Carrot and Stick

A sunnier day in the not-so-distant past

Griping about the weather on Twitter and Facebook feels too obvious, so I’ll do it here.

Can we get on with spring already? I can handle the usual April showers when nestled amid sunshine and warmth. These blustery 30-some-degree days, however, they send me into a fetal position on the couch. Someone in my home promised me, as I brooded over this winter’s unbelievable endurance, pleasant weather just around the corner. Excuse me, I’m still waiting.

I need some warmth! Or maybe an attitude adjustment. I’m cranky and pouting like a child. Today my eyes honestly welled up with frustrated tears. If I can’t have my way, then I refuse to snap out of it. I will wallow in grumpiness.

Screw you cold-weather riding. I’ll scowl on the trainer instead. In my dank basement. While watching Oprah’s final season on my DVR. Suck it nature. I never thought it would come to this, but I’ve become a fair-weather friend. So there.

Lean, nutrient-rich diet? Ha. I want to be soothed with heaping bowls of pasta. Heck, add some creamy alfredo. Okay, thankfully that last part remains a fantasy. I may have baked cookies this weekend. In a move much like the splitting your take out in half and stuffing it in a box portion-control strategy, I immediately carted the majority over to my in-laws. Someone probably needs to hide the rest. Stockpiling healthy food only helps so much. Temptation looms within walking distance. Good thing I’m broke. My neighborhood’s sudden crop of fabulous eateries offers some tantalizing diversions.

Strong, black coffee, however, is inexpensive and low in calories. Chugging it by the gallon warms me and comforts me with earthiness. More, please. Until it backfires a la dehydration and insomnia. Mid-day naps on the couch perpetuate the restless nights. I crumble into the wreck of a human being I become mid-February.

Have mercy mother nature! I’m weary of layers and desperate for long, hilly rides in the heat. Have I mentioned that dry trails for mountain biking might be nice before June? I really miss dirt.

Hope?

Alas, soon the sun promises to shine and the temperature shall surely rise. Resisting the slip into winter survival mode proves more difficult than ever. My summer riding goals dangle just beyond my reach. Lean up and look less chubby in the kit. Speed up and show your mettle in competition. This seemingly endless winter only serves to test how bad you want it.

New Sensation

“I shaved my legs,” my husband, Chris, stated casually as he sat on our brown leather sofa with his bare legs stretched out across the coffee table.

“Wha …?” I’d just returned from my writing class. My shoes and jacket barely came off before he blindsided me with his naked limbs. “Oh my. You did.”

I extended my right hand to brush a proudly showcased quad muscle with my fingertips, then quickly withdrew. I cringed, stifled the urge to shriek and managed to burst his bubble.

“I’m sorry. It’s just going to take some getting used to,” I confessed as his face revealed injury. “It’s just so, so, uh, different.”

My inner dialogue went something along the lines of, “Great. Now my blonde stubble really stands out. He used my razor – MY neglected electric razor stashed away in the linen closet! And how are his legs so much more attractive than mine? Totally unfair. Now, whenever I ride behind him in a paceline I will envy his calves as well as his tight butt and slender hips. Is this normal? Is there something wrong with us? How have I failed to have this conversation with another cycling spouse? Am I horrible for reacting with such rejection? Should I be turned on? Worst wife ever.”

Maybe a warning would have helped, a quick heads up so I could mentally prepare while sitting in class talking about dialogue and character development. He might have said,”Hey sweetie, I’m going to shave my legs tonight,” as I headed out the door. I would have known why. No explanation, permission or long conversation necessary.

I stared suspiciously at the soft, silky, foreign legs. A course, dark sweater usually covered his; surely they couldn’t be the same pair. These long, lean beauties would look exceptional in my heels. Mama needs a duel-suspension mountain bike; maybe he could make some extra cash as a drag queen.

And such is life in a two-cycling-enthusiast household. We purchased DirecTV to ensure we could enjoy the Tour, which eventually led to watching every other race Versus airs. Our vacations tend to focus on mountain biking destinations. Half our basement serves as bicycle storage, maintenance and training space. Cycling commands much of our income after food, shelter and student loans. In the spring and summer months – after work and sleep – riding, racing and watching races consumes the bulk of our free time. We wear spandex together in public and chat about lube, opening up our legs and going for hard/long/easy rides without considering eavesdroppers may take such topics out of context.

This was long overdue. I simply took it for granted that Chris enjoyed riding and following the sport but would never take it to that next level. He rode bikes avidly long before I appeared on his scene. He just never raced them. As I started dabbling in the competitive aspect, he served as rider support. In the past year, he decided to try a few more races himself. Earlier this month he showed up for a weeknight crit and felt sheepish around a pack of mostly sheared legs. Despite his taboo hair, he won.

While no hard evidence confirms this, somewhere in some bylaws it states that any legitimate male cyclist – even some 35+ dude hitting up local races as a cat 5 – must shave his legs to prove himself worthy.

And so our marriage hath entered a new era.

A friend recently told me nothing beats two sets of shaved legs in bed. I’ll let you know when I come around.

The Power to Inspire – Rally for Girls’ Sports Day 2010

Last spring, while on a training ride with other women in my bike club, I passed a heard of teen girls. They burst out laughing hysterically as we peddled by clad in spandex from head to toe. A motherly instinct took over, and I considered turning around to tell them how getting active and participating in sports might change their lives.

Sure, it was a snap judgment on my part, but I wanted to tell them that athletics could do more for them than clothes and boys ever would. “Risk looking goofy,” I wanted to say. “You’ll be less likely to get tangled into drugs or teen pregnancy. You’ll be healthier. You’ll feel great! You’ll change your life!” I decided against the impromptu lecture; however, it did make me wonder if they were involved in or had anyone to encourage their involvement in sports. It took a physician and my mother to coax me.

No one ever labeled me an athlete. My peers, who towered significantly above me, called me shrimp. I acquired glasses in third grade, and they grew increasingly thicker with each year. Of course, it didn’t help that I buried my head in a book at every opportunity and ducked anytime someone tossed me a baseball, football or basketball. I totally lacked hand-eye coordination.

There were brief stints with soccer from preschool to kindergarten, then a couple of gymnastics and dance classes. Nothing stuck. I remained the quiet, little girl picked last for every kickball game.

Shortly before I entered high school, my doctor suggested getting involved in sports to help my asthma. Terrifying. Who wanted me on their team? Anything involving a ball seemed too risky. I choose swimming before deciding running better suited me. Participating in cross country and track and field cracked my world wide open.

I made the most incredible friends, gained confidence and felt fabulous thanks to that wonderful rush of endorphins known as a “runner’s high.” I busted out of my quiet shell and became a social butterfly and recognized leader.

Participating in sports not only impacted my self esteem and mental health, it kept me out of trouble. The last thing I wanted to do was let my coaches and teammates down. I learned discipline and perseverance from showing up to practice every day and working through sometimes painful and unpleasant workouts. Each race served as a triumph.

Competition taught me to think strategically and helped me develop a healthy sense of doing what was right for me while respecting others in the real world. Sports taught me to recognize my limits and know when to push them – and how to gracefully accept the consequences when I over-reached.

Whenever the stresses of teendom seemed too much, I knew training with my teammates would lift my spirits. To this day, my high school and college sports days still hold some of my favorite memories from mud fights in the rain to practical jokes. Maybe we weren’t close friends outside the team, but something about being together every day, sharing a common purpose and pushing our bodies to the limit created a special bond. We could indulge in our teen angst and talk about all the crazy physical changes we faced; I doubt I would have had the courage to discuss that stuff with anyone had I not been in sports.

I see these same benefits as I watch the young women in my life participate in sports. They become strong, poised leaders who absolutely radiate.

As an adult, I think Rally for Girls’ Sports Day provides an important reminder that we all serve as role models. We must not only demand equal opportunities, but we must expose girls to the the many sports that exist and encourage them to get involved. If we don’t, who will?

A little time off

I know I haven’t been too faithful to this blog. Now that I am striking it on on my own as a writer, I have big plans for it, but they will have to wait until after Thanksgiving. Right now, you see, I am focusing on a big project that has left little room for my other passion: bikes.

I brought my road bike and mountain bike along on my journey for awhile and then dumped them off. Unfortunately, this isn’t that kind of trip. It’s more of a “I’ll go running for fitness because it takes less time” sort of deal. ::sigh::

In the meantime, here are some photos from a gorgeous hike to Hanging Lake near Glenwood Springs, Colorado.

Cyclocross … it only hurts when I move

In the summer of 2009, as my first track season wound down, everyone around me started buzzing about cyclocross season. Cyclo-what? I went to “the Google” and found this:

Cyclocross: An hour in hell

Who WOULDN’T want in on that? Since buying yet another ride was completely out of the question, I took my mountain bike to Theo Wirth on October 10 and signed up for my first race. Lugging those 30 pounds up a staircase to the sky after turning hairpins and leaping (sort of) over logs and barriers killed me. I loved it.

I raced six times with that beast. Spectators encouraged me with words like “Keep going; that’s a whole lot of bike there.” I huffed and puffed and came in last, but it felt incredible once the suffering stopped.

September 2010 rolled around, and I bought myself the proper equipment. Well, it was actually an anniversary gift (his was a full-suspension mountain bike).

Thinking this year would be different after months of training like never before, I headed to Tuesday Night Cross … three days after Chequamegon. The bike beckoned, and I responded to its call. My lungs burned. My legs all but collapsed. The relatively small but steep climb felt worse than any monster hill I’d muscled in the 40. I dropped 17 minutes into the 40-minute race.

I suppose this, as they say, builds character.

Chris caught the cross bug, too. Tomorrow, we plan to race Wirth. Stay tuned.

The 40 – Bringing it home

“You’re better than you think you are, you can do more than you think you can!”
- Ken Chlouber, president and founder of the Leadville Trail 100

As mile 30 neared, I knew the Seeley Fire Tower Hill was imminent. And following that monster and its three treacherous tiers, I’d been warned that the last 8 miles were killer. This was about to get real.

I’d ridden up parts of FTH on a couple of training rides, and I was determined not to walk large portions of it. At this point, many around me looked destroyed. I knew their pain. Heck, I walked two hills in the 16 last year. The mere fact that I still felt so good practically brought tears to my eyes.

For me, personally, walking signified giving up. Was riding slow less efficient than walking the insane Birkie hills in the homestretch? I didn’t know, but it didn’t matter because I knew it would destroy my own fight. Besides, I slaved away on hill repeats this summer, and I wanted to kill it on the climbs.

I turned off the road and tried to pick my line as I ascended the FTH. People were walking up both sides, but baby heads cluttered the center. Posted signs encouraged walkers to keep right, but a this point, so few were willing to ride the instruction seemed pointless to all. I had to be assertive. “Rider coming,” someone yelled, encouraging a few to shuffle over. I made it halfway up the first climb, hit a rock and got knocked off. I ran up the side and hopped back on when the first tier flattened. I walked some of the second tier, then hopped back on again.

As I climbed the third tier I decided to go all the way. The crowd at the stop started cheering me upward. Things got dicey fast, and my ability to stay upright was tested. The energy from the cheering motivated me to grind it out, and suddenly there I was, on top! The adrenaline spiked, squelching any hint of exhaustion. I did, however, want desperately to pee. For miles I’d seen men off to the side relieving themselves, and I was envious. Afraid to stop and lose momentum messing with my bib shorts, etc., I kept moving and momentarily considered just going into my chamois. But who wants to smell like urine at the finish?

Hill after hill, no matter how challenging, I climbed, envisioning Ohio Street and focusing on taking them easy on the bottom and surging over the top. I wanted to hug my coach. The encouragement of riders and volunteers powered me. Perhaps I played too much Nintendo as a kid, but it was like finding bonus fruits that gave me extra power after the hills sucked it away.

I spotted a sign stating that 4 miles remained, checked my watch and realized I had a shot at finishing sub 4 hours. Then there was a descent so long I grew suspicious that more horrifying hills remained. Did I use all my juice or conserve? At the top of one small climb a cheering guy in a Lifetime Fitness kit offered exceptional motivation and notified me that only two small hills remained. I wanted to kiss him.

And, as I reached the end of the woods, I recognized the spot I’d viewed as a spectator for so many years. This was the place where the 40 riders emerged and tore down to the finish. I started fighting tears as I bombed the hill. I tried to catch the woman in front of me, fumbled with the gearing at the last cruel incline and decided I didn’t care about the body count. I looked up at the clock as the announcer called my name. 4 hours, 54 seconds. I let the tears well up.

Just a few years ago I was 25 pounds heavier, out of shape and chronically depressed. I hate bring it up too often for fear of dwelling too much on the past, but this was a huge milestone in my quest for a healthier life and my discovery of cycling.

It’s easy to fixate on time and place as indicators of success, but participating in sport all boils down to doing something for yourself and pushing your limits. I did it, and I had a blast. It carried me a little further from those dark, unbalanced places of my former self.

The 40 – My marathon

“The first thing is to love your sport. Never do it to please someone else. It has to be yours.” - Peggy Fleming

In 2008, I started training for a marathon. A few weeks in, I walked away from what was then a long-time dream. I simply didn’t like running that much. If you’re going to spend that much time doing anything, it should be something that thrills and delights you.

This year I decided to take another crack at a big endurance event, only this time it wouldn’t involve 26.2 on the soles of my feet. I wanted to pedal for miles with big climbs and fast descents. I entered the Chequamegon 40.

Nine days out my digestive system rebelled. Then my mind started in on the action. A world-class worrier, I feared I’d hate it, I’d bonk 10 miles in, I’d be out there for over six hours, I’d get flat after flat, I’d lose control of my bodily functions thanks to my ridiculous anxiety or worse yet, I’d give up.

When Chris and I pre-rode parts of the course two weeks prior to the big day, I felt sluggish and cynical. With the exception of the aborted marathon mission, I’d hadn’t actually trained for anything since college cross country in 1998. I had no idea what my body was supposed to feel like at this point, but it felt hopelessly beaten down. “Trust the process,” I reminded myself. “You’re ready for this.”

On Saturday, September 18, I awoke at 5:45 in beautiful Hayward, Wis. to a crisp mid-30-degree morning. I already had a flat tire. By 6:05 my bike was lined up in the self-selected 3.5-to-4-hour finish section downtown. By 6:20 I was back in bed at the KOA fondly recalling the previous night’s spaghetti dinner, attempting to sleep a little longer, wondering what the hell I was thinking 7 months ago and hoping my stomach would cooperate already.

When I reunited with my bike at 9:55 a.m., I’d talked myself off the ledge and was ready to just get out there and have fun until the bloody end. Whatever it is that inspires thousands of individuals to put their bodies and minds to the test in these sorts of events on any given weekend, I’m a sucker for it.  Just being in the middle of such an event ignites me.

The “Star Spangled Banner” ended, the gun fired and all 1,815 of us were off … very slowly at first. I solicited advice a few days before the event, and it all boiled down to this: Don’t get caught up in the moment at the start. Try as I might, I was red lining for the first 15 minutes. I pulled it back a notch to pace for the long haul. The warnings I’d received about Rosie’s Field, the place where the road hit the trail, so to speak, had prepared me for carnage on the scale of a war movie battle scene. But there were no crashes around me as the grass crushed our momentum.

I spotted a woman I knew. I enjoyed friendly banter with happy strangers indulging in this physical feat on a crisp, fall day. All around us leaves transitioned from forest green to apple red and flax gold. Heavy rains left road-wide puddles and thick patches of caked sand. I navigated them without incident and patted myself on the back for finally establishing decent handling skills.

It seemed that mere minutes had passed when my watch said we were 45 in. I took my first Gu packet. At the 10-mile marker, I was just under an hour and felt confident I could hold the pace. As we reached the OO Trail head and familiar territory, I hardly recognized the hills that felt so monstrous in weeks prior. Twenty miles, just under two hours. “Halfway there!” I shouted gleefully. My body didn’t hurt. My legs felt strong. The Gu packets, water and Gatorade I’d been nourishing and hydrating with weren’t upsetting my stomach, and my body gave no hint of a bonk in my future. At around 2.5 hours, someone pointed out that the top guys were finished and drinking beers by now. Our pack had thinned out significantly, and, while I was never alone, there were never more than a handful of others around me. As mud splattered up and hit my face, I thought to myself “This may be the most fun I’ve ever had on my bike.”