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.

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

REVIEW: Yurbuds Inspire 300 Earbuds (for tiny ears)

I have a medical condition that causes my earbuds to fall apart. Sometimes the speaker detaches from itself, sometimes the chords get all chewed up and I get tiny electric shocks when I run slower than five miles an hour, and sometimes they disintegrate entirely, never to be seen again (or maybe found a couple of months later in a bag I stopped using or tucked in a couch cushion). In truth, I just usually buy crappy headphones that are made for standing at a bus stop or wearing while doing data entry.

My efforts to turn these pitiful listening devices into warriors of sound is in vane; they can't compete with my escape from zombie island, or my efforts to feel the flow of the landscape as I carve the trails  on a berm slide, or one-ear jamming to raging tunes while shredding the pavement on my 150cc scooter, or (more frequently) my six hours of labor riding my bike and walking all over town, taking my headphones on and off to talk with people as I hang posters for work.

Luckily, I had a gift card to REI that I wanted to cash in before heading to Vermont. I was in Massachusetts visiting family and friends for the winter holidays, and took advantage of a massive sale that was going on, which marked a set of $80 Yurbuds down for $20. They didn't have a smaller-ear model of similar value, but for $20, I'd stretch my ears and make them fit!

Sadly, it just doesn't work that way with cartilage. I could get them to sort of pop in, but they'd fall out with too much agitation, such as a light jog, and annoyingly the rubber fitting kept falling off the earbuds. The packaging insists that if they don't fit, the user can take a picture of her or his ear, send it (the photo, not the ear) to Yurbuds, and they will send back the correct rubber fitting size. However, the speakers themselves were so big that I'm not sure that would have made too much of a difference. Also, although they came with multiple sets of rubber fittings, I lost too many during the two months I had these ill-fitting earbuds. I ultimately returned this pair and opted for a version that fit me, even if they were more expensive.

I found the Yurbuds Inspire 300 For Women. At $40, they're a bit pricey (and by that point I'd spent the rest of the gift card on gummy bears...just kidding...kind of.), but overall I'm happy with the investment. There are some negatives, but looking at their website I see the more expensive options have those downsides covered. My REI, however, only had this set available, and anyway I don't know if I'd be willing to spend more money on a set of headphones. So, lets first focus on the things that make these headphones better than any pair I've used before.

• Fit and Comfort

These earbuds fit perfectly. I apparently have standard "woman" sized ears, and these earbuds mold into them easily. There is a method to inserting these, so if you have a difficult time, make sure the rubber fitting hasn't turned around. The rubber fitting has a little nose (see above) which nuzzles up into your ear canal. At first, you'll feel it sort of mushed into your ear, but as you twist the earbud down, you'll feel the slight pop into place as the nose fits into your ear canal and the white plastic part sits into the groove in the lower part of your ear. It's a truly perfect fit, in my opinion.

After hours of wearing other headphones, from over-the-ear to behind-the-ear to earbuds, they all make my ears hurt, start to fall off, lose quality, and become allover unpleasant to wear. These are great all day every day, no matter what I'm doing.

• The Magnet

The smart kiddos at Yurbuds realized that a big bummer about earbuds is that when you take them off (such as to order a coffee or otherwise talk to another human being, as is polite) they just sort of jangle around. Previously, I have woven my chord under my shirt so they can just hang over the neck, but these earbuds have an impressive magnet on the back of each, so you can let them sit neatly behind your neck without them rattling about.

• On/Off Switch

It's a little thing, but makes a big difference in my line of work, when I'm turning my music or audiobook on and off all the time. I wish it worked for volume control and track changing as well, but those are saved for the higher model Inspire 400. Luckily, Suri comes to my rescue regularly, when I need to switch things up. The on/off button also works to answer phone calls and to communicate with Suri on your iPhone, so if you aren't completely tapped of patience it's still a nice resource.

There are a few things I would like to see done differently on these headphones, however, that have nothing to do with volume control and track changing:

• Loose Rubber Fitting

These earbuds, like my Ventures, tend to get a bit greasy after a long day of doing my thang, and the earbuds get loose and fall out. I've only lost one, and just like the Ventures they come with an extra set, so it wasn't catastrophic, but I feel that a little o-ring, similar to those that come with gauged ear plugs, would do the job well and for not much money.

• Chord Clip

The Ventures had this neat little clip on the chord, to help keep the cord attached to a collar, bag strap, or even itself. It's a nice little edition that kept the chord from flopping all over the place and potentially getting snagged, and these could benefit from that addition as well.

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.