The road is mostly shaded and it stayed fairly cool as we climbed. 

Descending 84, Alpine Road hovered in my thoughts like a mosquito at 3AM. It's so long! and steep!

But then something happened. I looked at my computer. I saw the mileage we had done already: We'd done about 30 miles and 3000+ feet of climbing. When we get to Alpine, we'll be about mile 55 and 4000+ feet. I realized -- Alpine Road! Alpine Road! -- you can do this! You did Ebbetts with more climbing and miles in your legs than what you're going to do now on Alpine Road.

I got a silly grin on my face, tucked into the wind and started chewing up the last bit of pavement towards San Gregorio.


Tuesday, July 24, 2012

The Last Big Ride

(written June 29)

Where has the time gone? It's the eve of my Last Big Training Ride. And it's a doozy, of course. 110 miles and 12,000 feet of climbing. Current stats show 2377.9 miles ridden and 193,886 vertical feet climbed since that first training ride back in February. Thassalotta chamois butter.

Stretching my training miles end to end along Interstate 80, I have now reached the northern lip of Indiana. Currently I'm about a mile shy of the N 500 W exit and nearly to Michigan. Chicago was hot and humid, as you might imagine for this time of year. While my miles race across the country, I've more than doubled the amount of climbing I would have actually done had I ridden this route instead of going up and down and up and down the smaller hills and larger hills that ring the Bay Area. There's a lot of flat between the Rockies and the Appalachians, Poconos and Blue Ridge Mountains. Not that my training miles will take me that far.

I've learned a lot about my team mates since February. I've learned a lot about myself. Although my co-worker indelicately asked me today why, with all the riding I do am I not as skinny as a rail, I do know that my body is stronger and my mind is more focused. After all, I'm not training to lose weight, I'm training to complete the ride. That means feeding my muscles, lest they consume themselves and I get weaker over the season instead of stronger.

My ride updates have focused so much on the riding, almost to the exclusion of the reason I ride. In that, I've been remiss. The physical and mental challenges I've undertaken have been completely voluntary. Had I wanted or needed to, I could have jumped off the merry-go-round at any time and gone back to lolling about on Saturday mornings, taking my dog to the beach and, oh, I don't know, getting errands done. Shopping at the Farmers' Market and brewing beer. (What do people do on Saturdays, anyway?).

Cancer patients don't have the option of quitting: “This chemo makes me nauseous and exhausted and bald. I think I'll skip today's treatment.” As the saying goes, cancer patients are in it to win it. The “choice” was thrust upon each one--a far cry from me signing a waiver and showing up for the first training ride. Cancer doesn't quit just because you got a new job and it's taking up all your time. Or you decide to put your house on the market and you need your Saturdays. It doesn't quit because you've lost your job or gotten married. It doesn't quit just because your partner got pregnant. Or the waiting list for that prize Irish Setter pup just opened up. Or for your divorce. Cancer patients are fighting cancer through all of these life events. Families of cancer patients don't have the option either. One of our team honorees, Becky, talks about how hard it was to see her family go through the stress of her cancer. How it affected them, too. Wanting to give support to Becky, yet needing it as well, and Becky wasn't in any shape to give it back.

One of the reasons I support the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society is its far reaching web of support. From a patient's co-pay, a family's hotel room or research grants which have led to measurable results and effective treatments, LLS uses at least 75% of every donation dollar directly towards its mission. I think that's pretty awesome.



Sunday, July 22, 2012

Death Ride Aftermath

Got my butt kicked today in a post-Death Ride Arrogance Smack Down. Shooting for 80, finished 60 and avoided at least 2000 feet of climbing. Mental and physical bonk at mile 14 or was it 12?

My legs just gave out. They had nuthin'. I stopped and nearly dry-heaved over my handlebars. Gasped for breath.

I ate a little, drank a little, but could not make myself get back on the bike. I knew how much ride was still ahead of me and just couldn't start myself. My shoes grew into the pavement, metal cleats fusing with the asphalt as I became motionless. Time passed.

I realized I was going to have to catch up with the group up the hill, if only to tell them I couldn't go on. Oh, the bitter irony of it all. I had nothing left and yet I needed to proceed. I did a 2X caffeine GU and waited for something to happen.

Finally, one of the group rode back to check on me. It was time to stop the pity party and get back on the bike. Fortunately, there was something of a short cut that we could take, and did. Still, I never felt completely 100 percent, but managed to finish the day somewhat recovered, and embarrassed, from my earlier mishap.

No doubt, my worst day on the bike in at least 2 years.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Monday, July 16, 2012

Well, that's done.




No one comes to the Death Ride accidentally. If you're an endurance cyclist or triathlete who has done 100+ miles, you might think that the Death Ride is the next logical step in your Masochist Resume.

Perhaps that is true.

I first heard of the Death Ride in 1999 or 2000. When riding the AIDs ride, I saw people who had done the Death Ride (gasp!) and was in awe of them. I promptly vowed that it was insane and I'd never do that. Early 2000's, I met another (seemingly) sane person who had done it. A real live person! A parent of my child's friend! This was after I'd done the AIDS ride twice – a physical feat that I felt worthy of laurel resting.

However, my mental stance was clear. No matter WHAT HAPPENED, I was unequivocally NOT doing the Death Ride. I had put MY FOOT DOWN.

Sooooo..... Years passed.

Cycling lapsed. Cycling reemerged.

I got involved with Team in Training. After two years, I refound my cycling legs. A year to rebuild (which was very humbling) and then a year to help support and build new cyclists. But, then I asked, what is the next thing that will advance my cycling “career.”

To a 100th percent, everyone who took the time to answer said, “Death Ride.”

This was never said flippantly.

Those folks honestly meant it. And I trusted them. And I said, yes, I understand. I need to do the Death Ride. And I signed up. And I trained. And I suffered. Week after week. You don't become a Death Rider by simply doing the ride. You become a Death Rider by preparing for the ride. You ride when it's cold. You ride when it's hot. You ride when it's wet. You ride when it's not. You just ride. Someone says show up at 7AM. You show up at 7AM. You have a goal. You and your coach have a common goal. You're not feeling the bike love that day? So what. Suck it up and keep pedaling. Event day doesn't care. The world doesn't wait for you to catch up. Get back on the bike and keep moving. Are you training for Almost? You won't get your ice cream at Carson if you don't keep moving.

Sometimes, I write and I feel like I'm stating the obvious. Maybe yes, maybe no. But when I'm experiencing what is a cycling epiphany to me, and connecting those silly little dots into real life, it is important to record those observations. So... persevere or, um, don't.

3:30 is a very strange time of day to begin anything. Nothing is how you expect it.

When the alarm went off at 2:45AM, I realized that 6 months of training, suffering, and mental preparation had led to this single pinpoint in time. We loaded the bikes and drove across the dark high-desert valley to the start. Billions of stars twinkled overhead. The sickle moon was adorned with two bright planets dangling like a pendant from its lower tip.

We got on our bikes in the dark, with our headlights on.

Climbing in the dark, we could see (most of) nothing. The headlights of cyclists behind us illuminated our backs and threw huge projections of bicycles in a gorgeous shadow-play that can only be repeated in my memory. I am truly heartbroken that I didn't have a way to capture the beauty of the cyclists, the darkness, the light. Someone, please film that next year!

As we climbed, the gazillions of stars began to recede as the sky faded to navy, then periwinkle. At last it was light. Soon the sun would beat down upon us, but for now, it highlighted the tips of peaks to the south and east of our route in a gentle peach light.

The climb to Monitor Pass is long. Heck. They're ALL long. Mostly it is gradual. For a 2600 foot elevation change, it is a good way to warm up the climbing legs. Starting in the dark and having the light mark the passage of time and change in elevation helped to break up the monotony of putting one foot in front of the other. There was nothing else to do – we couldn't read our Garmins to know how far we'd climbed or how far we had yet to climb.

At last, we were up and collected our first sticker. Monitor Pass isn't just a peak and then descend. We strolled along for about a half mile on a high plain, made a big right turn and a left turn and then the fun began. It started gradually, but there was definitely enough hill play to start picking up some speed. Way, way, way below us, this huge (flat) valley opened up. I got an endorphin rush thinking that if the hill stayed gradual like this, climbing back up wouldn't be too terribly difficult. Fortunately, I didn't make an ass out of myself by actually saying that out loud. Right after that, the ground opened up and swallowed us all whole and we dropped the remaining nine miles to the valley floor to collect our second sticker. Maximum speed: 48.1mph.

The theory behind getting the second sticker at the bottom of the backside is you have to climb out of there to continue on. If you don't drop to the bottom, you're not doing the full climb and clearly not suffering enough. And you deserve no credit; however, if you ride the seven miles of an average grade of 8% before it “flattens” to 5%, then you earn the second sticker. Your reward is the screamingly fast front side of Monitor descent. Nice round curves banked oh-so-sweetly. Maximum speed: 46.7mph.

The road to the base of Ebbetts is a soul-sucking 2% grade that will not quit. I felt winded and tired, fighting this road that appeared flat but wasn't. I felt exactly as I had when I rode it a month ago. Like I was riding on a flat tire and my brake was rubbing. The specter of the pass loomed as I trudged along. Finally, we passed the cattle grate that marks the beginning of the climb in earnest. I quickly found that, while I had gas enough to get up the hill, I didn't have any extra for bursts of effort. My recovery from exertion was nonexistent. I knew I had to mete out my energy and pace myself for a very long haul. Close to the summit, there's a reservoir on the right. It's bordered by a towering granite face. I first saw the granite wall on one of the narrow stretches. I allowed myself to believe that the reservoir was close. And if the reservoir is close... so is the Pass. The next few miles became narrated with “where's the damn reservoir?” Still, I pedaled. After all, what else was I going to do? No one was going to bring the damn reservoir to me. I had to go it.

On the back side, we had Team in Training friends waiting for us, with ice, chocolate milks and snacks. I think my total soda count yesterday was 4, plus a chocolate milk, tons of watermelon and at least 3 bananas, along with my regular bike food.

Although we each had our individual goal of completing all five passes (and getting our ice cream at Carson!), we did ride together much of the day and found our teammates at water and rest stops. Reconvening and setting out together, even if we didn't stay together on a climb, was familiar and comforting. To suffer together was easier than to suffer alone. Several of us tag teamed and leapfrogged one another during the day. I kept an eye out for our team jersey on the road. Keeping that connection, knowing someone out there in the sea of 2500 riders knew my name and would have a word of encouragement when I was struggling on a climb, was a critical factor in my ride.

Back at the top of Ebbetts, we had now completed four of the five passes. We had lost Coach Jim to illness, K.Sue wasn't feeling great and Lisa was having issues with her feet. Our little ride group was not firing on all cylinders and we began to be concerned with time. We had to make the Woodfords cut-off by 4PM and it was 2PM. Much of the way was downhill, but there was a stretch of road that we did not ride at Altitude camp and we didn't know how long it would take. It was a climb. We started doing ride math. If we have to go 17 miles in one and a half hours, we need to average 14MPH to make the cut off. And some of that is climbing (at 4MPH) so we have to haul ass on these downhills and flats. I'm not saying our ride math was accurate. We'd just ridden 90 plus miles and climbed over 10,000 feet. Higher math wasn't necessarily our strong suit. Lower math wasn't either. K.Sue told us to leave her if she couldn't keep up. She'd completed the ride before, we hadn't. She didn't want to hold us back. We hadn't trained for Almost.

We had intended to skip the lunch stop anyway, and this saved us a ton of time. On the last little bump before Markleeville, I left my teammates on the climb. I thought Lisa would stay with me, but when I turned around, she wasn't there. I was on my own. More ride math. Woodfords is at mile 97. I'm at mile 86. I have 11 miles and an hour and 15 minutes. I need to go at least 8MPH. What does that green sign say? 6! SIX miles to Woodfords and I have an hour to go. I only need to go 6MPH and I know the last 2 miles are down hill. I have time to stop at the Team in Training tent in Turtle Rock. Still, the climb out of Markleeville to Turtle Rock Park, where our Team tent was, is 2.5 miles and 450 feet. The average grade is 3.6%. I was operating at maximum capacity. I was raping my quads.

I've seen drama queens on bicycles before. This day, I was that queen. I know it and do not apologize. I pulled into the TNT tent to cheers and 'what do you need'. My water bottle got filled. Jim dropped the nuun in the bottle. Jerry offered to hold my bike, but I knew I wasn't getting off the bike. I reported what I knew of the riders behind me. Jim encouraged me that Woodfords was downhill. My plan was to get to Woodfords, rest for a minute, eat a GU and get to Picketts to allow myself time to recover, if any. I arrived in Woodfords around 3:30. Grabbed some (more!!) watermelon, got my head sprayed down with water, downed a Pepsi and did not eat a GU. I probably should have been worried that I hadn't peed, nor needed to pee, since the back side of Ebbetts at 12:30. I'll pee when I'm dead. I have a deadline.

The rule is that riders need to leave Picketts by 5:15 if they want to attempt to summit the 5th Pass - Carson. I was doing bike math again. 9.2 miles to Picketts. I had an hour and a half. Last time, it took just under an hour, on fresh legs, but in 100 degree heat. It's solid climbing and my quads were toast. A third of the way in, my left hamstring started seizing up. I tried to stand to pedal through it, get the blood flowing again. Standing made my quad start spasming. Pedal through it, pedal through it, I counseled myself. It subsided slightly, but I knew I needed to take some preventive measures or it was over. I wasn't coming all this way, doing all this training to finish just shy of the prize (ice cream!). I hadn't trained for Almost. The shoulder widened a hair and I pulled over. Guzzled some of my electrolyte brew and ate the GU I should have eaten in Woodfords. I gave my body a minute to absorb and hopefully adjust favorably and started pedaling again. Grinding it out. Again my thighs started to protest. This time, I wasn't so polite. We are doing this. Keep pedaling. We are working through this. You are not stopping. Pedal through it. I was literally talking to my legs. I'm sure I sounded insane. I have not had cramps all season. I was not starting now.

At last, the Sorenson's deli appeared on the left: the landmark that says Picketts is just around the corner. You can do this! You will make it to Picketts before 5:15!

I pulled in around 4:45. I went to lift my leg over the bar and my right thigh completely froze. I was paralyzed mid-lift, like a dog at a fire hydrant. I nearly fell over. Which way to stretch? If I stretch the back, it seizes the front. If I stretch the front... I hit the food tables. Salt. Watermelon. Cytomax. Banana. Potato. More salt. I started walking off the cramps. My legs were returning to normal. Or, well, Death Ride at mile 103 normal.

But I confess. I turned on my phone to see if I had any reception. I wanted to reach out to someone (anyone! With text reception!) and tell them I was cramping and having them encourage me or give me permission to quit. I needed someone to know my misery. Instead, I had to do my own bootstrap pulling and talk myself into continuing on. I didn't train for Almost.

Our original plan was for Lisa's family to have our sandwiches at the Team in Training tent. Then when time got short, we were going to send them ahead to just on the other side of the Picketts stop. When we got separated, I didn't know if they'd still be at Picketts. For the first time all day, I was truly on my own. I had no idea where any of my team was. I had no idea if Lisa and K.Sue made it to Woodfords in time. Finally, I saw someone who told me they were on the road to Picketts. Then they passed me and didn't stop in the actual rest stop.

I left Picketts at 5 and about 100 yards down the road was Lisa's family. K. Sue had been soaking her feet in ice water. Monica handed me a wet washcloth and I wiped the layers of salt from my face and put the cool towel on the back of my neck. I ate a sandwich – it was nice to have some real food in my belly. We picked up Melissa and Suzette and had an all-girl pace line through the gradual climbing segment. Five strong women in matching jerseys powering towards the final summit. Riders descending cheered us on.

Where the hill kicked up, we separated and climbed at our own pace. Melissa asked about the hill. I described it as I remembered. Horseshoe to the right, horseshoe to the left, straightaway, then the big left turn and around the corner to the right. When I hit the straight away after the left horseshoe, I didn't recognize it. We had climbed it in the morning and it was now 6PM and trees were casting shadows across the road. I had thought I'd forgotten a section, mentally apologized to Melissa, and kept waiting for that next bend to appear. Once I realized that I was wrong about being wrong, I was encouraged. I passed someone who was wearing a California Triple Crown jersey. He was walking his bike.

As I rounded the first part of the last bend, I could see sunlight streaming on the road ahead of me. I knew this meant the Pass. Ice cream! I shed a few proud tears of accomplishment. The fifth sticker is given in a small parking lot just over the summit. I pulled in, got my 5-Pass Finisher pin and my sticker. It was chilly at the top.

They were out of ice cream. I didn't care.



The descent out of Carson, especially when you do it at that deserted hour, is beyond sweet. The road isn't always great, but it's not too terrible, and it is built for speed. And the descent goes on forever. Again, I thought to myself: no wonder I was so miserable on the way up. This is one damn long hill. Maximum Speed (and Bianchini land-speed record): 51.1MPH.

The last little bit back to the cars and Team tent was giddy with endorphins and exhaustion. We had to climb from Woodfords back to Turtle Rock but I don't think any of us really noticed it too awfully much. As we crested the last hill, we took the lane and rode 3 abreast. We were finishing together. Our team was waiting for us and cheered us in.

And Jim handed me a beer.


Thursday, July 12, 2012

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Countdown

In four evenings' time, I will have completed the Death Ride.

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Meanwhile, Five Months Later...


For five months, I focused on a single day. Training, preparing, dreading, anticipating. I've ridden all I can ride to ready my body for the ride. I've pushed myself to go on when I wanted to stop, bargained with the devil to reach the top of hills. I've frozen, I've baked. I've eaten more energy bars than I care to recall, more bananas than a chimpanzee and more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches than a first grader.

For five months, I focused on a single day. 23 early Saturday morning alarms, 23 times loading the bike, 23 times donning the bike shorts, 23 times loading the gear, 23 times shortchanging the dog, 23 times leaving a sleeping child, 23 times leaving at sun-up or before.

For five months, I focused on a single day. A lot can happen between now and the end of the Death Ride. My mind and body are ready. But things happen: Mechanical failures, flat tires, other things that could slow a rider down. The Death Ride has time constraints. For a slower rider like me, proper time management is the thin line between success and failure. There are key cut-off times to be met in order to continue on and complete the full five passes. A single flat probably won't make or break my timing. Multiple flats probably would, although I would do my best to not allow that to affect the outcome. But if it happens, it happens. I would be disappointed but not devastated.

For five months, I focused on a single day. But while I was focusing, I was also living. And living big. And being present.

On the bike, there isn't an escape. The bike can be an escape, but you don't escape yourself. Your mind can spin as fast as your pedals do. Your mind can spin happy, strong, positive thoughts, or it can spin negative, exhausted, this-is-too-hard thoughts. Legs that feel like lead during one climb can have a surge of energy and dance on the pedals during the next climb. Where your legs go, your mind follows. Where your mind goes, your legs follow. No matter what, you move forward. You get stronger physically and mentally. You push yourself and seek out challenges. Maybe that seeking is a new experience. Maybe it's one you once had 'back in the day' and have rediscovered it.

For five months, I focused on a single day. While I was focusing, I was getting to know my team. I spent 8, 10, 14 hours on a bicycle seat with a very small group, but had the camaraderie of a larger group. Still, the Death Ride team is small and intimate. Our conversations filled the day, kept the voices out of our heads. I've learned about family histories and I've shared some of mine. We know each others' strengths, weaknesses, foibles and annoyances. Surprisingly, some of the team still even likes me.

For five months, I focused on a single day. I will not forget the richness of our shared experiences, our laughter, our tears at the sharing of a loss. I will not forget how good beer tastes through sweat and salt, and the magic of chocolate milk or Honey Stingers or a really cold Coke. I will not forget our wonderful Honorees, our dedicated Volunteer Coaches and Staff and the new friends I've made along these 2600 training miles and 213,000 vertical feet. I've had the best time. Thank you. You rock.

For five months, I focused on a single day.

And now, it's time.