winter

When I commute in the cold, I like to pull up next to the Muni buses and warm myself by the exhaust. Every bus stop is its own magical hearth.

Monday.

1. You wake up late.

2. It's raining.

3. There's an eyedropper's worth of half and half for your coffee.

4. Your dog will not poop on command. In the rain.

5. You can only find two cycling gloves. One long-fingered. One short-fingered. Both are for the right hand.

6. Descending the steep wall that leaves the neighborhood, your red blinkie light pops off your pannier and bounces along behind you, blinking all the way. (recipe: take a $20 bill. ignite one match. apply flame to lower left corner of $20).

7. 2/3's of the way into your 400 foot descent down Market Street, spattered with road dirt and rain, you realize you forgot to pack underwear.

What the hell.

NaNoWriMo

We'll see... 50,000 words in 30 days seems like a lot. This will be the third attempt. I don't even know if I have a story in me.

75 out of 100

The alarm went off too early. Laying in my bed, I heard drips on the roof. I hoped the gray I saw through the cracks in the curtain meant rain. Oh, to lounge around all day reading and listening to rain, maybe venture out for food, return for more lazing and a beer or glass of red at the appropriate time.

But it was fog. Thick, heavy fog which had condensed on the large tree overseeing the house and the drips were the very same, succumbing to gravity, giving false hope to this occupant under the eaves.

Coffee was started, the ride prep began. Clothes, chamois cream, heart rate monitor (corset)... what am I forgetting? I feel like I'm forgetting something. Out to the car to look over my stuff. Shoes, helmet, gloves, food, money, ID.... Back in. Perchance, to open the fridge. Water bottles! Sheesh! Various false starts later, we arrive at the start, which is when I realize I forgot my headband. There Will Be Sweat. Good thing I didn't apply sunscreen above my eyebrows or it would be a stinging, sticky sweat dripping into my eyes instead of just salt crystals. You know, clean sweat. (yeah, right).

The mass start was at 7:30. We ended up starting about 15 minutes late, playing catch up to the pack. We missed the pros and all but had the road to ourselves. It was still overcast and cool. Fortunately, the air was still, and the first 12 miles offered up one little bump which allowed us a friendly descent before we rolled into the first rest stop. The road cut through farmland and meadows, and Western Meadowlarks perched on the barbed wire and serenaded us with their flute-like calls. A male American Kestrel hovered then landed on an overhead line, its rusty body accented with blue-gray wings. Something large and back-lit kited above a hill, probably a White-tailed Kite, but it was hard to bird and ride, and safety seemed like a priority. The shape was wrong for a Red-tail, but that's all I could tell.

double decker bike. photo by Jason Henry, sfgate.com

It was between the rest stop and turning on to Highway 1 on the way to Morro Bay that we encountered an unusual site: a double-decker bike. The rider was a 20-something Burner (we assumed) and handled it pretty well. It looked like the bike to the left. It was obvious he was used to answering questions about his frame upon frame (but still with two sets of pedals – who cares about the extra weight?) and vertical drive train. He was riding with a group (on “normal bicycles”) and the height of his rig acted like a beacon for his group. Heck. It acted like a beacon for us. We speculated on the effect of the wind, how he mounted his 2012 version of a penny-farthing (right foot on the (lower) left chain stay, give a push like a scooter and climb up quickly while it rolls), the weight, center of gravity on downhills... and then, when we started the climb that punctuated the ride profile like a giant spike in the flats, Jim decided that he officially hated him as he watched this youngster pull away from us on his double-steel frame (with extra bracing) bicycle. The least of it being that he knew how late the others in his group were up drinking (past 2AM) meaning he had been up that late as well. And still kicked our butts. Youth continues to be wasted on the young.

So, of course, the aforementioned climb cut through a valley which was sheltered from the coast. We passed a large orange grove. I decided I needed to come back in February and ride this just to smell the blossoms. Nestled in this valley bracketed by impossibly steep slopes, there wasn't nary a breeze, either. As we cut through, the fog burned off the hillsides in front of us, revealing cows grazing precariously on nearly vertical pastures. Wisps of moisture lifted off the brown grassland like dry ice vaporizing from a cauldron. At one switchback, I turned and looked behind me at the golden hills towering above and the misty valley below, tiny tendrils of dying fog reaching skyward.

I'd done a little research on the hill profile. I knew there was about a mile and a half of 11-13% grade in near the end of the first stage, and I had already assumed it would be exposed based on what I knew of the topography. Translation, the sun shone upon us as we slogged and spun. Half the distance of the steep part of Tunitas Creek, I had said, but without the shade. Still, it wasn't as hot or exposed as climbing the back side of Ebbetts (and only a third of that) and there was some scattered shade here and there. The sweat dripped from under my helmet onto my route sheet. Spin. Grunt. Drip. Spin. Grunt. Drip. (mental whine). Drip. Drip. I watched the mileage and counted down to what I thought would be the end of the steep bit. Finally, I encountered a friendly photographer who told me three more bends and I'd be at the top. I chose not to believe him because I hate false hope. What if he miscounted? What does he consider a bend? What does he consider the top?

At last, the top and a nice little down to the second rest stop and Highway 46. It really was three bends.

One of the reasons I signed up for this ride, and the century distance in particular, was to do the downhill on Highway 46 that stretches for about 10 miles from about 1700 feet to the coast and about sea level. It's also how I sold the ride. I'd done it twice before on the AIDS ride and wanted to do it again with my new descending skills learned from all that Death Ride training. I wanted to fly, knowing I'd never really need to hit my brakes – the road is wide, the shoulder is wide, the grade gradual, and the corners sweeping. No hairpins, no poor visibility, no potholes or tire-eating crevices. I asked Jim to take my picture at the top – it's the half-way point on the AIDS ride and I wanted to acknowledge that little bit of my cycling history.

It would be the last time we saw the sun. Here, I'd worn my 5-Pass finisher jersey and it was hidden under my vest all day.

Knowing the descent would be cool no matter what, we pulled up the arm warmers, zippered our vests and pulled back out onto 46. Straight into a fog bank. And head winds. The fog was blowing in. Hard. Normally, this descent has amazing views to the coast, of golden hills, cows below, hawks above.

Instead, visibility was about 50 feet. Pedaling hard into the wind to maintain 30 mph (last time I did it, I was braking at 40+ mph), ghostly cyclists emerged from the fog as I approached. I regretted having turned off my taillight at the last rest stop, but I wasn't stopping to turn it on. My glasses were completely opaque with fog drops and I looked over the lenses, the wind whipping my eyes and making them tear. I felt as if I had been robbed. I'd been talking up this descent, forcing a recovering riding partner to do more miles than he felt up to, just so we could do this descent. And this. Headwinds, soaking fog. No thrill, just chills. Broken promises and shattered expectations.

When we hit the coast, considering the wind we just battled, knowing if we turned north for the out and back to Cambria we'd have an extra 12 miles of headwinds to chew through. As I told Jim at the rest stop, I was only in it for the down hill and didn't care about doing 100 miles. He was still recovering from the plague and why over do it?

We took a (unanimous) vote and headed south towards Harmony (population 18!) and Cayucos and shaved 25 miles from our route. We worked hard to push forward, fighting a headwind in a wind tunnel. After a few miles, we saw the ocean. Unfortunately, this only meant more wind. After what seemed like far too long, we arrived in the charming coastal town of Cayucos for our lunch stop. It was overcast and still chilly. I made the mistake of taking off my helmet, which meant it was cold and damp when I put it back on, giving me a further chill. In need of caffeine, we stopped at a market for a coke. Maybe we should have gone for an espresso.

Cayucos is a two stop sign town and tiny beach resort. Quaint shops line the road and you can almost feel the wooden sidewalks of yore. Hotels and motels border the shopping and dining “district” and cute bungalows are perched over the beach. Some folks have gone upscale, but the favorite was the house with the mural of a humpback whale (and entire under sea scene) breaching near an American flag on the garage door. If we hadn't been so cold, we might have searched for the NRA logo and Romney/Ryan campaign sign embedded in the mural, but instead, we pressed on.

This stretch of the ride incorporated far too much riding on Highway 1 – later in the day, the vehicles on the road were less careful of us cyclists than they were at 9AM. Cars and pickups that could have moved over into the left lane to give us a safety zone just plain didn't. However, Highway 1 led us through Cuesta College to the best rest stop of the day – somehow, it was connected to HTC Highroad. It was at a residence, and the garage was filled with framed, signed jerseys and photos of cyclists I didn't recognize (this is not surprising). The array of food was the best all day: the usual bananas, etc. buffet was supplemented with cookies (even gluten free), brownies, chocolate and, most welcome, strong hot coffee. It was also the only stop that had a semblance of a bike rack to hang our bikes on while we enjoyed the hospitality. The penned geese and chickens stared at our brightly colored clothing and silly vehicles (seriously – they watched all the cyclists who stopped very intently – I've been hissed at by geese before so I kept my distance). Overhead, Red-shouldered Hawks protested and wheeled, chasing off at least one Coopers Hawk in their airspace.

Reasonably refreshed, we hopped back on the bikes for the last 10 miles. Turning inland towards San Luis Obispo, while I can't say we had a tail wind (which means we probably did...) we were no longer battling against wind. A bit later, we were back at the car, having done our own version of a Medio Fondo which incorporated nearly all of the climbing of the full Century and more mileage than the metric that was offered. A fine job on the bike making the best of less than ideal circumstances.

Post ride beer: Lagunitas IPA.

Sunday Observation

Why is it that when one kicks the water dish, it is never nearly empty?

Humility? It's on back-order.

It’s always fun to ride some place new. There’s a certain mental challenge to it. Not knowing the route, what’s yet to come as far as frequency of climb and steepness of climb, means holding a little back (but how much!) for later in the day. On a familiar route, you can hammer it in certain areas because you know what’s left and you have the confidence of having done that segment before.

But on a new route, even with an elevation profile examined beforehand, it’s hard to judge.

Take the Templeton Wine and Roses as an example. Jim and I signed up for the full century, but thought we might end up only doing the metric. Friday night before the ride, we decided, nope, we were going for the full monty. It’s “only” 6800 feet of climbing. (that, of course, depends on whose Garmin you’re using… but that’s a topic for another rant).

The day started earlier than we wanted, but later than the Death Ride (!!) -- at Starbucks (yeah, no Peets in Paso Robles) for a coffee and bagel at 5:30AM to ready ourselves for the short drive to Templeton. It was still pitch black and we didn’t have headlights. So maybe we undershot our start time by about a half hour. Used to large check-ins, we arrived at the Templeton Community Center / Government Building / Firehouse located on the Central Square. We parked right in front and entered the building at 6:02AM on the heels of the volunteers roped in to check us in. The air was still cool, making wardrobe choices challenging. We knew it would get hot, but when??

Shortly before 7, we embarked on the route. The roads were mostly in decent shape, but there were definitely some dicey sections and alligator pavement with large craters blown out.

I love riding in the early morning. Hated getting up for it, but enjoyed the long shadows which formed in the amber morning light, making our bicycles and legs look like Wilt Chamberlain’s against the golden pastures and meadow fencing. This day, we were out with the morning deer. Being some of the first cyclists on the road at 7AM, the deer were not yet inured to cyclists.  We passed a young doe and buck. Seeing us riding either spooked or energized them to start running along the fence with us. Not being able to resist the challenge, I stood on my pedals and began to ride with them. Race them, even. I sprinted along for a bit while the little doe and young buck ran, too, at 20 MPH. A fun little interval, and I hoped then that I hadn’t blown my legs out at mile 10 by giving too much with 90 miles to go.

Normally, when you do a ride, like long road trips on the highway, you tend to encounter the same folks again and again. When you do a ride with only 350 people, and maybe 10% of them are doing the century, you definitely bump into the same folks. So when Terry at the registration became Terry at the first SAG stop and Terry at the second SAG stop and then Terry at lunch and then Terry at the Nth SAG stop bathroom line… Not that I got introduced, but heard him introducing himself to others…Social fellow. 

A ride with 6800 feet of climbing can be more or less difficult. 6800 feet isn’t chump change to most anyone, for sure. This one, despite looking at the elevation profile (no climbs longer than 500 feet!), was deceptively difficult. As I said to Jim, it was like riding a saw. The road was constantly up and down, with many rollers and short climbs followed by short descents. In some respects, the route was a real endurance builder of interval training. No descent was long enough to really recover. Much of the ‘negative’ incline was at 1 or 2% where pedaling was still necessary to maintain forward progress as opposed to 5-6% up and similar grades down. The low grades kept our average speed up, but if there had been headwinds, it would have been brutal. The first 50 miles (East Side) was this type of terrain. Gorgeous golden hills, ranch land and some vineyards, dotted with Live Oaks and cut by country roads.

The West Side, or second 50 miles, was hillier and had more shaded roadways, which benefited us as the temperature climbed. The hillsides were blanketed with orderly vineyard rows and the roads were lined with oaks, meaning that the roadbeds were strewn with acorns and the occasional squirrel who misread the speed of an oncoming car.

Confession time:

Much of my identity in cycling is wrapped up in My Little Bianchini. She’s 12 years old and steel. So when I’m keeping up with all the fancy carbon or titanium bikes and the legs on them, I’m feeling pretty good and strong. Butch, even. And when I see custom bikes, embellished with the rider’s name, and a real matching bike kit on his (or her) back, I think, must be nice. But when one passes me (especially without calling out ‘on your left’) I get just the teensiest bit resentful. Bike manners are bike manners: whether you’re riding a Huffy from Target or a $10,000 bike built to your exact body geometry, custom painted and loaded with the highest end components.

At the 70ish mile SAG stop, I noticed a white steel (?) frame bike – custom. Custom paint, even in white, beautiful. Built for a tall guy.  We may have even left the rest stop with him. He got ahead of us and stayed there for quite a while. But Death Ride training has made me a decent descender (much improved, although still nowhere as good as many on the Death Ride team, but better than your average bear), and at a point, we passed him at near the bottom of a downhill. Just when I was feeling good about my riding prowess, the road began to tilt upward again. This was the Peachy Canyon Climb that we’d heard a bit about at the SAG stop. Gradual, but about a mile long.

Here comes my comeuppance for screaming past this guy at the bottom of a downhill. Thought of Lisa T (humility…) and was prepared to be humbled. Because while I’m a good descender and a decent sprinter on short steep climbs, eventually on the long climb, I hear “on your left” far more often than I say it. And not 300 yards into the climb, Mr. White Custom Bicycle passed me. What-Evs, I thought.

I trudged on. It was long; the grade was gradual. Just kept spinning. We hit a pitch that was about 8%. I looked ahead about 200 yards. Mr. W-C-B was walking his bike. I couldn’t wait to pass him on my 12 year old Bianchi. But, alas, he must have heard my ego advancing upon him because when I was about 50 yards away, he remounted his custom steed and started pedaling again. Frustration!

I kept spinning, keeping him in my sights: Mr. I’m 6’2” and simply have more muscle fiber than your 5’3” frame could ever hope to have. Rounded a bend and rounded another bend. Now we’re in the shade and it’s a bit cooler. Ahead, I see Mr. W-C-B again walking his bike. I look ahead. I don’t know this road at all, but I can tell just by terrain we’re near the summit and it’s not a false one. The summit is in sight and he’s walking. Out of 6’2” legs, I guess. It happens. Thank You, Death Ride Training. And I pass him. Screaming by at a blinding 4.8 mph on my short little legs and my little steel pony. The road begins to level, I start upshifting in anticipation of the downhill. Perversely, I wanted to do that within his earshot. But didn’t. Humility.

So much humility that I gloat here. But hey, where else can I?

The ride down Peachy Canyon was a joy. It was a descent but not in the traditional downhill way. I was hooting and hollering the whole way. It twisted, turned, rose up to meet you in a way you could stand on your pedals for 4 cranks and be back on the next down hill – I hollered out more than once it was like riding your bike on a roller coaster. I can’t wait to do it again. That descent made the previous 86 miles worth it. Seriously. What fun.

After a nice down hill and a rude hilly bit back to the finish (really? Rollers with 10%+ pitches in the last 10 miles?) we were loading the bikes onto the car and in search of some really nice barbecue.

moving too fast to think

and desperate for some downtime to process life's events of the past 40 days.

Dear BMW Driver:

Dear BMW Driver,

You are driving the Ultimate Driving Machine. We get that. We expect you to put that superb steering and rapid acceleration to use at every opportunity. Even if it makes you look like an asshole. We drivers of lesser vehicles expect you to be an asshole. As a BMW driver, you are a known quantity. If you can jump lanes to fill that gap and move forward 1.5 car lengths, you will do so. You are predictable. Other drivers on the road can anticipate your next asshole-move and respond accordingly. You know. You treat other BMW drivers with the same accord. It's professional courtesy.

So, dear BMW driver that I encountered today, your hesitancy and uncertainty really mucked things up. It wasn't that you were unsure of where you were going; you committed to your lane early (first clue) instead of cutting in at the last minute. Then, on the freeway on-ramp, you clotted things up by not taking charge and passing everyone else while using the shoulder so you could get to the freeway first. Your lack of initiative confused the pack and, frankly, created a driving hazard. Suddenly, there were two cars neck and neck. Had you simply accelerated, as your Ultimate Driving Machine is designed to do, with the gas pedal on the right and all, the confusion would have ended and the rest of us wouldn't have been sitting silently in our cars in stunned disbelief.

If you're going to drive your BMW that way, trade it in for a Ford Marshmallow and end the madness.

Signed,

Still Missing my BMW

On Eggbeaters

Dear Facebook Friends,

I've known you for a long time. We go way back. We're about the same age. We have lots in common to celebrate.

Somehow, we met or reconnected, found we had something in common and decided to share an on-line world. And here we are. It's not you. It's me. Well, actually, it is you. You're driving me crazy and I don't know what to do.

Last week, in my news feed, I had three photos of vintage ice-cube trays. A photo of the M*A*S*H staff. Two pictures of Woolworths. Four photos of Corningware casseroles. Fiesta ware. Egg beaters. The Wicked Witch on her bicycle. A sunbeam mixer. A TI-30 calculator. The Brady Bunch house. A View Finder. A zippo lighter. The floor switch for brights.

Please. Stop.

These pictures were put on Facebook by a business. They put it out there with “click like if you remember blah-blah.” and people clicked like. And it showed up in their friends' streams and they clicked like. Pretty soon, 1,000,000 people are liking a picture of an eggbeater. It's a f**king eggbeater. And the business that put it up is getting 1,000,000 exposures, if only by “via Business X” in the stream. It's viral marketing in the undesirable, STD kind of viral marketing way. These are eggbeater herpes, clogging up our Facebook news feeds and keeping us from seeing YouTube clips of actors reading Yelp reviews and snarky e-cards and political tirades. The eggbeater prevents us seeing the pictures from your last cruise, your latest bon mot. It's spam disguised as nostalgia.

The eggbeater is interfering with our relationship.

What is the point of “liking” an eggbeater? To show how old you are? Do you want to advertise this? Because your friends are that old, too. I know you know what an eggbeater is. We probably made french toast in your kitchen when we were kids.

Where's the picture of the sanitary napkin and belt? The button-hook? The Sears' Catalog opened to the girdle page? Garters for mens' socks? I remember all of these things, too. But do they deserve a “like”? Is it something you would turn around and “share” on your page?

Here's the problem. I like you and I want to hear from you. If I “hide” all your likes and comments, I won't see that e-card you liked or the Huffington Post article you commented on. I can take the good with the bad to a degree. I'm sure I've bored and offended you at times and you're still here.

Aren't you? Hello?

If we can just eliminate the mundane manipulation being thrust upon us by businesses trying to get our attention, if we can simply think before “liking,” if we can condomize Facebook and stop the madness...  

Corsets and Bears.

The Mount Shasta Summit Century

We elected to start riding at 5:45, which meant an early morning of coffee and breakfast negotiations among people unaccustomed to sharing intimate spaces.

During the pre-ride semi-comatose giddiness, a discussion of bagel toasting options arose. The house we rented came with a hotel quality (although old) waffle iron. It seemed natural that The Bagel Waffle-Iron Panini Press would be appropriate. Would you like your bagel dimpled this morning, ma'am? Sorry about the cheese oozing through. Does that make it hard to eat?

It was while eating my oatmeal that my heart rate monitor band started pinching me. Making this observation aloud may have been a mistake. “Make it tighter, Mammy! I know you can pull my waistline in to 19 inches!” To which Beth replied, “That's it! I'm going to market a corset-heart rate monitor combination! Look good while exercising!” “Yes,” I replied drily, “because when exercising, breathing is so unimportant.”

We started riding while the sky was still a dark blue. There was ambient light and the sun was rising somewhere on the other side of Shasta. We pushed our bikes through the gate, turned on our tail lights and set off. Beth led the charge, which was probably a mistake. She's such a strong rider. The first leg was a gradual grade that looked pleasant enough. However, I don't warm up until about mile 40. Starting out at good clip shot my heart rate up higher than it's been all season. I knew this was not a sustainable pace for me, but for the three miles to the meeting point, I kept up.

Mt. Shasta loomed impressively to the East. Somewhere behind it, the sun was peaking over the horizon, shooting shards of dawn light into the clouds. As we rode, streams of pink and peach painted the cloud layer in a Wild West water color wash. Blue clouds clung to ridge tops. There was a chance of rain and I left all my warm clothes back at the house. It was still cool – then.

As we wound our way around the valley towards the town of Weed (yes, the town embraces the name), we played tag with a few cyclists. Like driving on the highway where you see the same cars over and over, group rides enjoy the same scenario. Blue Kneesocks Guy was the main attraction – having seen him doing a tune-up ride in town the day before, his socks made an impression. I wondered if he was wearing the same pair, and if they were dirty from yesterday. And when we saw him for the first time during the ride, I had a feeling he would become a permanent fixture. I glanced over at Jim and chuckled. “I love it when things come full circle.”

It was about 6:30AM now. We were making a fun descent – nothing too long or steep, and nothing we had yet earned. Which meant, of course, pay later. A man who would soon become a comrade led the charge, followed closely by Jim, Beth, me and John. We were in a wooded stretch, probably going about 25mph. A large dark animal darted from the trees darted and raced across the road. Not a dog. Not a deer. Not an antelope nor an elk. Neither suicidal squirrel nor or chipmunk. We'd already seen a bunny so we knew it wasn't that. Having processed the possibilities faster than HAL could shut the pod bay doors, I cried out “Holy Fuck!”. It was a bear. A two or three hundred pound black bear deciding that now would be a great time to cross the road. Those pesky cyclists with their buzzing-bee wheel hubs needed to get their heart rates up.

Our new best friend skidded and took evasive action, dodging left while the bear went right. The rest of us watched in stunned amazement as the bear darted (Yes, darted. He was quick. Quicker than I'd like to think.) up the hill into the trees. “What was...” “Did you see that?” “Was that what I thought it was?”

It was.

The ride is a small ride (under 800 riders) and only a few lot of us were out on that stretch. If you weren't in that group of a dozen on that section, just around that curve, you didn't see it. It was literally a moment in time.

We rode with our buddy a few more miles. I was behind him and frequently saw him shaking his head in disbelief. That it happened, that he didn't hit the bear, that he wasn't going any faster than he was or the bear didn't decide to cross a second later. That it was a bear at all.

My corset heart rate monitor failed to record the adrenaline hit. Design modifications are in order.

A few minutes later, we revisited the encounter.

Jim: he's probably checking his shorts.

Me: he won't be needing any chamois butter.

Beth: all natural product!

Me: stay away from him at the SAG stop.

Jim: what are all those flies doing?

All: (laughter)

Time and miles passed. We started up our first climb. As we were all novices to this route, we didn't have any expectations or fore-knowledge of the climbs. Since I rarely pay attention to route sheets on organized rides (the turns are spray-painted onto the road fergawdssakes), I had less knowledge than my riding companions. Is this the beginning of the climb? Is this the beginning? Are we climbing to the climb (like Ebbetts) or are we actually on the climb? Climb 1 (Fawn Creek) was a gentle 1500 foot climb with no real steep bits. For a warm up, it was a good climb. And, predictably, at just about mile 40, my quads started jumping through my skin and my legs wanted to go. I wanted to bolt, but wanted to stay with my buddies and knew I needed to keep some reserves for later in the day. It was a push me-pull you exercise. How to pedal without pedaling? How to not appease the greedy quads?

We got to the SAG stop. Beth and I agreed that if the rest of the climbs were like this....

How very silly of us. Somehow from the beginning, which mostly felt downhill, we had already climbed over 3000 feet. We still had 7000 feet to go. It was not all going to be 5 and 6%. The bike math simply wouldn't allow that.

Aaaaaaaaaand it wasn't. Climb 2 to Castle Lake made me glad I didn't hammer Climb 1. The sun was now out and the mercury was rising. Castle Lake Road started out pleasantly shaded with gentle grades. Soon it kicked up and started feeling like an actual hill. A real hill with sunshine and heat that required sustained effort. 7.1 miles of sustained effort. At the top, we were rewarded with shoulder massages. Although my corset was binding, I managed to guzzle most of a pepsi to wash down my watermelon and a few fig newtons. Beth said to me, “I can't sit here much longer.” I agreed, “We can rest on the descent.”

And then we looked at each other, somewhat stupified. What had become of us? Oh, yeah. Death Ride.

Because we weren't under the same time pressures as Death Ride, Beth, Corinne and I stopped for a photo op with Mount Shasta as the backdrop. After all, we needed to record this for posterity.

At the lunch stop, we reconnected with Jim who had arrived ahead of us. Sated, quenched and relieved, we headed out for the last climb. We were riding in an oven. Climbing 1 and 2% grades in our granny gears because the heat was so oppressive. The sun bore down, a crushing weight of light on our backs, heating our heads, sapping the energy from our legs. 2% at 5mph. We meandered a tad through town to the main road of our climb. Suck. Suck. Suck. Life draining out the bottom of our shoes, through our cleats, being spent on our pedals for very little return. Turn the crank, go backwards. Turn the crank, go backwards.

And then, what is this mirage? A man standing at the end of his driveway. Misters suspended into the air. The man has a hose. He asks if we'd like to be sprayed down. I ask myself just what had been slipped into the gatorade at the lunch stop and if so, would it already be taking effect. Because this wasn't real. Nobody stands out there in 100 degree heat and offers to spray down stupid baking cyclists attempting to climb a mountain.

The cold shower was real. And refreshing. Refreshing enough to allow cooler heads to prevail and realize that I had my phone in my back pocket and I hoped it wasn't toast. The cool-down seemed to help Jim, too. I realized he was slowly pulling away from me. I remained static as he got stronger. Corinne and Beth were still close behind.

After a very short bit, our jerseys dried and the sun continued its Easy-Bake Oven treatment of us. We were in our little aluminum petri dishes baking two inches from a 100 Watt bulb. The salt from our sweat formed a perfect crust on our skins. When they were to find us later on the side of the road, four husks curled in fetal positions still clipped in to our pedals, they could chip the salt away and sell it as human crystals in downtown Mt. Shasta. Someone would make a killing. The salt-encrusted corset – a museum piece.

Jim was still ahead. I had him in my sights but couldn't close the 100 yards. I desperately wanted to close that gap. If only I could catch him, I could tell him I wanted to stop. I was done. Kaput. Ready to make that loser U-turn and head back to the start and eat. In the shade. The cool shade. On a nice cool lawn. Finally, I did close the gap. I talked about being ready to pivot at the first water stop on the climb. We looked at the map as we continued forward. A few more miles. Then we started getting very (very!) intermittent patches of shade – enough to cool us for a second before pressing on. The shade patches increased in frequency and in length and we were catching a few wisps of air funneling up from a valley. The temperature dropped a degree. Maybe. How would we know? Can a human tell the difference between 150 degrees Fahrenheit and 149? Has that been tested?

At last, the water stop. Pepsi number 2. GU number 1. (2X caffeine!!!). I attempted a cookie. Couldn't swallow it. Heat and food don't mix. Mental and physical recovery began. The folks at the SAG lied to us and told us we'd have more shade between this and the next water stop in 5.2 miles. We'd already climbed 1890 feet since lunch and had another 1670 until the next stop. Which would be fine if it was shaded like they said. And maybe it is shaded when they drive or ride it early in the morning or late afternoon. But between 2 and 3:30 in the afternoon, notsomuch. But they lied and we chose to believe them because it was either that or despair.

Beth and Corinne pulled into the stop. Seeing that they were still working this damn hill motivated us to press on. We mounted our trusty steeds. Since lunch, I had consumed almost two quarts of water and electrolytes and had no need to pee. This is not how proper hydration is supposed to represent.

If I thought the first stretch was a mind fuck, the second segment was doubly so. Still hot. A few breezes now and again falsely promised relief. The mental soundtrack that had earlier kept me plucking along had turned into a Bob Dylan dirge. I was ready to scream. Nasal, whiny and a-tonal ramblings buzzed in my ear as I pushed one increasingly hot foot in front of another. Please, breeze, just blow through the toes of my shoes and cool my feet down. I can't afford to get “hot foot” now. Where's the shade? What mile are we at. 3.5 miles still until the next water stop? I thought there was going to be shade. This patch? This is what you call shade? My bike makes more shade than that. Maybe I'll just stop and curl up under the shade of my bicycle.

Jim and I commiserated. There was kvetching. Even swearing. Some whining. Talk of the loser U-turn. Or getting to the water stop but NOT going to the top. Another 2 miles past.

But then.

Something happened.

Our TNT buddies who had done an alternate version of the ride drove past. They hooted and hollered out of the car windows as they passed.

“Shit.” I said to Jim. “Now we have to finish. Because they've seen us on the climb. We can't claim that they missed us because we were at a SAG stop on the downhill run. They'll know. They'll know if we don't get there.”

We rounded a corner and there they were, pulled over in a turn-out. Standing outside the car, all lined up with cameras and cheering. No cowbells, thankyouverymuch. And Dave standing there with a 22 ounce bottle of Racer 5. Cold. Cool water condensing on the bottle. Held out for us to grab: the brass ring inducing us to get off our merry-go-round bikes, quit and drink beer. How cruel. Desperate to quit and being taunted this way, knowing if we did... we'd be shamed forever. Jim said something I'd never heard him say before, with far more passion and energy than I thought he had in him at this point in the day.

Despite the obnoxiousness of the taunting, our teammates' cheers and support boosted our spirits. We were united in our temporary loathing, but were extremely gratified to see them. The surprise almost-beer SAG stop.

Eventually, we arrived at Bunny Flats, two miles from the "top." The “top” of our ride isn't the summit of Mt. Shasta, but it's the end of the road up Mt. Shasta. Our buddies were at that last water stop, cheering us in, offering to hold our bikes, getting us water and whatever else we might need. Again, we were honor bound to continue on. Or face the music.

We left the SAG. Jim joked, "We could just go around this corner, wait 20 minutes and come back down." I said to him, “You'll know, young Jedi. You'll know.”

We rode on. At last we saw the final switchbacks to the end of the climb. And then we were up. “Good job, Coach,” I said. “Good job,” he said back. Pepsi number 3.

How do you describe the perfect descent? It has to be long. It has to have very little traffic. Splendiferous views. A clean and smooth road surface. Not too steep of a grade nor too tight of turns. It's a hill that you can ride relaxed with very little, if any, intervention from brakes. You can maintain a good speed of 35 to 40 mph in a way that doesn't cause alarm. The lanes are wide enough, with enough long-distance visibility to pass another cyclist confidently and safely.

Everitt Memorial Highway, the road that climbs Mt. Shasta, is that descent. It is the perfect descent which makes the three hours of climbing worth every molecule of suffering. It is an E-ticket ride. An epic climb matched with an epic descent.

Do it.

Musing

Is a marriage between a gay man and a lesbian a "traditional" marriage or a "gay" marriage?

I'm so confused.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Training Summary

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.

Katherine Markovich, you are my new best friend.

I can't see any way to improve upon perfection, so I shall just point you towards it.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/an-open-letter-to-people-who-take-pictures-of-food-with-instagram

Countdown

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

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.