The joy in harder things

Evan and I camped out in the parking lot of McDowell Mountain Cycles, a bike shop in Fountain Hills, Arizona that's co-owned by one of our former coworkers from The Bike Shop That Shall Not Be Named, back in Pittsburgh. For most of the week, it rained, which we were told multiple times was such a rare thing this time of year, a truly freak occurrence. We had only been planning on staying a few days, long enough to ride the trails, but the weather kept us there much longer. We went on a hike or two when the clouds parted for a few hours here and there, and went for many walks around the infamous fountain, but for the most part we just ate burritos and read in the camper while we waited for a new, sunnier day.

Eventually, the weather did clear up. We helped with some trail maintenance at some of the more popular local trails, which helped give us a sense of what to expect once the trails were dry enough to ride. Many people whizzed by us on their own bikes as we shoved sand and raked rocks into the mud and dug trenches to prevent further erosion. The likeliness of stopping people from riding is about as plausible as stopping rain from falling, so despite how frustrated some trail builders got while their projects were being ruined before even being finished or given a chance to dry, it is all a labor of love, to help maintain the trail as it comes apart. Like a favorite pair of jeans, you sew one rip even though you know the thin fabric will just rip somewhere else. 

While we waited for the trails to dry, which only took a day or two, Evan and I went for a road ride into Tonto National Forest, first riding through the pristine developments on the outskirts of Fountain Hills, with golf courses so obscenely green in an otherwise stark landscape.

Once we were in the park, the roads meandered up and down, occasionally crossing over sand dunes that had washed into the road. Just before the road turned completely to dirt, we turned a corner and crossed paths with a herd of wild horses, maybe seven or nine in all, standing in the road.

Unlike the horses kept in stables at the nearby country clubs we'd ridden past, these horses had an erotic wildness to them. Their coats, which were brown and white and black, were thick and patchy, especially on the hind quarters where they may have scratched against a tree to relieve a bug bite or, more likely, where their skin had scabbed over from repeated scrapes of cacti spurs against their impressive, wide muscles. Their manes were also of course uncombed and windswept, much like my own, and they didn't care at all that we were in the road or that there was any road at all.

We did another ride the next day with the guys at the bike shop and some of their friends, a "gravel" ride that pushed threw sand roads and single track. I was on my Fargo. It was the first time since Pittsburgh I'd ridden that bike, and it was the first time I'd ridden it on sand, or really that I'd ridden anything on sand of that depth and magnitude. That feels hyperbolic, "magnitude," but riding in a group like that was one of the many fears I tackled while visiting Fountain Hills, and until I felt comfortable on the sand dunes, their difficulty really did feel that impossible. Evan, Jake (our friend from Pittsburgh who is part owner of MMC), and I rode separately because Evan and I were running late. We met up with a large group of cyclists but eventually they split off and we rode until just about sundown, to the final sprint up the hill and back into town.

By that point, the trails were all dry enough to ride and Evan and I rode some of the more technical single track we'd been dreaming of. The trails swooped and flowed, with a good deal of climbing that never felt overwhelming or even very challenging. There were a few sections with lots of rocks but for the most part I was surprised at how clear the trails were. We passed a few jackrabbits who hopped out of are way as we sped past, and large saguaro cacti that looked like people standing just in the distance with their silhouettes against the bright sun.

The next day, we rode some more and then met up with a group of riders from the bike shop, possibly the same people from the last ride, and we all went for a night ride together.

It was billed to me as a casual, no-drop ride, which was favorable due to the 20 miles we had just completed and my uncomfortableness riding with groups, or in the dark, or next to cacti, or in the sand (until recently!), or with strangers, or with people much faster than me. We got to the dirt lot right on time, and headed out immediately, chasing the headlights of the first pack. The group dispersed as the trail meandered uphill, and I caught people's wheels and then was dropped, or people caught my wheel and then pulled away after riding with me for a while. Most of the time, though, I was alone for that first stretch. Headlights sporadically came in and out of view in little flits of light before disappearing, and behind me I occasionally caught a glimpse of someone far, far behind me. But the majority of the ride was gradually uphill, and indefinitely open in the expansive dark. There was no moon. It was uncommonly cloudy, the storm still passing by despite the stopped rain. The stars, when they were visible, looked cloudy in their depth, the Milky Way spilling out from the edges of the passing storm. We eventually got to the top of the first climb, where the first batch of riders were waiting, warming themselves with homemade apple pie moonshine that was promptly passed to me. The last of the riders arrived and announced they were riding back to the cars in case anyone wanted to join. I had the same opportunity to peel away with the slower riders and the other women during the last group ride, and my decision to stay with the fast group was rewarded with magic. As I've written in my blog before, I think it's important to say yes to things that push one's limits, so I agreed again to keep on with the faster group.

Maybe it's because I had been murmuring under my breath about riding for so long by myself and feeling like I was on an exercise machine since I couldn't see anything, but shortly after we took off for the next climb, I found myself leading the pack up the ascent that was turning increasingly single track. Evan was the first rider behind me, and I kept asking him if people wanted to pass me. I could hear him ask the group, and then he'd respond, "No, everyone's cool at this pace, they're just holding onto your wheel." I hate people riding on my wheel. I'd be lying if I said I don't know why I don't like it (which is what I had originally typed). I feel rushed, like I'm holding people back. It makes me feel weak, which is a horrible feeling for an athletic person who is really trying her best. 

At some point, Evan shouted that the moonshine must have kicked in because I was riding so strong, and as I stifled my hyperventilating tears I forced back, "No. Panic attack. Can't feel my legs."

I was really just riding as fast as I could so that I could lose them, which was obviously in vane. We stopped again at the top of the mountain and I let everyone ride in front of me. Jake was riding sweep, which means he was riding in the very back of the pack, much to my chagrin. But most of the pressure was finally off my shoulders, leaving me only with the sad understanding that I was, in all likeliness, holding everyone back, since the peloton took off and us behind. Without the pressure, though, it was fun to chase a pack of wheels, to carve through the dark Phoenix wilderness. I was still upset, though, mainly at myself for simply being upset in the first place. I didn't want to be dropped, didn't want to make Jake ride slow. My legs felt good, however tired and bruised my ego may have become, and I was amazed when we reached the parking lot that the ride was over. We had ridden 20 miles together, making it a 40-mile day for Evan and I.

I peeled into the dark lot, not realizing at first where I was. The fastest riders were already setting up a portable heater and digging the cooler from the back of the truck. I was again murmuring under my breath to Evan, this time that I didn't ever want to go on a night group ride, when someone called me over to the heater. I was greeted with a choice of local beers to choose for myself and Evan. I picked a porter for myself and an IPA for him. It clicked. I can't say I was being a total baby, because my emotions were valid for breaking through so many levels of discomfort at once. But I was being judgmental towards my riding buddies, projecting on them the judgment that was coming from within regarding my worthiness of riding with the group. At the end of the night, I was just as welcome to stand by the fire, share warmth and booze, and go to the local burrito spot for a post-ride  meal.

Once I got over myself, I could appreciate the parts of the ride I had been the most stressed about: riding along a ledge on a perilous switchback, ducking under a rock outcropping, the endlessness of the desert, the flowers cutting into the blackness with surprising color, riding over rock gardens and through sand pits at full speed, catching air over rocks, having not powerful enough lights to allow my fear to react to any one trail feature.

ANOTHER POSITIVE INTERACTION WITH MY MOUNTAIN BIKE

Since all my bellyaching after riding the Jay Hoggs trails at Georgetown Lake (okay, maybe it was the all the bean tacos I've been eating), I redeemed myself to my bike and again feel worthy of owning such a complex yet simple machine. Evan and I nursed our egos with a short, spry 15 mile road ride around the farm towns just East of Austin. Again ready to face our two-wheeled friends, we tried our luck at Walnut Creek, Northwest of Austin. It was a Sunday, around 11 a.m., and the park was absolutely packed. We talked to a lot of riders, including cyclists associated with the Austin Ridge Riders group ride (though the ride itself had already taken off), and set out exploring. The trails were much more in line with what I'm used to riding: punchy uphills with lots of turns and not a lot of visibility, some creek crossing, and more roots than rocks. It felt like riding Pittsburgh during the best day of the year, when the trails are dry but not decimated, all the dogs are on leash or otherwise controlled by their human friends, all the cyclists are happy to be out and see other riders, and the trails are fast and swooping and hold onto tires not like peanut butter but like a well-made wooden roller coaster whose bearings have been properly greased and maintained (dig?).  Rickety but the leap of faith isn't totally unwarranted. I felt alive! Really!

After that, I felt like I had made up with my bike, whom I'd previously embarrassed at Georgetown. Evan and I spent the rest of our time in Austin taking care of errands and riding bikes around town when we could, enjoying local paved trails and the joy of warm air. We left Austin a few days ago and headed to Marfa, which was unfortunately not the place for us outdoor kids, and after one night decided to keep moving down to Terlingua, Texas, outside Big Bend State and National Parks, and home to the Lajitas trail system.

It was an adventure getting the camper down there, and had a few moments where our hearts stopped as the camper and van slowly pushed up hills too steep for some cars I've owned. Once in town, we stopped into Desert Sports, a great little mountain bike shop and all-around outfitter run by some old hippy types. Dogs ran around the showroom while Major Tom antagonized them and we tried to get some information from the large map of Lajitas (the local trail system) Mike pulled out for us. He showed us all best trails and gave us very helpful advice on everything related to the trails, natural environment, Terlingua, and even some life advice, whether or not he meant to. Meanwhile, one of the women who worked there called around the gas stations to see if anyone still had gasoline. No one did.

At the recommendation of the fine folks at Desert Sports, we stayed at Rancho Topenga, a new tent campsite in the area. We were the only ones staying there, and again had some problems maneuvering the camper into the tight spot down a ridge and on a cliff, but we survived and through on some cycling clothes to hit the trails, which were a mere 2 miles away.

The storm could be seen rolling in over the mountains to the Southwest and wrapped around to the North. The trails were all facing Eastward so we took our chances and rode the Trail Loop 3, the best trail in the park. Lighting bounced from cloud to cloud and the sun shifted dramatically above us. It sprinkled intermittently, pushing us to pedal harder to make it back to the van before the rain. We made it just in time, and had to sit inside our van back at the camper to wait for a relative break in the winds and rain to make a run for it.

Lajitas, as a whole, was the most fun I'd ever had on a mountain bike.

Despite the Wind Advisory boasting 40 mph gusts, we headed back to the park to ride the whole thing (with a few jeep roads emitted, because they did not look awesome). Every part of the trail system delivered something magical. Whether it was incredible speed, swooping whoop-dees, challenging rocks, ridges, and downhills, impressive climbs, or just epic scenery, there was no part of the ride I would have done without. I say this now, after having whined about the relatively flat, open section that Mike referred to when he warned us about "heeming and hawing" for too long, while the strong winds gave us a headwind that decimated any speed we might have maintained through the very gradual ascent. Evan convinced me to keep riding, though, pointing at a section of the map up ahead called "Fun Valley."

"C'mon, don't you want to go to Fun Valley? Yeah, you want to go to Fun Valley." Of course I did, I'm not a monster.

The wind came back in my sails and of course, eventually we changed direction and the headwind again became a crosswind and then a tailwind to take us back to the van. It was a good ride, and the first time in a long time that I felt like a mountain biker, like a person who knew how to handle her bike. I rode a lot of sections that would have been too difficult in other parks, because I was having enough fun to try them, and maintained enough speed to succeed. At these times, I thought of an article in Mtb4her.com that I read the day before, called, "Don't Take It Personally, but Maybe You Need to (HTFU)" (Harden the F--k Up). It was true. During the first challenging descent, which I knew I could ride but physically had a hard time not shifting my weight forward and trying to put my foot down, I kept going back to the top and forcing myself to do it until I just rode it. A few other sections were the same way.

When I used to ride a fixed gear, a common romantic notion was that the bike is a part of the rider and vice versa. While it was too nauseating to actually admit publicly, I did agree with the sentiment to some degree. In the case of mountain biking, it's more real than that. Arms are no longer arms. They are extensions of the handlebars and fork and you have no control over them; any control you try to maintain will only cause grief. Eyes are part of the wheels. You need to look where they are going, not where they are. You are a brain, a set of lungs, a set of legs, and a gigantic, beating heart. To think anything more of yourself is to fool yourself. We have to give ourselves to our bikes if we want them to do their jobs, and if we don't want them to do that, why don't we just give them to someone who will?

What's This Rock Doing Here, and other things I said to myself today

Over the past month, our bike riding had declined as we were fully immersed in closing shop in Pittsburgh and preparing for life on the road. We had been staying with a good friend of ours who lived just a little bit outside of town, so commuting by bicycle wasn't always an option when we were on such a tight time schedule. However, the place we were living was also fairly close to Frick Park, and we did manage to hit the trails a few times to find ourselves, away from the clutter and chaos that comes with moving, among our more comfortable setting of the tight, short, steep climbs of trails that are enclosed from ground brush and Sugar Maples. On riding one of our favorite trails, Iron Grate, I realized that I can't turn left, just like Zoolander, and also very similar to my dog Major Tom. I have almost no problem attacking switchbacks that turn right, but those left-leaning ones leave me tabbing my toe and holding my breath. I chalked it up to something to work on this winter on our epic voyage, as I train to ride down the Continental Divide.

Evan and I have been living in our camper for a week now, and it's been a lot of fun, though the first half of that was spent driving through the rain. There was a lot of sitting (and donut eating) and by now I am really jonesing for some miles on my bike. I mean, we did pack six of them. We are currently staying with a friend 10 miles outside Austin, Texas, who has a large yard and a generous heart, but his street is too busy to ride bikes on safely for any distance longer than a mile to grab snacks and come home. Even walking the dog feels perilous. We drove the bikes into town the other day and rode ten miles along riverfront trails to see a friend at her Butter Days caramel cottage factory. The trail was a joy and on my redesigned Redline, with an Origin8 Space Bar and Paul basket, and I felt like a kid riding through sand and around the twisty features of the park.

Today, Evan and I went mountain biking at Jay Hoggs Park at Georgetown Lake. The experience was not at all similar to the whimsical path. I felt less like a child and more like a baby who has not learned to walk. What a demoralizing experience! I tried to be aware of my shortcomings, to make an effort to look forward rather than down, to lean back on my bike and let the front wheel and fork do the hard work, to trust the bike, to pedal with my butt. Oh, if only I could pedal! The trail was unlike anything I'd ever ridden before. I probably only got 5 to 10 pedal strokes in at a time, tops, before having to put my foot down, or occasionally dismount all together. I had been really excited about riding some fast, dusty singletrack with a few rocky sections and some gravelly double track dispursed throughout, as the trail's description had said. Maybe by doubletrack it meant the trail disappeared? Or by rocky sections it was referring to those few relieving sections where the rocks were so big they were actually a fairly flat, though off-camber surface?

All I could think as I was riding was, how on earth am I going to make it down the Continental Divide with my pal Meghan if I can't even hang on this section of trail in Austin, with front suspension and no bags attached to my bike. The worst part was when we had been riding for a considerable amount of time and Evan says (when I catch up to him), "Okay, so that was a little over a mile, we can go a bit further before we have to turn back to meet your friend." UUUGGGHHHHH.

Eventually, we turned around and road the same section home. Originally, we had been planning on riding a whole loop. But we left too late, no longer used to having any sort of schedule to keep, and anyway there is no way we would have been able to do the whole loop with the time restraints we had, even if we had left on time, because it took us considerably longer than anticipated. On the way back, I found there were some sections that were much easier to ride, and others that just felt impossible. The spirit crusher is that I know they are very possible, just not something I can wrap my brain around, given my skillset. A couple times I tried to figure out how I was even supposed to get myself between that rock and this tree, or over that obstacle from this angle, or why I was able to see my own butt while going around this bend.

The trail was flat, and if it was anything at all like what I am used to riding, that is to say, if it was something I was at all used to riding or had ever even approached before, it would have been an incredible ride and fairly fast. the bright Texas sun was in full blast as we rode in and out of dark shade, and when it was bright enough to see, the trail occasionally opened enough for me to identify there was a trail there, and short cacti lined each side like a well-groomed walkway. The water and the sky were both a rich blue, and it wasn't too much of an effort to remind myself that I do like this, even though I couldn't do it, and it was a beautiful day, and in this extraordinary life there are more brilliant and hard days to come, hopefully many of them. The only thing that will make the riding easier is to keep on putting in the effort, even if the miles don't stack up as quickly as the hours, and even if the noises coming out of my mouth aren't fit for innocent ears.

Back at the car, Evan told me with some regret that the trail we'd ridden wasn't a black diamond, only a blue square. It made sense to me. It wasn't dangerous. If I fell (which I did, actually, but was moving so slowly it only bruised my ego), I would only cut myself on the rocks or something along those lines. I want to get some kneepads, which received a big eyeroll from my partner in biking, because really that's the worst that could happen on that trail unless I really, seriously messed up. That's the sort of thing I need to keep remembering. Falling isn't everything. Speed isn't everything. Keeping on pedaling and trying and moving forward is what really makes a bit ride enjoyable, what makes me love this sport after 29 years and endless incarnations.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank my parents for buying my a bike for my fifth birthday and for taking off the training wheels on my sixth birthday after months of begging. Sometimes we just know what we want in life, and have to decide to not be afraid.

We Ride With Susan

All things considered, I want to live. The pain my loved ones would endure is palpable enough for me to never want to die; although I have no fear of death, the love I have for my family—and, possibly more importantly, that they have for me—gives me a firm sense of self-preservation. While I do have a nagging sense of invincibility (despite having never stepped into oncoming traffic, there have been plenty of other close calls), I know eventually my family and friends will have the option to attend a memorial service of some sort in honor of yours truly. Hopefully not for a very, very long time. Hopefully my parents aren't here to scatter my ashes.

I don't want a ghost bike memorial service. I don't want my parents to fly in to whatever city I've been living, to be picked up at the airport by my husband, to find the nearest clean hotel to the area where the incident occurred, to prepare a few sentences to say into a news camera or to a crowd of people they've never seen before and probably won't ever again.

I don't want my friends to gather in the rain and exchange awkward, "How are you?" "Good! Well, you know, considering..." conversations. I don't want anyone to catch cold on my behalf, for cops to stand in the road to direct traffic around my ghost white bicycle while cars, enraged behind them, resist the urge to honk as they pass the lone mourner across the street from the vigil, holding a sign that says, "What's the hurry?"

Susan Hicks was about my age, an academic, friends with my friends. She was following the rules of the road that were made for cars, that drivers of cars throw in cyclists' faces when other ghost bikes are chained to poles, rules they insist would have saved that life. A driver wasn't upholding their responsibility as the controller of a 4,000 pound car, and crashed into a car that became one end of a Susan sandwich, along with the car it had smashed her into.

The problem isn't just this driver, it's that this is a common problem. That cars honk when I ride my bike 28 miles per hour in a 25 mile per hour zone, because they want to drive 55 miles per hour. That the railway crossings to enter the park are guarded by rail yard workers who yell at us to get on the bike path as we are trying to get on the bike path they are guarding against us. That cars yell at us to get on the sidewalk when there is no sidewalk, and when even if there were one, it's illegal and dangerous for us to ride on them. That as we've tried to ride home from work, or just enjoy a beautiful day, drivers have become incensed, have thrown bottles at us, shot at me with a bb gun, and have swerved their cars purposefully into cyclists, righting their destructive ships at the last minute, laughing at this game they play with our lives. That distracted driving is an epidemic, and many drivers text and drive while speeding, even in residential or business areas. That four lane roads, like the one on which Susan was slaughtered, carve through college campuses and cars swerve recklessly from one lane to another, desperately afraid of getting stuck behind a bus. That these memorials happen everywhere, and the news covers them, meanwhile publishing slanderous articles and letters to the editor calling for more restrictions on cyclists, who are responsible for a scant number of fatalities.

I don't want my family to come see me in the hospital, or to figure out how to pay off my debts, or what to do with my lousy stuff. I don't want my sister to have to explain to my nieces that I won't be able to FaceTime with them anymore. I also don't want to call my husband's parents and drop the devastating news that their son was killed. I don't want to go through his belongings and figure out how much is enough of a keepsake to keep, I don't want to think about what to do with the house or the cars. I don't want to have to figure out how to continue on with my lousy, ruined, meaningless life without the love of my life. But I know it's so, so possible. 

And yet, still, people have a place to go, somewhere to be ten minutes ago. We are in the way, and the response to a text is more important than a life.

Indeed, what's the hurry?

There were over 250 people standing in the rain today near where Susan Hicks was killed (which is incidentally where Critical Mass starts), holding candles and hoping they don't catch cold. There shouldn't have been anybody.

Over tea and coffee this morning, my roommate and I talked about our complicated feelings about attending the vigil. How it's important to be there, but that for many people it isn't a place to be political, they don't want politics to be involved. But for a group of people who have been asking for years for a bike lane on that stretch of road, who lost a wonderful young person (though even if she was an asshole and old, it wouldn't make a difference), it is political. Sadness and Anger go hand and glove. It's hard to attend a memorial and not be mad that we even need to be doing this, again. It's a horrible feeling to think that maybe, now that a well-loved academic, a smart and charming white woman, a well-known citizen of Pittsburgh, was killed, things will change. That is a disgusting thought. And as it passed through my raging, sorrowful, idiot brain that wants so much to not be the next one whose name is Sharpied onto a sign next to a white bicycle, the SadMad began to subside, pushed out by the familiar depression that so often takes precedent, and I felt sick to my stomach.

Race Across the West 2015, Vol One

Guys. GUYS. I didn't tell you about Race Across the West.

I later lost this hat in Squaw Valley. Donations being accepted to reconnect me with a hot pink cycling cap.

When I signed up, I was interested in spending a week with my sweetie, who works so hard (I go through phases of working hard and being a bum. Right now I'm kind of a bum) all the time and I don't see him nearly as often as I'd like. We work well together, which is a big plus in something like RAW. I was also excited to see the American Southwest, my favorite landscape, including some parts and parks I'd never before experienced, or had never seen in the day time. I thought maybe I'd get some photos and stories out of the event. I did, and I'm slowly working through the process of organizing them all in my head, as this summer has been such an incredible whirl wind.

Racer coming in!

What I was surprised to gain exposure to, however, was something I'd only thought I knew anything about, and something that didn't initially strike me as all that interesting, frankly. By far the most mind blowing part of the race was getting to experience the gut wrenching endurance of athletes, teammates, and friends, and the personal sacrifice that comes from truly working and thinking as a team.

Last year when Team Phenomenal Hope raced Race Across America (RAAM), the team was made up of a very large crew with two suppose vehicles, an RV, and a media support vehicle; there were four racers who worked in pairs for three or six hour shifts, rotating every twenty minutes for those six hours and switching off with the other pair. This time, we had the two support vehicles and a van of off-shift crew members, and only two racers who raced for roughly twenty minute pulls with no real downtime except at night when they would each ride for longer stretches to allow the other to achieve some version of sleep in a moving vehicle.

It was the hottest race in years, with each day hovering at about 113° with no shade or cloud cover as we pushed through from Oceanside, California all the way to Durango, Colorado. In the Mojave Dessert, sand dunes pushed up against the road way, spilling into the line of traffic and causing chaos as crew teams scrambled to direct their racers out of danger. I was on shift at this time, and it was the middle of the night as the peloton came through, the solo racers RAAM and RAW racers, and some of the RAW teams, the solo racers all bunched together for camaraderie and safety, though their support vehicles were caravanned behind them illegally. Our racer struggled to find a good line in the confusion of so many racers and vehicles, without getting separated from us. We held onto her wheel as she stayed in our headlights, and as called out whatever sand we could see in case we had a better line of vision, able to pull our eyes up the road ahead a bit, to the furthest line of our lights rather than directly under wheel.

morning in Arizona. Hey there big guy.

I believe it was the next day when we went through Arizona and its blazing, unrelenting heat. Arizona is, frankly, a rather unwelcoming state, especially for cyclists, though it does have its unyielding beauty and some kind and generous residents. and I met a couple at a gas station who had left their homestate of California for the first time ever in a road trip to visit the boy's sister in Denver. 

"It's really something out here, isn't it?" I asked the girl while she admired me tattoos and I scanned her scabs with a worried glance. Chuck, my crew partner, had just given her $10 and her boyfriend was scratching a rash and swearing under the hood of their old Durango. 

"This is the worst place I've been to in my life. Everyone is mean, no one wants us here. I just want to make it to Colorado and be done with it." She then took me to her dog, who was tied with a rope to the hitch. I gave him a few pets and tried to calm him down when he started jumping. She scolded him and the pup turned around and bit her on the arm. It started to bleed a bit. I frowned again and asked if I could get her some ice for it.
"This place sucks," she said, kicking her truck tire. "Even pooch hates it. We gotta get out of here." She turned her back on me then just as my racer was coming out of the convenience store in a fresh chamois to start her next ride shift. Life goes on.

Somewhere outside Prescott, I believe, one of the riders started to experience heat exhaustion and mental fatigue. It's hard to watch someone for whom you have come to care deeply sink into what is a dark place in the psyche, knowing from experience that there's no real way to be pulled from that place but to be convinced to do so on one's own, and that's a difficult feat on both sides. Matched with the unrelenting heat and sun, the brutal climbs, descents, and flats, and the basic struggles that come with being a human being with our complications and backstories, it was an immensely difficult day for my rider.

Christmas Circle, California

Her teammate, however, dug deep into that same well of human spirit into which my racer had sunk, and found her own strength to ride through, doing longer pulls without complaint of sign of wear. It was one of the most impressive sites I've ever seen, and I was so proud to be a crew member for Team PH as these two women communicated and worked to support one another during this very difficult shift. At the Walmart in Prescott, we took a team break for some IV fluid, shade, and much needed rest. No one had had a proper meal in a long time so some of the crew members who were on the rest shift set out in search of pizza, only to discover the only pizza place in town was a "bake your own" type of establishment. Someone from the town invited them into his home, a mansion in the hills of Prescott, to bake the pizza there, and ultimately all was right with the world.

My racer wasn't depressed, she was having a mental reaction to being in a physically dangerous situation; however, being a person who lives with depression myself, I was at a good vantage point to talk to my rider who was struggling with moving forward in this very difficult race. Perspective is important. Not only the rider's perspective on her performance, race, numbers, and achievements, but the crew's perspective on how to take all of that into account with the (rather unfair) pressures we put on ourselves—not only as an athlete but as a person—to conquer ourselves, always put out better wattage, faster mileage, more impressive numbers. It's easy to forget to look up from the GPS, and it's just as easy to forget how difficult that can be, and how tricky those numbers can be when they ultimately mean very little. Perspective means the ability to look up and see the fantastic view, and to know that that's what someone is missing, because I've too been a person who was unable to see the incredible mountains and valleys and now that I can, I know how breathtaking it is, how much of my life depends on being able to see it. I'm speaking at once metaphorically and literally here, because our racers were passing through such incredible landscape, and were truly moving along at an impressive clip too, averaging 20mph, and I was fortunate to see all of it from the driver's seat.

After our pep talk and pizza break, my racer took a long pull to give her teammate some much deserved time off the saddle, and put out one of her best rides of the entire race, Garmin-free. I feel fortunate to have been able to be there. While our own inner struggles are different, it validated my own complicated self to put my depression in perspective and to give it meaning. Without that vantage point, I may not have known to kick everyone out of the RV, to give her what she needed, to know that its impossible to replay last year's race but that this year had its own saviors. Instead of ice cream it was pizza, instead of six hours in an RV it was five minutes in a kiddie pool. We take what we can and I understand that, as a person who is constantly working to find out what works and make it the best I can. Isn't that all that any of us can do?

The rest of the crew had the knowledge to administer an IV, fix the flat on the van (which I had kept filled with the bike pump until we were at this stopping point), communicate with our fans and supporters in a cool manner to keep everyone happy and appreciated, and communicate with all the crew members to make sure everyone is on the same page. We each had our roll, strengths, reasons for being there, and I'm proud to have been a part of that. I'm really so proud of everyone involved and have more stories to share, and I can't wait until the next chance to crew for an endurance race. Hopefully I won't be needed past pumping tires, charging lights, refilling water bottles, and driving the van, but it's nice to know we all have our small worths.

RIP Canondale: ridden too hard, put away too wet

After working the support crew for Team PHenomenal Hope's endlessly impressive duo Ann-Marie Alderson and Patty George as they competed in Race Across the West (RAW), I was inspired to finally start riding my road bike again. Road riding in southwestern PA is certainly different than riding in Southwest US, because the hills are much smaller and punchier, the shoulders are much narrower (or nonexistent), and the road surface varies between relatively paved to hunks of asphalt that have been thrown in a general area together to create a relative illusion of the concept of "road." Still, watching them pedal, climb, and descend, and feeling their small victories at having crossed mile markers and personal struggles, made me want to go out for a long ride myself. A week or so home and I was finally settled to hit the pavement (the trails are still too muddy to ride, as it's been raining almost every day for a couple months now). I went to the basement, and found a wonderful science experiment where I though I had left my bike.

You see, something wonderful(ly gross) happens when you get home from a frustrating ride through the slush, snow, and ice and furiously hang your bike in the basement without cleaning it, vowing to only ride your cross bike until Pittsburgh weather decides to play nice. The weather, of course, never plays nice and the bike ends up in that sad basement for seven months (or maybe it was 19? Did I stop riding that bike for a whole year and a half? Well it doesn't matter now, I guess). In the meantime, the salt in the slush will absorb the water and hold onto it like an old lover may hold onto sweet letters from a past he can't quite get past. The salt will then pull that moisture into the depths of the metal and carbon on which it once sat, corroding all in its wake (to pull the metaphor past its necessary use, this would be like that closure-less romance infiltrating all future relationships and current friendships until those companionships themselves corrode into something unusable and unhealthy. Salt, thy art an abuser in love science!).

Nothing moves, everything that should move is fuzzy. The weirdest of all, however, is that the bike is still wet. The salt doesn't just disappear, and being in a Pittsburgh basement, even though we have no leaks, it is so moist here (like, seriously) that the water doesn't have anywhere to go. People, my SPOKES have gummy dewdrops on them. Have you ever seen those fake flowers that have a the illusion of being recently watered? That's why my bike looks like. E. went downstairs to grab my bike for me, as part of the move, and asked if I had already taken it for a spin. There was an alarming sound from the basement when I shouted back No, and upon inspection (attempting to turn a crank), it was revealed to be all entirely seized.

José Guadalupe Posada, bicycles of the dead

Prior to RAW, I had been considering selling my bikes, especially the road bike, to purchase a Salsa Fargo. I was torn about it, because I knew I might want to ride again once I got out west, and didn't want to set myself up for regret. But look how cool this ride is, now that I know it can also take a suspension fork! My bike shop is also a Salsa dealer, so I can get a good deal on it (always an important factor, plus it's good to ride something we sell). Anyway, check it out! Just imagine it with a frame bag, some other stuff (it can hold a growler, for instance), and of course yours truly with a big ole grin). And if you want, feel free to drop some money in my PayPal (kidding, but also, I mean, you can do it if you want to). In the meantime, I have plenty of turf to cover in preparation of my many adventures ahead, and luckily I have another whip that serves me well. 

The Salsa Fargo 2

Right to Ride (plus healthy vegan brownie recipe)

O, Dinky Bridge! O, Iron Grate! O, Blue Slide!

You trails, thine mud is plush, and roots ripe with traction.

Ye olde mountain bike season is again upon us! Bask in yea glory of semi-dry trails. Bow down in thanks of the trail gods who build berms and fill ruts. And yea, kiss the tire treads of they who rode all winter when the trails were soft and vulnerable, for they knew not of their own power to corrode. Let us give thanks to the sun, brief in the sky as it may be, whose vitamin D reminds us that yes, we do prefer to be alive (though for the past six months may have lost sight of that mission). Let us not take for granted this day of beauty, let this not be our day of rest, for rest will come soon enough—tomorrow (or later today) when it rains, or post-ride at D's for veggie dogs topped with avocado and Sriracha slaw, and washed down with a pint of 1919 Root Beer.

No time for typing, today we ride.

Tonight, however, we make brownies (because: it is raining).

This recipe is adapted from Vega's Easy Vega One Protein Brownies. I changed things around based on what I had lying (laying? I was a writing major, not an English major) around the house, and also to make them a bit more affordable and to my nutrition needs.

Semi-Easy Protein Brownies

vegan, gluten free, about as healthy as brownies can be

• 3 Tbsp ground flaxseeds
• 6 pitted dates, chopped
• 1/2 cup water
• 1 small zucchini
• 1/2 cup apple sauce
• 1/4 cup coconut oil, melted
• 2 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 scoop chocolate protein powder
• 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup almond flour

1. Preheat oven to 350º F
2. Soak flax meal and dates in water in a medium sized bowl; let sit for half hour
3. Meanwhile, some prepping! Chop zucchini in food processor until finely chopped. Also, grease 9x9 pan with coconut oil.
4. Add each ingredient, one at a time, to flax mixture, folding until just mixed. If zucchini has left a bit of water at the bottom of food processor, add it if batter feels excessively dry.
5. Pour batter into pan and bake for 25 minutes. These babies are MOIST! So if you like cupcakes to be a bit on the cakier side, bake for an extra five minutes or so.
6. Let sit, cool, and firm for a good 15 minutes before cutting. 

Oh Kale Yes!

Today was an incredible 50 degrees out here in Pittsburgh, and the scheduled rain held out, so as soon as I got home from band practice, E. and I pumped up the tires on our road bikes and headed into the park. Days like today help me appreciate owning a road bike, when the weather is too warm to train inside but the trails are still too icy and even the thawed trails are too wet and would be ruined with bike treads. The roads of Schenley park were packed with joggers, walkers, and people napping in their cars. We didn't ride for very long, or very far, because we are both getting over colds and long bouts of inactivity due to a number of variables. But it was nice to spin the legs, get our blood pumping, and breathe some fresh air, even if only for an hour or so.

Getting over injury and sickness is never fun or easy, but the payoff for laying low, daily yoga, and herbal tea comes in the form of quicker recovery to enjoy these beautiful days. I complained a lot and posted a few too many photos of me and my dog in bed, but I'm grateful today for my health.

To celebrate our first bike ride together of 2015, E. made dinner. Crusted barbecue tempeh, raw kale salad, and fried potatoes, paired with some cider from East End Brewing Company, was a great way to end the day.

The dressing for the Kale salad was then used on our dehydrating kale. This recipe is E.'s, adapted from Brad's Raw Kale Chips, using ingredients readily available around the house. These aren't "guilt free" except that no one should feel guilty about eating. They have fat and calories from healthy sources, and are a wonderful snack to satisfy cravings for crunchy, savory treats.

• Raw sunflower seeds, enough to coat the bottom of food processor
• Garlic (whole cloves, 3+ depending on preference)
• Green onions (1-2), hard to taste and therefore optional
• Miso paste (scoop about the size of a ping pong, about 2 Tbsp)
• Peanut butter, natural and crunchy (hefty scoop, a bit more than the miso)
• Lemon juice (2-3 Tbsp)
• Ginger (optional, to taste)
• Water
• Kale, raw and destemmed (however much you have and can put on your dehydrator, probably 3 handfuls or so)

1. Add the sunflower seeds to the bottom of food processor to coat the bottom. Grind up into finest powder possible.
2. Add garlic and green onions. Blend.
3. Next, add the wet ingredients, starting with the miso and peanut butter. Blend again.
4. Add lemon juice, ginger, and water. Water is the magic sauce! It adjusts the dressing consistency. If you add too much, add a bit more PB to bring it back. Blend.
5. Pour dressing on kale and massage it in. The surface area of kale shrinks, so if the dressing is strong, add less dressing because the chips will also be strong.
6. Add kale to dehydrator. Spread out bigger pieces, but if you buy the pre-cut kale on sale at Trader Joes, layer the smaller pieces and "cook" for a bit longer so they become one motherchip. Otherwise, leave the kale alone for 12 hours or so, checking periodically to see how they're doing.

This recipe also works well for beet greens, a great way to make the most of these healthy leafy tops.