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!