And so it begins, sort of

Torrential downpours meant cancelling the first night of racing, yesterday.

It’s been awhile. Clearly, we have some catching up to do. First, however, I would like to share a little something I wrote last summer and posted over at Stories She Tells. I think I say this every year, but I’ve never loved riding more. Every time I step onto the infield, watch a race, or ride the track, I find myself nestled right in the moment and filled with inspiration, passion and desire.

Passion is Presence (September 9, 2011)

Back in my high school cross country days, I loathed 800 repeats. They hurt for too long. But it was during this suffering that I discovered beauty. On one miserable autumn torture session in the park after school, the coach gathered our crumbling lot and instructed us to pay attention as the star runner completed his effort.

“Look at his eyes,” he said to the half-dozen teenage girls whining to cut the workout short. While this request certainly elicited a collective eye roll, it worked – at least on me. As our hero strode by, he seemed unaware of the onlookers. His dark eyes focused on some elusive target. Until that point, I’d never seen such intensity projected. However, high school decorum meant quickly averting my stare and erasing all traces of enchantment.

In the 16 years that passed, that piercing look seemed to exist only within my memory’s confines. But this summer, I recognized it at the velodrome. No longer an embarrassed 16-year-old, I allowed it to draw me in. It lingered in my head for a few days. In all honesty, it consumed my thoughts to the point of disruption. What was it about this not-quite-far-off, but not-quite-there gaze that moved me?

Desire? Determination? Certainly, but it seemed those were just elements. Then it hit me. I’d witnessed presence. That “look” was the appearance of someone fully in the moment. And its fervor tantalized my spirit.

In creative pursuits we talk about flow – those glorious periods when everything fades away and we lose ourselves in our art. Heck, we become our art. Athletes, teachers, activists, lovers, anyone can experience flow, but it seems impossible to achieve this state without passion.

Presence, it would seem, is passion in action. And being present enough to observe the beauty of another’s presence, well, that must be where inspiration lives.

Hangin’ Tough

 

Fall 1997. That’s the last time I worked out at a gym. Sure, I purchased free weights and picked them up from time to time in decade+ that followed. But it hardly qualified as strength training. And never mind that I worked for a gym from 1999–2000 but never took advantage of my FREE membership. (heavy sigh)

 

This fall, after 14 years off, I started lifting again. It hardly happened on a whim. First, I thought about it for several months. Then, I spent several weeks exploring gym options. And finally, the fear-fueled procrastination ended. I met a friend for a “trial run” that would be my return to the weight room.

 

As I drove to meet her for that first session, I realized I’d forgotten a lock. Oh, yeah, you use a locker at a gym. The locker requires a lock. Right.

 

It seems my mind erased all recollection of previous weight room experiences. As we moved from one exercise to the next I repeatedly required explanation and instruction. How do you do a squat? What’s a deadlift? Where’s the pulley to adjust this machine for an extra-small human being? How bad will this hurt tomorrow, and for how many days after that? What if I can’t even lift the bar? Had I really done these things in THIS lifetime?

 

But it didn’t take long to remember why I once loved lifting weights. Seeing a roomful of sweaty, red-faced bodies; inhaling that blend of perspiration, rubber mats and disinfectant; and hearing the gentle clanking of weights reminded me what this place represented – strength, challenge, transformation. 

 

And when the subtle post-workout burn gave way to major I-think-a-semi-hit-me-in-my-sleep stiffness the next day, I didn’t mind … much. I suffered through it and returned to sign my contract, pay my dues, and become an official card-carrying gym member.

 

I’ve since added weight to the empty bar without predicament, experienced something near paralysis thanks to Russian hamstring exercises (apparently my hams need some work), and rolled my eyes at girls working out in their sports bras (I used to do that. Now I wear the same smelly T-shirt for a few visits.)

 

After three weeks back, I feel pretty acclimated. I’m grateful to be back and looking forward to seeing results in the weeks and months ahead. Once again, I’m reminded it’s never too late to rediscover something. I’m a ways from musclehead status, but I’m certainly looking forward to the journey.

Barriers be damned

When you lose weight, it often takes awhile to adjust to your new form. My fat years were but a blip in my lifespan, and I wasn’t that overweight. Nonetheless, my brain needs to catch up with my body from time to time.

It’s completely irrational. Yet, sometimes, even several years after losing double-digit pounds, I look at a pair of jeans or swimsuit bottoms and think, “There’s no way I can wear those.” Then, the item proves too big. I even worry that a weekend spent eating too much or too unhealthy means ballooning 30 pounds by Monday and having to start over again. The chubby girl lurks in my brain.

This seems to be my experience with fitness as well. Apparently my inner fatty ate the tenacious, goal-driven collegiate cross country runner (well, JV in D3, so we’re not talking anything amazing, but still athletic) who enjoyed rock climbing and downhill skiing and wanted to run marathons and scale mountains. The panting, hacking, pain-filled bike racing neophyte appears alive and well after more than three years in the saddle, just when I think I may have unloaded her. Even as I started allowing myself to acknowledge improvements this summer both on the track and the trail, I worried a few days off might render me back where I began – sucking wind and barely pedaling way behind the pack.

And this mindset followed me to the Fridley cross race on Saturday. I kept my expectations low. Perhaps a couple of recovery weeks meant complete fitness loss. Doomed, I would be mercilessly lapped and pulled from the race – or, worse yet, give up out of sheer exhaustion. At least I would get an intensity workout, right?

Riding the course surprised me. It seemed reasonable. I didn’t feel like a breathless heap of atrophied muscle. Lining up at the start felt exciting, not dreadful.

Even though this 30-minute race on a relatively flat circuit hurt far worse than Chequamegon with its 40 punishing miles, I hung in there. Even though the 80-degree weather left me a bit dizzy and longing for water, I pushed myself to tough it out. My heart rate spiked to a number it rarely reaches, and I probably looked incredibly slow in spots. By the end, I could barely run up the runup and I more or less stepped over the barriers – about knee-height of someone my size. But I had enough juice to pick it up on the flats, and that felt pretty good. I focused on cheering on and sticking with the other riders around me – I wasn’t off on my own. Something crazy happened, I had a great time and didn’t finish last.

With the taste in my mouth, I started looking forward to the next race. And this thought pretty much slapped my brain into reality: If I move backward, it’s because I’ve given up or slacked off. I’m not the same rider I was three seasons ago; I’ve improved. I have put in some hard work and am dedicated to taking it up a notch. It’s time to retrain my brain.

Back at it

Two years ago I lugged my mountain bike to several cyclocross races. Who cares if using the wrong equipment made the pain and suffering even worse, I was out there doing it! I’d just started bike racing, and fueled by obnoxious newbie enthusiasm, I wanted to sample the sport’s every offering. How many bikes could I collect?

Last year, I bought a Ridley XBow imagining how effortless racing would feel now that I wasn’t lugging around 30 pounds of mountain bike. Two races per weekend – why the hell not?

I participated in about 5 minutes of a single, weeknight race. My mistake: doing it three days after my first Chequamegon Fat Tire 40. Oh, another oversight: I had just left my corporate job, so spending $50+ on weekends of racing were out of the question. And then there was my month of travel spanning the second half of the season. I took the bike to a few practices, then put it away until spring when I didn’t want to muck my road bike up with salt. Why didn’t I buy race wheels for my track bike – or better yet, use the cash for my mortgage?

Much fitter and wiser this year, I allowed myself time to unwind from track season and the 40. Listening to everyone talk about cross made me cringe. Ick. My body recalled its last go-round with barriers, runups and a spiked heart rate. Maybe I could sell that bike and finally buy those track wheels or a full-suspension mountain bike.

Yet, sometime in August, I had marked my calendar to start cross the second weekend in October. I told my teammate. That meant no backing down. And when that fateful Saturday morning finally arrived, I wanted desperately to ignore it. But I didn’t. A sore wrist from crashing my mountain bike even offered the excuse I needed. Nope. I loaded up the truck and drove to Fridley.

Game on.

 

 

 

Fat Tire 2011 – The Recap

This year’s nerves waited until the morning of to activate, and then they stayed but briefly. I approached the day with uncharacteristic calmness and composure. After getting into the event via essay, I had only two months to prepare for my second Chequamegon 40 – and even then I didn’t really train.  But my fitness surpassed any I’d had in 14 years, so it seemed, at least, doable.

After what I dismissed as nervous pee proved the real deal and sent me to the port-a-potty with minutes to spare, I scrambled to locate my bike amid the sea of nearly 2,000 riders. Over the loudspeaker, the emcee announced unattended bikes would be yanked, a fate worse than last year’s pre-start flat tire. I reunited with my trusty steed, then frantically looked for Chris. We spotted each other and exchanged a go-get-em kiss. The air hummed with anticipatory chatter. Silenced, the riders removed their helmets for the “Star-Spangled Banner”; then put them back on and resumed with good lucking and expelling pre-race jitters. We counted down the seconds. Gloved fingers gripped our bars; shoes clipped into pedals; and the gun fired.

In it

Men and women on mountain bikes surrounded me, and together we engaged in battle. All along the main stretch, spectator cheers ushered us out of town. And my eyes filled with tears – some people get dewy eyed over babies or weddings, but the beauty of humanity in motion never fails to touch me. The whirring of rubber on asphalt, the shifting of gears, the heavy breaths passing alongside created an almost-orchestral soundtrack as we neared the trail.

This time around, I would allow myself the pleasure of enjoying the ride. I would be in my body rather than wish myself to the finish. I would push myself and pace myself, but I would not be tempted by passing riders. They had their own race, and I had mine. This wasn’t about my place among them; it was personal.

“You’re going out too fast,” the voice inside my head whispered as I looked around the Birkie Trail. These people looked different from last year’s four-hour finishers. Forget camaraderie. My new race peers didn’t engage in idle chitchat. “This is what three-and-a-half hours looks like. This is what three-and-a-half hours feels like,” I encouraged myself and recognized the strength I felt.

In my attempt to remain present, I tried limiting the internal dialogue. But it’s strange what creeps into your mind during prolonged exercise. Besides my three-and-a-half-hour mantra, the other short-of-poetic musings involved lyrical snippets from music I don’t even listen to (a la Taio Cruz’ “Dynamite”) or haven’t listened to in years (“you put the boom-boom into my heart”) and reminders that “honey badger don’t care” – with added dialogue not found on YouTube, “that tough little fuck doesn’t give a shit if there’s pain; he’s hungry and he’s gonna eat” (Chris taped a honey badger photo to my top tube for inspiration). Taking cue from meditation, I let these thoughts come in and watched them float on by.

I climbed methodically. I groaned when bottlenecks forced me off my bike. I nearly wiped it skidding around a mud puddle. I grinned. I giggled. I tuned in and tuned out for immense stretches of grass, forest, gravel and sand. I just tried to stay in my body and ride. I can’t even recall feeling pain. Until mile 8.

After Fire Tower, with 11 miles to go, it seemed I would bring it home just under 3:30. My legs were game. Until they weren’t. Just a few feet beyond the mile 8 sign, my left leg seized. Someone rammed a metal rod straight up it, or so it seemed. All sorts of nasty spewed from my mouth once I lost the ability to pedal. I dismounted and furiously rubbed my quad into submission, all the while cursing the pain and the inconvenience. Then I rode furiously …

Until mile 3, when my right leg rebelled in the same fashion. I beat the muscle with my fist. At least this time it occurred on a hilltop and not a hill bottom. I lightly spun the cramp away, grimacing. My sub-3:30 now impossible, I just drove it home the best I could and without a defeatist mindset.

Over it

Finally, we emerged from the woods and ahead I could see the orange snow fence and white tent that signaled the end. My eyes started to wet. “Control your descent,” I thought, remembering many close calls with that holey plastic separating the trail from the spectators. No such run-in this time. The final, cruel climb felt less impossible than years past. My lip began quivering as I passed under the timing clock at just over 3:37. And, when Chris greeted me at the finish, the tears cascaded down my cheeks.

“What did you do?” I asked before anything else.

“2:35,” he smirked.

“Holy shit!” I balked. He’d annihilated his attempt at sub-3.

“Why am a crying?” I laughed, inhaling salty, sweaty snot. Usually event-related tears stay welled in my eyes. These burst forth without excuse. [An aside: My emotional connection to sport - as a participant or spectator (live and cinematic) - could serve as a dissertation topic (heck, maybe it will when I head to grad school next year). Such events, to me, represent a powerful celebration of life and health and our ability to endure.]  Rather than stifle my response, I let it run its 30-second course and then moved on to friends, beer and warm clothes. But I noticed something.

Last year, I signed up for the 40 as the girl who’d put on a lot of weight, then lost it after rediscovering the pleasure of sport. By registering for the “big boys race,” she’d moved out of the Short & Fat race physically, but not mentally.

It’s not like I finished high in the ranks this go-round. Yes, I blew 23 minutes off my time, which is certainly something worth patting myself on the back. But the the change occurred in the intent. This year’s approach involved strength and desire rather than an attempt to merely survive and prove I could finish.

It was a big summer in numerous ways. Just a few weeks ago, I noticed a shift. The tired, self-deprecating labels faded away. The formerly chubby girl identity wore thin. I felt less like an imposter or imposer. I felt legit, like I belonged among the athletes I ride with. No longer content to just get out there and try, I recognized a real stirring inside. I wanted to grow. And I started to believe in possibilities.

Summer in a Snippet

No, that concussion didn’t put me out for the entire season. Hardly.

It’s just that, after completing my paid work I wanted to be outside on my bike not living in cyberland. Hence, a neglected blog. Not to mention that downgrading to a simple phone, meant a serious sabbatical from virtual living in recent months – so many missed content opportunities.

Several wonderful events transpired this summer. Like, say, riding in the Rockies. Despite feeling suffocated by the high altitude, I hardly stopped smiling as we mountain biked in real mountains and climbed our road bikes up, up and away.

Oh, and then there was the desert! Fruita! Moab! In the same trip as the mountains! And who knew eastern Washington state offered such epic roads? Oh, it does.

Back on the home front, I rallied the courage to try mountain bike racing outside Chequamegon, found some female friends to shred up the dirt with and managed to ride without further injury. My road bike hardly saw the pavement – a big deal for a woman who once threw swearing fits in the woods and almost gave up on the fat tires.

Of course, this breezy summer recap could not conclude without mentioning the track. In June, I started questioning my commitment to the sport. This looked like it could be my last summer because driving to Blaine week after week only to plop down my limited cash and get my ass handed to me seemed to define insanity. Giving it some real effort and seeing what transpired seemed the only way to decide.

A lot of things changed as a result of many other things, which I will save for another time. End result: I got a little faster and had a lot of fun. We all know I adore track racing, but this season unearthed some real passion. It feels good to have this enthusiasm heading toward winter.

For now, I’m gearing up for my second go-round with the Chequamegon 40. My goal time is significantly more ambitious this year, so we’ll see how it goes. Nope. I’m not telling you what it is right now. I sabotage my goals by blabbing them too publicly.

There will also be some cyclocross races this fall. I bought that nice bike last fall and never christened it since I was busy traveling and writing (and losing fitness).

I look forward to writing about it all.

Concussed

I don’t listen to my body. Or, perhaps more accurately, I fail to trust what I hear. This shortcoming traces back to high school when I ignored a stress fracture until it rendered me unable to walk.

“It’s probably just shin splints,” my mother scoffed, sensing an attempt to weasel out of cross-country. “Go to practice.”

Her suspicions weren’t unfounded. The previous spring involved a rash of blown-off track practices. She failed to recognize that her 15-year-old daughter would never create lame-ass excuses to ditch a commitment. She needed no permission to skip.

Nonetheless, I began to wonder. Was I imagining my pain to the point I truly believed it? What were my motives? I sucked it up and kept running. Two weeks later the answer appeared when I woke up, placed two feet on the floor and couldn’t put weight on one. Bingo.

Instead of learning a lesson, I continued to doubt my aches and pains. I feared an ulterior motive. Add to this a contradictory dash of mild hypochondria and a knack for quirky medical issues (for instance, inexplicable exercise-induced anaphylaxis—I kid you not; I carry an Epi-pen), and you have disaster.

So, last Friday, when I crashed my mountain bike, I thought nothing of a slightly stunned feeling upon standing up. It happened so quickly. My tire slipped. I tumbled forward or sideways, and, suddenly, I was looking up to see 30 pounds of bike landing on top of me. I vaguely recalled conking my head. My dirt-covered helmet confirmed it.

My companions caught up to me as I dusted off and assessed the damage—a sore right quad and minor scrapes to my right forearm. No harm done.

“You look blurry,” I told my husband a little later when we stopped to discuss our next move and chat with some fellow riders. The weather was warmer than it had been in awhile. My legs felt weary from the previous night’s group road ride, and I wondered if this was just me creating an excuse to quit. I didn’t want to be a baby about a silly fall that nobody else saw. I hadn’t been going that fast.

Still, the dazed feeling and head pain lingered. “You’re so paranoid,” I scolded myself as we lingered in the parking lot. “Don’t be so dramatic. It was a little fall.”

But I felt sick to my stomach. My head woke me up all night. The next morning I still felt off. My right quad revealed a swollen, grapefruit-size, eggplant-colored bruise that literally surfaced overnight. Perhaps my brain took a similar beating.

Fatigue, nausea, odd head pain and a slight “out of it” feeling plagued me the remainder of the weekend, so I didn’t ride. But old habits die hard. Proving my dedication to the sport and my commitment to a solid season meant getting back to it. “Just go practice,” I prodded. Monday night I decided to keep my scheduled training at the velodrome. Midway through our first 3k effort, my head felt like it might burst. I stopped.

“It sounds like a minor concussion,” my teammate, a physical therapist, said the day after the crash, confirming what I suspected. On this Monday night she reiterated her concern and scolded me for being there, nicely, of course.

So, I’ve been resting up and healing up—and trying to quiet my inner voice panicking about lost fitness. I’m seeing a sports medicine doctor later this week to discuss the injury and how to safely get back into the groove.

Don’t mess with your noggin, folks. Listen to your body, and take care of yourself!