Flipping the switch

I love riding in all forms. The velodrome, however, sets the stage for most of my developmental milestones. The “track,” in all its sadistic glory, challenges me week after week. It beats me down, then taunts me, “Hey lady, you’re older, chubbier and slower than anyone else out here. You’ll never catch those chicks. You thought you could become an ‘athlete’ after years of being a slug? Yeah, good luck with that.” Each time I set foot into that afzelia wood arena, I battle my own insecurities … in front of an audience … and while wearing spandex.

Something changed in the past three weeks.

It started with a snowball race. August 5. You see, riding the track is a “zen” experience for me. Pedaling in circles as I warm up heightens my awareness. All I feel is my feet making circles. All I hear is the sound of wheels whirring. Thoughts float in and out of my head without much consequence. On this night, something drifted in and stuck, “I am the element of surprise.” Sounds crazy, but there it was. I let it linger. I repeated it a few times, and then I visualized a move from practice earlier that week. When the neutral lap turned into the race, I went up toward the boards and around the pack, swooped down and pedaled like hell. My heart pounded. One lap. No one passed me. Two laps. Again! Then they came. I headed up track and fell back on a wheel knowing my portion of the race was over, but I beamed from ear to ear as they other girls racked up points into the double digits. I earned three measly points, but they were mine.

The next week, another female racer convinced me to come out to the state timed events. Due to lack of participation, I ended up earning a gold medal in the team pursuit and a silver in the team sprint. I participated in two individual events as well.  I scoffed, saying I collected medals I hadn’t earned, but I was reminded that something can be said for dedication. And while the medals didn’t hold a lot of meaning outside of showing up to collect them, I felt faster that day. And I knew “just showing up” would eventually lead to little victories I felt I had earned.

First, some excuses

I know. I know. I failed to update my blog this summer. Between work, training, marriage, a house and life’s other demands, I could not muster the creative energy to sit down and fulfill my mission of chronicling my cycling endeavors. I hope to go back in time and chronicle a few things in coming weeks. Too much was left behind. Once you start cycling it seems every ride, race or trip to the shop provides a “first” or a lesson. And the past few weeks have been rich.

Flat

Over the past few years I’ve learned that when I ride cranky, I should ride alone. The second thing I’ve learned is that riding in oppressive humidity only makes me crankier. Add some raging menstrual cramps into the mix, and you’ve got a trifecta of terror.

Nonetheless, I rode during Saturday’s hottest, stickiest hours and took along my *lucky* husband/favorite riding companion. No further than a mile and a half in, traveling through some gravely goodness, my bike made an unpleasant rubbing and hissing sound. A small chard of glass had punctured my tire.

“Do you want to change it?” Chris asked.

Here is where I liberate an embarrassing and long-protected secret. I’ve never changed a tire “in the wild.” I am horrified to admit some male rider always takes care of the task. I know how to do it, but it’s always quicker to let some spandex-clad Prince Charming (namely Chris) on his carbon fiber stallion come to my rescue. I have small hands. I lack practice. I can fill a paragraph with excuses. I never flat. There may have been three in the three years I’ve riding regularly.

There, I feel vindicated.

My participation in this sport has reached a level where I want to fend for myself. It’s not good form to be wearing a kit, sipping a water bottle against a tree, and watching your husband do your dirty work while other riders whiz by. I’m a woman who recently spent an entire day tearing up a concrete floor with a sledgehammer and hauling load upon wheelbarrow load to a dumpster. I build campfires, set up tents and pee in the woods. I definitely don’t aspire to be a high-maintenance cyclist.

“Sure. Did you bring a tire lever, because I did not,” I grumbled, knowing the answer was unfavorable.

Chris hovered over me and instructed.

I removed my back wheel and let the air out of the tube. I tried to pull the tire off. I couldn’t get it to go. My hands were already black with dirt. Letting out a primal grunt, I revised my technique per Chris’ instruction and rolled it over the edges quite nicely. New tube out, semi-inflated into tire. Easy. Then, I placed the valve through the hole in the wheel. For several minutes, I huffed and puffed and worked that tire around the wheel with my little fingers. Chris interjected to see if I wanted his assistance.

“I’m doing this myself,” I softly growled, more as reminder to me than a reprimand to him. I desperately wanted to hand it all over. My sweat-drenched body stunk and my legs and hands were filthy. But my pride was at stake.

He recommended bracing the wheel against my leg. Better. I reached the final gap at the top and wrestled to pull the tire into the rim. It went! I struggled to work the wheel back onto the bike and finally handed it over to let Chris demonstrate.

Half the battle had been fought. Now I had to inflate it—a task that seemed to consume most of the 20-minute pit stop. Again, Chris offered to relieve me, but I refused. I would not be robbed of the one sliver of joy this task would produce: the satisfaction of knowing I did it alone—at least physically. I thanked my ever-patient teacher for not blowing up at me as I pitched little overheated, PMS-filled fits of frustration, and we rolled off into the mid-day sun.

Time lapse

Discipline. Balance. I strive to achieve these in my life. This spring, in regards to running and cycling, I succeeded in the discipline thing by following my training plan, meanwhile I ignored balance in my life and failed to listen to my body.

What I thought were mere shinsplints grew increasingly painful until I embarked on a 10-mile run only to find myself in such agony I could barely take another step.  So, I chilled out for a week and took another crack at the running. Ouch. Then, after a ride on the lightrail, I confessed to myself that the tender spot above my ankle was probably a stress fracture because who ever heard of shinsplints from riding a train? The doctor confirmed my suspicion. Argh.

Injuries happen. So, I took a few weeks off. Knowing my hard work was going to wear away sucked, but let’s be real, other than lost entry fees for a couple of races, little was at stake.

As I crumbled into a stressed out, cranky, sluggish wreck the first week of my athletic time out, I realized how important the discipline of exercising each day has become to my mental and physical well-being. It seemed completely unfair that at a time when many stressors in my life came to a head, my typical coping mechanism was not an option. I wanted desperately to revert to my old coping mechanism: food. I committed to not falling into the trap and succeeded in not gaining a single pound during my hiatus. (HUGE victory)  The underlying message wasn’t lost on me: Having a single coping mechanism in your pocket does not a balanced life make. I’m working on expanding my portfolio.

Over the past few weeks I took the time to heal and revisit the neglected areas of my life. As I move forward to regain some lost fitness and resume some racing, I take two lessons with me: 1) Listen to your body and 2) Dedication without balance is not healthy.

Race Day

This weekend, the local road racing season commenced – signaling the start of many event-filled months ahead. Several times this week I nearly backed out, but ultimately I packed up the car Saturday morning and headed to Durand, Wis.

Simply preparing for a race makes me nervous. Shoes. Helmet. Kit. Water. Nutrition. Bike. Pump. Tubes. Inhaler. Epi pen. Change of clothes. Shoes. Helmet. License. Shoes. Directions to the race. Shoes. And so on …

I need to make a list, photocopy it and use it every time. Instead, I wake up before the sun and obsessively pack and repack my cycling bag to ensure nothing gets left behind. (I drove an hour to ride once and forgot shoes leaving me forever paranoid.)

I convinced Chris to tag along as rider support, which meant he spent the entire 78+ miles listening to Cake’s Comfort Eagle album – particularly “Short Skirt, Long Jacket” and “The Distance” – multiple times as I convinced myself I could physically pull off a 27-mile road race, nevermind my ample mileage this year. I’ve probably logged more miles in the first few months of 2010 than all of 2009. Just a guess, though.

As we arrived at the scene in the hilly Wisconsin countryside, the proverbial lightbulb went on and I recognized the real problem. Racing and not being fast enough didn’t scare me. Feeling out of shape did.

More than a decade ago, I ran what felt like “effortless” miles upon miles, but since getting fat and getting thin(ner) again I only recently achieved a fitness base upon which I could build and focus on things like speed and power. I recalled huffing and puffing my way through every race I entered last year. I recalled dropping out of my only road race and several track races. Knowing I rode with dedication this winter and how committed I’ve been to my new training plan the past four weeks, I could barely fathom experiencing the suffocating, sluggish feeling that is lack of fitness. It seemed impossible, but it’s the only racing I’ve known. My mind definitely holds the “worst enemy” title.

I mentally slapped myself and reminded my body it had the tools it needed to pull this off. I quit worrying about where I would fall in the pack and instead decided to focus on racing smart and finishing. That alone would be a victory because I had never finished a road race.

I warmed up. I headed to the start. I chatted with a handful of other newbies excited to be there but filled with jitters. Soon, all 27 female racers were on the go. We held our lines. No squirrelly crashes or near-disasters. I stuck on a wheel and hung on to the pack for the first hill, kept along for the second and then I fell back. The remaining 22 miles were more or less a time trial – just me, the road, the hills and the horribly strong crosswinds. Oh, and a barnyard full of crowing roosters.

Following the first lap I still had my legs and my lungs. I kept my eyes on the women ahead of me and tried to prevent the gap from growing. I focused on form – relaxing my shoulders, keeping my pedalstrokes even and placing my hands on top of the bars during seated climbs. I didn’t brake down a single hill or around a single corner – HUGE progress.

In the last few miles, the cat 1/2/3 guys lapped me, which motivated me. How could it not? That sleek, speedy peloton filled with beautiful bikes and riders is on a completely different plane. Even so, one of them rooted me on up the nastiest hill.

Counting down the last five miles, I pushed harder uphill and against the wind. Instead of feeling out of shape, I felt strong. Instead of giving up, my mind stayed in the one-woman race. Crossing the finish, I swelled with gratitude. Another milestone.

Twenty-second. Ultimately, this place meant nothing. I conquered my attitude. I look forward to next weekend when I do it all over again. Who knows what I’ll learn?

Finally

After an embarrassingly long hiatus, I started running again for three reasons:

1. It’s good cross-training
2. I needed weight-bearing exercise
3. I let a friend coax me into signing up for the Gary Bjorkland Half Marathon in June.

Although I went for a few runs in the past couple of years (and thoroughly enjoyed participating in the Minneapolis Duathlon last summer despite not training for the run), I’ve logged more miles in 2010 than I have in the last five years. It has been at least a full decade since this sport gave me any real pleasure. Until now.

Today, midway through nine miles, my body remembered what it was to love running.

Mobile. Agile. Hostile. – A New Outlook

Because my heart contains a big, gooey spot for all sports-related movies, I insisted upon watching Remember the Titans when Chris and I were flipping through the channels a few nights ago. I allowed myself to be swept away by its Disney charm and was soon humming along to the classic sixties soundtrack and smiling as the teammates learned to look past skin color and work together.

During one particular montage demonstrating this monumental progress, they were chanting during drills. One chant included a response to a question along the lines of “What are you?” The answer included three simple words: “Mobile. Agile. Hostile.”

I snickered to Chris. “That’s my new mantra. Well, except I’m not agile.”

“You’ve got the hostile part down,” he teased. He may be right, but only within the contexts of marriage or driving a car.

In my racing pursuits last year I was downright meek. I convinced myself that I belonged at the back of the pack, and that’s pretty much where I stayed. While I may not have been the most fit or naturally gifted one out there, I do know that so much of competition is mental.

I needed more fight, but I couldn’t seem to harness some aggressiveness and push my body and mind to really perform. My training wasn’t bad, per se; I was out there riding. However, it lacked the structure necessary to take my performance to the next level.

There are times in life we get serious about making changes, and successfully making them requires a plan.

This spring, after growing tired of sifting through running and cycling books and trying to write a sensible training schedule, I decided to get a coach to help me instill structure and discipline into my athletic pursuits. A month ago I would have revealed this secret sheepishly. However, three weeks into this new approach, I already feel its doing me a world of good.

I have some big running and cycling goals in the months ahead. I will attack them ferociously with a plan—and a mantra.