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.

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.

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: Nathan's Zephyr Fire 100 hand Torch (that's a flashlight to us Americans)

I've been collecting a lot of products lately during and in preparation for my travels to Vermont, Colorado, Race Across the West, and Newfoundland's East Coast Trail. I've been testing for the past few months or so, and thought you'd like a peak at what I've been into and why. First on the list is:

Zephyr Fire 100 "hand torch" by Nathan.

The first time I heard the term "torch" used to imply "flashlight" was, I believe, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, an incredible book that celebrates curiosity, the spirit of adventure, and the power of goodness (that's what I got out of it, anyway). I like that it's such an archaic, almost lazy term, since really, it is basically just an electric version of what people used to burn witches, hunt down Frankenstein's monster, and make sure they don't fall down the stairs while walking to the bathroom at night. I've done all those things with this modern day fire-on-a-stick, and there are noticeable upgrades since the days of Mary Shelley. Besides not burning anything down, whether accidental or not, here are some real bright sides:

• It's USB-charged. Not only can you charge it by your computer, you can also use any of the newer wall chargers that have a removable chord (just like most cell phones). This is also great if you are backpacking and traveling with a BioLite Camp Stove (review of that forthcoming!).

• The hand harness is really comfortable and easy to use even with bulky winter gloves or mittens. It's also adjustable for left or right handed use. I additionally appreciate the hand harness because when I'm not using the flashlight, I can wear it on my wrist so my hand is free without having to put down (i.e. lose) the flashlight in the dark.

• The rear light. It's such a simple addition to a classic flashlight but it means the world to people out at night in an area with other people and/or cars. It's very visible and I felt safe the whole time using it. This was obviously designed for runners, but the benefits are much more broad.

• The combination strobe light/emergency siren. They aren't the same button, but in my mind they serve the same purpose because I can't imagine running with a strobe light guiding my way, especially since the battery life of these things seems to be exceptionally long. If I were to fall off a cliff while hiking or trail running, the siren would (hopefully) alert people that there's someone in danger and the flashing light would help locate me visibly.

• The downward angle of the flashlight. It pairs well with the hands-free nature of the hand harness, as the flashlight is automatically angled at where I'm looking, without having to keep my hand in a certain position. 

There are a few negatives, however, though they certainly haven't turned me away from this great device:

• I wish it was a bit brighter. At 108 lumens, hiking in the woods with no moonlight still feels a bit dim. If my situation were a bit different, I may consider instead investing in the 359-lumen Zephyr 300. 

• The light and siren buttons are right on top of each other. I've hit the siren a few times in an effort to turn off the light, and it takes 2-3 seconds to turn anything on or off on this flashlight, so in an effort to be stealthy I made quite a ruckus.

• The rear light, while I love it, is really bright. If there's anyone running or hiking behind me, they are blinded by the red blinking orb bouncing three feet off the ground, which is neither safe nor enjoyable. I wish there was a way to turn off just the rear light.

All in all, I love this "torch" and it has proven useful on hikes, runs, dog walks, and even snow shoeing (though it took a bit of adjusting to figure out a good placement with the walking poles). I'm very happy with it and think it will last me a long time and many adventures.

Next on the mat is GoGo Gear's Kevlar Leggings.

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. 

Zen and the Art of Vegetable Juicing

In the morning, the urge is to consume fresh juice. The process is arduous, so I usually revert back to the old stable of coffee and toast, or coffee and leftovers, or coffee and a Vega One shake (I realize that what I have for breakfast equates to that good friend you decide to unfollow on Instagram because her pictures of her breakfast are just too much, but bear with me). Simple sustenance. The process of juicing can seem overwhelming pre-breakfast. Just like a bear coming out of hibernation, I'm groggy in the mornings. Not mean, but impatient — especially with myself. It's also worth mentioning that I typically only get five hours of sleep, to coming out of it feels like the final episode of X-Files when Mulder is in the prison cell and the guard keeps waking him up with "No Sleeping! Tell me what you know!" I mean, not to be dramatic....

But the rhythm of picking out ingredients, cleaning, chopping, assembling the juicer, pressing, pouring, disassembling the juicer, rinsing the pieces, stacking the pieces, clearing the countertops, and drinking this incredibly powerful concoction of energy and life. It sounds like a lot of work (and it kind of is, considering the other option is to just put a slice of bread in the toaster and lather it with Earth Balance, or pour a scoop of protein powder of Vega One into a shaker bottle with 8oz of water) but it's worth it, and it starts off the day with the assertion that my time is my own, and my day is my own, and I am choosing, at least on this day, to start it on the right food.

I'm still doing P90X, and today is the rest day that ends the first 3 hard weeks of constant workouts, next week being a relative rest week. I have to admit, I did skip a few workouts, probably one or two per week, depending on how much work I had to do, especially how much poster work I had. I considered riding my bike 15 miles with 30 pounds of paper to be a decent cardio, considering the Pittsburgh hills. Yesterday, I did the workout of two days ago: Legs and Back, and while my pull-ups are starting to regain some semblance of an actual pull-up (still not there, at least not when I'm trying to bang out a lot of them), but I did not want to get out of bed this morning. It could have been all the junk food I tore through last night after the workout (we had some friends over for a fire pit and one of them brought an Amy's cheeseless pizza, my ultimate weakness, and E. made a vegan blueberry cobbler...and I also had some nonvegan ice cream, and oatmeal stout, but shhh), or it could have been that I've only been getting 4-5 hours of sleep this week as I tried to work on some writing projects, but it felt so luxurious for the first time to just put my feet up and relax in bed, rather than feeling rushed to get anyway. It's also Sunday, but I grant the most appreciation towards that great workout that told my body, hey, just stay here a while. You earned it. I know I didn't really earn anything, but it's nice to think that every once in a while, especially on a Sunday morning while still in bed.

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.

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.