Post ride observation

If you insist on wearing underwear with your bike shorts (completely undoing the idea of the seamless, moisture-wicking chamois), don't add injury to insult by making it a thong.

A Slice of Mortality

After the ride last week, one of my teammates said, “I hadn't done Tam before. Another place to put on my Memorial Ride.” It gave me pause: someone thinks that far ahead (I never thought about a ride – I'm too busy figuring out where my ashes should be scattered and that changes daily because I have a short attention—what?).

Death Ride training is truly different from any other cycling training programs I've done. Our training rides are rides other people's end-games. The rides take us to the far reaches of the Bay Area. Countryside you just don't get to on a regular basis. Sure, we get up at 5AM (on Saturday!!) to drive for up to 2 hours to reach our starting point, but we are always rewarded by incredible scenery.

Our rides are long. They are difficult. Since February 1, I've climbed over 105,000 feet. Doing a little math, that's 9 times from Base Camp to the top of Everest. I've ridden 1298 miles: longer than from Seattle to San Diego or from San Francisco to Denver (and nearly twice the elevation. Including the Rockies). Only 9 miles shorter than from New York to New Orleans. And by this weekend, I'll have ridden from Chicago to Miami.

Anyway... enough about me.

Riding gives a lot of time to think. There's so much time spent on the road. Personally, I can't sustain an 8 hour conversation with anyone. So, besides grunting up hills and saying wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! all the way down hills... there's a lot of void to fill. We comment on the scenery. Political topics. Current events. Body functions. Popping new muscles. Listen to our own breathing. Heartbeats pounding in our ears.

This past week's conversations centered around a graphic video that made the news late in the week: a car hitting two cyclists on a popular cycling route in the Berkeley Hills. Different emotions and reactions were expressed, but my underlying reaction was a feeling of vulnerability.

We are out here, our vital organs protected by a thin sheath of skin, musculature and bones, sitting atop a vehicle that weighs a fraction of our body weight and offers no external protection. Our very important brains are protected by highly engineered styrofoam covered by brightly colored plastic. We take precautions. We wear bright, even garish, colors. We call out road hazards: holes, bumps, gravel, rocks, glass, twigs. We call out cars behind us, ahead of us, cars coming at us from the right and left. We stop when we should, we roll when it's safe.

While we are highly lithe and maneuverable, we can't avoid what we don't see coming at us from behind. We are at the mercy of every driver on the road. Motorcycle, crappy old beater, minivan, shiny new Lexus or sleek and sexy Maserati, distracted, drunk or sober. We depend on each driver to give us a wide berth, or wait until it is safe to do so, for our lives are in their hands. We ride to save lives and, in doing so, put our lives at risk every time we do. On narrow roads, we are doubly at risk from oncoming cars and cars from behind. We are the pinch point and we are the ones that will lose. In car vs. cyclist, we cyclists will always lose.

So I ask, if you are a cyclist, you understand. If you are not a cyclist, as a driver, please treat each cyclist you encounter as if he or she were your partner or your child. Give us room, be patient. And if you have just driven up a long hill, so has that cyclist – what took you 10 minutes may have taken him an hour. Give us the down hill. We may go as fast (or faster) than you in a car on the way down, but give us the space. We worked hard for it.  

A New Blog Discovery

Need to waste some time today?

check out McSweeneys.net... especially the "open letters" section.

here's a fine example.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/an-open-letter-to-the-gentleman-blow-drying-his-balls-in-the-gym-locker-room

Omissions.

A few days ago, my Aunt told me that she wished my Mom could read my posts and that she would have been proud of my writing ability. It made me happy to read that. I sometimes forget that my Aunt and my Mom knew each other the way I know my sisters now. I only have my very childlike experience of my mother, for she left us girls at a young age.

In high school, I was drawn to working on the yearbook my senior year. I enjoyed the creativity, I did some illustrations for the book and helped to conceive the overall scheme with other classmates on the yearbook staff. When I went to college, I was drawn again to the yearbook. I didn't consider myself a “journalist” – too shy to actually do interviews or ferret out a news story. I preferred the graphical nature of the yearbook and the longer view narrative of an event.

My senior year, I was editor in chief of the yearbook. Somehow, I fooled enough of the staff to elect me as editor. I was bossy and opinionated. Not much has changed.

What no one told me was that my Mom was also the editor of her college yearbook. I had no idea. I was drawn to it, sure, but hadn't a clue. My Dad didn't say anything. My first thought was a sense of bewilderment. How could you not tell me? But it's tempered with a small bit of gratitude. Had I known I was following in her footsteps, would I have felt pressure? A sense of competition? Inadequacy? Probably, yes to all of the above.

It's maddening to learn in middle age that you had more in common than you ever knew with the woman who birthed you and then left you when you were seven. I found out because my parents were divesting of some family possessions and my Dad decided I should get Mom's yearbooks because of the commonality.

My Aunt's comment struck another chord. Where my first impression was four part harmony, the second impression was a minor key. A bitter melody. An angry note. The adult in me can intellectualize my mother's suicide, and therapy sure helped, but the seven year old inside me will never get over the feeling of abandonment and rejection, despite knowing everything I know. How could she be proud of me? She never knew me. She knew a seven year old girl. An unformed person with little sprouts of promise, but whose talents and personality traits weren't even saplings yet.

Still, I like to think she would be proud.

A Day I Won't Give Back

Too often, I'll spend time in a meeting, or listening to a bore drone on (and repeat himself, of course) and my thoughts spiral downward to “that's 5 minutes I won't ever get back.”

Today, today? I won't give back.

Today I rode for John Sabel. I met him only once, at an event at a favorite winery in Anderson Valley. It was August 2012. I had just completed my second STP ride with Team in Training and had risen about $6,400 for the cause over the two years. John was clearly recovering from something. As our conversation evolved, I learned that he had had lymphoma. Marrow transplants and the anti-rejection drugs had caused leukemia – which he was fighting but it was taking its toll. I learned yesterday that John died on Wednesday. It made me sad. And it made me glad that I continue to ride for Team in Training year after year. And for your support year after year.

I rode today with John in mind, and shared his story with teammates as we climbed the forested slopes of Bolinas-Fairfax Road on Mount Tamalpais. It was a long climb, but that's what we Death Riders do. Long climbs. I won't bore you with those details as there are so many other I can bore you with. Long, hard, sometimes steep. And long. Sometimes, they're even long.

The thing about Death Ride training is that after awhile, the actual mileage of the ride becomes almost academic; it's all about how many more climbs there are before the damn ride is over. So today, as the mercury approached 70 before we departed idyllic Kentfield flat lands for the slopes of Mt. Tam, I picked up a route sheet but barely looked at it. For the first time, I had no idea how many miles, how many feet of climbing. I just knew that it was set out for me to do and I would do it. I trusted the training and the coaches, and knew that whatever was thrown at me at this point in the season was within my reach. Trust can be a very scary feeling... Mostly, I was scared that I hadn't squirreled away enough food. Hard boiled egg, peanut butter and jelly sandwich, 2.5 performance bars cut into chunks, homemade granola bars... As a teammate said, “Just be glad you didn't have to store all that in your cheeks.” and he didn't know about the banana I ate just before launch. And I'm embarrassed to share just how much of that food I returned with.

I've always over-packed.

I've learned that driving mountain roads in a car is a helluva lot scarier than riding them on a bicycle. For years I thought that the roads on Mt. Tam were too skinny, steep and scary (and, you know, that whole-avoid-roads-with-mountain-in-their-name-philosophy I may have mentioned on every occasion?) to ride on a BICYCLE. I've driven them, sure. Turns out, there's lots of room if the driver is patient and willing to wait for a safe zone to pass. On Tam, most were. Other parts of the ride... notsomuch. But I won't dwell on THAT.

Pardon the vulgarity, but on long rides, shit happens. One teammate got stung by something on her way up to the summit of Mt. Tam. I don't think she even stopped, although I imagine she did blink. Determination. Another, while shifting, her chain jumped and somehow got caught in her spokes and locked her rear wheel. On a downhill. She went down with her bike and another rider couldn't stop in time and ended up also going down. This could have finished either of their rides. But, Determination. She got her bike to a bike shop and had emergency surgery on her derailleur and chain. An hour (more?) delay and she was back on the road with a teammate who was kind enough to wait with her during the repair. The other guy? A little bactine (and probably some bruises that will show up tomorrow) and he was back on the road. (Yay for both!)

After our big, fun descent, we had some smooth flats and a few little climbs – former hills, now bumps – before our “lunch stop” in Pt. Reyes. My riding companion had it in her head that we must stop for a bottled Starbucks Mocha Frapuccino (probably spelled wrong but since it's not a real word I don't feel compelled to look it up). It was too hot for hot coffee and this had the ideal cyclist components: Milk (protein and carbs), sugar (carbs), caffeine (duh), and chocolate (duh). I'm in. So, while we COULD have made an afternoon sampling delectable pastries from the Bovine Bakery, or tasting cheese at Cowgirl Creamery, we downed our prepared beverages (and I am a convert, on bike rides only), made a pit-stop at the loo and went on our merry way to The Marshall Wall.

Bay Area cyclists (and others who travel just to cycle the Bay Area cycling lusciousness) know of The Marshall Wall. In either direction, challenging. Marshall-Petaluma Road traverses the Coastal Range from Route 1 (where all the yahoos like to drive) inland towards towns and villages of non-Western Marin County. Depending on your choice of torture, it can take you to Petaluma (hence the name) or Novato. Today, we climbed it West to East. It's a more gradual climb than East to West, but in no way will make you soft for doing it in that direction. When the temperature is spiking 85+ and it's airless, it's all the more challenging.

We climbed. And sweated. Sweat dripped into my eyes and stung, over-salinating my contacts. Sweat? I was a freaking salt-lick. Coach said: Electrolytes! Sunscreen! I listened. So now I'm applying sunscreen to a face coated in salt crystals. It's like a mini-facial. I'll wake up one big zit tomorrow.

Let me tell you about a cyclist's fantasy. Besides some attractive person (gender of your choice) in an expensive vehicle with an empty bike rack pulling along side of you and saying, “hey, baby, how 'bout I take you and your bicycle to a spa for a mud bath, hot stone massage and then dinner at The French Laundry, and then I'll tuck you in your own room at the hotel and check on you for breakfast in the morning” there's another one.

It rarely happens, but when it does, so memorable. Today's ride was self-supported (ergo, the squirrel mentality). As I approached the summit of The Marshall Wall, I saw a pick-up truck on the side of the road. It's a nice day, there are a lot of riders out. Probably some other team's SAG stop. And then I got a better look at who was standing around (remember, sweat-soaked contact lenses) and realized that this SAG was for US!! So amazing. So gratifying. Our teammate, who couldn't ride this week, took the time to come out and bring us water, ice and POPSICLES. At that moment in time, the perfect junction of Time and Placement, it was The Best Thing Ever. And all the way down the hill, and for the next 20 miles, we talked about the sweetness of our teammate, the sweetness of the popsicles and the cyclist fantasy that had just come true. It is called The Surprise Sag Stop.

Hmmm. Popsicle. Popcycle. It's becoming more clear.

After a few more miles and that many more bumps, we returned to the start and headed on to enjoy a post-ride beer. It's part of recovery – gotta load those muscles with carbohydrates so they don't consume themselves...

On the way home, I am one of the lucky ones who gets to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco. Sometimes there's traffic and it's oh-so-annoying. Other times, I'll see a car with an out of state plate from far away that is video taping the whole Golden Gate Bridge experience. And it reminds me that there was a time that I crossed that Bridge for the first time and I was moved by the experience. I wish I could honestly say it happened every time I cross the Bridge. I'm always moved. I'm just not always that understanding.

What I like about crossing the Gate is the variableness in the weather. Foggy in San Francisco, Sunny in Marin. Sunny both sides, fog under the Span. If you have never actually watched fog form, it's fascinating. Something magical happens and the moisture in the air materializes out of nowhere and condenses into vapor-fingers. Whether this creates wind, or wind creates the condensation is beyond my knowledge. But the vapor-fingers catch the wind and start blowing eastward. Sometimes they coalesce and tumble upon themselves like ethereal tumbleweeds. Sometimes they evaporate after hitting a warm spot and the condensation becomes gaseous again. I have been lucky enough to stand for many days atop Hawk Hill in the Marin Headlands and watch the ebbs and flows of fog currents. I encourage you to do the same.

Tonight, as I emerged from the “Rainbow Tunnel” and approached the Bridge, small tumbleweeds of fog were forming and blowing across the roadway and dissipating. In the distance, downtown San Francisco was still reflecting the retreating sun. A few sailboats still played on the Bay. Sutro Tower, the landmark closest to my home, loomed in the twilight. The lowering sun danced on the Pacific Ocean, and car taillights glowed red as they braked for the toll plaza.

I had a great day today. It was hard, it was spent with truly good people, it had its trials and its rewards. I wouldn't give it back for anything, I wish John Sabel had had one more just like it.  

Anticipation?

Mt. Tam AND the Marshall Wall this weekend... and as Coach says, wait until the rides start getting hard.

The Orange Couch

High on a rural hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean is an orange couch. How it got there is known only to the people who placed it, no doubt under the cover of darkness, but perhaps not. It could have been put there in broad daylight. Maybe for a photo shoot, or to liven up a picnic. Whatever, and however, as I plodded up the road in my lowest gear, hoping that maybe I forgot I had one more gear I could shift into, and no matter how many times I flipped that gear leaver, the answer was still “no,” the orange couch appeared, mirage-like. Doing its siren call: Come hither. Stop. Rest. Enjoy the view. No one will get hurt. It's okay to stop.

Temptress, ugly vinyl couch. I can't stop and rest upon your soft cushion. I have work to do. I have a Strava segment to complete! If I stop, it'll screw up my stats. And... I'll never get started again on this hill without falling over.

The sofa happened to mark the end of the steepest part of the climb. Not the end of the climb, but the end of the mile long 12% (more?) grade that seemed like it wouldn't quit from the first soul-sucking bend upward.

After the couch, the climb mellowed and we regrouped. Riding along the ridge top, we could see from Mt. St. Helena to Mt. Diablo. A stunningly clear day (due in part to the winds that helped and fought us) rewarded our efforts. Springtime is my favorite season and Spring in Northern California is without parallel. The famous golden hills are bright green with young grass fed by the winter rains. Lambs learn to graze on this sweet grass and yearling calves frolic and chase us along the fence line. Older, wizened cows look on indulgently at the silly humans.

If ever I consider leaving California, a Spring ride in the Sonoma and Marin countryside cures me of that notion. Ask me again on a foggy July day.

The day's ride had been brought to us by SAG stops 1, 2 and 3. Welcome roadside attractions for hungry cyclists needing to replenish their water bottles, munch on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or roasted potatoes (food from the gods). The past several rides were self-supported, so seeing our SAG support volunteers comforted and nourished our bodies and our minds.