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.

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.

Fighting the Good Fight

I skipped boxing last night because there has been a lot of stress in my little family and I thought it would be nice to take a night off from obligations and just ride around the park in the woods at night with my husband. I'm glad I did it, but when I got caught behind a slow truck on my way to boxing this afternoon and knew I was about to be late, I had to fight myself from turning around. I forced myself to keep driving, and when I got to the gym four minutes late, I made myself walk in with my tail between my legs and wrap my hands. Coach Jeff is as kind (to his students anyway) as they come, while still being directive and authoritative. We talk band stuff, because he used to be in the popular PA band Simon Says who played the college circuit in the 90's. I missed the jumprope warm-up but caught all the important lessons, and then finished with the jumprope at the end. To skip it is to only cheat myself. I deserve it to myself to put in the effort and make the most of my time. We all deserve it.

I came home, changed, and was working through the many emails and deadlines I've been pushing around like peas on a stubborn little kid's plate, when there was a knock on my door from my neighbor. I've only waved to her in passing, and one she's come to my door when her puppy ran away. She asked if I knew anyone who knew self defense, and I told her I didn't have any training like those Women's Self Defense classes (though I should really take one), but that I used to kickbox and I currently belong to a boxing gym and take classes there. She told me she wanted to learn how to get away from someone. I showed her a jab, cross, hook. We talked footwork and weight distribution, where power comes from, our arms and legs as mere vessels for the strength and force of our bodies.

She told me she was attacked at a party, how her friends blamed her, said, "When did it become rape?" "'When I said no,' I told them." How it's causing drama in her family now. How the men are getting more and more daring and all she wants is to be able to go somewhere at night and know she will be okay. It happened in a bathroom. She wants to be able to get someone to leave her alone. I told her the jab is the "get away from me" punch. She showed me a move her husband taught her, to catch someone's advance and pull them in close, then knee them in the head. We went over kicks. She told me about a video she saw online, where a woman strangled a guy with her purse strap. "That's what I want to learn how to do," she said.

My heavy bag has been leaning on my porch with nowhere to hang since I moved in here. She has one hanging from a tree. She has sparring gloves.

"I have more support from you and my coworkers than I do from my friends. What's that saying? The more you get to know yourself, the smaller your circle becomes? Well isn't that some truth."

My heart broke for her (for everyone) but we are both excited to have a training buddy to work out with and learn from. When I train, my head is clear, all I focus on is what my body is doing, what my opponent's body is doing. I'm not good, I'm not disciplined, I'm still learning. But I'm really, really excited to have the chance to help a woman regain her agency.

That is what sisterhood is all about.

Newfoundland/East Coast Trail, Vol. 1

Yes, I know I have more stories to tell about Race Across the West, but this has been a very eventful summer and the stories are happening faster than I can write them. Last week I returned from hiking a good portion of the East Coast Trail in Newfoundland, Canada. The heroes of St. John's, for me, are Alison and Geoff, who let me sleep in their guest quarters and leave my things while I was hiking, Bernadette at the tourism department who worked so hard to make our trip memorable and to keep us on track, and Carolyn Cook (there were many Carolyn's), who worked for the tourism department and also at the Outfitters shop in downtown St. John's.

Laura, Wendy, and I met Carolyn on a bright, windy day. She was leading a special walking tour of the area for Writing Walking Women, though only three of us showed up, which created a friendly, somewhat intimate setting. We walked through The Narrows, a neighborhood in St. John's that follows the steep edge of the harbor. The houses reminded me of the homes I grew up near in coastal Massachusetts, and also of Valparaiso, Chile, which has similarly colorful homes stacked into hillsides overlooking the ocean.

From The Narrows we climbed our way along the coast, at times using a rope to steady ourselves along the very narrow trail that hovered between a wall of rock and the battering sea, ultimately approaching the bottom of Signal Hill. Living in Pittsburgh, I was more impressed by this hill's panoramic vistas and that so many people were out hiking or running the trail and stairs. But it did give me a glimpse into what was in store for us on our own hike, and I was excited. When I first moved to Pittsburgh, E. had a sticker that said I <3 Hills that was produced by BikePGH. It took me years to understand it, but once my fitness was able to propel me up all the hills that I'd previously considered in my way, I really did share in this love of climbing, of feeling my body grind away at gravity, of that feeling of satisfaction in descent, knowing it's the product of a job well done. So in hilly St. John's I fit right in and took to the final stairs like a playground, running up sections and enjoying the changing view as I earned my way to the top.

The stairs at Signal Hill

Laura and Wendy, meanwhile, diligently plucked off each step like a tiny victory, and Laura expressed concern for not having any hills in Toronto on which to truly train for terrain like this. Carolyn, in her unyielding optimism, assured her that the trail was hilly, yes, but we would all be fine, and that it isn't a race so there's no need to go faster than one's comfort level. We will all get there eventually.

That's something very important to remember in a group effort. We are only as fast as our slowest member, and that's a good thing. We may spread out over the course of a few hours to take up a collective long stretch of trail, but in order for the trek to be a success, we must regroup, find each other, check in, and allow others to check in on us.

Carolyn Cook, Laura, and Wendy discussing The Narrows

At nine people (eleven at the very beginning, though two stepped back to pursue their own adventure), this was the largest group in which I'd ever hiked, camped, or traveled, and the varied experience and fitness levels was a little concerning until we got on the trail. During our actual trek down the East Coast Trail, my fellow hikers impressed me by not only surpassing their own self-perceived abilities and stamina, but by being such kind and open-hearted travelers. Our most experienced hiker was also our slowest. As our group spread out in different paces, she typically pulled further back, moving at her own steady, sure-footed pace. We all gathered for snacks, lunch, or to regroup and assess the maps, and it was important for all of us to see everyone in the group accounted for physically. Early in the trip, possibly the second night, we had underestimated the technical level of the trail and gave ourselves too much time to rest. Carolyn Cook met with us to switch out some equipment (the first of two times she would come to our rescue with valuable upgrades), and she encouraged us to keep moving forward, but by that point the day had grown long and we had not yet even hit the most challenging part of the day's hike.

The faster hikers in the group pushed forward to find a camp spot so we would know there was a space for all of us to pitch our tents (or hang a hammock, in my case). It was the right thing to do, but felt awful leaving people so far back without knowing how they were faring on the trail (and really, we knew they were growing tired and frustrated). We found a perfect campsite, but none of us to could rest, knowing people were still out there.

Erika was the furthest behind, and Carolyn McCarthy went back to look for her, using her headlamp as a beacon. She and Erika flashed each other as they got close, and then walked along back to the camp site, using their two headlamps to illuminate the way. There are not photos for this part of the trail, because there's no good spot to stop and take out a camera. We did see a moose during daylight, however. There were a couple spots where I did have the space available to safely take out a camera, but looking in the viewfinder, I realized that no photo would ever do the area justice, and no one would believe how treacherous and breathtaking it was all at once. Similarly, there were no spots to pitch a tent, which is why we pressed on as long as we did. Around 10:30 p.m., Carolyn and Erika returned to camp, and everyone pitched their tents and went to sleep with nary a dinner cooked. After that heartbreaking split, we paid more attention to time, breaks, campsites, and each other.

This photo is from a day or two later, and only begins to capture the epicness

It was an important lesson to learn early in the adventure. Our slowest hiker is not to be fretted over, as she is also our most experienced and can survive anywhere (She had, in fact, seen a few small places to pitch her one-person tent, but pressed on knowing we would be sitting at the campsite worrying where she is and if she'd fallen from the cliff. Erika is a true adventurer and a perfect travel companion.), but as a group we must take everyone's fitness and comfort into consideration. If someone's feet are bothering her or joints are giving way, then we all feel it and must help each other by adjusting pack weight, making stops, assessing ultimate end-goals, etc.

Having a decent base-level of fitness and some experience on the trail (though certainly not the most), some of my role in the group dynamic was as the "vibe coordinator," checking in with people, boosting spirits, and making sure everyone was having a good time and not weighing themselves down with fear. Fear is healthy and an incredibly useful tool for human survival. It can also work against us to keep us from pushing through things that are otherwise manageable. A conversation I had many times with my fellow trekkers went something like this:

Me: How's it going, how do you feel?

Hiker: This is so hard, I don't know if I can keep going.

Me: How are your feet? Your pack?

Hiker: Fine, I feel okay.

Me: Well you've already proven that you're a great hiker, you've come this far and have already covered so much ground, so why wouldn't you be able to keep walking?

And that check-in was usually enough to help someone snap out of the mental trap of thinking of themselves as weak when they were all actually incredibly strong women, or as incapable when they were actually all very capable, or as fearful when they were quite brave. My favorite part of the hike was watching people break down their own barriers and realize the wonderful, strong women they truly were, despite their assertions to the contrary. Every hiker dug deep and always had something more to offer the trail, could always keep going. After crying, after saying "I can't," after pleading she wants to go home, after having lousy camp food, after taping blisters on every part of her feet, after equipment failure of every sort, each woman kept trekking, kept finding reserves of energy, strength, perseverance hidden and lying in wait. I was so thankful to be able to spend time learning true bravery from this group of adventurers.

My favorite quote was from Wendy Goodman: "Honestly, I don't like hiking. I don't like camping. I don't like the outdoors. I don't like sweating. But I do it because there are things out here that can't be experienced from a car window, and it's worth the discomfort to be a part of those things, to put in the work to make it to a place like this that only someone who has had this experience will be able to see."

On the flip, one time at a party for a new local bike shop, I heard the most idiotic quote by some dumb-dumb: "I don't understand the point of travel. If I want to see the Eiffel Tower, I can just look at a picture. Why would I want to put in all the effort to go someplace when I can sit in the comfort of my living room and see it?"

I didn't have a concise counter point at the time, but hiking the East Coast Trail and seeing how much of the best of it was relatively unphotographable due to the angles, lighting, danger, and amount of cliffs in the way, knowing that whatever great shot I managed would still never illicit the overpowering emotion of having hiked to that summit, I realize there really isn't a need to counter that person's perspective. This place isn't for him. It's for people who truly want to be there, whether they can and do, or can't and read stories to use their imaginations to put themselves there. 

 Anyway, I'll have more to write here, and will be writing about the people of St. John's, and the landscape of the East Coast Trail over at my other blog, Roadside Fires Burning, shortly.

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.

A Stab In the Dark

There comes a time in every blogger's life where she needs to look at her surroundings and make some assessments. Last night, I stepped on a stick that impaled my foot about an inch and a half deep, leaving just a teeny tiny mark but swelling my foot to about 150% its size. Then, I sliced my hand on a knife my friend Nick Anger made me, attempting lamely to hold it in my teeth like a pirate holding her sword. My eye has also been twitching for about two days.

What do I make of all this? Even Wikipedia offers me nothing but, "no one really knows what causes it, your guess is really as good as ours. Oh wait, do you have any pain in your eye? Oh, no? Never mind, yeah, still don't know. Sorry." The twitching started before the stab wound, before the slice, and after I started the kickboxing challenge, around the time of Easter. So is it holiday stress? Sugar consumption? Not enough time to get everything done, with three days of the week pulled out for family activities?

Personally, I like to blame everything on water intake. Headache? Probably dehydrated. Nauseous? Have some water (and salt). Chest pains? Down some H2O. Muscle cramps? Load up on the good stuff. Eye twitch so easily falls into that. After all, it's basically just a charley horse on my face. So I'm drinking water, infused with some old lime sliced effortlessly with my gorgeous knife. But I also put my feet up after a day of postering and editing an article, and have been watching Bob's Burgers, so who can really say?

The point is, self care is important. Whether that means drinking enough water or taking some time to relax with cartoons. Whether that means punching things or taking a day off from punching things. Whether that means quitting one's job to pursue one's dreams or just eating a balanced meal every once in a while. It's all worth while, and our body will tell us this by giving us an eye twitch or making us clumsy enough to step on a stick or stupid enough to slice our hands open with a knife. Or maybe by placing the stick there to step on at three a.m. to give some perspective on the important things in life.

Water and cartoons.

Time For Ourselves

It's taken me a while to find time to update the blog. Posters, one of my many jobs, picked up, as did my writing work. It's been hard to get in every P90X workout, and something that's been causing me some contemplation is the purpose of the workouts, why I love this set of cheesy home exercise DVDs.

I constantly grapple with my own use of time. I'm a procrastinator when I don't take up a project or assignment head-on and right away; most of my editors say I'm a dream to work with, because I get things done so soon; I know myself well enough to know that if I don't do it immediately, I'll forget about it. That said, it leaves a lot of room to be constantly accepting assignments, as they're always finished ahead of deadline. A great problem to have, really. These assignments, of course, don't appear out of the blue, but come from networking and loads of research, reaching out to new people, building and maintaining relationships on all ends of the spectrum. I find myself looking at my Facebook, Instagram, and email almost constantly. It's addictive work, which isn't really something I thought I'd say about a job, but here we are.

How does this pertain to P90X? It's an hour of my day that isn't dedicated to work or social media. An hour for myself, completely, where I have to be in the moment. It's an active meditation. Before freelancing picked up, there was always time found in the day to meditate, time to clear my head and ground myself with my own goals and presence of being without the influence of outside forces. More time for art, love, nature. More time for health in all its forms. This mere 60-75 minutes, now, is a struggle to dig out, which makes it so much more important. Everyone wants something from us, and we can break parts of ourselves off, ad infinitum, if we choose, but its our choice, ultimately, to leave something or nothing for ourselves. Working out is my declaration that at least this small moment in my waking life is just mine. For 60-75 minutes. y attention is just towards myself. It isn't selfish to need time for ourselves, it's self-preservation.

After an incredibly challenging Thursday that including working all three current jobs (posters, journalism, teaching) and a bike ride with a loaded pack from the posters, I took all Thursday off. From everything. I didn't respond to emails, reach out to editors, write anything, fix anything. I didn't clean, I didn't engage in internet drama. A friend who lives down the street came over with his dog and we hung out in the back yard for a couple hours while our dogs wrestled in the mud, then I took a nap, did some stretches, and went out for ice cream at Page Dairy (which just opened for the season). It took the declaration of "this is a day off" to realize how hard I'd been working, how little time I'd had for myself, and how much I needed to just reboot and not put myself up to any expectations.

Today, though, the posters and emails are piling up, and Kenpo X is on deck. It's another rainy day here in Pittsburgh, my elbows, shoulder, and knee/shin are sore and swollen, but as Tony endorses, I'll do my best and forget the rest.

Three Cheers For My Weird Body

Tony Horton, I wish I knew how to quit you.

After some time away from my boyfriend, we are again together for a round of rolling on the floor and grunting, and finding strange and unsurpassable reasons to press the pause button. This time, I'm doing the Lean program, which focuses a bit more of core, cardio, and yoga, rather than bulky muscle. I kind of like having bulky muscle, but I'm trying to slim down a little from the winter weight I've been slowly accumulating like periwinkles under a dock since last winter when I dislocated my shoulder. Sure, I've been kickboxing, and raced bikes, and run the stairs (not as often as I should, at least this winter). But I feel all-over rather soft and doughy, rather than the animal body I felt when I was in the throws of P90X, especially the first go around.

Don't be fooled, though, kind readers. the Lean is still strengthening and muscle-building. Today's Core Synergistics had me doing probably 200 push-ups in varied forms (all harder and more complicated than the original, I promise you that). My measly 8-lb. weights began to feel heavy in some of the exercises. "But Carolyne," you may be saying, "you're such a weakling! You've said so yourself!" And you may be right, but from my perspective I'm still strong, I'm just a whole lot of other things as well.

This will be a good transition (as good as I'm willing to give you, anyway) for the other thing I've been thinking about lately. Modcloth did a great photo shoot recently that used their own employees to model their bathing suits. A lot of the deserved feedback resound of women feeling like their bodies were finally represented. It's important to have representation in photographs that are selling clothes — how will I know how this will look on me? (It looks great, by the way.) But it made me think about representation and my own perspectives on my body. I don't think my body can be represented. I'm awkward, I wear a 32-long pant leg and a small shirt, lengthwise. I'm muscly in some areas (namely my limbs) and doughy in others (this vague middle area). I love my body. I love what is can do, I love that it's mine and that no one really looks like me. I've earned every cell of fat or muscle, each pint of beer at the pub with friends or pint of ice cream at home alone, each "one more" run up the 36 flights of the Cathedral of Learning, each long way home on my bike or decision to run rather than walk through the park. It's all me, all mine.

The things I wish were different about my body aren't things that have to do with aesthetics. I wish my right side didn't light up in the dank Pittsburgh winter from all the times I've fallen on that side. I wish my epidermis wasn't numb, that I knew what this rash was that's all over my shoulders, neck, and chest, and that I still had as much energy as I did when I was 20. Oh well.

Even as a kid I didn't really judge myself, and I know I'm lucky for that. I had an older sister who was half my size and couldn't help but remind me of that all the time. But I'm lucky to have my parents, who made it a point to teach me that my sister and I couldn't be compared. I was heavier than my sister, but taller, different, my own person. And that was a great thing. It is a great thing. I still have a sister who is half my size, and I still love her and look up to her as she looks up to me (literally, because she's tiny.).

In fifth grade, a visitor came to class and asked us to each write down something we didn't like about ourselves. I couldn't think of anything, little brat that I was, so I put my eye color. My dad and I have always been a lot alike, but his eyes are blue and mine are brown and turn green when I'm upset. It doesn't bother me, but it was something that, sure, it could be changed I guess. A girl in my class, whose name I absolutely remember but I'll save her this memory, told me she could think of a lot of things she'd change about me. I don't remember whether she told me what they were, and certainly don't remember what I thought they might be, if anything. Why think about those things? I thought. I still think that, unless I buy a dress that I think will be my size and fit right because it fit the model, and the model looks nothing like me.

I feel the need to give this disclaimer in talking about doing the Lean program because I don't think people should feel bad in their bodies ever, unless there is something actually wrong that needs to be addressed. Do you feel bad because your appendix is about to burst? Get thee to a doctor! Do you feel bad because a waitress gave you a once over when you ordered fries with your burger? That sounds like a whole lot of her problem. But I like how I felt, on a physical level, when I was more fit. I liked feeling like a mammal, each muscle working towards a purpose of supporting another muscle, to propel my body forward for even the most basic actions. I didn't notice the physical change until I saw photos later, or until I started gaining some of that fat back (which I had sort of missed anyway).

I agree with the need for more representation, with the idea that having models all look the same is very dangerous because people are not built the same and will never achieve those beauty standards. But the word is Model. They are modeling clothes to show what they look like. It's helpful to have the models show what the clothes may actually look like on a variety of bodies, but don't take it as a representation of your own validity if you don't see yourself up there. You are your own body, my precious and beautiful reader. If you are tiny like my sister or muscular like me, if you are a feather or a whole hawk, if you have curves on curves on curves or are as linear as the Kansas horizon. It's your body. It isn't you, but it's your body. Learn it, love it, accept that it is probably weird and un-replicable. Now go out and make it do whatever it is that it does best.

The day I went outside for the sake of breathing (banana pancakes recipe)

It's been hard to get back into the groove of Pittsburgh living since my return at the beginning of the month. The over-stimulation of high speed internet, the constant noise and frustration of city life and a home under the highway, the smells and struggles of living in a working-poor neighborhood where the street never gets plowed because it will just pull up more chunks of concrete and cobblestone, the lack of structure, the demand for structure. Plus, my office chair just isn't as comfortable as the one in my old studio at the Vermont Studio Center (poor me, I know). There have been so many positive changes that have happened not only since this past summer, but in the two weeks since I've been home, but it can be difficult to keep that all in perspective, to prioritize time affectively, and to stay focused on the real goals in life.

Today, however, the sun was out. Those who live in the Southwest may not take their sunshine for granted, but I sometimes feel that those in New England do. It may be more grey there in the winter than in the summer, but it's a beautiful part of the world, and the sun is out more often than not, that cold blue winter sky that reminds you you're on Earth, that feels so warm in contrast to the frosty snap of wind on your nose. The sun is a brief relieve that we in Pittsburgh so rarely get. Today, however, was cold enough to bring out the sun, and I was sure to make the most of it.

E. and I went for a cross-country ski adventure in Frick Park, taking advantage of the small amount of snow we received the past two days. I would never tell my poor Bostonian friends and family (except here, publicly, where I can't be assaulted), but I am a bit jealous of all their snow. The grass is always whiter, I know, and I really do feel bad that they are trapped with inoperable public transit and limitless snowbanks that make driving perilous. That said, I will probably never get to use my snowshoes in the Pittsburgh area, and the inch of snow we have here now practically peeled off the grass with my skis like lint from a sweater with masking tape. On the hiking trails was a bit easier, since a lot of the snow was packed down. I had picked up my skis, boots, and poles last year at REI's winter garage sale for about $45 total, after I dislocated my shoulder and needed something active to do besides boxing or cycling. They were pretty much new, so they are a lot faster than E.'s old skis he bought off Craigslist. I found myself slowing down a lot (or attempting to) so that I wouldn't run him over, or being a bit intimidated by the changing elevation that's unavoidable in this area. Harder than that was going up, sliding back if my ski remained on the ground for a second longer than necessary as I waddled uphill. I only fell once, as I attempted to slow down and ran over a stick.

 

But just skiing wasn't enough on a day as refreshing as this. I came home and my poor dog was so lonesome, knowing we had spent a few hours outside without him. He hates the cold, but when the sun is out, everything looks so warm, and the heat from the sun's reflection off the snow comes through the window and I know he thinks it's finally nice out again. So I bundled him in a fleece and we headed into Schenley Park, the woods behind my house. It was such a beautiful day, and we ran and slid through our private trail we'd dug, up to the top of the hill. His paws were cold and he insisted on walking on the sidewalk once we reached the top. Within moments, he was stalling and holding up his paws in pain, the salt having burned wounds into his cold pads. I brushed them off and eventually coerced him to walk with me in the snow, and we went further back into the woods, where the trails were padded with snow and we could run freely (on our leash, of course— we're both prone to running away). It was nice to be out of the house and enjoying the outdoors. I think it's something that's been especially bothersome for me as I sink back into Pittsburgh life. I ran the stairs last night, and have been going to kickboxing, but it's not quite the same as a few hours outside in the fresh air and the tranquility of trees. I've found myself no longer dreaming of Santa Fe every night, but often dreaming of Johnson, VT as well. These are sweet reliefs from the sadder dreams, but when I wake up, I'm filled with a longing I can't shake, for a landscape that brought me such quietude I can't seem to muster in my own environment here.

No blog post is truly complete without a recipe, of course, so here's one which is almost exactly like the one from Vega's site. The only changes is I use All-In-One and they use protein powder, and they use coconut oil and I use Earth Balance. Also, I'm heavy on the cinnamon because it's delicious and really good for you. Among other things, it helps break down sugars and combat inflammation. 

Vegan Banana Boost Pancakes

• 1 large banana, mashed
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 cup milk of choice (I use unsweetened vanilla almond milk)
• 1 cup gluten-free all-purpose flour (I like Mama's almond flour mix)
• 1 serving Vega One Nutritional Shake Vanilla Chai
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1 tsp baking soda
• 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 Tbsp Earth Balance (or oil of choice)

Mix together mashed banana, vanilla, and milk in small bowl and set aside. In large bowl, mix flour, shake mix, baking powder, baking soda, and cinnamon. Add banana mixture slowly, and mix until just blended. Add more milk as needed. I added about 1/8 cup milk at the beginning of making pancakes, and as the batter sat as I made the first round, the batter thickened and I added some water. Heat pan on medium heat, add oil to pan, and cook those babies up, flipping once the glorious pancake bubbles appear.

These cakes are sweet enough on their own, from the banana and the stevia in the shake mix, but your topping of choice would only sweeten the deal even more. This recipe fed me well for two mornings.

First day back at the bag

With the sun back in the sky and love in my heart, I was today able to finally get to kickboxing. I knew going into it that I'm not in the shape I once was, that I'm not as strong or as svelt. It's not that I've been scared to go back to class, but there were always excuses — usually decent ones, in my defense, like illness or injury, but also weak ones like not enough time or feeling tired —that I wrongly convinced myself were worth listening to.

But today I set an alarm for an early class so that I'd make it to at least the afternoon class, and made myself go. There weren't very many people there, only 7 plus the instructors. One of the instructors and all the attendees were strangers to me, but I instantly fell into the groove of warming up, smiling through side plank, and feeling thankful for the relief of mere jumping jacks. By the time we got to our first round of jab-cross, I was already tired, but excited to be back at the bag again.

What surprised me was how tired my legs were after the warm-up squats and lung jumps. Typically my legs are incredibly strong and even after an hour round of kickboxing, they're still ready to ride up some Pittsburgh hills or at least take the dog for a long walk. My legs were shaking. When we started kicking, I dug deep into myself and found saved energy even though parts of me wanted to crumble into a ball and lay there for dead.

Between every other round, I ran to my water bottle, my throat dry and desperate for water. "How does everyone feel?" Coach Jenny said as the bell rang after three hard minutes of uppercuts. "Tired!" I shouted back. "Good," she said, "that means you're doing it right."

Strange fact about me: I have a series of situations in which I imagine almost everyone I meet. One of those is in an attack situation. How they'd try to attack me, how I'd counter-attack. I always prided myself on my strength, but moreso my stamina. As class went on, I felt myself losing power like a battery, each punch and kick a bit less powerful, less quick, and each block a bit less accurate. I was disappointed, and again dug deeper to find that person I know I can be, who can fight through pain and come out kicking and punching and screaming. At speed round, I pushed all my pain, all my weakness to the back of my brain and charged at my bag with as much speed and speed and strength as I could muster.

I know I have to keep going to kickboxing class. I want to get back into the shape I was before I dislocated my shoulder. It was over a year ago, but it through my training regimen off so much that it's been difficult to find a new rhythm. I'm thankful I have a place to go that pushes and supports me, and that's always there when I'm ready to dive back in. I look forward to Thursday, and I hope I don't sabotage myself and miss class for some dumb reason like I'm scared of the pain of realizing how weak I am. I already realize that, so the only thing I have to do is face up to it.

On Calorie Counters and self policing

As I focus more on nutrition, I try to not get too absorbed in calorie counting. For some people, it's a great method for keeping tabs on how much food one eats and where one stands as far as input/output of energy. For me, I find myself checking in on how much I've burned versus how much I've consumed, which has a lot to do with the apps I've used in the past, and when I see that I'm at a severe deficit, I binge on pizza at 1 a.m. But that isn't all there is to nutrition (in fact, it isn't healthy at all). I'm sure many of you have heard "not all calories are created equal," but how does that transfer into your daily eating habits?

I find that using things like calorie trackers are very similar to using a GPS. If you have no idea where you are or how to get where you want to be, and have no idea how to read maps or the time to focus on learning about best routes, then it's a good tool to get you where you need to be. However, both tools are limited. A GPS doesn't always have the most up-to-date routes, especially in Western Pennsylvania where the roads are constantly under construction and closed off. Even features like Quickest Route, Shortest Route, or No Tolls don't always deliver, and we often end up taking a longer or at least less pleasant route than a local may instruct us to follow, or that we may find on our own by looking at some maps. Further, the more we rely on GPS, the less inclined we are to listen to our own navigational instincts or to pay attention to our surroundings. We are less likely to learn about the roads, routes, and nearby attractions if we stare at the digital screen in front of us, telling us exactly where to go and sternly alerting us when we veer even the slightest off track.

The same goes for calorie counters. If you are at a loss as to how to manage your nutritional information; if you haven't yet learned the skills to know when you are full, hungry, or thirsty; if you don't yet understand how to intuitively know the quality of the food you're eating, then calorie counters are great. I like to use them intermittently to check in on how I'm doing, if I'm about on track with where I ought to be. But when I focus too much on the calorie counters, I start to become more obsessed with this abstract number rather than the actual purpose of monitoring my intake.

Since I can't currently do too much besides some gentle yoga, nutrition is more important right now than I necessarily expected it to be, so I'm thankful for the 90/10 group to motivate me to pay attention rather than fall into a delicious canyon of pizza and beer. Since I'm vegetarian (I did eat fish in Vermont — sorry fishies, as well as ate more dairy than I'm used to — sorry cows), I found this round-up of vegan proteins to be very helpful. A lot of this information is stuff I learned as a teenager, but it's always good to have the reminder that there's more to life than peanut butter and toast, as delicious as it is, or rice and beans, as cheap as it is. The list, published by Greatist, is available here, But I'll let you know what my top 3 favorites are:

• chia seeds
• quinoa
• peanut butter sandwich

Today I had chia seeds and flax seeds on top of my unsweetened greek yogurt, which I then drizzled with a bit of local honey from my neighbor Bee Boy, who is resisting a web presence so he doesn't overwhelm his hives due to an increased demand for the sweet stuff. For lunch was sprouted flourless bread with peanut butter, and for dinner I'll probably make some sort of quinoa dish. These are all vegetarian, and all complete proteins.

When you're well-nourished, eating food you like, and don't feel like you have to police yourself, it's a lot easier to maintain healthy eating habits.

In related news, I spent my time in Vermont eating my fair share of gluten and soy, and didn't have any major sensitivity outbreaks until I returned to Boston and then to Pittsburgh, where I broke out in hives both times. This leads me to believe that my sensitivities are largely stress-related, that stress brings in inflammation, hives, and other discomforts. The gluten and soy are Alka-seltzer tablets to my glass of stress water. Together, they fizz into an eruption.

So the goal, after that interesting experiment founded by my own weakness for fresh baked bread and brownies, is not to completely regulate my food, but to avoid the food that puts me at risk for discomfort, but also avoid stressful situations and mindsets, not letting myself get caught up in unnecessary drama. Instead, I'll try to alleviate situations before they manifest, to deal with things head-on before they become stressful.

Finding the Trail or Losing My Way

After all the wind and cold, today's sunny 16 degrees felt like a beach day, so I struck out in search of a hike. It was a great time to test the GoGo Gear kevlar leggings in the deep snow, as well as put my YakTrax to good use. I was a bit concerned about the cold, because 16 degrees is still quite cold, but was confident in the pants and boots (Sorel's Joan of Arctic aka "boots with the fur"). I was surprised at how warm my upper body was with just a base layer and faithful North Face coat.

Anyway, no product reviews just yet, but will say that so far everything worked great, even the YakTrax which model I have is really just for walking on poorly plowed streets. I hiked up some very steep "trails" and had zero problems once I put on my YakTrax, and it only popped off once, as I was hurdling myself off fallen trees and through deep trenches of snow to attempt some photos of cool looking rocks. Besides that, they stayed on great and held excellent traction on ice, packed, and deep snow.

Sore from the previous indoor workout, but feeling a bit disgusted at having eaten and drank so much last night at Shabbat, dinner (which had ice cream and brownies for dessert, the jerks), and the inevitable party that happened to make use of all the extra Shabbat wine, I was interested in a long, arduous walk in the woods, and went searching for one, which was harder than I expected. For a while, I walked pathless in the woods, following the trails of animals and working towards whatever looked the most promising for a view.

I walked up and down a number of hills, eventually coming to a wide and obvious path with smaller trails leading off from it. I meandered in and out of the various smaller trails, working my way up the long face of the mountain. It was a beautiful day that brought out all I love about winter— how everything is muted, insulated by the snow, even the cold is more mild once the snow comes. Even on somewhat cloudy days, the sun cuts through and is instantly so brilliant, reflecting off all the snow and ice, and the thin wintry air.

It's hard to explain to people why I like winter but I hate it in Pittsburgh, but I think it's the mildness that aids in the seasonal depression. There's little snow and zero sun, and the cold isn't championed by drastic conditions or impressive scenery. The air isn't thin so much as wispy, like a balding head. While northern Vermont is definitely colder, it's almost Shakespearean in its drama. Pittsburgh, by contrast could only wish to be Dickensy, droning on forever as if getting paid per cloudless day.

Plus, Vermont has teeth: