Just A Girl And A Dream (And Some Beer)

Devil's Down

2010-06-01T08:30:00.001-07:00

At 3am on Sunday morning, I was sitting in a lawn chair, staring at a half-eaten baked potato that was resting on my knees, when I heard a door open behind me.

It was Ann.

"Hey, Meals, whatchadoin?" she asked in a voice that told me that she'd been trying (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

"Eating a potato," I replied, my mouth still full of dry, flavorless starch. Ann just nodded her head in understanding, as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be sitting alone in the dark at that hour, huddled over a foil-wrapped snack, eyes half-closed.

Ann had about 30 minutes before she would head over to the timing tent to begin her night lap, and as much as I would have liked to help send her off, I couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. I set the rest of the potato aside, grabbed a headlamp and headed for the tent. "Have fun," I whispered back as I ducked inside and pulled the zipper closed behind me.

Flopping back on my pillow, I laughed out loud (Karen is used to hearing me laugh at myself out of the blue, so this probably didn't startle her in the least). "This is crazy," I whispered to myself.

"Yeah," I heard Karen mumble, half-asleep.

I laughed again and rolled onto my left side. "I love this shit."

And then I started snoring.

* * *

When asked why on earth I would ever agree to participate in a 24-hour mountain bike race (especially given the fact that I can count the number of times I've been mountain biking on one hand) I tell people that I was promised beer and pancakes at the finish. And while this is true, I can also get beer and pancakes from my own kitchen without facing a descent named "Devil's Down" in the dark on little or no sleep.

The truth is, I agreed to participate in 24 Hours Round the Clock because I have not yet learned how to say "no" to my friend Ann.

And believe me, I have tried.

The first time she brought up the race was late last August as we were getting ready for cyclocross season. Ann and her co-conspirator/husband, Brian, started talking about how much fun they had at last year's adventure and casually asked if it was something I might be interested in trying.

"Um, you realize that I don't really know how to ride a mountain bike, right?" I desperately tried to backpedal my way out of the situation, but Ann, who had an answer for all of my objections, told me that if I could learn a flying cyclocross remount, I would do just fine on a mountain bike. "You have a mountain bike, right?" she asked.

Yeah, well, I bought a hard-tail Kona in 2002, crashed the first time I tried to ride it, and the poor, neglected machine had basically been holding up the garage wall ever since. Ann seemed satisfied with this response and walked away.

As cyclocross season got underway, Ann and Brian (henceforth known as BriAnn when dealing with their plural-ness) continued to bring up the joy of competing in the 24-hour race, and I realized that I probably needed to learn how to actually stay upright on a mountain bike sooner rather than later. Coincidentally, in early September, my teammate Michelle brought it to my attention that downhill superstar Kat Sweet would be putting on a women's skills clinic on the trails of Capitol Forest, right in our own back yard. It was perfect!

Or, well, almost.

When I showed up for the skills clinic with my shiny (seriously, not a speck of dirt on it) lime-green Kona, dressed in my fancy road racing kit and fierce periwinkle-colored helmet, I think I turned more than a few heads (for all the wrong reasons). All of the other women had really tough-looking, mud-covered bikes with full suspension and battle wounds from years of use and abuse. Their bodies were scarred, and some of them had teeth missing. All around me, they were strapping on full body armor and BMX helmets with face protection, and I was suddenly glad that I was wearing a thick chamois, because I peed my pants right there in the Fall Creek parking lot.

With eyes the size of ping pong balls, I turned to Michelle and whimpered, "I thought you said this was a beginners' clinic!?!" She shrugged her shoulders, a bit uncertain of what she'd gotten me into and smiled, "I said it was a 'skills' clinic! You'll be fiiiiiiiiine!"

Um. Okay. Michelle says I'll be fine, so I'll be fine, I told myself.

[Michelle later revealed that she wasn't sure that I was going to be fine at all...she just said that to make me feel better at the time]

Somehow (I'm still not sure how) I survived Kat Sweet's downhill skills clinic on Capitol Forest's famous Green Line #6 (and with all my teeth accounted for). We had misjudged the amount of daylight left and ended up riding the bottom half of the trail in the dark. This was probably a good thing, because it is hard to be afraid of what you can't actually see (like big rocks and slippery roots). When it was all said and done, I felt lucky to be alive and decided to tell Ann that there was no way in hell that I was going to do that sort of thing for 24 hours.

Nuh uh. No ferkin way. Mountain bikers are nuckin futs! I was going to stick to cyclocross.

Of course, Ann is Ann, and when I gave her my well-practiced speech on how mountain biking just wasn't for me, she laughed and said, "You did Green Line #6 in the dark??? Awesome! You're going to have so much fun during the 24-hour race! It'll be great!"

And that was that.

I was officially the fifth member of Free Beer In The Timing Tent.

In addition to BriAnn, the team also included Kerry (who taught me how to ride my bike in traffic without dying) and Lee (who I've actually known since I was a little kid - he still calls me Cami when he forgets that I'm an oh-so-mature Camille now).

The sixth member of our five-person team was Karen, who had enthusiastically volunteered to keep the campfires burning (despite the fact that we weren't allowed to have campfires) and the food cooking while we were racing up and down and all around Spokane's Riverside State Park.

The truth is, Karen was waaaaaaay more excited about this weekend than I was. Me? I had just finished my third month of nonstop road racing, and I really wanted nothing more than a chance to sleep past 5am (and to enjoy a breakfast that didn't involve Hammer Nutrition products). Karen, on the other hand, had been making plans for this adventure for weeks (probably months). Every time I went out of town for a stage race, I would come home to find some new piece of camping equipment in the garage. A new tent. A new (ginormous) sleeping bag. A camp kitchen. A roof storage compartment. You name it, she bought it.

We were officially ready for Spokane! Or, well, Karen was!

So, with Teg out at the kennel and Izzy the one-eyed wonder staying with her grandma, we packed the Escape with everything we would need for four days in "the wild" and made our way east of the mountains. We knew that BriAnn were somewhere ahead of us in a beige-colored RV, so each time we passed one of those (given the fact that it was a holiday weekend, this happened approximately every 17 seconds) I leaned out the window to take a picture with my iPhone.

I don't know. It seemed funny to me at the time.

As it turns out, we never did pass BriAnn's RV because they stopped for an emergency Taco Time break in North Bend as we continued up and over the pass. So I spent the majority of the drive entertaining Karen with my super awesome ability to reinvent Top 40 song lyrics (and Karen spent the majority of the trip demonstrating her uncanny ability to ignore me and still make noises of approval at the same time).

Mad skillz, yo!

At 5:30pm, we rolled into downtown Spokane and checked into the Red Lion. Yes, our first night of "roughing it" involved a hotel room. What can I say? I have to ease myself into these tough situations.

BriAnn were planning on parking their RV in the pre-race holding area in order to secure a campsite for us in the morning, so we met them for a quick dinner (and possibly the world's worst margaritas) before heading back to "Camp Red Lion".

On Friday morning - with no dogs begging to be let out to pee - we managed to sleep in past 7am, took a couple of lazy showers (yes, they were glorious) and headed to meet BriAnn at the campsite. The selection process was supposed to begin at 8am, but they were awakened three hours early by pounding on the RV door and a loud voice that was telling them to get moving. Apparently the well-defined campsite selection procedures outlined in the race guide had gone from highly organized to a complete clusterfuck. Luckily, BriAnn were on top of things and secured us a pretty sweet spot to pitch our tent and set up our temporary home away from home.

Sooooo, um, well, this may or may not come as a surprise to some of you, but the truth is...I'm not really a super awesome camper. I mean, I've been camping. My friend Caleb and I spent a week in a tent in Moab, but we nearly starved to death and didn't speak to each other for a few months after that adventure. So, while I can at least say that, yes, I've been camping, I'll also be the first to admit that I'm just not all that good at it.

Then again, camping with Karen is a totally different experience.

Within moments of our arrival, we had set up our sleeping tent (aka, the Taj Mahal) and a nutrition tent, which was a cooking area stocked nearly as well as our own kitchen, except with even more beer (and I didn't think that was possible).

Seriously. I could totally get used to roughing it.

"Roughing it" in my football shammy

After everything was set up, we had lunch and tossed a football around until Lee and Kerry (and Odin) rolled into the campsite. At that point, it was time to pre-ride the fifteen-mile course. Ann had promised that it wouldn't be as technical as Green Line #6, and (much to my relief) she was right. There were a few "interesting" sections, appropriately named "Devil's Up" and "Devil's Down" but we practiced them a few times, and I thought I could handle them during the race. At least during the daylight hours. And if no one else was around. And possibly with some sort of divine intervention.

Yeah, I was totally screwed.

* * *

Back at camp, we tinkered with our bikes as Karen worked on creating the world's tastiest cheeseburgers. As we gathered around in our lawn chairs and talked about the day ahead, my pre-race nerves started working overtime, so Ann (bless her heart) whipped up a batch of margaritas. I'm not sure how to describe them except maybe....flammable? After one of Ann's margaritas, my nerves were definitely calm. After the second round, I was ready to race. Right then, right there. I could have tackled Devil's Down in the dark. Totally!

Instead, I headed to the Taj Mahal and fell asleep.

The beauty of not being able to hear out of my right ear is that I can turn on my left side and sleep as though I'm wearing noise-canceling headphones (which comes in pretty handy when you're camping in a field with 800 mountain bikers and their rowdy families). This tactic worked like a charm until 5am when it started raining so hard that it sounded like a machine gun was reverberating inside the tent. Karen waited for the downpour to stop and then got up to start breakfast. I pulled the sleeping bag over my head and fell back asleep. This was supposed to be my "rest" weekend, and I was determined to milk it for every extra second of sleep that I could possibly muster.

But then...there was Ann.

Around 7:30am, Ann came to the side of the tent and whispered, "Meals? Wake up, Meals!" I groaned, and she walked away, her feelings slightly hurt. An hour later she came back. "Meals? I'm making you coffee!" I groaned again.

Not sure what to make of my mysterious behavior, Ann walked over to the kitchen area and informed Karen that her partner is an early morning grouch.

I'd just like to clarify right here and right now that I am only grumpy when I am awakened before I absolutely have to get up. When allowed to wake up on my own - as I eventually did at 9am - I tend to greet the world smiling and good-natured. If you act like my alarm clock, however, I'm probably going to smack your snooze button.

[Sorry, Ann. Nothing personal. The coffee was wonderful.]

It's actually pretty hard to stay grumpy when you wake up to the smell of pine needles, fresh-brewed coffee and savory home fries. Like I said, I could totally get used to this camping thing. Unfortunately, I wasn't in Spokane to camp. I was there to race my bike.

And that was a truly terrifying concept.

Lee looking calm, cool and collected before his first lap

Sooooooo, the race officially began at noon (with a gun shot loud enough to wake the dead). Lee, "the chosen one" for our first leg, attacked the competition during the Le Mans start (a 600-yard sprint up and over a small hill), hit the trail in fairly good position and managed to pull off the first lap in under an hour.

As I stood in the exchange area waiting for him to hand me the velcro bracelet with our team transponder, a million thoughts were going through my head.

Actually, I take that back. It was just one thought going through my head a million times per second.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckityfuck!

And yet, before I could drop another silent f-bomb, Lee was suddenly slapping something on my wrist, and I was running towards my bike. There was really nothing left to do but pedal.

So I did.

Once I was on my bike, everything was fine, although I felt like I was going really, really, really slow. The benefit of having Lee lead us out was that he put us in a truly great position coming out of the first lap. The down side was that I was now on the course with riders of Lee's insane ability, and I was getting passed left and right. Not fantastic for my self-confidence, gotta say, but I kept pedaling. My goal was to get that first lap done in under 1:20.

And, um, not die (because I promised Karen that I wouldn't).

At the base of Devil's Up, I did a cyclocross dismount and started to push my bike up the hill. It was pretty funny to be running next to a bunch of guys that were too proud to get off their bikes. A few of them tipped over as I continued upwards.

There was a lot of swearing on that climb.

As I approached Devil's Down for the first time, I had to make a decision. In practice, I was able to take this descent at my own pace with nobody on my wheel. The problem at this point was that I had a bunch of testosterone machines behind me, and I was fairly certain that if I crashed, I was going to take them all down with me in the process. So at the fork, I took a right and did the easier (albeit longer route). It seemed to take forever to get back on the main trail, and I promised myself that the next lap I would face the devil, and I would kick it's ass.

Ducking under the dismount bar

One hour and twelve minutes after Lee gave me the transponder, I dismounted, walked quickly through the timing tent and handed the magic bracelet to Ann. It felt like I was out there for hours, so when Karen told me my time, I nearly did a happy dance. Holy crap! I was a mountain biker after all!

Of course, never one to be outdone, Ann also clocked a 1:12 first lap, and suddenly, Free Beer In The Timing Tent was off to a great start. In fact, Kerry, who had been battling super fun intestinal issues all week, had a fast (and, well, painful) first lap. We were seriously on a roll!

It was finally during Brian's turn that we encountered our first bit of bad luck. At the bottom of the section appropriately named "I Wanna Take You Higher" (also known as Half-Mile Hill or Five-Minute Hill) Brian's rear wheel decided to crap out (you'll have to ask him if you want the specifics). Not a problem, though. Brian simply got off his bike and tried to make an adjustment. I use the word "tried" because the night before, Lee had tightened the "quick release" lever to the point that it was neither quick nor releasing. Poor Brian was frantically trying to get his wheel off while other racers were passing him left and right. After what seemed like an eternity, he was finally able to fix the issue and get back on his bike to climb the hill.

He remounted and pedaled furiously, hoping to make up for lost time on the way up. As he made his way to the top of the hill, however, a voice from behind brought his hopes crashing down. "Hey! There's a transponder at the bottom of the hill!"

Brian glanced at his empty wrist and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. In his effort to get the wheel off his bike, he must have unlatched the velcro and unknowingly dropped the bracelet. The good news was that he found out about the error only a half mile ahead. The bad news was that riding backwards on the course was not allowed. He would have to run down the hill, grab the transponder, and climb back up.

And that was exactly what Brian did.

Despite his craptacular luck, Brian still pulled off an amazing 1:10 lap, and after our first round, we were actually tied for third in a category stacked with professional teams. Although we wouldn't be able to hold onto our podium spot, it was still pretty cool to be there at least for a few hours.

Kerry unties her pony and heads out onto the course

Our second set of laps began with Lee once again setting a blistering pace before sending me out on my adventure. At least this time around the field was so spread out that I didn't have to worry about being passed by large groups of elite riders. In fact, when I got to Devil's Down, I looked over my shoulder and was relieved to find myself alone as I approached the descent.

"Here goes nothing," I told myself, and hoped for the best.

Whappity-bompity-bam-bam-bam-whippity-whippity-wham!

Devil's Down? Oh yeah. Totally shredded that!

As I accelerated out of the rocky area, I was smiling ear to ear (and would have thrown in a fist-pump for good measure if it weren't for the death-grip I still had on my handlebars). My second lap seemed to go a lot better than my first, as I was starting to get to know the course. But, erm, well, that didn't exactly stop me from crashing.

Yeah.

Ahem.

It wasn't even a spectacular crash on a wicked downhill. After a steep and rocky uphill section that I opted to run up, I was in the middle of a flying (cyclocross-style) remount when all of a sudden my bike (I don't know how it happened) lurched forward. The result? I landed chest-first diagonally across my rear wheel with a big thud.

Uffa!

I hit the wheel and then hit the ground, and the guy behind me nearly crashed because he was laughing so hard. I seriously couldn't have looked more ridiculous. I told my teammates that I didn't know what the hell happened, but the truth was, well....total yard sale.

And honestly, I would have been laughing at myself (like I am right now) except that my pride was so bungled in the process.

I guess you had to be there.

Still pedaling, even after the YARD SALE

Anyway, I finished that second lap in 1:13 (and guess what....so did Ann). With the on-site pizza ovens shut down for the night (WTF?) Karen came to the rescue with another batch of cheeseburgers, and all was right with the world (other than the fact that I had eaten beef two nights in a row, and that's always a risky gastrointestinal situation).

I prepped my bike for the night lap (one light on the bike, another on my helmet) and retired to the Taj Mahal for a three-hour nap. Unlike Ann, I can pretty much fall asleep when fatigue sets in. And after 15 miles of pre-riding and 30 miles of racing, I was ready for a nap. My head hit the pillow at 9:30pm and didn't move again till Brian came to Karen's side of the tent at 12:30am to tell her to wake me up.

It was show time.

To be honest, my biggest fear was the night ride. It had rained during the evening, and I knew that the "baby heads" were going to be slick. Moreover, I had never ridden a mountain bike at night. It was going to be a totally different experience out there. As I prepared to make my way to the timing tent, Brian came up and told me to take my time. We had fallen off the podium, he said, and at that point, the important thing was safety.

And, well, if I took my time, he would have more time to sleep.

Lee came rolling into the transition area around 1:30am, and I took off on my late night (early morning) adventure. The headlamp and handlebar mounted light provided ample visibility (for the average person) but I found myself struggling to adjust to the conditions. I slowed my speed down and resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to be a fast lap. I was going to do my best to ride safely. And, well, at least I was giving Brian more time to sleep.

At Devil's Down, there was no one behind me (in fact, there was no one behind me - or ahead of me - for most of that lap) but I wasn't sure that I could pull off that dare-devil feat in the dark at 2:30am. I opted for the longer, easier route and told myself that I would tackle the real-deal on my last (7am) lap.

After what seemed like an eternity, I dismounted ahead of the timing tent, stripped off the velcro bracelet and passed it to Lee, grabbed a baked potato from the feed zone and headed back to camp.

At this point, I had completed three of my four laps, and I knew that the worst was over. Or at least I hoped it was. During the second lap, I started to discover why cyclists use chamois cream.

Hello, saddle sores.

Some of you that read my blog are not cyclists, so I will try to explain this phenomenon in simple terms. Cyclists don't wear underwear. They wear padded spandex. The padded section is called a chamois. Or, if you're me, a shammy. When you're on a mountain bike, your (my) girl parts tend to bounce on and off the bike saddle. A lot. This creates rubbing. Not a good rubbing, especially when there is perspiration involved. Over 15 miles, the rubbing turns into a sandpaper-like effect on skin. The result?

Excruciatingly painful saddle sores.

After lap number one, I felt them coming but did nothing.

After lap number two, I tried to clean them with Wet Wipes.

Let me just say right now that there must be alcohol in Wet Wipes. There were tears on my end. Holy fucking hell, that hurt.

After lap number three, I wasn't sure what to do. It was 3am, and I was bleeding where I shouldn't have been bleeding, but I wasn't about to use alcohol wipes on my girl bits. Instead, I grabbed a packet of neosporin from the first aid kit, applied liberally to the affected area and hoped for the best.

I had one more fifteen-mile lap to go. It hurt to exist, but I was going to get it done. There was no way I was going to knock on BriAnn's RV door and tell them I couldn't ride because I had shredded girl bits.

I sucked it up, tried to focus on my baked potato, and then went to bed for a few hours.

* * *

At 6:30am, Brian came to Karen's side of the tent (as instructed) and told her that it was time. The odd thing was that despite my crappy hearing, I still woke up immediately. For some odd reason, I knew it was time to race. And despite only three hours of sleep, I felt ready to go. I was ready to finish this chapter.

I made my way over to the timing tent, in the daylight this time, and waited for Kerry's arrival into the transition area. When she strapped the transponder to my wrist, I was ready to rumble. Seriously, I don't exactly know how to describe the feeling. I felt like a mountain biker. Sleep deprived and all...

I was a mountain biker!

Booyah!

I had conquered 60 miles of that course already, and I was ready to give it one last shot with everything I had, bleeding girl bits and all. I roared when I headed out for that last lap. I was going to kick ass and take names. Even if only in my own mind.

Half-mile hill was a non-issue. I passed a couple of guys on the way up (muahahaha) and settled in for the rest of the adventure. At the base of Devil's Up, I dismounted (as usual) and started my climb towards the top. Just before my fantastic remount, I heard a voice to my left.

"Good job, Camille!"

Let me just say right now....in a perfect world, you get to follow a world champion's line down Devil's Down.

My world at that moment?

Absolutely fucking perfect.

The voice I heard?

Kari Studley.

Yes, that Kari Studley.

At 8am on Sunday, I was following a world champion down Devil's Down.

Fuck yeah!

At the bottom of the beast, I let go of my death grip on the handlebar and threw my left arm into the air.

Yeaaaaaaaaaaah!

That was awesome!

I am a mountain biker!

I am a mountain biker!

When the gun shot sounded at noon on Sunday, our team had completed twenty laps (four laps each plus one on the pre-ride). If you're doing the math, that's 75 miles apiece up and down and all around Riverside State Park.

And yet, to be perfectly honest, I didn't want it to end. I didn't want our adventure to be over. It was something that the five of us had accomplished together, and it was so bad-ass and so hard-core and so awesome....

Sigh.

If I could have kept riding, I would have.

But there was that whole sleep deprivation thing. And although I fought it like a warrior, in the end, all I could do was slowly shut my eyes knowing that I would be back again.

Devil's Down?

I will see you next year....

[roar]

[yawn]

[zzzzzzzzzzzzzz]

Normal

2010-05-03T14:58:00.000-07:00

Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs even though checkered by failure, than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat.

--Theodore Roosevelt

I have to admit, there are times (usually at 4:30am on Sundays) when I really, really wish I'd never discovered the sport of bicycle racing. Each time that heartless alarm jolts me out of a wonderfully deep sleep, I ask myself why I can't just be "normal".

On Sundays, "normal" people sleep in and then put on fuzzy slippers and eat pancakes and read the newspaper. They don't get out of bed at 4:30am and go race their bikes with a bunch of other crazy people.

[and then blog about it]

Then again, "glorious triumphs" are rarely won with a mouth full of pancakes. So this weekend - just like the ones before it - I rolled out of bed at o'dark-thirty, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and got ready to race my bike. By 6:30am, the car was packed, and my OOA teammates Ann and Tim and I were off to Glenwood in search of glorious triumphs for the Oly Ortho Race Team.

Erik gives us the pre-race "scoop" (photo by RideITLikeUStoleIT)

This weekend's adventures began with the Michelob Ultra Gran Prix, a six-mile circuit that the Women's Cat 4 field would complete five times. Ann, Larisa, Debbie and I would be riding in support of Brandee, who was inching her way closer to securing an upgrade. With a relatively small field size and a hilly course that could potentially break up the group even further, we were pretty excited to see what we could come up with.

As we started the first lap, it was clear that Team Group Health had their own plan (and their own teammate in search of points), and they worked pretty hard to control things up front and keep their rider out of trouble.

As the laps went by, and the field continued to shrink with each hill, it was obvious that this race was going to come down to a sprint finish. Larisa rode up next to me at the start of the last lap and suggested we try to attack and see what happens.

Actually, when I thought she said, "...we should attack now..." what she really said was, "...you should attack now..." Apparently I hear what I want to hear (my mom can confirm that I've been this way since I was a child). When I looked over my shoulder, it wasn't Larisa on my wheel but Mirna from the Starbucks team. I swung left to see around her. "Are they there?" she asked, wondering if we'd been able to create a gap. "Yep," I laughed, "every single one of them."

So much for that attack.

But the good news was that Brandee was still right there in the mix. We just needed to figure out a way to give her a bit of an advantage over the other sprinters. You know, like throwing in another attack for good measure.

With about two miles to go, I was sitting second wheel as we were heading down a mild descent. I kept having to tap my brakes as the girl in front slowed the pace, and I knew that it was a perfect opportunity to sling-shot around the lead wheel. If I didn't do it, certainly someone else would have.

I think.

So I shot off the front and could hear gears noisily changing behind me as I took a few people by surprise. I forced myself into time trial mode and didn't look back until I could hear another person with me. All I could hope at this point was that I didn't blow up Brandee in the process.

There were three of us who approached the base of the final hill with a small gap. I slowed to let Rachel and Karen of Group Health work their way up the hill and looked back to make sure Larisa and Brandee were still there. They were. And so was everyone else.

They just had heavier legs.

And, erm, so did I.

When we made the final turn and passed the 1-kilometer sign, the pace picked up, and the dozen or so riders who had managed to stay together for five laps of "punchy hills" (that was how the race promoter described the course) started to get aligned for the final sprint.

I was following Larisa's wheel with 500 meters to go, but she snuck through a small gap to move ahead, and it was a little too dicey for me to attempt (oh, to be a fearless fifteen-year-old again). So I tried to line up on the left and prepare to move out wide after the 200 meter mark. Unfortunately, a couple of girls bumped shoulders, and I ended up pulling to the right to avoid getting caught up in their chaos.

This put me right where I absolutely did not want to be with 200 meters left in the race. Brandee was up near the front with great positioning (just no one to lead her out). Jodie of Old Town was in front of me and slowed suddenly just as I was accelerating. I hit the brakes, pulled to the right, dropped back and then swung around to the left to try to salvage the rest of my sprint.

Jennifer of Bikesale was sprinting in front of me, and it was her wheel that I was desperately chasing when I noticed a flash of green over to the far right. The previous Saturday, Mirna of Starbucks beat me in the time trial by two tenths of a second (or exactly the amount of time I spent wiping the snot from my face before facing the cameras at the finish line).

Not wanting to make the same mistake twice, I left the snot exactly where it was and mashed the pedals as hard as I could. For dramatic effect, I did one of those forward leaning maneuvers that the pro sprinters do to try to nip their rivals at the finish line.

Nothing doing. Mirna beat me. Again. Probably by one tenth this time.

But there was still more glory on that particular day than I ever would have found in a plate full of pancakes. Brandee crossed the line in second place, and is now just one point shy of a Cat 3 upgrade. And me? Well, let's just say I had a lot of fun racing my bike and leave it there.

Glorious triumphs come in all shapes and sizes.

Assessing the situation at the start (photo by Laurie O'Brien)

In fact, this is exactly what I learned during the Washington State Masters Road Race Championships the very next day!

Yes, Ann and I are apparently now old enough to race in the Masters field with a couple of scary-fast 50-somethings. We really didn't know what we were in for on Sunday. It was a unique opportunity to race with some of the more experienced riders, and so we went into the race with the goal of trying to stay with them as long as we could.

What we didn't expect was that we would have to climb a hill that looked like it went straight up into the sky and then another one that was not-so-lovingly referred to as "the wall". Did I mention we would do this twice? Did I mention there was a fast 50+ in our field? Did I mention that our legs were still feeling like lead from the day before?

Yeah, this was going to be interesting.

Our Masters B field was made up of fourteen riders, although it broke apart as we climbed the long hill at mile 11. A group of four put some distance between themselves and the rest of the riders, and we never really saw them again till the cool-down. I climbed the long hill with Brenda in tow, but I didn't see her again after the descent. It was at the base of "the wall" that I caught up with Sharon the Blue Rooster. She was enjoying some lovely hamstring cramps, so I went by to see if I could latch on with the two time trialists ahead of us.

I worked with them for a short period, but I knew that I was going to have to back off a little bit if I was going to have half a chance of making it up the hills a second time without tipping over sideways. Deenie of HB went on ahead of us, but I managed to keep Kris of Team Fastt in my sights for the remainder of the 32-mile torture session.

It wasn't even a race at this point. I wasn't going to catch anyone ahead of me. And I was pretty sure that I'd created a pretty sizable gap behind me. At this point, all I could think about was surviving. This race hurt.

A lot.

It's never a good thing when you try to shift to an easier gear and suddenly realize that you've got none left to give. And that's exactly what happened about half way up the big hill that went straight into the sky. My legs struggled against the resistance, and the bike rocked back and forth as I ever-so-slowly weaved my way up the hill. I could see Kris ahead of me doing the same thing. We were all in this together. I hoped that she was hurting as much as I was.

Because I was.

As I finally climbed over the top of the beast, I looked back at the wheel car that had been following me for the entire race and just threw my right fist in the air, celebrating my victory over that bitch of a hill. I would have shouted for emphasis, but I could barely breathe. Instead, I focused my energy on shifting into my big ring and not dying on the descent.

When it was all said and done, I finished in 7th place. If this had been a field of 100, then I might have had something to celebrate, but in a field of 14, well, I had to find another reason to be happy. Like simply surviving (and knowing that I wouldn't have to do it again for another year). Like being able to race my bike with a group of friends who just endured the same pain that I did.

And knowing that next Sunday's race calendar is empty....and that I will find glorious triumph (or at least a temporary sense of normalcy) in the form of fuzzy slippers and a big plate of pancakes.

Racing My Bike

2010-04-26T09:49:00.000-07:00

Looking down at my top tube - just a reminder...

You know...this bike racing thing? I think I'm finally getting it.

I mean, sort of. I'm not actually winning. I'm just, well, getting it.

Let me explain.

Seven weeks ago - after the first race in the Mason Lake series - Jadine and Izette from Group Health sat down with the Cat 4 field to talk about what they witnessed during our 24-mile contest. They spent some time talking about the tactics of a bunch finish, and I remember Jadine poking fun at someone who had started her sprint at the one-kilometer sign. "If you can hold that to the finish," she joked, "then I can't wait till you upgrade so I can race against you in the 1/2's!"

[erm, just to avoid any confusion...that was not me]

What I remember most from that meeting, however, was something else that she said:

In each race, there can be only one winner. If crossing the finish line in first place is your only goal - if winning is your only measure of success - then more often than not, you are going to fail.

On that particular day, I finished the race about a minute off the back and crossed the line in 37th place. So, as you can imagine, this statement made me feel a lot better about the outcome (I mean, somebody had to get 37th place, right?). And yet, at the same time, I guess I didn't really get it. Not completely. Not yet.

I continued to race as hard as I could, but even on days when I was working to help a teammate finish strong (when my placing had absolutely no reflection on whether or not the day was a success for Oly Ortho) I still looked at my own results and couldn't help but feel disappointed.

And frustrated.

I thought I should be doing "better". I wondered what I could have done differently during the winter. And I began to envision myself as a Cat 4 "lifer" (not that there is anything wrong with that - it's just that, realistic or not, I'd set my own sights a little higher).

What I didn't realize at the time was that all of these perceived "setbacks" were actually really positive experiences (yes, even my flat tire at Mason Lake #3). Not only that, they were slowly adding up, and at some point, that metaphorical light bulb would finally turn on, and I would not only understand why I was racing, but I would feel it and believe it.

The truth is, I can tell myself a million times "it doesn't matter how I place as long as I am respectful and a good teammate and have fun out there". But unless I actually believe that, I will fail each and every time I race (because, let's face it, at this point in my young life as a racer, I still haven't developed the legs or the smarts to win a bike race).

So just when did "it" happen? When did I finally start to believe my own words?

I don't know.

Maybe it was in Walla Walla when a lack of teammates underlined the importance of getting to know the other gals in the Cat 4 peloton. Maybe it was the following week when my training schedule didn't line up with anyone else's and I just really missed riding with my friends. Maybe it was during the last hill climb on Sunday, when my legs were screaming, I was seeing spots, and I was breathing like a female rhinoceros going into labor, but I was surrounded by teammates and friends, by girls I wanted to drop and others that I wanted to catch.

Seriously, occasions like this call for a happy dance.

Not because I finished 11th at Vance Creek (because deep down, part of me will never be happy with 11th...or 10th...or even 2nd). I'm going to do a happy dance because even when I was nervous before the race, even when I was frustrated at the back on those narrow country roads, even when I was suffering on that last hill climb, I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Racing my bike.

Hard Time In Walla Walla

2010-04-19T18:32:00.000-07:00

When it comes to Walla Walla, what matters most is time. Hard time. And I'm not talking about the khaki-clad inmates locked up for life in the state pen. I'm talking about the hundreds of lycra-clad maniacs who roll into town each year, hoping to get from start to finish as fast as they possibly can.

I'm talking about the Tour of Walla Walla.

As you probably heard (since I broadcast it all over Facebook and Twitter and told pretty much anyone who would listen and even some who wouldn't) I decided to give the ToWW a try. And why not? A race with big hills coupled with wine, wine and more wine?

Helloooo, happy place! Need I say more?

Yeah, I didn't think so.

So, on Friday morning, we loaded the Escape and hit the open road. No work. No dogs. Just me and Karen, a car full of bike gear and a ginormous package of fig newtons. [sigh] This is livin'!

Proof that you can pack a car for a stage race in under 90 seconds

Other than one particularly harrowing "kamikaze squirrel" incident just east of Packwood, the five and a half hour trip to the southeastern corner of the state was fairly uneventful. I passed the time by dazzling Karen with my amazing ability to mess up song lyrics. She, in turn, spent most of the trip wincing and telling me, "Wow, um, that was really good!"

When we pulled into the parking lot of the historic Marcus Whitman Hotel, we were pleasantly surprised to be greeted by sunshine and warm temperatures (especially because it was raining sideways in Olympia). As we walked down Main Street in search of the race registration site, however, the warm Walla Walla greetings came to a screeching halt. Some guy standing with his buddies on the street corner gave us a once-over and then continued to stare as we walked away, finally muttering an ever-so-classy "Faggots!" to the back of our heads.

Now, I suppose this is where it pays to be half-deaf, because I was actually oblivious to the whole situation until Karen told me what happened a few moments later. Neither one of us are very thick-skinned when it comes to our feelers (which is, again, why I'm happy I didn't hear him in the first place) but Karen, who is much better at controlling her knee-jerk reactions than I am, managed to just shake her head and laugh to herself, "Geeze, wouldya get your derogatory terms right? Dude, I'm a dyke!"

Heh. Ahem.

I was definitely grateful for Karen's ability to make light of the situation, but it was still a little disturbing. We'd been in Walla Walla for five minutes, and already I wanted to turn around and go back home to Olympia. Fortunately, there was a bike race looming on the horizon, and as Friday night turned into Saturday morning, that hurtful comment was pushed far out of my mind by the return of the pre-race dancing elephants in my stomach.

Well, hello, dancing elephants! Nice to feel you again. Let's get ready to time trial, shall we?

Time Trial Preparation #1: "Breakfast Shammy"

At winter training camp, I was apparently teased for wearing my chamois to breakfast (again, I can't hear half the things people say, so I never really know until I see it posted on Facebook ) . Therefore, I now try to make it a point to wear my full kit (including helmet and booties) to breakfast. Why? Because I can. And because it apparently irritates one of my male teammates (although I'm still not sure why, exactly).

Unfortunately, the hotel's fancy buffet didn't begin until 7am, so the other guests were denied an opportunity to laugh at me in all my aerodynamic glory. The real issue at hand, however, was (a sudden lack of) pre-race nutrition. Without a better alternative, I dug around in our travel snack bag for some sort of pre-race fuel. Trust me - it's pretty amazing what you can come up with in a pinch.

After washing down two sticks of string cheese and a handful of fig newtons with the strange "coffee" concoction I brewed in the hotel room, I was ready to make my way to the start of the time trial on the campus of Walla Walla Community College. I packed my extra wheels in Karen's car, and started on my three-mile warm-up ride.

You'd think that a flat stretch of pavement with very few cars would offer a relaxing start to the day, but the bike lane on Alder Street was littered with so much broken glass that I was holding onto my handlebars with a death grip, trying desperately to avoid a puncture before the start of the race.

By some miracle, I made it to the WWCC parking lot safe and sound (and with two fully inflated tires) and made my way to the port-a-potty line. That's where I met the first of my three "borrowed" teammates. With the majority of the Oly Ortho girls home pre-riding next weekend's Vance Creek route, I was on my own in Walla Walla. My teammate Jen was there, but she was racing a different category. The only help we could really give each other was in the form of pre-race encouragement and post-race hugs.

Luckily, my friend Sharon the Blue Rooster came through in a BIG way, putting me in contact with her Cat 4 teammate Emily and two First Rate Mortgage riders (Catherine and Mandy). It was Mandy that I met just prior to my pre-race tinkle. We spoke briefly, and then she made her way to the starting tent as I closed the port-a-potty door behind me for my 18th pee of the morning. Just knowing that there were three other friendly faces out there going through the same thing made me feel a lot better. So I zipped up my skin suit, straightened my borrowed TT helmet, and got ready to do my best Fabian Cancellara impression.

Ready to fly...the countdown begins....

You might remember reading about my first time trial experience back in early March. Yeah. So, um, it turns out that I'm not so stellar when it comes to racing flat roads in the aero tuck. At least not yet. But I've been working on my TT intervals, and after pre-riding the course on Friday evening, I actually felt pretty good going into the first stage. The start list was arranged by last name, which meant that I was third-to-last (and that I would have plenty of people to chase).

As the official counted down from five, I took a deep breath, exhaled, and pushed off. Moments earlier, I was pretty darn close to revisiting my breakfast. But now that I was out on the road, I felt instantly better (at least until I turned the first corner and inhaled a mouthful of swarming insects).

Yeah. Bleh!

Once I cleared my windpipe of the winged intruders, I settled into my bars and focused on Sabina, the IJM.com rider who left thirty seconds ahead of me. If I could catch her before the nine miles were up, I knew that at the very least, I wouldn't end up DFL.

[hey, you gotta start somewhere, right?]

Much to my surprise, I passed her about two minutes into the race. This was both good and bad. While it was a relief to know I had just avoided finishing dead f#$%ing last, the rider who was supposed to start ahead of Sabina never showed up. This meant that my next target took off a full minute and a half ahead of me.

So I just kept pedaling.

A few miles in, I came around the corner to the base of a fairly long and (by time trial standards) steep hill. As I shifted into my little ring and came out of my aero bars, I looked up and smiled. There ahead of me, struggling to make their way up the slope, were not one, not two but three carrots to chase.

I think I actually muahaha'ed out loud at that point.

Halfway up the hill, I looked at my wrist to check my heart rate and was glad to see I wasn't in eminent danger of, well, dying. I knew I could push a little harder without totally blowing up, so I shifted to a higher gear and went after the Whitman girl in front of me. She didn't seem to be a big fan of the hill (lots of huffing and puffing), so I went by her quickly and focused on the Riverstone and Starbucks girls who were just reaching the top.

When I finally finished the climb, I shifted back into the big ring and got ready for the descent. Sharon told me to not let up on the downhill section, so I got ready to go balls out for the next couple of miles. Believe it or not, I actually got my heart rate higher on the downhill than I did during the climb. It helped to have those two riders in front of me. I knew they had a little more gravity on their side, so I just kept pedaling like a maniac.

Yes, snot was flying everywhere at this point.

With about three miles to go, I saw the girl in the Riverstone kit overtake the Starbucks rider. I wanted to pass them both. At the base of the final climb, I shouted a few words of encouragement to the girl in green as I went by her, and focused on catching that last carrot. As we approached the 200-meter sign, I was just a few bike lengths behind her, and as we turned the corner onto the final stretch, I shifted gears (loudly, so she would know I was there) and made my move.

It was actually pretty darn cool to pass her just before the line, and I couldn't wait to see Karen's photos of the finish. But as I sat up to catch my breath and look around, I couldn't find my trusty photographer anywhere. WTF?

A few moments later, I saw Karen approaching on her bike, a sheepish grin on her face. "Ummm, sorry! Big morning in the port-a-potty!"

Oh. Well, hey, who really needs photos? The important thing was that we both had our own moment of glory to start the day! I ended up taking 8th in the time trial, and Karen, well, clearly she was the GC leader in the Honey Bucket competition.

With the first stage complete, it was time to go back to the hotel and rest. The afternoon criterium was just five hours away, and I needed to figure out a way to de-numb-ify my girl parts.

Memorizing the Race Bible between the TT and the Crit

If you are one of the three people that read my blog, you know that my first-ever crit took place last weekend at Volunteer Park in Seattle. I had heard that these races were scary creatures, fast and furious like cyclocross but without the soft landing. My teammate Michelle had warned me not to use my new wheels, and I assumed this was because of some sort of weird rule that I didn't know about. Then she told me the real reason - crashing and carbon are a very bad (and expensive) combination.

Oh.

Right.

So, anyway, the previous weekend's race didn't turn out to be such a scary experience after all, but the sweeping turns of Volunteer Park were not exactly the same as what we would be facing on the streets of downtown Walla Walla. Sharon's pre-race advice? "You aren't going to gain a lot of time in the crit, but you can sure lose a lot! Race smart!"

I did a few warm-up laps with Emily and introduced myself to Catherine (the third of my borrowed teammates). And then, once the race organizers had all the parked cars towed from Main Street, we were off!

Video footage from the Women's Cat 4 & Cat 3 races

Going into the crit, I had two goals. One, try to stay with the main field and protect my 8th place position. And two, don't crash.

Simple, right?

Nonotsomuch.

Actually, I did stay with the main field until the last four laps. In fact, if you look at the race video, I got off to a surprisingly good start. Sometimes people give me a hard time for refusing to give up my mountain bike pedals, but let me tell you, I was clipped in to those clunkers before most of the field had even managed to get their road pedals flipped over to the right side.

Hooray for my heavy SPDs!

Anyway, since both Cucina Fresca and Bikesale.com had riders near the top of the GC, it wasn't surprising that they were up near the front controlling the pace. It was fast, but it wasn't unbearable, and I managed to stay with the field until the final laps. Unfortunately, I started to let too much of a gap form as I passed the start/finish line, and by the time I realized my mistake, there was no catching back on. At this point all I could do was try to bridge up to a couple of the girls in front of me and see if we could work together and not lose too much time.

Jenny, a rider from the Riverstone team who had been able to stay up front for a good portion of the race, had apparently also fallen off the back, and I raced ahead to join up with her. Emily was just ahead of us, and I thought I could pull the two of us up to her. For two excruciating laps, Jenny and I worked towards closing the gap to Emily, but in the end we just ran out of real estate. It was still an amazing effort, and we at least managed to only finish 33 seconds back of the main field. I fell to 10th in the GC, which was a little frustrating, but at least I learned (for the second time) how important positioning is during a crit.

With two stages in the books, it was finally time for a recovery beverage before heading back to the hotel to get ready for Sunday's Waitsburg Road Race.

I ran out of gas in the middle of the bike prep...

I have to say, waking up on Sunday was a little bit strange. It was a race day, but because my starting time wasn't until 12:55pm, I had the entire morning to rest and relax. For the first time in ages, I could actually sleep in! Unfortunately, my friends the dancing elephants had other plans and started their pre-race jig at about 6:30am.

Well alrightythen! I'm awake!

Karen and I made our way through the breakfast buffet line (yes, in my breakfast "shammy"), packed the car and then headed to the start of the road race in Waitsburg, approximately 20 miles to the north. Let me tell you, 20 miles of open highway starts to feel like 200 miles of twisty-turny mountain roads when you don't have your teammates around to keep your mind off of the task at hand. Karen did her best to distract me. I did my best not to vomit.

Talking with Tara and Deenie at the starting line

After a short warm-up ride with Emily, Catherine and Mandy, I made my way over to the starting line and waited for the neutral roll-out that would take us two miles to the top of Middle Waitsburg Road. With a pace car setting our speed for the first climb, I didn't really worry about my starting position. In fact, I sat at the back as we began the climb, and just sort of relaxed.

This wasn't so bad, I thought to myself at the time. All around me, I could hear heavy breathing and grunting and gears changing. There was total silence until someone dropped a water bottle, and then the group suddenly came alive with shouts of warning. I looked down at my heart rate monitor as we passed the finish line for the first time. 152 was staring back up at me. Unfortunately, that was as low as my heart rate would get for the next 38 miles.

I thought that because of the warmer temperatures and the amount of climbing in store, the group might approach the race more conservatively. Erm, yeah - I couldn't have been more wrong. From the moment the race official tooted his horn, the Cucina Fresca girls absolutely drilled the pace. All I could do was hold on for dear life and watch their strategy unfold.

As we crested a second small hill near the feed zone and headed down into a flat stretch, I could hear the official right behind me on his motorbike, an indication that we had dropped about a third of the field already. At one point, I looked over at the Cucina rider next to me and said, "Your teammates are killing me!" She yelled back, "We've been going 29mph for a few miles now! This is crazy!"

A few minutes later, her legs decided they'd had enough, and she popped right off the back. Yeah, it was that painful. But at the same time, it was really kind of interesting to watch this strategy actually work (and frustrating not to have the numbers to be able to do anything about it). They kept the pace so high that each time we came to another roller, a few more riders dropped right off the back. By mile 30, they had whittled the main field down to less than 20.

Yeah.

In addition to the aforementioned Middle Waitsburg hill, we also had to tackle a less-talked-about climb on the backside of the course. As we started the ascent, I tried to move into better position, following Catherine's wheel up the left side. But as we reached a false-flat section, our double paceline suddenly turned into a long, single string, and I suddenly found myself battling both the terrain and the wind.

I looked over at the Bikesale rider next to me and asked to be let in to the paceline, but she just shrugged her shoulders in an apologetic way and shook her head.

Wow. Um. Okay.

I guess we all have our different race strategies, and apparently some of the Bikesale folks see things a little differently than I do. No worries, though. I found someone else willing to let me into the paceline, and actually ended up three wheels ahead of that particular rider in yellow.

I'm also a firm believer that in life - and in bike racing - what goes around, comes around.

Just sayin.

Soooo, anyway, with about five miles to go, I was getting absolutely flogged by the unrelenting pace that the Cucina Fresca team was continuing to set. I watched as one rider after another took over on the front. It took every ounce of energy to just stay with the wheel in front of me. At one point, I started to drift back, falling about five bike-lengths behind the main field.

I couldn't believe it. I had worked so hard for 35 miles, and I was about to lose it all.

But at that moment, Jenny - the Riverstone rider I worked with during Saturday's crit - turned around, saw me struggling and yelled my name, encouraging me to get back on. By some stroke of luck, I saw a couple of riders reach for their water bottles, and I knew that the pace had slowed just a touch - enough for me to accelerate, get back on and stay on. The fact was, I was going to start the hill climb with the main field, and I had a complete stranger to thank for helping me get there.

Like I said, what goes around, comes around.

As we passed through the streets of Waitsburg, I had tears in my eyes. The only thing left to do was climb that three-kilometer beast as fast as I possibly could, which, after 38 miles of suffering, isn't really all that fast.

I made my way by a couple of ladies at the beginning of the hill and tried to settle into a rhythm that wouldn't induce cardiac arrest. Catherine was just ahead of me, and as I looked up past her, I could see the Cucina Fresca mountain goats and a junior from Gregg's flying up the course as if the hill wasn't even there. I have to say, it was as inspiring as it was demoralizing.

Almost to the top...

All I could do was try to stand on the pedals and keep going. I rode by a few girls from Group Health who had come out to cheer, and I saw Jill Talcott on the side of the road, offering words of encouragement.

Sometimes, that's all it takes.

When it was all said and done, I crossed the finish line in 16th place and dropped to 12th in the GC. And while it was disappointing to fall out of the top ten, I still truly believe that the weekend was a success. I finished my first stage race and kept the rubber side down when it counted. I made new friends from far-away places. I saw (and survived) another team's tactics play out to perfection and was reminded just how much my own teammates mean to me.

Hugs on top of the hill...

To everyone who did hard time in Walla Walla with me last weekend, thank you for teaching me one very important lesson:

When it comes right down to it...this racing thing?

It's not about the bike.

No Fear

2010-04-10T14:39:00.000-07:00

So, I'm starting to realize that when it comes to bicycle racing, emotions tend to run the gamut. You can leave a race wanting to throw your bike to the ground and run it over with the car (which is how I felt after yesterday's Volunteer Park Criterium) and then the next day you can come back and cross the finish line in first place (which is NOT what I did at this morning's Olympic View Road Race, but just the fact that you went there even for a brief moment makes me happy).

Bicycle racing is exciting. It is challenging. It is heart-breaking. It is frustrating. It is painful. It is scary. And sometimes, if we let it happen, it is awesome.

That said, this was not one of my awesome weekends of bike racing. Erm, no, notsomuch. It was, however, worthy of all the other previously-mentioned adjectives, which means that I am going to sit down with a beer or six and blog about it. Ready? Here we go!

[this is where you grab a beer, too]

So here's the thing. Humans (unlike the dogs that own us) are not perfect. Our daily lives are a never-ending progression of D'oh! moments. I'm guessing that you've probably already had a few of those today. Don't feel bad. You should have seen the epic battle I had with my bib shorts (inside the odorific confines of a port-a-potty) about two minutes before the start of yesterday's race.

[yeah, you don't wanna know]

And yet, there are times when I expect people to just do their jobs - not necessarily perfectly, but at least to the best of their abilities. Let's take, oh, I dunno....USA Cycling officials, for example. When I put in the training hours, pay my entry fee, show up early and race hard, I expect those folks in the khaki hats to use the tools and technology available to them (as well as their gray matter) and make it a great racing experience. For all of us!

Or most of us.

Or some of us?

Thud.

That right there, my friends, was the sound of the USA Cycling Officials dropping the ball in yesterday's Women's Cat 4 race at the Volunteer Park Criterium.

Erm. Yeah.

Before I get into my race report, let me just say a couple of things. First, I don't normally use this blog to host my own private pity parties. There's nothing private about the internet, and my pity parties usually end when we run out of beer. But for me (and for the five other gals in my chase group) yesterday's adventure at Volunteer Park was an awesome racing experience right up to the point when the USCF official erroneously (big word, I know) stepped in and pulled us off the course. More on this in a few moments....

Second, I'd like to also reiterate the fact that when it comes right down to it...all this? It's just bicycle racing. Sometimes, like when I wanted to drive Karen's car over my carbon frame, I tend to forget this little detail.

So, anyhoo, where was I? Oh, yeah, Volunteer Park! This was my first criterium, and (as you can imagine) I was more than a little nervous going into it, especially with such a large field (capped at 50). At the same time, the pressure was off my shoulders on this occasion because the biggest contribution I could make to the team effort would be to focus on gaining experience in this discipline (and just staying upright).

Yep, that's me in the red. A Cucina Fresca sandwich.

At the starting line, I rolled up to the far right, surrounded by the white kits of Cucina Fresca, and listened as the USA Cycling official give his pre-race spiel. The ironic part of that whole nervous moment is that all I really remember him saying was that he didn't plan on pulling any riders, and that the officials wanted to let everyone race till the end.

Did anyone else hear that or was it just me?

So, anyway, the whistle blew, and we were off. Woot! A few girls in front of me had trouble clipping in, so I went by on the right side and moved up in the field. Heading into the first round-about, I was actually in the first third of the field.

Holy crap! I know! I couldn't believe it either!

As we made our way through the downhill on the back side, and then up the hill to the conservatory, I was still with the main group. In fact, for about the first five laps, I would repeatedly lose ground on the round-about and the downhill, and then reach the leaders again on the uphill.

Chasing Group Health around the water tower

At some point, however, the downhill gap grew to the point where a few of us couldn't latch back on during the climb. There was a group of approximately twenty riders in front of us, and we were a serious group of four (that turned into six when we picked up two others that had fallen off the pace of the lead pack).

Lap after lap, the six of us worked together on the flat sections, curving in a tight paceline around the water tower into the descent, and then fueled off of each other to tackle the back side climb. Not bad for a mismatched group of Oly Ortho, Starbucks, Group Health, two Cucina Fresca and Brenda*.

*Brenda isn't actually a team sponsor. She is an unattached rider. In fact, her jersey says "Unattached Rider" in big letters. Usually when you say "Brenda" people just know. You know. Like Madonna.

Anyhoo, after a few more laps, the lead group had finally moved out of sight, but we continued to push onward and pick off dropped riders. It was actually a lot of fun in an all-out cyclocross effort kind of way. We would push ourselves up the back side, come together across the start/finish line and then descend like mad women. Wash, rinse and repeat. We had it down!

And then....it was over. As we drilled it past the start/finish line with four laps to go, a whistle blew, and we were ordered to slow down and move off the course to the right. Yes, folks, the only group that had not been lapped by the main field had suddenly and inexplicably been pulled from the race.

We moved over to the right and looked around in confusion. Seriously. What the FUCK? At the time, I really didn't know what was happening. The six of us were off to the side, waiting and wondering, and then a while later, the main group finally blazed through.

Okay, I thought, they pulled us off because they wanted to clear the way for the lead group. That makes sense. I guess. I mean, I don't think that group was going to catch us because we were pretty organized (in a talking without words kind of way) but whatever. Making the race course safe for the lead group made sense.

What didn't make sense, however, was the fact that the rest of the field - the lapped riders - were allowed to continue to race. The six of us, the only non-lapped racers behind the main field and the only group that was actually still actively chasing, was told to abandon the race.

Oh. Wait. It gets better.

When we went over to check the on-site race results, the six of us were on the receiving end of the ultimate slap in the face. A big, fat DNF. A handful of the lapped riders were given places behind the main field, and our group? Notsomuch. I was totally confused.

When I approached the race director about the issue, he directed me to an official named Phil who was monitoring the Masters race currently on the course. He sent me up to the timing tent where the head official (a lady named Dot) was in charge. Now, I understand she was busy trying to follow the race in front of her, but given the fact that USA Cycling rules gave me only 15 minutes to protest the results, I was unwilling to leave her side. I asked her why we were pulled. I asked her why there were lapped riders in front of us in the results. I asked her if this was just some mysterious rule of crit racing that I didn't understand.

She kept her eyes on the start/finish line ahead of her and told me that she was sorry but she just couldn't tell what order people were crossing the finish line once there was lapped traffic. I gave her my best "but isn't that your job?" look, and she answered with her best "sorry can't help you" face.

And that was that.

To be honest, I still don't understand why they pulled us. And I don't think they do either.

Yeah.

My original plan was to stick around for the better part of the day and watch my teammates race in the Cat 1/2 and Cat 3 races. But at that point I had smoke coming out of my ears, and I opted instead to load my gear in the car and head home to Olympia, hoping that the next day would somehow end a little better.

[fast-forward to Sunday morning]

[yawn!]

This whole waking up really-ferkin-early on weekends thing is a total bummer. But until I can figure out a way to consistently earn upgrade points (in addition to the four freebies that came from attending the Cycle U 'Intro to Road Racing' clinic) and work my way up to racing with the Cat 3's in the afternoon, I better get used to it.

It is what it is.

I actually caught a ride to the Olympic View Road Race with Sharon of Blue Rooster fame, who was the first person to test out or newly-furnished guest room. After I sent Teg the dog over to the "guest wing" to pry Sharon's sleepy arse out of bed, we had breakfast (I'm all about the English muffin, Sharon apparently favors pre-race oatmeal) and made our way out to the megalopolis of Brady, Washington.

My warm-up was cut a little short by the fact that I decided to go back to the car to remove my leg warmers (my apologies to those of you who were blinded by the sight of my pasty white knees) and then brave the port-a-potty line. By the time I had finished peeing for the 17th time, it was time to pull my bike off the trainer and line up for the start.

But guess who didn't line up in the last row this time?!?!?!

Yeah! That's me lined up in the front row! Wooooot!

I know, I am not exactly sure how I got there. I sort of rolled up with the rest of my team, and we were chatting while the men rolled out in front of us. Before I knew it, a spot opened up on the far right, and I decided to roll in next to Larisa. I was all over that. Didn't really know what the heck I was doing, but there I was!

And when we started the neutral roll out, there I was leading the entire pack. If only my mom could have seen me! *sigh* Good times!

Actually, if you ever wonder what's going through my mind when I'm at the front, I'll just go ahead and tell you. I'm either thinking, "Sweet, this is going to be so great for my blog!" or "Oh crap, what am I doing up here?!?" For the first four miles of today's race, I was thinking about all kinds of blog-worthy one-liners.

And of course, then there was a slight hill and a few gals launched an attack, and my moment of glory was over. For what it's worth, this attack probably happened at that particular moment because I said it would be a good place to launch a little sumpin-sumpin in my OVRR recon video.

Next time I should probably pay attention to my own advice.

Anyway, the first lap was rather uneventful. There were only a couple of breakaway attempts, and all of them were pretty handily dealt with. There was a lot of braking, which made me wish I was back on the front leading the field. Things were so uncomplicated up there. All you had to do was pedal and point out gravel.

For the Cat 4 women, the course was 36 miles long (an 18-mile loop conquered twice). I attacked the hills early on the second lap, taking LB of Group Health-ness with me on one of them. At one point she passed me at the top of a hill (which was strange, because as far as I know, she really doesn't like hills) and I swear she said, "It's just us!" For a moment there I had visions of going out on a 12-mile breakaway adventure with LB, and I started pedaling furiously. Then, as my breathing grew labored and my quads started to scream, I heard the rest of the pack right behind us.

Maybe she actually said, "Camille, you're such a putz!"

Oh well. It was fun for a few moments!

As the race continued, I looked down at my odometer at the 32-mile mark. Brandee and I were sitting at the back of the pack (which is exactly where you do NOT want to be at that point in the race) and wondering how to make our way up before the last little hill.

Nothing doing.

Crap.

I had seen the front of the pack as well as the back of the pack at least a half dozen times during the course of the race, and now that positioning actually mattered? Yeah, Brandee and I were hanging out at the back. I turned to her and asked how she was feeling. "Like I don't want to be here," was her response.

At the time, I thought she meant that she was having a bad race, but judging by the fact that she somehow moved up in the pack, maneuvered her way around the hairpin turn and sprinted to a 6th place finish, I guess what she really meant was that she didn't want to be there (as in, at the back of the pack).

As we hit the valley floor and prepared for the last short climb, I hung back a bit and tried to figure out the best way up to the front. Climbing is my thing, and as long as I don't have a road block in front of me (which is usually the result of my own shitty decision-making), I can handle myself pretty darn well. I was lined up on the left in anticipation of the upcoming right-hand turns, but ahead of me I saw one rider jerk off to the left of the yellow line and a handful of others suddenly slow. Somebody was having some sort of mechanical issue.

It was time to move up!

Brandee and I pulled ahead to the right, and as we leveled off and headed past the cemetery, Sharon was working her way to the left (and apparently indicating for me to follow her, although I didn't see it at the time). As we cleared the left-hand turn and prepared for the descent into the sharp right-hander, Sharon and I were still fighting for position in the last third of the pack. Not exactly ideal for the last kilometer of the race, but whatchagonnado?

I lined up behind Sharon as far to the left as we could go without crossing the yellow center line and tried to time my sprint with the upcoming 200-meter sign. As we passed the marker, I followed Sharon's wheel off to the left, and was surprised to see most of the riders sticking to the right side of the road. Sharon and I made up some serious ground to the far left, although I have to say, 200 meters is a freaking LONG distance when it comes right down to it. I was off the saddle and in my drops, pedaling furiously with my head down, hoping that I wasn't going to run into anyone in front of me.

Rachel launches around LB for the win as I cling to Sharon's wheel

So anyway, remember the big, red Oly Ortho train from Mason Lake #3? Right. We didn't really have that going today. Ann, Brandee, Andrea, Stef, Sam, Larisa and I were spread across the field, each on our own to scrap our way to the finish. It ended up being Group Health's day as their always-consistent team leader, LB, delivered her teammate Rachel L. across the finish line for the win. Actually, Rachel, who was racing on a new carbon fiber frame and was slightly bewildered by the speedy, lightweight goodness of her new pony, was forced to (ever-so-kindly) ask her teammate to get out of the way as she danced on her pedals to a first-place finish.

*sigh* Carbon fiber. It's a beautiful thing.

Not far behind - no, seriously, the top 23 riders all finished within 2 seconds of each other - Oly Ortho crossed the finish line with Brandee fighting her way to 6th place, followed by Ann in 7th, Blue Rooster adoptee Sharon in 11th, yours truly in 16th, and Stef (who was starting to wonder if she really wanted to be a road racer) rounding out the top 20. Nice job, Stef. Hope this answered your question.

You're a road racer.

Like it or not, all of us out there are road racers. Why? Because it is exciting. And it is challenging. Because it is heart-breaking and frustrating. It is painful. And sometimes it is scary.

When that whistle blows, and we forget how nervous we've been for the past three hours (or three days) and we tell ourselves, "Here we go! Let's do this! No fear!".....that's when we remember....

THIS WILL BE SO AWESOME!

* * *

NOTE: I did have a really helpful email exchange with Phil this morning, regarding the crit confusion. As much as I hate to admit it, he really did have a good reason to pull us (to keep the course safe for the main field and to be able to score their sprint finish correctly without interference from other riders). The error was in the inconsistent scoring, or for me, the difference between 28th and 24th place. Yeah. It was the judges' first crit of the season, as well, and I think that they probably learned as much from the mix-up as I did.

Note to self - if I don't want to get pulled from a crit, I shouldn't let myself fall off the back of the main group in the first place.

A Race Within A Race

2010-03-28T05:58:00.000-07:00

LB and I sprint for a 1-2 finish (or, well, 12th and 13th place)

Depending on who you talk to, yesterday's Team Group Health Independence Valley Road Race was either a fun (albeit challenging) experience...or it was, um, well, pure f@#&ing hell (yes, italicized for emphasis).

For some it turned out to be a successful day of climbing and descending. For others, it was a painful reminder that bicycle racing can be a dangerous sport, and that asphalt is an extremely unforgiving surface when it comes to skin and bones.

As for my first IVRR experience? Well, I'm glad you asked.

I didn't leave in an ambulance. That's good!

To be honest, I really did have a great day down in Rochester. It just wasn't the race I thought I might have (which seems to be what bike racing is all about...the unexpected). I wasn't exactly sure what to think going into Independence Valley. It was a hilly course, and hills are supposedly my thing. Not because I've raced on hills (because I haven't) but because I've said out-loud in front of other people that I enjoy them.

But that was always on my own. Without thirty other women just as hell-bent on crossing the finish line in first place as I was. Despite the fact that I've had a pretty darn sub-par month of racing, my teammates told me I was going to do well on Saturday.

Because of those two hilly beasts named Michigan and Manners.

All I knew when I woke up on Saturday morning was that I needed to have a good race (whatever that means). After forgetting to reset my odometer at Sequim #2 and flatting at Mason Lake #3, I was beyond the point of wanting things to go my way. I absolutely needed to come out of IVRR feeling like I belonged out there. When it was all said and done, I needed to feel like a bike racer. Not just a slow cyclist with fast wheels.

Hoping to improve my odds, I drove down to Rochester on Tuesday night to do an IVRR recon ride with Kat and Cole (of Cucina Fresca fame). I packed my bike in the car with my helmet, my gloves and my water bottles, and headed out to face the mighty I-5 rush hour drive. Good times!

But, seriously, it was all worth it because I was going to get a jump on Michigan Hill. And on Saturday, I would have that awesome advantage over Bikesale, Group Health and Hagens! Yessssss! Except, well, it turns out that you can't climb Michigan (or Manners) wearing fluffy, fleece-lined crocs.

I left my shoes in Olympia.

Fuck! Fuck! Fuckity fuck!

[deep breath]

Yeah. That went well.

[oddly enough, Cole forgot his shoes that night, too, but it still didn't make me feel any less stupid]

The good news is that I breezed through my Wednesday client's payables by noon and managed to make my way down to pre-ride the race course (with shoes) on what might have been the sunniest, warmest day of the year so far. It was hilly, and it was beautiful, and I still didn't know what to expect on race day.

Sigh. Love this stuff.

Anyhoo, on Friday, we learned that the field of 60+ Cat 4 women would be divided between even race numbers and odds. This would leave our two juniors by themselves in the B group (Chris was still recovering from a nasty spill from last weekend's mountain bike race) while Ann, Brandee, Stef, Melody and I (plus Sharon the Blue Rooster) would be able to work together in the first race.

The roughly-laid plan was to work for Brandee whose upgrade points from last season were starting to do the tick-tock countdown thing. Given my recent bout of "do I really know what the hell I'm doing out there" syndrome, this sounded like a great plan to me. Stef would be working on getting her racing legs back. Ann, who now had enough points to upgrade to Cat 3, would be looking to survive the hills and put her work in along the flat section of Lincoln Creek Road. Melody, in her first race of the season, would try to control the pace of the climbs, and I would be there with Brandee, making sure she wasn't doing too much work.

Mmmhmmm. That was the plan.

[my life rarely goes according to plan]

The race started as it always does for me, at the back. I know. I know. I've said it before. I need to be a little more assertive at the start. I don't know if I need to start throwing elbows or what, but I always, always, always end up lining up at the back of a road race. I start chatting with my teammates. I start chatting with other teams. And before I know it....there I am.

So as we rolled out in neutral, there I was, next to a woman named Theresa who was telling me it was her first race back in I-can't-remember-how-many-years and that she was taking hormones (um, I'm guessing not the performance-enhancing kind). When we got to the false flat at the start of Michigan Hill Road, she asked me, "Is this it?" I turned and looked at her and tried not to laugh. "Um, no. Trust me. You'll know when we're on Michigan Hill."

About two minutes later, I looked back and only saw the follow car.

Hello, Theresa? Meet my friend, Michigan Hill.

Bummer for her. For me, well, it was time to figure out how to get to the front.

Unlike last year's race, during which the field was neutralized up and over the hill because of the snowy conditions, we actually started racing a few miles before the actual climb began. But it was as if we were riding in slow-motion, and as I climbed the hill, pedal stroke by pedal stroke, I started to wonder if I was going to tip over sideways from the lack of forward momentum.

I passed a few people on the way up, but my crappy positioning at the start would end up impacting my entire race. I crested the hill and prepared for the descent, but with so many other riders in front of me, I was forced to constantly hit my brakes. Gaaaaaah!

Meanwhile, a group of eleven broke away ahead of us, with Brandee and Melody in the mix. That was good. Now I just needed to bridge the gap and get up there.

As we came around the corner to Lincoln Creek Road, Sharon was on the front pulling a couple of Group Health riders and then the rest of the field (or at least those that had survived the first climb). I made my way up next to her and then pulled ahead, hoping that she would jump on my wheel, but the whole group came with us.

I rotated through again and tried to pull a few people with me, but at that point I had LB (of Group Health fame) behind me, and she had teammates in the breakaway. "Sorry, Oly!" she said, as she hung onto my wheel.

At this point, I was burning a lot of fuel and wondering if Ann was at the tail end of the paceline, so I communicated to LB that I wanted to drop back and look for my teammate. She let me off the front, slowed the pace a bit, and I coasted back.

No Ann.

And actually, it wasn't a very big group at this point. We'd unloaded a few riders going over Michigan Hill, which I guess was encouraging. I tucked back into the paceline and tried to figure out what to do next.

Brandee was up ahead and had Melody riding for her. Would Melody be able to rein in her inner climbing monster and protect Brandee? If you've ever tried to climb a hill with Melody, you already know that she seems to defy gravity and just sort of dances up the hill while you're left gasping for air and wanting only to crawl into fetal position.

Should I drop back and try to bring Ann up to help me?

I honestly didn't know at that point. Our group was made up of a few Group Health riders, a few more Bikesale girls and a few riders either without teammates or without teams. At that point I had to defer to Sharon's experience, and she knew that if we tried to bridge the gap to Brandee and Melody (as much as I wanted to) we would take everyone else with us.

It just wasn't worth it.

And so ours became a race within a race.

Not the outcome I had hoped for, but it was sure as hell a lot of fun. The cool thing about racing with Sharon and LB is that they have a lot of experience. Even with a dozen different kits in the mix, they somehow managed to get us going in a fairly efficient paceline.

We weren't going to catch the group ahead of us. But we were still going to race our race.

At mile thirteen we took a right-hand turn up the Manners Hill. With nobody blocking my path on the left side, I shifted to my little ring and started to move up the hill. Before long I had a small gap that started to grow as the climb continued. As the hill crested, I shifted into the big ring on the flat and prepared to push it into the descent. I'd seen this hill before, and I knew it could be ridden with no brakes. With nobody around me, I could take the straightest line down.

43.4 mph

Woot!

That was aaaaawesome!

Click HERE to see what that did to my hair.

Of course, I may have climber's legs, but I definitely don't have a downhiller's body. As I pushed forward into the flat, I could see the group approaching from behind. My little thrill ride was over. I sat up and prepared to be absorbed.

The remainder of the first lap was pretty uneventful. A lot of work in the paceline, which was pretty fun. I'm fairly certain that at that point, everyone's mind was focused on the next lap and the upcoming hill.

Our dwindling chase group finishes the first lap

Round two of The Beast Named Michigan was also rather uneventful. Sharon and I led the charge toward the top. I'm not sure what I was trying to prove. Maybe that I was an even bigger beast. Ann and I had joked about cursing at Michigan Hill as we conquered it. As I pushed over the top and prepared to descend, I laughed to Sharon on my right and blurted out a not-very-ladylike "Fuck you, Michigan Hill!"

And then I think I roared.

Awesome. Totally shredded that.

This time the descent was a lot more fun. With only Sharon and a Bikesale girl we'd picked up on the climb ahead of me, I was pretty much free to descend at will. I'm really not much of a dare-devil (in this family, that's Karen's thing....I didn't even want to watch her skydiving video) but downhill descents that you've earned....those are pretty special.

Also, at that point I'm usually so oxygen-deprived that I don't care.

[um, just kidding, Mom...totally safe...always]

Anyhoo, the three of us pulled ahead onto the flat and made our co-workers fight a little to catch back on. I have to say, that was more than a little bit gratifying, and I started to look forward to doing it again as we approached Manners Hill for the last time. They might have had riders in the front break, but they weren't going to get a free pass.

As we came around the corner to the approach of the base of Manners, I made my way to the front and prepared to lay down the hurt. Unfortunately, a break-away group from the later race was making its way through right at that very moment and we were relegated to the side of the road and neutralized.

In the big picture, it wasn't a big deal (and it actually didn't have any effect on my finish) but it was so frustrating. I'm not a sprinter. The hills are where I can do my damage. And at that moment, as Sharon and I were preparing to pounce, our effort was stalled.

[multiple expletives here]

I was not a happy camper at that point, but as we were cleared to race again, I took all my frustrations out on the hill and powered over the top. With nobody in front of me, and that Bikesale girl about twenty meters back (yeah, look at me talking in Euro measurements now) I pedaled furiously into the descent and let it all out.

Whoooooooooosh!

Bikesale girl (I'll get her name next race) and I were alone for a little while and sat up to let the rest of the group join on. With about five miles to go, I was pulling on the front as we passed a crash from the other Cat 4 group. A Hagens girl was sitting up, visibly shaken, and a Cycle U girl (Tracey, who had warmed up next to us at Sequim) was on the ground, apparently with what would turn out to be a broken scapula.

Yeah, scapula.

Our group hesitated for a moment as we rode by. Do we race? Do we try to help? The ambulance was on the way. The best thing we could do at that point was get ourselves across the finish line in one piece. Our paceline continued.

As we hit the one kilometer sign, we could see a fire engine parked on the left side of the road. Clearly something had gone wrong at the finish line.

Before

After

As we approached the 200m sign, we weren't really sure what to do. Normally at that point we would spread out across the road and sprint for a finish. But we had an emergency vehicle blocking the left lane, and another vehicle (which eventually moved on, thank goodness) directly in front of us.

You might say that in light of the circumstances, our finish was anti-climatic. The top eleven racers in our group had crossed the finish line more than two minutes ahead of us. There was a terrible crash in the Masters Men C/D finish. And there we were.

Yes, and there we were. But dammit, we'd just given everything we had for 41 miles, and we were not going to be denied our moment of glory (even if it was only in our own minds). Sharon pushed forward, taking LB with her, and I was able to latch onto the Group Health wheel. As Sharon peeled off, LB made her move, and I went right along with her as we crossed the finish line one-two (or, um, you know, twelfth and thirteenth).

Soooooooo. Um. Yeah. IVRR wasn't exactly the race that I was expecting or even hoping for.

No.

It was even better.

For those of us in that organized chase group, it was truly a race within a race, and we can each be proud of the outcome.

The truth is, we create our own victories. And sometimes, even for a brief moment, the people we consider to be our toughest rivals turn out to be our greatest allies.

That's just bike racing.

Or maybe that's just life.

A Tale of Teamwork

2010-03-21T14:45:00.000-07:00

Jean Conquers ML3 (photo by Brian Koder)

Sometimes during the course of a bicycle race, things can go absolutely sideways. And sometimes, well, sometimes all the pieces line up perfectly and you end up with an amazing adventure to blog about.

And sometimes, they both happen in the same race.

Which is exactly what happened today at Mason Lake #3.

As you may (or may not) know, yesterday at the Tour de Dung #2, Ann, Larisa and I made some pretty big strides towards racing together as a team. We had a game plan, we tried to stick to it, we came up a little short, but compared to the previous weekend, we were racing like a totally different group.

We were starting to figure it out.

Going into today's race, we wanted to build upon that progress. Realistic or not (keep in mind that two of us are juniors, two of us are fairly new to racing, two of us are still only in our second year and all of us are still getting used to racing with each other) our goal for Mason Lake #3 was to deliver our teammate across the finish line in first place.

Call us crazy.

On the ride home yesterday, Ann, Larisa and I devised a game plan that we rehashed over and over for two and a half long hours on Highway 101. During today's warm-up, we went over it again with Brandee and Andrea. In a perfect world, we would set up our strongest sprinter just past the 200m sign, and she would gut it out for the win. Sounds pretty simple, right? But if that was the case, everyone would be doing it. No, there is nothing simple about bike racing. And there were a lot of things that had to go right for our plan to work.

There were simple things (you know, like not getting a flat tire). And there were more complex issues (like how to get five of us lined up - in order - when there are thirty other women racing next to you on narrow, rain-slickened, chip-sealed roads).

I hate to say it, but a flat tire was my only contribution to the team effort today. And yet, as frustrated as I felt at the time (believe me, walking back towards the finish while the rest of the field powered onward was a pretty helpless and lonely experience - many thanks to the folks who loaded my bike in the back of their car and drove me those last five or six miles) I think it may have been the most amazing race I've been a "part" of in my still-young life as a cyclist.

Since I wasn't there to see the finish with my own eyes, I've had Ann re-tell me this story a few dozen times. I'm probably going a little overboard, but for me, this is the kind of tale you tell your grandkids. Yeah, I'm going overboard, but still....it's a great story, so here we go:

On the back side of the course, with maybe four or five miles left in the race, Larisa, our fifteen-year-old energizer bunny moved to the front of the field for what Ann described as the longest pull she's ever seen. It was basically Larisa up front pulling the entire field for three or four miles. The other teams were probably pretty happy to let her do all the work. What they didn't know was that Larisa was exactly where she wanted to be.

Somehow (maybe it was skillful riding, maybe it was happenstance, or maybe it was a little of both) Brandee, Andrea and Ann managed to line up in our predetermined order (erm, well, except I was supposed to be between Larisa and Brandee, but let's forget about that for now and focus on the positive). As the other teams saw the four of them line up at the front, they tried to react, but it was too little, too late.

Larisa picked up her pace for as long as she could hold it and then pulled off to the left, letting Brandee take over where she left off. For about a mile or so, Brandee pulled the entire field at a consistent pace and then found another gear at the 1-km sign. For the next 800 meters, Brandee gave it absolutely everything she had, depositing Andrea and Ann with 200 meters to go.

At this point, a girl from Hagens Berman and another from Bikesale had made their way up to the front with Andrea and Ann. Thirteen-year-old Andrea went shoulder to shoulder with the HB rider (jostling each other a bit in the process) but still managed to provide Ann a launching pad with about 50 meters to go.

Ann Moving Up on Lap 1 (photo by Brian Koder)

Then it was as if Ann's legs forgot that they had raced in Sequim yesterday. With everything she had left, Ann fought her way across the finish line in second place, just behind Hagens Berman and just ahead of Bikesale and Andrea.

On an individual level, today was a total bust for me. But as a teammate, I am absolutely thrilled. Amazed. Inspired. Humbled. Proud.

There were so many things that could have gone wrong today (and some of them obviously did), but the Oly Ortho girls stayed focused on the ones that were going right. Today's race may not have gone perfectly, but we proved to ourselves that we are getting better and that we can succeed as a team.

Who knows what next weekend's IVRR could bring....

Getting It Together

2010-03-20T17:16:00.001-07:00

Cat 4 Women Roll Out in Sequim (photo by Ron Jones)

Instead of waiting until after tomorrow's Mason Lake finale and coming up with the double-whammy race recap (as I did for the last two race weekends) I decided instead to attempt a little bloggy spew about the Tour de Dung #2 adventure tonight before I fall asleep.

Yes, I know it's only 5pm. But the sofa's sweet siren call is almost too much to bear.

So let's get down to business.

As you can imagine, today's 4:30am wakeup was no easier than last Saturday's. I fumbled with the alarm, shuffled downstairs with one eye still shut, pushed the button on the coffee machine and let the four-leggers out for their morning tinkle.

This probably sounds a lot like last weekend's routine, but I assure you there was definitely something different. For the first time in...well...ever, I didn't ask myself why I was getting out of bed to race my bike. Not even at that horrible hour.

Today I had a job to do. That was why.

During Thursday's training ride, our friend Michelle (who races Cat 3 and knows a thing or two about working together as a team) asked Ann about our strategy going into last weekend's races. And, well, Ann explained that we wanted to stay up front, cover breaks and be ready for the sprint finish. Michelle was confused. Staying up front was great, especially on a course like Mason Lake where the narrow roads make passing a challenge, but who exactly were we working for?

The answer was nobody.

Of course, Michelle already knew it. She knew it when she saw the race results. The Oly Ortho girls were all up there near the top (well, erm, except me). But the truth is, if we were truly racing like a team, only one of us should have been up there at the finish. The rest of us should have given everything we had in a lead-out and peeled off. And our finishing positions should have reflected this. But they didn't.

And so Michelle (via Ann) helped us revisit the whole "racing as a team" concept.

We each had a job. My goal for Sequim #2 had nothing to do with break-aways (although that would have been fun - and I tried a few times) or finishing in the top-whatever. My goal for today was to be in line to lead out my teammate. To leave it all out there. Her win would be our win.

I get that now.

I thought I understood the concept before, but this morning I actually woke up not caring about my own finish. Instead, I was focused on the task at hand. And let me tell you, the dancing elephants in my stomach were having one helluva party.

Fer realz yo (or however kids these days say it).

Karen and I picked up Ann at approximately 5:52am (I say approximately because I can never remember if Karen's clock is ahead by two minutes or behind). Anyway, we loaded her gear and made our way to the West Oly Starbucks to meet Larisa, whose mom (also named Ann) was in charge of getting our bodies and our bikes safely (and on time) to the megalopolis of Sequim.

And we were actually making pretty good time until...well, remember the aforementioned elephants? Right. Well, between the pre-race nerves, the fact that nature was calling and that little issue of being stuck in the back of a mini-van traveling at a high rate of speed on twisty-turny roads, well, those elephants were getting it on like donky kong.

Ann W. pulled off to the left side of the road, in a parking lot adjacent to Fat Smitty's, and I made it to the bushes just in time to revisit my breakfast. Again. And again. And again. And then bile. And more bile. And then dry heaves. And more dry heaves.

Wooooooooooo. I suddenly felt so much better!

Of course, poor Ann M. had the misfortune of walking by me while I was mid-hurl, and I think I may have scarred her for life. While I was bent over heaving up my breakfast, Ann ran back to the mini-van, dry-heaving.

[Heh. Sorry about that, Ann. At least now you know that when I say, "I think I'm going to puke," I really am about four seconds away from doing something that you really don't want to see.]

On a happy note, I think I single-handedly erased everyone's pre-race jitters with that spectacle. Everyone except perhaps Jean. Yes, folks, our friend and teammate Jean made her road racing debut today. It was a fairly large field for a first race (45 women started in Cat 4) and I can only imagine what was going through her mind as she tried to keep pace with the surging and braking.

As is my custom, I rolled out at the back of the field (seriously - I need to start taking the pre-race lineup a little more seriously because there aren't call-ups like in cyclocross). It didn't really concern me because I knew we'd take a left turn and the road would open up a bit. I also knew that over 36 miles, I would see the front of the pack (as well as the back) more times than I wanted to count.

The first lap was pretty ho-hum. To be honest, I can't actually remember that much about it except that I played it a little more conservative this time around (I didn't go off the front). I think a few attacks were launched, but judging by the fact that I don't really remember them, I'm going to guess that they didn't get very far (either that or I'm so tired right now that I'm starting to forget the details).

During the second lap, the pace picked up a bit and each time we crested a hill, the field would split (getting my hopes up a bit) but then come back together. I joined in a few breakaways that I thought had a fighting chance (mostly because there were a couple of strong Group Health riders in each one) but there just wasn't any cooperation, and ultimately the main field caught us.

Ann had a similar experience with a breakaway on the third lap. She put in the work (and her legs and lungs were screaming about it) but it just didn't hold.

At what I thought* was mile 33, I moved up to the front of the pack with Larisa on my wheel.

*Note to self: remember to reset your odometer after your five-mile warm-up.

In my mind, we only had three miles left (the truth was, we still had about eight to go) and so I started to pick up the pace. This would save Larisa's legs, pressure the others behind us and give Ann a chance to get on the Big Red Train.

Choo-choo!

After a few minutes of ramping it up, I glanced back at Larisa and the rest of the field to get an idea what was happening. She screamed something about conserving my energy, but I was thinking to myself, "No, I've got to leave it all out here!"

Moments later we turned the last corner, only, well, it wasn't the last corner. It was the second to last corner, and it was still a pretty long way to the finish line. Totally f@#&ed that one up.

Gah.

[banging head against wall]

Well, the good news is that we were still so far from the finish that I had time to recover and try to get back to the front. That long stretch has a few rollers, and that was a good opportunity to move up. Eventually Ann and I made our way to Larisa's wheel and prepared for that last effort before the final turn going into the last kilometer (yeah, this is bike racing - so Euro).

Of course, at that point, two things happened. First of all, I failed to communicate to Larisa that we were on her wheel and we wanted to get the train rolling. And two, as we came over the top of the last little climb, I started to run out of gas (I'm going to blame it on the fact that my breakfast was lying on the ground next to Fat Smitty's). As my pace slowed, Ann worked her away around, and I was suddenly hanging on to her wheel.

This was not the plan. I was supposed to be leading her out in about two minutes' time, but at that point it was all I could do to hang on. As we turned the final corner, I had some serious ground to cover, and as the pace went crazy at the 1-km sign, I knew that I wasn't going to be able to finish my job.

Ann worked her way into position, but without teammates to lead her out, she had to start her effort earlier than normal in order to stay up with the other sprinters.

When it was all said and done, Ann took 7th. And in a sense, the four of us took 7th. Ultimately, it was Ann's leg strength that took her across the finish line, but it was our responsibility (whether we succeeded or not, I guess that's open for discussion) to help get her there.

We made a few mistakes. Maybe they cost us a win. Maybe they just made us smarter for next time. But the important thing, the thing that I'm so proud of right now (the reason I'm staying up to write this blog when all I really want to do is sleep) is that we have really come a long way as a team in a really short period of time.

This racing as a team thing is starting to make sense now. We're starting to get it together, and it's a pretty exciting thing. Who knows what we might come up with at Mason Lake #3 tomorrow....

* * *

Also, Jean had a fairly decent first-race experience and although she didn't finish, she was very excited when the scorers put a DNF next to her name. Dainty-Nifty-Feminine, she says. Pretty much sums it up. If you're out at Mason Lake, cheer her on. She's going to give it a go again tomorrow!

Why

2010-03-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

Ann tackles Mason Lake #2 (photo by Brian Koder)

On Saturday morning, the alarm clock went off at 4:30am, and as I reached over to smack it silly, I asked myself the same question I ask every morning before a bike race.

Why?

Why am I getting out of a perfectly warm, comfortable bed so that I can ride my bike as fast as I can until I either crash or cross the finish line? At 4:30am, this made no sense to me, and yet I still got up, went downstairs to turn on the coffee pot, let the dogs out to pee and tried to tame my bed-head.

Why?

As I sipped my coffee and attempted to finish my breakfast (seriously, who eats breakfast at 4:30am?!?!) I still didn't have the answer, and as I waited for Ann to pull into the driveway, that familiar, nervous pre-race "elephant-dancing-in-my-stomach" feeling was back.

With a vengeance.

Whywhywhywhywhy?

On the two-hour drive to Sequim, I started to relax a bit in the company of my teammates (Ann the driver, Brandee the birthday girl and Larisa the 15-year-old who warned us that she doesn't "do social" until two hours after sunrise). So, for the first 90 minutes we avoided talking strategy.

And, in case you were wondering what women do talk about on the way to a bike race (in lieu of strategy), I'll tell you. We talk about poop (usually because one or more of us needs a potty stop in a bad way). I'm not sure how many poop euphemisms (poophemisms - wow, I've been wanting to use that word in my blog for years) we came up with on the way to The Tour de Dung (no, seriously, that's what it's called) but it was enough to take my mind off of the dancing elephants.

At least temporarily.

Brandee, Sam, Ann and Larisa (Tour de Dung warm-up)

The conversation was not, however, enough to take my mind off of last weekend's racing misadventures. You may have read about them. The Icebreaker TT and Mason Lake #1 were two very humbling "learning experiences" that forced me to not only re-examine my race tactics but also re-evaluate my goals.

Don't get me wrong. My ambition to upgrade with my teammates is still very much alive. But my short-term goals (what I wanted to accomplish at the races this weekend) had undergone a serious makeover. My new mission?

Just don't suck.

Now, in order for a goal to be a goal, it supposedly has to be realistic and measurable, so let me define exactly what not sucking meant to me going into Saturday's road race. It meant not dangling dangerously near the back of the pack. Ann told me during the week that I needed ride where she could see me at all times. If I was behind her, she couldn't see me. And if she couldn't see me, she would start to wonder if I was lying in a ditch somewhere. Therefore, not sucking meant staying in Ann's line of vision.

Additionally, not sucking meant staying with the main field (or at least not getting dropped by the main field - going off the front was allowed). If I went off the back, I wouldn't be any help to my teammates at the finish line. And that would rank very high on the suckitude scale.

Just sayin'.

Finally, not sucking meant staying upright. Although safe riding has always been a priority of mine, it has taken on new meaning since the long-awaited arrival of my fancy, carbon wheels (which I will be paying for long past my 87th birthday). Now more than ever I have incentive to keep the rubber side down.

Again. Just sayin'.

Hello, new wheels (hello, consumer credit card debt)

[Also, in case you were wondering, in the event of a crash, I was planning on dropping my shoulder with enough velocity that the momentum of my twisting torso would carry the bike above my body before impact with the asphalt, thus saving my fancy, new wheels from an almost-certain demise.]

Just kidding.

Sort of.

So, anyway, I did a lot of (over)thinking this past week, which was probably why the elephant in my stomach was having such a good time. As we approached the start line on Saturday, however, I started to calm down a little bit. Yes, I was on the verge of hyperventilating, but other than that, I was starting to realize that in a few seconds, the race would be underway, and I'd be fine.

[inhale]

Juuuuuuust fine.

[exhale]

Or not.

[WTF?]

Unfortunately, the race organizers had other plans (at least for half of us). With another impressive field size on their hands (topping 60 for the second week in a row), the folks in charge decided to split us into two groups. The good news was that this would make for a much safer (and fun) race. The bad news is that they split up teams, and our 15-year-old racing wonder was left to fend for herself in the first race while the rest of us waited another two hours for our delayed start.

I have to hand it to Larisa, she really raced well on Saturday. Obviously I can't tell the entire story (because I wasn't along for the ride) but we knew her goal was to stay up front, and after the first lap, she and another rider had created a small gap as they tried to chase down a solo breakaway.

As they went by a second time, the field was about to swallow the breakaway - not because she had run out of gas but because she sat up, thinking the race was over (ouch - I'm guessing Irina won't make that mistake twice). At this point, Larisa was still very much in the mix, and despite getting stuck behind a crash on the final lap, she still managed to earn a 10th place finish. While this result didn't come as a surprise to her teammates (we know how hard she works), we're pretty sure Larisa turned a few heads in the peloton.

Sequim #1 - the final lap (photo by Lorraine Silva)

Soooooo, with the first Cat 4 race in the bag, it was now our turn to put in some work. You may have noticed a new face in the warm-up photo near the top of this blog. That is Sam, a recent addition to the team that we met last Sunday at Mason Lake #1. Her race results speak for themselves, but I'd also like to add that she's a crazy triathlete (of World Class pedigree) who happens to handle herself pretty well in the Cat 4 peloton.

We somehow signed her up before the other teams could get their hands on her. Muahahahaha!

So, anyhoo, with smaller numbers to work with, our team goals for Sequim were fairly vague - stay up front, cover breakaways, communicate, try to somehow get in position for the sprint finish - but we had left them that way intentionally. One thing we learned last weekend is that anything and everything can happen in a bike race. The more skilled we get at reacting to these unknowns, the better our outcome will be. We just need to keep ourselves in position to react.

Of course, as we pulled away from the start line, I once again found myself at the very back of the pack (apparently I need to be more aggressive during the pre-race line-up). At this point I knew that Ann would not be pleased with my positioning, so as soon as the lead car tooted its horn to release us from the neutral roll-out, I looked for an opportunity to move up. A few miles in, the road widened with the addition of a smooth shoulder, and I started to sneak up the right side.

Then something funny happened. I drew even with the girl in front, looked her in the eye, and then kept going. The funny thing about this was that I had no idea what I was doing. All I knew was that I had fancy, new wheels, and I wanted to test them out. So I took off.

Woohoo, this was fun! No braking! No bumping! Just me and my new wheels!

For almost a mile, they let me dangle out there off the front. I pedaled as hard as I could, but I knew that without a significant hill on the course, I would be caught sooner or later (and I was guessing sooner). The field eventually latched onto my rear wheel and let me continue to do all the work. And as I sat there huffing and puffing, I was also wondering how the heck to get off the front. I moved left to let someone else take over, and nobody pulled through. So I slowed a bit, and eventually a Cucina Fresca rider launched a counter attack (thank goodness - I was about to fall off my bike).

As I drifted towards the back, I heard Ann's voice telling me to move in ahead of her (I can't thank her enough for making room for me instead of letting me helplessly fly off the back). It was there, tucked in safely ahead of Ann, that I started to understand.

This was why I got out of bed at 4:30am.

(video by "that RideItLikeYouStoleIt guy" - need to ask his name next time)

So, anyway, Saturday's race was 36 miles long (three 12-mile laps) with mostly flat roads and the occasional roller. There were a few harmless break attempts early on (a few of them mine, a few from Cucina Fresca and others), and then on the last lap, two got away (and were looking to stay away unless we could get our shit together).

Ann, Brandee, Sam and I tried to stay organized in an attempt to lead by example, but there just weren't enough people interested in catching the breakaway. Group Health had a rider out front, so we certainly didn't expect them to do any extra work. Bikesale seemed content to sit in and conserve energy. Cucina Fresca was working just as hard as we were, but even with the additional effort put in by Sharon (of Blue Rooster fame) to keep us organized, we just couldn't get it together.

Our race would be for third place.

With a few miles to go, we were all still playing musical chairs. At one point, all four Oly girls (plus Sharon) were up front. That was awesome! If only we could hold it for the finish! Of course, moments later, the chairs switched again, and we soon found ourselves scrambling to stay in position.

As expected, things got a little crazy towards the end. Twice a girl from Bikesale tried to bump me off the wheel I was following. Maybe this is just racing, and I need to learn how to not worry about it and just handle it (that will come at the end of the month at the CycleU Intro to Road Racing class, I suppose), but I was still a little shaken up by the fact that I almost went down simply because someone - who hadn't done any work during the entire race - suddenly wanted my crappy middle-of-the-pack position.

Seriously. Next time just ask me nicely.

So, anyway, as we made our way through the last turn and past the 1km sign, the musical chairs continued. Brandee and Ann were in pretty good position towards the front, but Sam and I were near the back attempting to shift over towards the center line. As the field passed the 200m sign, Brandee got a good jump, and Ann was able to follow her forward, eventually pulling ahead to the front row for an all-out sprint to the finish.

Sam and I were starting to move up the left side, but I positioned myself behind Brandee just as she had given everything to push Ann forward. I hit the brakes and rolled in with Sam to my left, Sharon to my right and Brandee directly in front of me.

The results? Ann fought her way to a 6th place finish, Brandee held on for 8th and I took 10th. For some reason, the camera didn't pick up Sam, but she finished right there next to me (if not a half-wheel ahead).

It was truly a turn-around from our first race of the season, and we accomplished (and learned) a lot. With a smaller field (31) we were able to recognize some of the stronger riders. We were also able to see who was willing to expend a little energy and who was content to sit back for a joy ride. At the same time, we did our fair share of the work, and I think at the very least, we earned a little respect in the peloton. Numbers-wise, we are not a big team. Nor are we the most experienced. But we are all hard workers. We ride smart. We respect others and expect the same in return. And because of that, things have a way of working themselves out.

When Ann dropped me off on Saturday night, it was after 5:00pm. I took a moment to think about Saturday's race, then I lubed my chain and packed my box for Sunday. A few minutes later I was on the sofa.

Done.

But not really. Whether my legs liked it or not, there was still more racing to come....

Waiting for the roll-out (photo by Brian Koder)

On Sunday morning, I was able to "sleep in" till 5:30am. The problem, however, was that before I fell asleep on Saturday night, I flipped all the clocks forward . While the alarm was screaming, "Hey, it's 5:30! Get out of bed!" my body was screaming, "It's 4:30am! Again! Why?"

And once again, I didn't have the answer. What I did have was a set of very tired legs (actually, very tired everything). But I also had three teammates who were counting on me to get out of bed and figure out a way to fit my bike, a set of spare wheels and a box of gear in the back of my little VW Beetle and get to the start line.

[believe it or not, I managed to get it all in the back of the VW with room to spare - next time I'll try to remember to take a photo]

Arriving at the registration area on Sunday, I felt both a sense of relief and disappointment. On one hand, there was clearly a smaller field size than we had encountered a week earlier during the white-knuckled stop-and-go-a-thon. This was definitely a plus. On the other hand, the chip-seal surface was still wet from the previous night's rain, and I made up my mind to race on the old wheels.

You know. Just in case.

Sam rolls out (photo by Brian Koder)

In addition to the smaller field size, compared to last week, we were also working together as a smaller team. Ann, Sam and I were joined by 13-year-old Andrea. Now, before you go jumping to conclusions, let me tell you a little bit about our young teammate.

She doesn't ride like a 13-year-old. Do not be fooled by her pink booties. When I was thirteen years old, my bike had a banana seat and streamers and a kick-stand. Yeah. Not exactly the Kona Andrea rode to 5th place at last season's Starcrossed (against a field of 80-something adults, including yours truly).

Yeah.

Thirteen.

Andrea's pink booties round the corner (photo by Brian Koder)

Our game plan for Sunday was pretty much the same as the day before. Try to stay up front and out of trouble. Put in the work but share the load. Cover the breakaways (or get in one, if possible). Ride safely. Have fun. Be ready for the sprint finish.

On paper, it seems pretty darn simple. Stay upright. Kick ass. Take names. How hard can it be? Well, with a group of thirty-something women with different goals, degrees of experience and hormone levels, it can be pretty darn tricky.

On a happy note, I didn't start at the back this time around. The Starbucks girl who pushed off in front of me had all sorts of trouble finding her pedals, so I moved around to the right and found myself in the middle of the pack to start Sunday's adventure.

Woo-hoo, already an improvement over last week!

[double fist-pump]

As we rolled out of neutral, a lane opened up to the left, and I moved forward and joined LB of Group Health fame up front. I had no plans of launching an attack at this point. I simply wanted to get some work in while I still had legs. After going off the front a half dozen times yesterday, I was pretty sure that today I was going to find myself hanging on for dear life at some point. Probably sooner rather than later.

The two of us pulled up front for a while, and I could feel my legs starting to fatigue as my breathing grew heavy. I turned to LB and asked, "So, um, you're obviously more experienced than I am at this whole racing thing. How do you get off the front when you're about to blow up?" She smiled and slowed the pace a little bit, prompting a gal from Old Town to take over. "If you slow down a little bit," LB explained, "they'll get impatient and move up."

And they did.

LB hung back a bit and let me jump on the Old Town wheel, and we recovered for a while until someone else launched an attack that the field quickly reeled in. But the effort pretty much pushed me to the back of the pack, and I struggled to hold on.

It was last weekend all over again. Only it wasn't. There was no way I was going to fall off the back, I didn't care what it took. I was going to finish with my teammates. Maybe I didn't have the legs to lead them out, but I was going to be there. I owed them that much. After last weekend's disappointment, I owed myself that much.

During the entire race, I could see Ann, Sam and Andrea, moving around near the front. They were working hard to keep their position. Meanwhile, I was on the back hanging on for dear life as the field continued to grow smaller with each acceleration.

I had a bone to pick with this course. I knew exactly where I lost contact with the group last week. And this time, as we climbed that little hill, and my legs were burning and my lungs were screaming, and a few girls behind me were dropped....I actually started to smile.

It hurt so f#$%ing bad, but I was loving it. I was loving it because I knew I could hold on. I wasn't going to win this race. But I was going to finish with the main field. I was going to finish with my teammates.

This time, I wasn't going to be mediocre.

The Sprint Finish (photo by Laurie O'Brien)

As we passed the 200 meter sign, the group surged forward and spread out across the width of the road. I could see that all three of my teammates were in great position, but since I was starting at the back, I had a little work to do in these final moments.

Last Wednesday, our Cat 3 teammate/mentor Michelle worked with us on sprinting technique. It was time to put that form into action. I stood up on the pedals, shifted my weight from one pedal to another, pulling with my arms, and....immediately realized that I had nothing left in my legs. I plopped back down on my saddle.

Yeah. I was done.

Or so I thought.

There in front of me, practically within reach, was Amanda of Group Health fame. She had taken 4th place in the first Cat 4 race yesterday, and I imagined her legs were feeling just about as lifeless as mine were at that point.

So, with about 100m left to make up some ground, I kept pedaling with everything I had. I could catch her! I could pass her! I just needed a little more space or time or...something. But I didn't have it.

As Amanda of Group Health fame crossed the finish line ahead of me, I had to smile. This was exactly why I woke up at 4:30am:

Because I didn't catch her last time.
And I didn't catch her this time.
But I might catch her next time.

That's why.

* * *

By the way, my teammates really did finish strong on Sunday. After taking 6th on Saturday, Ann followed up with 2nd during Sunday's sprint (hello, upgrade points). Andrea crossed the line in 4th place and Sam took 6th. My 16th place finish may not sound all that impressive, but there's always next week.

Mediocrity

2010-03-08T07:52:00.000-08:00

This probably comes as no surprise to most of you, but I'll say it anyway:

I don't do "mediocre".

I don't do things half-way. I'm either so terrible at something that it's best to just not try (like with golf, which I quit after one and a half humiliating holes) or else I totally kick ass and take names (like with dirty dishes - no joke, I am really good at washing dishes).

But mediocrity? No. I don't do that. Don't get me wrong, I don't mind if other people are mediocre. I see nothing wrong with that. At all. But if we're talking about me, well, it basically comes down to this.

Go big or go home.

If I'm going to wash dishes, they better shine like they're new. If I'm going to race my bike, well...

As you can imagine, heading into the first race weekend of 2010, I was all kinds of stoked. After joining the team at the end of last season (just in time for the Washington State Team Time Trial Championships, which is a very unique - not to mention painful - introduction to road racing) I only had two "conventional" road races under my belt going into this season. And well, there was nothing really conventional about either of them.

Before the Gig Harbor circuit race, I accidentally lubed my rear tire (um, trust me - for best results, keep the lube on your chain). Two weeks later, in my second (and last) road race of the season, I was pedaling next to a Group Health rider who suddenly went over her handlebars heading into the final corner.

You don't easily forget about that sort of thing (especially the sound of a helmet hitting the pavement). A week went by before I could sleep at night, and (thankfully) by then cyclocross season kicked off, and memories of slippery tires (and flying Group Health girls) were soon replaced by the lure of mud, cowbell and random, mysterious bruises.

As fall turned into winter, and winter turned into, well, more winter, cyclocross season came to an end, but my desire to ride didn't stop there. And with the first race of the 2010 season a mere 91 days away (gasp!), there was serious work to be done.

People, the battle against mediocrity never ends! Ev-ar!

Soooo, I joined my teammates for Tuesday and Thursday night cycle/core classes (ouch!) and spent my Monday and Wednesday afternoons in the weight room with Stef (double ouch) working on turning my slow-twitch runner legs into beefier pedal-mashers. Rain or shine, Saturdays were spent building endurance on team rides, and on Sundays we hit the mountain bike trails.

To be honest, going into last weekend's races, I felt pretty darn good (I mean, other than the fact that I was so nervous during the drive to both races that Karen almost pulled over so I could vomit). In the back of my mind, I knew I had put in the work (we all had) and I was ready to race!

Woot!

WARNING! If you were expecting great things from me this weekend (as I was) you might want to stop reading right here. The following isn't a story of greatness. I did not kick ass, and I did not take names. I showed up, I did my best, and last weekend, my best was mediocre.

Mediocrity Part I - Icebreaker Time Trial

With the exception of last year's team time trial (which I still lovingly refer to as the most painful 83 minutes of my life - yes, I rank it even above that 3:11 marathon I ran in 50mph sustained headwinds) I'd never really done the whole "TT thang". At least not as an individual. I mean, I had watched it on TV. Skinsuits. Weird helmets. Fancy bikes. Snot/drool hanging from faces wrought with pain.

Heh. So, um, yeah, sign me up!

I actually started preparing for this race about six months ago when I bought a third generation hand-me-down time trial bike from my teammate Michelle (who I believe originally purchased it from our other teammate, Dr. Jen, and at one time or another loaned it out to Sarah). The stickers have all been peeled off the frame, and it has been spray-painted black to cover the dings sustained over the years. There is an odd dent in the top tube (I'm guessing that came from Jen, because she likes to take corners fast...sometimes too fast) and it makes a clickity-clunk noise if I even think about cross-chaining.

It is not a perfect time trial bike, but I love it. I love that you get out of it what you put into it, which is what the individual time trial is all about. It's about you. It has nothing to do with break-aways, counter-attacks or bad positioning. It is simply about how hard you're willing (and able) to push yourself on a given day. And on Saturday morning, I was ready to push myself (and my little black, hand-me-down TT bike) to Cat 4 greatness.

Unfortunately, there were 50 other women (many of them triathletes who specialize in this particular discipline) who had the same goal. Only I...well, I didn't know this at the time (yes, ignorance is bliss).

Heh.

So, anyway, we got to Auburn early (note to self, next year I do not need to wake up at 4:30), which allowed more than enough time to hit the port-a-potty, warm up, hit the port-a-potty again (and again and again) and finally make my way to the start line.

At the professional level (as you have probably seen during coverage of the Tour de France) there is a start house (a little covered area with a ramp leading down to the course) for the individual time trial. In Auburn, Washington, there is a line taped to the pavement, and one man holding your bike up while another man with a clipboard repeats the same set of rules to each of the 400 racers (don't draft off the person in front of you, stay to the right, the road is not closed to traffic, countdown starts at five, don't leave until he says go).

Despite the fact that I can't really hear much out of my right ear, and the clipboard dude was standing to my right, I could hear his countdown like it was loudest and clearest thing in the world (okay, second loudest - my heartbeat was downright deafening at that point).

Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Go!

As the seat-holder guy released my bike, I pushed forward and tried to build up my cadence. During the week I had played with different gears for the start of the race. Unless you've got someone holding up your frame during your training, it's pretty challenging to simulate a start from a dead stop while clipped in. But I played around with different gears, and when I left the start line on Saturday, I was relieved that I had gone with the right one.

The first few pedal strokes were tough, but I quickly reached a consistent cadence and settled into my fancy lil' aero tuck (and started the mind games). I tried not to think too much, because if I was having coherent thoughts, I figured I wasn't pushing hard enough. There was at least one Cat 4 woman ahead of me (the starting times were not grouped by category but rather by registration order), and I knew I would see her at some point before the turnaround at mile five. I had chased her (Amanda of Group Health fame) all season during cyclocross, and in my mind I was chasing her now during this time trial torture test. Every time I thought I couldn't take the burn in my quads a moment longer, I tried to remind myself that she (and the rest of the ladies) weren't resting.

They were pushing, and so would I.

By mile three, I had drool rolling down my chin and snot hanging off the side of my face. I wore it like a badge of courage until I saw a photographer (at which point I quickly wiped it away). A few moments later I saw a Group Health kit whiz by in the opposite direction. Amanda is a tough cookie.

I shifted into a harder gear (and let out some profanity in Italian).

Other than a steady stream of pain, the individual time trial isn't all that eventful. As I passed the '1 Km to Go' sign, however, things did get a little exciting. A bunch of turkeys from a farm on the right side of the road were hanging out in the middle of my path. I didn't really know how to approach them. Crows would simply fly away if I rode towards them. I wasn't sure what turkeys would do if I continued along my path of destruction. Would they fly away? Would I run into one (they weren't exactly small) and end up in a heap on the side of the road?

Up to that point, I'd had a pretty awesome race, and I didn't really want to screw it up by going head over heels at the expense of somebody's Thanksgiving dinner. So I swerved out towards the yellow line and said some not-very-nice things to the birds in Italian as I went by.

Yes, when I am stressed, I resort to Italian profanity.
No, Italian is not my native language.
[I'm sure there is a long explanation here, but there is less than 1 km to go]

Anyway, I did finish the time trial on Saturday, rubber side down, even! In fact, when I crossed the finish line, I was really excited. I felt like I totally rocked that course (or as Ann would say, "Awesome! Totally shredded that!"). I was pushing myself (and my little black bike) as fast as I possibly could. I had ironed out my aero tuck. I had borrowed Sarah's fancy TT helmet. There was nothing to regret. I had done everything I could. Who knows...maybe I'd won one of the cash prizes that they were giving away to the top three finishers.

Or.....maybe I got 28th place.

Yeah.

I got home and checked the interwebs, and it was then that my shiny, little bubble burst into a heap of used bike parts. It wasn't that I didn't rock that course (I totally rocked that course). It was just that 27 other Cat 4 women rocked that course even more than I did.

What I learned was this:

A. I wasn't the only one training this winter.
B. Other women with stronger legs might be better suited for the TT than I am.
C. Despite my best efforts, mediocrity happens.

Time to move on....to Sunday.

Mediocrity Part II - Mason Lake #1

I actually woke up the next morning feeling pretty good. I honestly thought that I'd gotten all my nervous energy out the day before. Today I could just show up and race.

Yeah. Notsomuch.

About halfway to Mason Lake I started to feel "it". If you've ever done a bike race, you know what I'm talking about. It's the most useless waste of energy ever. You feel like you're going to hurl. Then you have to pee. Then you have to hurl. Then you have to pee. Then you warm up, and you have to pee again. And then just as you've made your way to the start line....yes, you have to pee yet again.

It didn't matter that I'd gotten my first race jitters out the day before. On Sunday, I had second race jitters. Rumor has it that these won't ever go away. Apparently they are the reason why we race.

As the Cat 4 women rolled out, I was actually starting to feel pretty good. I'd been in this position before. I knew what to expect. The last two circuit races of the season were slow as molasses for the first few laps. It would be miles before I had to kick it into gear.

Or, um, immediately after the lead car tooted its horn twice.

So much for a typical Zone 1 Cat 4 race. From the get-go things got a little crazy. Acceleration followed by half a dozen women yelling, "Slooooowing."

Repeat this 150 times, and you have the first lap of the race.

The pace wasn't unbearable (it was faster than I expected, but nothing extraordinary) but the constant speeding up and slowing down had me gritting my teeth. With a field of sixty women (many of them new to racing) this was a little....um....nerve-wracking.

I followed the Starbucks wheel in front of me for while. She seemed consistent, and my teammates were just ahead of me. Life was good. I mean, other than the constant braking.

As we crossed the finish line for the first time, the field had actually split (although I didn't know it at the time because I was too busy wondering if the women in front of me were going to suddenly slam on the brakes).

I tried to smile at the cameras as we went by.

As lap two began, I started to drift towards the back of the now-shortened main field. I knew this wasn't smart. Jen, Michelle and Sarah had all told me (repeatedly) how important it was to stay in the first third of the field. You can't cover a break-away from the back. You can't launch a surprise attack from the back. And if someone crashes....really bad shit happens at the back of the peloton. But at this point in the race, my legs started to remember the previous day's time trial, and hanging out at the back didn't seem like such a bad deal. Plus, they were still slamming on the brakes up front, and I was seriously tired of that.

Note to self: Ignore legs. Hanging out at the back is all kinds of bad. Do not do this. Ever.

Despite the fact that I drove to the race and warmed up without my teammates, I actually did know our game plan. In a perfect world, we would lead out Brandee or Ann for a sprint finish. Considering that Ann had spent the previous three days sick in bed, Brandee was our most likely contender. With six of us in the peloton (Brandee, Ann, me, Larisa, Andrea and Chris) I thought we had a chance to do some damage.

Of course, I didn't count on Group Health showing up with the equivalent of a small village, and I definitely didn't expect a field of 60 for a women's Cat 4 race.

Whatchagonnado?

The entire race was kind of a comedy of errors. As the lead-out car tooted its horn twice, the field sped up on the flat.

And then slammed on it's brakes.

Like I said before, this phenomenon repeated itself about 150 times during the first lap alone. All I could hear was "Sloooooooowing!" and the screech of brakes (and the occasional touchy-feely sensation of someone else's front wheel getting up close and personal with my rear wheel).

Over and over, accelerate and slam on the brakes. I kept asking myself if I really wanted to do this bike racing thing. And my answer was a resounding yes. Yes. I wanted to do this. I wanted to kick ass in Cat 4 and get out of there. I wanted to leave behind the bitching and whining about "slowing" and "hold your line". I wanted to race with girls who went full throttle, goddammit!

And then the Cat 4 field went full throttle, and I popped right off the back.

Um. Yeah. Whoops.

Hey, guys? Hey! Wait for me!

It was totally my fault for hanging out at the back. The problem with the Cat 4 race was that the field would roar down the hills and then stall on the forthcoming uphill. If you were stuck in the back (as I had strategically placed myself) you would still be trying to regain your momentum as the front of the field was suddenly accelerating again.

Lesson learned.

I had no one but myself to blame for getting dropped on Sunday. I knew this, and yet, I wasn't ready to give in. Another gal (Lorraine of bikesale.com fame) was right back there with me. And as I pulled up next to her and saw the look of doubt in her eyes, I shouted, "C'mon! Let's get them!"

The chances of us catching a 35-person high-speed train were slim to none, but I didn't care. I was more concerned about the fact that I was supposed to be leading out my teammate for a sprint finish, and I was nowhere near "in position".

So Lorraine of bikesale.com fame latched onto my rear wheel, and we busted ass to catch the main field. I don't know if I've ever worked that hard (hell, if I'd come up with that effort 24 hours earlier, I probably would have finished on the podium in Auburn). We got within reaching distance of the main field, and then....there was a hill.

Not a steep hill. Just a hill that was big enough to finish off my legs. I couldn't carry Lorraine any longer, and I don't think she was in any position to pull me along.

We were officially....dropped.

It's a pretty terrible feeling, especially when you've got teammates ahead of you who were counting on your effort. It doesn't matter that there were more than 20 racers behind you (waaaaay behind you, at that point). What matters is that you (and when I say "you" I mean "me") were supposed to deliver your teammate across the finish line, and you (me) didn't.

And now you (me) have a mile to pedal hard and think about it.

Seriously, that was one of the longest miles of my life. I wondered if I was meant to be road racer. I wondered if my goal of upgrading to Cat 3 was realistic if I couldn't even finish with the main field. I wondered how much beer was in the house, because when I got home, I was going to drink it all and forget this entire weekend.

And I did (and I have the headache to prove it) but the fact is, I can't forget. And I don't want to.

I don't want to forget that I was mediocre this weekend. I don't want to forget that I totally overestimated my own abilities and completely underestimated the rest of the field. I don't want to forget that I've got teammates who were counting on me to be there at the finish.

All I can do is keep pedaling. Keep training. Keep squatting and lunging. Keep talking with my teammates. Keep communicating with the other girls in the peloton. Keep on...keepin' on! Only better!

I don't do mediocre.

I'll see you all next weekend. Woot!

[and seriously, keep your hands off your brakes, eh?]

* * *

Oh, I forgot to add that photos from Mason Lake are HERE.

Goodbye, Cone of Shame

2010-02-07T08:52:00.000-08:00

It's a miracle! After three months in the dreaded (yet well-decorated - thanks, Mary) Cone of Shame, Izzy (aka Cyclops) has been released from her upside-down lamp shade!

The One-Eyed Wonder no longer spends her days moping around the house and running into things. In fact, this morning while I have been getting ready to break out the touch-up paint (it's amazing how much property damage those ridiculous satellite dishes can cause when attached to the head of a hyperactive gas machine) Izzy has been intermittently performing Happy Dog Roll(TM) and Exfoliation Dance(TM), stopping only occasionally to clean her girl parts (an act I embarrassingly had to take over with washcloth in hand each and every morning for the past 98 days).

Oh, it is good to be Izzy.

Thanksgiving Road Trip

2009-11-29T14:25:00.000-08:00

To watch the video in big, HD goodness, click HERE and hit the HD button.

Those of you that know me, I mean really know me, also know that I'm not a big fan of family gatherings. If you ask my mom, she'll tell you that (much to her disappointment) I've been this way since I was a small child.

They give me hives.

I'm not kidding.

Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love Thanksgiving - it's one of my favorite holidays (second only to Iz Day, of course). It's just that I usually prefer to spend the long weekend by myself, eating yams out of a can and feeling thankful for my family without having to actually be around them. It's not that I don't love them.

I do. Really, I do.

But I also work with them every day, and sometimes an extended weekend by myself is exactly what I need to truly feel, um, well.....thankful.

When you are an only child and unmarried, you can totally get away with this. You can sleep late on Thanksgiving morning, wake up whenever you feel like it, go for a long ride, lounge around the house in clothes you'd never wear in public, eat too many canned yams, drink too much wine, watch too much football (and then do it all over again the next day, and the next day and the next).

*sigh*

Good times.

Of course, a few years ago, I met Karen and suddenly, well, my family became her family, and hers became mine. Her holiday traditions became my holiday traditions, and my solitary ways? Well....they say change is good.

Right?

So this year we (and when I say we, I mean Karen and I and Izzy the squinty-eyed, cone-headed dog) packed our things (and when I say things, I mean one bag for Karen and me, and an entire carload of food, toys, eye medications, baby gates, pillows and pooper-scooper sacks for the Izzard) and we headed for California.

Destination? San Jose!

Fog along I-5 - Woot! California Bound!

To give you an idea of the significance of this 13-hour road trip (I mean other than the fact that I just wanted to stay home and eat canned yams by myself) let me give you a little bit of background information on Izzy. She is eleven (and a half) years old. The last time she was in the car for longer than twenty minutes was when I drove from Atlanta to Olympia in 1999. As I recall, she started eating the seatbelts as soon as we hit Interstate 20 and screamed for a potty break every 47 seconds.

Also, she is gassy.

Another fact about Izzy? She doesn't know how to swim. In fact, it takes 2-3 people to successfully bathe her (in a one-on-one situation, you will end up in the tub and Izzy will run around the house laughing at you). To say that she hates water is an understatement. Why am I bringing this up?

Just keep reading.

The first of seventeen cups of coffee (oh, sweet nectar)

Somehow we managed to pile Izzy (and all her gear) into the car and backed out of the driveway at o'dark-thirty. The clock said a little after six, but it felt like hours earlier, which was probably why Izzy settled in on her pillows (yes, plural - one was not enough) and fell sound asleep. With the exception of of a potty break in Cottage Grove, Oregon and then again somewhere in Northern California, she actually slept the entire way.

And she only tooted once, unless that was Karen.

Record Holder For Most Number Of Naps In A 13-Hour Period

Anyhoo, as it turns out, Izzy was going to need all that sleep. Waiting for her in California was a family with lots of love, lots of energy and, yes, a swimming pool!

Which is exactly what Dizzy Izzy fell into at 4:30am on Thanksgiving morning. All I remember is that she was whining, and before I could tell Karen to ignore it (because Izzy tends to whine and then fall back asleep after performing exactly seven counterclockwise circles around her bed) they were both outside peeing (Izzy) and swimming laps (Izzy and a not-very-happy Karen).

Apparently, after the Izzard finished watering the lawn, she proceeded to ignore Karen's shouts of warning and stepped (cone-first) into the deep end of the swimming pool, immediately sinking to the bottom. Meanwhile, Karen (whose greatest fear was that I would never speak to her again if she somehow let my dog drown while on a potty break) dove head first into the ice-cold water to save Izzy's life.

Of course, Izzy didn't really feel like being saved. No, notsomuch. Once at the surface, she threw a world famous Izzy Fit (not to be confused with a Tegger Tantrum, which I'm sure is documented on this blog somewhere in case you've never witnessed it first-hand), thrashed around like a wild thing to get free of Karen, and went on to swim a few laps with a pissed-off (not to mention half-frozen) human chasing her around the pool.

Not bad for a dog who doesn't know how to swim!

Anyway, Izzy's adventures were too numerous to fit into a single blog post. I recommend that you watch the video above and check out the photos HERE.

Post-Thanksgiving Bed Head - Feelin' All Kinds of Sex-ay!

The truth is, Izzy had the best weekend of her life celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday with her California family. And, believe it or not, I did find my happy place. It turns out you can still eat too many yams, drink too much wine (and beer and lemon drops), oversleep, ride your bike for miles and miles and still be a part of something bigger than yourself.

Yes, I learned this from my gassy, cone-headed, squinty-eyed, eleven (and a half) year-old dog.

Thank you, Izzy.

All Roads Lead To Rome

2009-10-31T15:08:00.000-07:00

First Hour In Vernazza - Il Tramonto

One of the wonderful things about the Cinque Terre is that you're almost cut off from the rest of the world. Except for a daily influx of visitors, things are pretty sleepy there. The slow pace is such a nice change, and although I missed being able to upload photos and share them, I have to admit that the break from checking email was kind of nice.

Of course, this means that once again I have a big backlog of adventures to copy and paste. So, without further ado, I give you.....the Cinque Terre:

* * *

Buon giorno from my favorite place on the planet – Vernazza!

Sigh.

And again but with more feeling.

Siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I'm telling you, this is Italy. Or at least, this is my Italy. I can't do it justice with my descriptions, so what I recommend is that if you're reading this, at some point in your life, please make an effort to come here and experience it for yourself. Plan it for the end of an Italian adventure. Do the usual touristy stuff. See the museums and artwork in Florence. Do the gondola thing in Venice. Throw the coins over your shoulder into the Trevi Fountain in Rome. Do what you have to do (or what the guide books tell you to do).

But most of all, end your vacation with a few days in the Cinque Terre.

Trust me on this one.

Karen and I arrived here at 4pm today after about six hours on three different trains that took us from Verona to Milano to Monterosso and finally to Vernazza. It was actually a pretty exciting day.

I mean, it started off with breakfast in the hotel, which wasn't really all that amazing (the cappuccino left something to be desired – well, at least there wasn't a button and a hissing sound involved). But the real adventure broke out when we asked the woman at the reception desk to call us a cab.

A few minutes later, one arrived.

Yes, it did.

So we got in, and, well, it didn't really, um, you know...move.

No, notsomuch.

The hotel was located on an extremely narrow one-way street, and a big, white delivery truck sort of got stuck trying to turn the corner at the far end. We got in the cab and proceeded to watch the big, white delivery truck try to maneuver around this corner, half lodged underneath a residential balcony (I would have been crapping my pants if I had been that homeowner). In the meantime, we also watched the meter in our cab go from zero to ten euros (approximately fifteen dollars with today's exchange rate) and we hadn't moved an inch.

Watching the Meter and the Show Up Front

Actually, I take that back. We had moved about ten feet backwards as traffic on the one-way street slowly crawled in the opposite direction towards Verona's main square. At one point, our cab driver actually got out of the car, ran up to the big, white, stuck truck and yelled at the driver, then ran back and somehow directed traffic in such a way that eventually all the drivers behind us and in front of us got out of Vicolo Tre Marchetti with no lives lost. There was a lot of screaming involved, and we ended up driving the wrong way on another one-way street in order to get headed in the right direction. But eventually we made it to the train station. It might have cost us an arm and a leg (or an eyeball, as they say in Italian) but it was a pretty exciting start to the day!

The train ride to Milano was fairly uneventful except for the Italian train employee who assumed I didn't speak the language and proceeded to have a fight with her boss right in front of us. It was pure comedy. Again, worth the price of the ticket.

At Milano Centrale we were hoping to meet up with my friend Martina as we got off the train. Unfortunately, I couldn't track her down when we disembarked, but as we were making our way through the crowds to our next platform, I suddenly saw a familiar face! So great to catch up with her! Martina is from Sicilia, but is attending school in Milano. She actually skipped class to come see us.

Catching Up With Martina at Milano Centrale

Grazie, Martina. Ci ha fatto tanto piacere vederti alla stazione. Dai, ora tocca a te. Vieni a trovarci negli Stati Uniti! Ti aspettiamo con braci aperti!

We had about an hour layover at the Milan train station, and were able to catch up with Martina. This was a huge treat for me, and it was really great for Karen to get to interact with an Italian who speaks flawless English. For once we were both involved in the conversation and laughter.

Sigh. Good times.

The train ride to Monterosso was a long one, and we were in a compartment with two Swiss ladies. At some point, all four of us dozed off (seriously boring train ride) until a couple from Australia filled out the remaining two seats. I didn't catch their names, but they were a lot of fun. All six of us got along pretty well in that small seating area, and when it was time to get off, we did our part to help the Australians find their way. Actually, the Australian-American contingent did our best to help the Swiss ladies with their luggage, and they were quite grateful.

I think this has something to do with our new president. Europeans were never grateful when 'W' was holding court.

Sigh. So good to be an American now.

Anyway, where was I? Oh, we made it to Monterosso (about 18 minutes late) but somehow barely made our train to Vernazza and made our way from the station to the room we are renting. To give you an idea of the size of the town, it takes approximately 45 seconds to walk from one end to the other. Unless there are tourists coming off the train, in which case it takes about 1 minute, 15 seconds.

Anyway. We made it. All the crowds in Venice. All the crappy wine in Florence. All the jet lag and fatigue. It was all worth it. We made it to Vernazza.

There's just something special about the Cinque Terre. I don't know how to explain it. If you've been here, you know exactly what I'm talking about. There aren't words. It just is.

We climbed the stairs to our room, checked in with Giuseppe, dropped off our bags and headed down to the water for a beer while the sun went down over the sea. It was magical. I couldn't believe that I was back in this place. With Karen.

A dream come true.

And the look on her face told me that it had lived up to her expectations. After all the times I had talked about it, she was finally here in the Cinque Terre, and it was all that she had imagined and more.

Or maybe that was just the beer.

It was pretty late in the day (and almost November) so our hiking was cut off pretty short. We made our way up one of the rocky paths for a taste of what was yet to come, and then returned to town to (a) purchase wine and (b) drink it.

The significance of this wine purchase (in addition to the wine we had with dinner and then the sciacchetrà we drank afterwards) is that until we got here, I was convinced that they were withholding alcohol content from the wine in Italy. Seriously. I drank a metric assload one night in Florence (half a bottle with Karen before dinner, half a half a bottle with Karen at dinner and then a bottle by myself while blogging after dinner) and didn't feel a thing the next morning.

Seriously. Nothing.

Erm. Notsomuch this morning. Definitely felt the room still spinning when I woke up. I'm just going to blame it on the sciacchetrà, not on the other three liters that I consumed. By the way, schiacchetrà is a local specialty. It's a sweet desert wine with high alcohol content (hubba hubba), made from the dried grapes (yes, we call them raisins). This stuff is.....DA POO!

Also, it causes hangovers.

Anyhooooooooo.....

So, yes, it was lovely to wake up with a hangover this morning. Just in time for six hours of intense hiking. I do enjoy living on the edge. Believe me. If you have a choice, do NOT drink sciacchetrà after an evening of other Cinque Terre spirits if you plan on waking up and walking along cliffs where vertigo and other sorts of dizziness might cause....life or death issues.

Okay, I'm being slightly overdramatic. Actually, no I'm not. Come and see for yourself. Some of these paths are pretty darn challenging. If you are willing to branch away from the crowded paths that connect the five villages and go up into the mountains, you will be rewarded with some amazingly peaceful adventures. You'll forget you're in Italy. In fact, if you do pass anyone (which you probably won't) they will most likely be from either Germany or France.

Oh, by the way, when I get back from this trip, I'm going to learn the French language and teach it to Karen. We are going to go there next. Just not during the middle of cyclocross season.

So today we hiked for about six hours. And then another hour to get up the stairs to our room. Okay, not that bad, but seriously, you should try climbing four flights of stairs after tackling a couple of mountains!

Wining, er, whining aside, life is GOOD.

We miss our dogs, though.

* * *

And now back to today. We're actually on a four-hour train ride to Rome right now. The Cinque Terre was an amazing stop for us, and although we weren't really eager to leave it behind, we are looking forward to exploring Roma (and getting home to our friends and family and dogs and bicycles).

Yesterday we had a pretty epic day on the trails. We actually had a game plan as far as which paths we would take and which order. And, of course, we got lost about four times and had to quickly come up with a Plan B what would get us back down off the mountain before the sun went down.

The hike from Vernazza to Corniglia, which gets crowded with tourists later in the day, was still a quiet trip along the coast and then through olive groves. We were shocked to see sections of the orchards burned by wildfires, although it wouldn't compare at all to the damage we would find later in the day.

From Corniglia, we made the climb up towards Volastra, which was full of incredible views of the yellows and greens coming from the grape plants. We even saw some of the land owners tending to their vineyards as we made our way through. Surreal.

Walking the Vineyards Above Corniglia

It was after Volastra that things started to get a little too interesting. Path number six was supposed to take us up to the main upper path that followed the ridge line. This was a great plan, except that finding path number six was almost impossible. At one point we actually ended up in the cemetery. Then we thought we found the right path and ended up between the wires of an electric fence surrounding a private vineyard. I'm not sure if the spent shotgun shells we saw on the ground were to protect the grapes from the wild boar (more on this later) or from lost Americans.

At some point we found the signs for both path number six and path number 6b. We wanted number six. And guess which one accidentally took? Right. Not number six. The trail description indicated that the path was “not well marked”. Yeah. How about not at all marked.

Karen and I started to get a little nervous as we got further and further up the mountain, away from civilization, still not really sure if we were on a path or not. There were huge brown leaves covering the ground where there might (or might not) have been a path. But most of the time we had to walk with our hands straight up in the air and try to scurry through prickly plants.

Fun times.

Much to our relief, we did come to the top of the mountain and saw the sign for path number one, which would (hopefully) take us to path number 01 and down to Riomaggiore (where hoped there would be beer).

Did I mention that our water ran out about four hours earlier? Yeah. We were thirsty and having beer hallucinations.

Oh Sweet Path to Riomaggiore. How I Missed You!

As you can see in the picture above, we did eventually find the path down to Riomaggiore, but what we saw at the start of it was kind of disconcerting. There was a gate with a sign telling us to make sure to close it behind us to keep the wild boar out.

Yeah. Um. What?

Seriously? You mean that whole time we were on the other path we could have been eaten by wild boar?

Wow. Okay.

There probably wasn't actually any real danger of being eaten by a wild boar because the area above Riomaggiore had been destroyed by wild fire. It was tragic to see. Not to mention difficult to walk through. The trails tend to be marked with red and white paint on the trees (except on path 6b, where there were no markings to speak of). This works well except when fire has consumed everything in sight.

We had to double back and climb back up a few times when we'd venture in one direction only to come to the edge of a terrace and realize that the path we were on was actually just the path used by the landowner. This went on and on for a while. About five hours in, I hit the wall and had to sit down for a Clif Bar moment.

Phew.

Anyway, needless to say, we did finally make it down to the village and ended up hopping a train back to Vernazza. Had a quick shower and then somehow made it down to the marina for beer-thirty. We watched the sun go down (which was kind of neat, knowing that it was just coming up in Olympia) and said goodbye to our new friends Paolo and Francesco.

Despite the fact that we had eaten our best meals ever in Vernazza, we were too tired to go back out for dinner that night. The thought of climbing up and down those four flights of stairs was just too much. In fact, we were both passed out by 8pm last night.

After our morning cappuccino, we caught a train to La Spezia and are now heading down to Rome for a few days. We'll make it to the hotel by about 3pm and hope to do some exploring. Maybe find a way to get our tickets to tomorrow's soccer match.

And maybe throw some coins into that Trevi Fountain thing.

For good luck.

* * *

Wow, as it turns out, we didn't need any good luck. We made it safe and sound to Rome, found our way from the hotel to the city center via bus and then metro and accidentally found a shop that sold tickets to the soccer match.

Turns out that buying tickets to a soccer match in Italy isn't as easy as finding the stadium, handing over your money and taking your tickets. First of all, they don't sell tickets at the stadium.

I know. What?

So you sort of have to wander around town and hope you stumble upon an “official ticket dealer” (which we did). Unfortunately, when we gave them our money, they didn't give us our tickets. We had to come back two hours later.

Um. Okay.

So we wandered around Rome. Found a cute little restaurant where Karen's world was rocked by some incredible Spaghetti alla Carbonara (and mine by gnocchi). Our waiter spent the entire evening watching a German Sci-Fi movie dubbed in Italian (something about space reptiles that were eating humans in a bowling alley). It was an awesome night.

Karen Above the Trevi Fountain

We also went to the Trevi Fountain (actually found it by accident while searching for beer and/or spaghetti to celebrate our almost-got-tickets situation). Anyhoo. Lots of tourists at said fountain. Couldn't even get close enough to toss coins over our shoulder for good luck and the assurance that we would return to Rome. So, instead of chucking them over the crowds, we just decided we didn't have to come back to Rome.

Anyhoo, now we are back at the hotel, wearing the free slippers they provided. The bottle of wine I just purchased downstairs cost more than a bag of dog food. And the one hour of internet I am using to upload photos right now cost more than a month of Comcast.

But the slippers are free. And we're taking them with us, dammit!

As always, you can view our new photo additions from the Big Italian Adventure RIGHT HERE (clicky click).

PS: We are still loving Italy. Looking forward to tomorrow's soccer match. And then we want to come home and see our dogs and maybe not eat pasta for a while. Just sayin.

Causing A Commotion

2009-10-27T08:53:00.000-07:00

The Legend Says To Rub Her Right Tata For Good Luck

So here we are in Verona. Very, very happy to be done with Venice. It's quiet here. There are crowds, but they are small. And they don't smell like mothballs/piss/sauerkraut. I don't know if I've always loved Verona because it's Verona or because it's not Venice.

Either way, I don't care. I like* it here.

We arrived at noon and took a taxi to the hotel. Yes, the Romeo and Juliet Hotel. It's actually a really cute place, priced right and located a block away from the Roman Arena.

And it has free wireless internet.

We went for a little walk this afternoon, hitting the main tourist spots and then wandering to the other side of the river and up to the Castel San Pietro for a view of the city from above.

A Hazy Day in Verona - View From Castel San Pietro

After exploring for about three hours, we found a phone to call home and then made our way to Juliet's balcony so Karen could get her picture taken with the statue. And here's where Italy just dropped a few notches in my book.

Don't get me wrong. I love Italy. And my Italian friends? They are wonderful. But there is definitely something wrong with some of the people here. Not all of them. Some of them. These people are making Italy a totally different experience for me. And for Karen, which is what really gets to me most.

Yes, I'm referring to homophobia.

I guess I expected it. This is, after all, home to the Pope and all that business. But I've been to Italy three times, and I've never, until today, not felt safe in my own skin. I've always had a wonderful time in Italy, mostly because the Italians have treated me so well. In fact, sometimes it felt like they went out of their way to make sure I was happy and safe.

Today we went to Juliet's balcony here in Verona, where there is a bronze statue of her likeness. As you can see by GOOGLING THE SUBJECT, the tradition is that you rub her right breast for good luck. People (men and women) have been doing it for decades (which is why you see the shiny spot).

Anyhoo. We waited our turn for a group of Spanish men and women to take their turn getting their photo taken with the statue, and then Karen got up there so I could snap a shot. It was going to be great! In fact, the photo is great.

What you can't tell (or hear) from the photo is the group of Italian men behind us that started shouting when she got up there for the photo. Seriously, my heart just about thumped right out of my chest. I thought they were going to attack us. We didn't even stay to see the rest of the attraction. We just quickly made our way out of there and down the street away from the commotion.

Seriously, it was really messed up.

Karen and I? We're nice people. We are conscious of other people's feelings and their sensitivities. But this? This was fucking ridiculous. Karen's hands were shaking when we walked back to the hotel, and me? I'm still really pissed off.

The good news is that we are moving on to my absolute favorite spot on the planet tomorrow - Vernazza and the Cinque Terre - and hopefully this will just turn into a distant memory while we are hiking on the miles and miles of scenic Ligure trails.

But anyway...in the meantime, if this post upsets you even a little bit, please remember that ballot that came in the mail about ten days ago. Approving Referendum 71 won't fix anything here in Italy, but it can at least assure some degree of equality (yeah, who knew equality had degrees?) at home.

And, as usual, the Big Italian Adventure photo collection has been updated HERE.

*Erm, PS, Karen still really likes Verona. In fact, we're about to go out to dinner and like it even more. But, um....yeah. Sigh.

It's Back

2009-10-27T02:14:00.000-07:00

This morning we went out for coffee. We went out for coffee because our hotel has a bar, but it doesn't have a barista. For a cappuccino, you put your cup under a nozzle thing, and you push a button. Then it makes a whizzing, hissing noise, and some watery, milky substance comes out. And then something that looks like coffee comes out. And there you go.

I thought these things were illegal in Italy.

Anyway, we went out for coffee, walking into a small, quiet neighborhood. I thought we were about to enjoy an authentic Italian cappuccino experience until a Chinese woman walked behind the bar and took our order.

Turns out she makes a helluva cappuccino. And it was fun talking with her.

Also, on the way back to the hotel we walked by a hair design studio. A huge poster was lining the glass door. For a handsome sum, you can get your very own SOCCER MULLET.

I'm not kidding.

It's back!

Since we seem to be about two or three years behind the Europeans when it comes to fashion and style, we probably don't have to fear the mullet's return to the states until 2011.

Anyhoo, that was our exciting morning. We are catching a train to Verona in half an hour. We'll be staying at the - waaaaaaaait for it - Romeo and Juliet Hotel.

I know. I love Italy.

Borrowing Broadband

2009-10-26T07:04:00.000-07:00

Finalmente. Cucina Casalinga. Seriously. All Kinds of Yum.

So. Something funny happened here in Italy. A lack of internet-ness. I am paying $500 per night so Karen can have a room with a view, but I refuse to pay $9 an hour for internet. That's just robbery!

So, anyhoo, right now Karen and I are chillin like villains in Campo Santa Margherita, "borrowing" somebody's broadband. Not sure how many beers we've had (I'm thinking three apiece), but we've earned it after walking around the back streets of Venice for the last four hours. We estimated about fifteen miles. If you do the math - and you should - that's only one beer for every five miles.

Anyhoo, due to my lack of free internet (until now - and I apologize to whomever I am stealing, er, borrowing from at the moment) we have a slight bloggy backlog, which means I'm about to copy and paste the following text for your enjoyment. Enjoy!

* * *

Reading La Gazzetta dello Sport on the Train to Venice

Sunday, October 25, 2009 – On the train to Venice right now. It's a little weird to come to Italy and then be surrounded by Americans. Apparently they have relegated us to the only-English-speaking car. Bummer. Anyhoo, Florence is but a memory. We finished off our stay with a cappuccino in the hotel bar. They were playing a Queen montage in the background. Nothing says “hey, you, wake up” like that Bicycle Race song.

And now I can't get it out of my head.

Anyhoo. Gotta go. Free juice cart is here. And sweet and salty snacks. More to come.

Monday, October 26, 2009 – Okay, so I planned on connecting to the internet and telling you all about our Venice adventures. But alas, I don't have an internet connection here in our $500 per night hotel. Actually, I do. But at $9 per hour, I have to put my foot down somewhere, right?

So, anyway, Venice. It's exactly what I remember. Crowded. Reminds me of Disneyland-meets-Vegas except with lots of cigarette smoke. Oddly enough, yesterday was the Venice Marathon. I say oddly because I was here three years ago on the same day as the Venice Marathon. Anyway, to make things even more interesting, not only is it crowded here, there are also an extra five thousand neurotic runner types limping through the twisting and turning alleys of Venice today. I'm allowed to call runners neurotic because I used to be one.

A runner, I mean.

I'm still neurotic.

Anyway, last year when I came to Venice I decided to pay out the nose for a room with a view of the Grand Canal. It's Venice. You're going to pay a lot no matter where you sleep. So I figured, I might as well pay a lot, a lot (which is slightly more than a lot) and have a view. The hotel totally came through and gave me a room with a terrace overlooking the water. It was amazing.

Of course, when Karen saw the pictures of this room, she said, “I want to stay there! I want to stay in that room!”

Not wanting to disappoint, I booked a reservation and begged and pleaded in Italian and told them how we would love, love, love them forever and ever if they gave us the same room. Never thought it would happen. And, actually, it didn't. But we did get the room right next door. Also with a terrace. And this year it comes with a funky odor. Karen and I can't quite put our finger on it. It's almost like if you left out a jar of dill pickles and they started rotting.

Or sauerkraut.

But the view is great. I will try to remember this when I see the $1000 charge on my credit card.

Oh, speaking of money, we have discovered that Karen has now spent as many euros on Italian beer and wine as she has using the public toilets. Water closets, they call them here. We also discovered that she has a bladder the size of a garbanzo bean. So if you ever have any questions about what to expect in a public restroom in Italy, you know who to ask. Karen has had the pleasure of tinkling in nearly all of them.

We also learned something else yesterday. I am allergic to crowds. It's not just that I don't like crowds. I literally break out in hives and start itching. It happened in Florence, and we thought it was just, I dunno, bed bugs or something. Notsomuch. We got off the train yesterday, ran smack dab into a wall of tourists outside the train station, and I started itching. Just like that. Then we wandered around the quiet neighborhoods, and I was fine. Next we decided to venture to Piazza San Marco, and my skin was crawling again.

Seriously, weirdest thing.

Anyway, to avoid Monday morning hives, we set the alarm and got up early this morning, making the same trip down to St. Mark's Square but with nobody on the street except Venetians going to work and kids going to school. Today our plan is to stay as far away from San Marco as possible, getting lost in some of the other neighborhoods. I've got a couple of friends that live here, and I keep calling, but they must know I'm in town, because their phone is always “unreachable”. We're kind of getting tired of eating in restaurants, and were hoping they'd invite us over for dinner tonight.

Hello, if you ever read this! Invite us for dinner tonight!

Sigh.

Actually, we had our best meal yet in a dinky little trattoria last night. Way off the beaten path in a quiet neighborhood. Loved it. And it had almost all Italians there, so we were pretty sure we'd found a gem. Best pasta I've had in a while.

Almost as good as my homemade Pasta Roni.

Kidding.

Okay, half kidding.

Also, we had a hilarious dinner conversation over spaghetti and penne, but I don't know if I can do it justice by re-writing it in the blog. It might have been one of those “you had to be there” moments. Not sure how the conversation went from “oh my, this pasta is good” to the movie “Alive” (about the airplane that crashes in the Andes where they have to eat each other to survive). Anyway, out of the blue, in total seriousness, I told Karen, “You should eat my butt first.”

And with complete sincerity she answered, “You don't think I should eat your thighs?”

To which I responded, still very serious, “No, you should eat my butt. It's plump.”

“Okay,” she said, and took another sip of wine.

Anyhoo, that's the latest and greatest from this corner of the world. Karen is taking a 9:30am nap right now, and I think I'll just keep sitting out here on the terrace far, far away from the crowds that make me itch.

Life is Rough - 9:30am Nap in Venice

* * *

Okay, back to real time now. Still sitting here in Campo Santa Margherita. Karen and I just realized that our "free" (borrowed) internet is costing us $7.50 per beer. We've had....well, anyway. It's all about principles, right?

So today has been another interesting day in Venezia. We took the olfactory tour. What I mean is that it is really easy to get lost in Venice. Luckily, it's more or less an island thingy, so you can't get too lost. And also, you can sort of smell your way back home.

We were lost in the Jewish ghetto but knew we were close to the main path when we smelled the mothballs coming from the wedding dress shop. We'd definitely been by there before. Also, the bridge that smelled like piss? A telltale sign that we were on the right track. About 300 meters (yes, we're all up with the euro measurements now) from our hotel we started to smell the rotting sauerkraut of our room. We were home!

We've also discovered that we are the only non-smokers on this entire continent.

Seriously.

People, it's gonna kill ya! I'm just sayin.

On a happy note, while we're sitting here breathing in the second-hand smoke, we're extremely happy campers, just sitting on the side of a bustling piazza, drinking our expensive beer and letting our feet rest before the long trek home.

I think we should be okay if we take a left at the pigeon poop stank near that bridge thingy....

PS: We managed to update the photo collection while borrowing this precious "free" internet. You can view photo evidence of our latest and greatest moments HERE.

Hello, Sunshine! Hello, Bidet!

2009-10-24T11:25:00.000-07:00

The Sun Makes An Appearance!

Good news from across the pond! The sun finally came out in Italy! And rumor has it that it's going to stick around for a while. The timing of this beautiful weather couldn't be better! Tomorrow morning we are heading for Venice on the high speed Freccia Rossa. Florence has been great, but we're ready to move on.

And, er, it appears that we'll actually have to wait an extra hour because daylight savings time ends in Europe tonight. An extra hour in Italy? What amazing luck!

So, in the meantime, let's see if I can update you on our latest and greatest Italian adventures. First and foremost (before the majority of the readers get bored with my stories) let me share some super exciting news.

Today I learned how to properly use a bidet!

I say “properly” because last year I accidentally peed in the bidet in Venice. When you're in a different hotel every other night, you tend to forget where the toilet is hiding when you're wandering around in the dark in the middle of the night. In Venice, I made my way through the darkness, felt porcelain, sat on the edge and, well...tinkled. Turns out there isn't a flusher thingy when it comes to the bidet, which was why I couldn't find it in the middle of the night.

Common mistake. Stop laughing.

Anyhoo, back to today's bathroom adventure. Oh! Just to put everyone's mind at ease (thanks to the free internet here at the hotel) I was able to google “how to use a bidet”. Go ahead and try it if you like. There are even videos.

Not really a big deal. Can't say that I am moved to have one installed at home, but it's good to know that the Italians are such clean-freaks when it comes to their bums.

And now on to our next order of business - a culinary update. More good news - Karen's quest for spaghetti has been fulfilled! We found a restaurant last night that offered plain ol' spaghetti and tomato sauce. No anchovies. No clams. No truffles. Just spaghetti. Karen went to bed a happy girl. Of course, she still has jet lag, so she didn't fall asleep. But while she was lying there listening to me snore, she was a happy camper.

And now onto today's happenings. We did a little more exploring across the river, as far away from the crowds of tour groups as we could possibly go. That was a nice break, although Karen was running on fumes and needed a mid-day break. Which she took.

Too Much of a Good Thing

Later in the afternoon we went over to Piazza di Willy Winky for a beer. Historians apparently call this place Piazza della Signoria, but it has a lot of statues with really oddly-shaped male body parts, so we decided to rename it.

Oh, Neptune. Seriously?

After our beer break, we walked about 20 miles till we could find just the right sticker for Karen's new Vespa. Okay, she doesn't own it yet. But she now has the sticker ready for when she does make the purchase. Then, on the way to dinner we stopped along the river and watched an impromptu cricket match down on the bank of the Arno. That was strange, but really entertaining.

Impromptu Cricket Match Along the Arno River

Anyhoo, as you can see – bidet adventure aside – we have done nothing of cultural significance here in Florence. No, we did not go to the Accademia or the Uffizi. We saw neither David nor Dante. But we did have a fantastic time and would love to come back to Florence someday. Especially now that we know how to use a bidet.

But first, on to Venezia!

In Search of Spaghetti

2009-10-23T08:52:00.000-07:00

Gelato Goodness (aka the $9 ice cream scam)

Hello from rainy Florence! Hope all is well with the rest of the world. Karen and I are fairing quite well (and doing our part to rehabilitate the supposedly struggling Italian wine industry). It's the least we could do.

Sooooo, below you will find another bit of cut-and-paste action from my journal of big happenings here in Italia. Enjoy!

* * *

Friday October 23, 2009 – Buon giorno! We're sitting on a train bound for Florence right now. Actually, it's not moving. We're pretty sure that eventually it will take us to birthplace of the Renaissance. We're not exactly sure what that means, but it sounds like it will involve wine.

Kidding, kidding.

Anyway, woo, big happenings in Siena yesterday! Where to begin? How about the night before when I signed off and proceeded to fall into a sleep so deep that neither one of us woke up in time for breakfast. By the time we were showered and out the door to explore (in the rain) it was almost noon. That was some seriously good shut-eye (which, as it turns out, we would end up needing).

First order of the day was to find a cappuccino, which isn't exactly hard in this country. We wandered in towards the main piazza and found a dinky bar with nobody waiting in line. Not sure if this was a good sign, but the cappuccino was tasty enough to pull us out of our haze and send us on an expedition of the less-touristy neighborhoods of the city. It's amazing how most visitors don't venture off the main axis of tourism. Go a few blocks in either direction and suddenly you're able to experience everyday life in Siena. Good stuff.

The Obligatory Top-of-the-Tower Photo

The rain stopped just after noon, and we were able to do our touristy bit of the day, paying seven euro to climb the Torre del Mangia. Cyclocross training came in handy going up all those steps (so much easier without a 20-pound bike on my back). We got to the top, took the obligatory photos, and went back down to Il Campo for a beer.

Make that five beers.

A little after 2pm we sat down in one of the expensive little outdoor cafes lining the piazza. The service is bad, the food is worse, but the view is excellent. And not 20 seconds after we sat down, we made a couple of new friends from London – two gals named Catherine and Alex.

Our new BFFs.

Our New Friend Alex and Her Small Beer

They were a hoot. Even before the beer came. As it turns out, we spent the afternoon – and into the early evening – chatting with them over drinks. Then Alex saw a woman drinking a fancy red-colored beverage with a slice of orange (that would be campari) and ordered one for herself. And another. And another. And another. And pretty soon she invited the woman over to our table.

Meet Sara.

A few drinks later we were all old friends, and suddenly Karen and I found ourselves invited to dinner.

At 9pm.

Which, despite our late wake-up, was still kind of a stretch for our American stomachs (Karen was sound asleep behind me while I was uploading that last batch of photos before dinner). Somehow, we still managed to pull ourselves together and get out the door to meet the girls back by the main square.

And it wasn't that we were starving (which, uh, we were). The reason we didn't bail out of the whole thing and retire to our room for a Clif Bar and a good night's sleep was because Catherine and Alex had invited us to London. And, erm, we want to go to London!

So we showed up for dinner, which turned out to be a pretty traditional Italian meal. Translation – lots of wine to start the affair, and then we didn't eat till about 11pm. And when we did eat, we got a huge plate with a little tiny portion of fancy pasta with an even fancier name. I have to admit, it might have been the best food I've ever tasted. It's just that it might have also been the smallest portion I've ever seen. And the meal ended up costing us 70 euro, which, given the current exchange rate, was about the same price as gold.

We wandered back to the hotel a little after midnight and went to bed, still hungry and counting the hours to breakfast. Which brings us to today and the new adventures we're about to have in Firenze! More to come.

* * *

Okay, soooooo, we made it to Florence. Firenze. The birthplace of that Renaissance thing. Home of the big statue of the naked guy with the big right hand and the little winkie. You know the one.

Not a whole lot to say about today because it's raining outside. We wandered around for a bit. Bought a few touristy items. Took a few touristy photos. Made big plans for hiking around and taking photos tomorrow when it's supposed to be sunny and warm. Or at least not raining.

Tonight's goal will be to find a plate of spaghetti for Karen. We have yet to go to a basic mom-and-pop home-cooked kind of place, which has kind of been a bummer. Last night we were planning on going to one in Siena, but then we met those crazy British girls and ended up spending all that coin for a few bites of something fancy that left our stomachs growling for more all night.

All Karen wants is spaghetti. The real deal. And we're going to find it here in Florence. I can feel it.

* * *

As always, you can view our newly added photos HERE.

Our First Two, Erm, Three Days

2009-10-22T10:42:00.000-07:00

Tasty Beverages in Siena

Hello, er, ciao from Siena! Just wanted to give everyone an update of our adventure. A whole bunch of craziness happened today, which I have yet to put into words. But below you'll find the text I saved from the first couple of internet-less days. Enjoy!

* * *

Monday, October 19, 2009 – So, we're about 35,000 feet in the air right now. And I have to pee. It's not like there aren't any toilets on this flight. It's just that, well, have you ever thought about this when you're standing in an airplane lavatory? You're peeing at 35,000 feet! Freaks me out!

So, anyway, I'm going to hold it till we get to Detroit.

Anyhoo, so far the day has gone really well. Usually when I travel to Italy, a handful of things have gone not-according-to-plan by now (like that time in Atlanta when the tram door got stuck in the closed position with a hoard of anxious passengers inside).

I'll admit, we got off to an early start. A really early start. I woke up at 3am to pee, and when I came back into the room, Karen was practically giggling and very much wide awake, “I'm too excited to sleep!” she said. “We're going to Italy today!”

So more sleep didn't really happen for me. Instead, she opened the Italian vocabulary book, and I checked online to make sure our flight was on time.

Yep, still not taking off for another six hours.

So anyway, the flight to Detroit has thus far been rather uneventful. We each took a turn at Sudoku (Karen finishing two hard puzzles before I messed up my first attempt at a medium one). We've also read two copies of Bicycling magazine and one copy of Velo News front to back (or back to front, which is how Karen reads periodicals – I learned this just today).

We were served “lunch” which was half a diet Coke and a bag of pretzels. If we wanted a PB&J sandwich, they would have gladly taken our $5. Pretzels are good.

Ooo. The plane is descending now. Must focus on not wetting myself for the next 45 minutes. More later.

* * *

So, right now, Karen is doing laps of the Detroit airport, and I am at the gate listening to little old ladies speak Italian. We just got done consuming margaritas after tasting Kid Rock's local “Bad Ass Lager”. It was as light as water and tasted even lighter. Not exactly bad ass. Very bad and very much tasted like ass. More later.

* * *

Once again we are cruising along at 41,000 feet. According to the map embedded in the seat-back in front of me, we are just off the west coast of France. I'm practically ecstatic. Not because we're so close to landing in Rome but because I managed to sleep the entire plane ride over. This has never happened to me before. I guess the whole wake-up-at-3am thing worked.

Okay, well, that and the two Tylenol PM I chased with a glass of red wine.

Anyhoo, I am ready for Italy!

Poor Karen, on the other hand, hasn't slept a wink. She might have except that while she was trying to dose face down on her food tray thing, the lady in front of her slammed her chair straight backwards, lodging Karen's head between the seat in the tray.

Not a happy camper.

Right now she's kicking ass playing her 347th game of solitaire. More to come.

* * *

And now it's 6:45pm here in Cortona. Karen and I are trying desperately to stay awake long enough to grab dinner before we collapse. Karen has now been awake for 31 hours. Gotta say, she's a trooper! “Stayin' up for spaghetti!” is what she keeps muttering incoherently.

I'm still amazed at how well everything went today. My big Italian adventures always tend to go sort of sideways (which I guess makes them kind of fun or at least entertaining). I've never had a plane to or from Italy take off on time, and yet today we took off 15 minutes early and landed half an hour ahead of schedule. I know! Crazy!

Not only that, we were the very first people off the plane to clear customs! Woohoo! Of course, to make things exciting, my bag was the very last one off the plane. Nearly gave me a heart attack. But hey, at least it made it to Rome.

After we grabbed our packs, we headed over to the train station and validated our rail passes. Nothing too exciting on the train rides except when we helped an American couple figure out when they needed to get off for Orvieto. We did our good deed for the day, took turns shutting our eyes and finally made it to Cortona.

Actually, we made it to Camucia, which is where the train stops. Cortona sits way at the top of a hill, and you get up there either by bus or taxi. Unfortunately the bus wasn't going to come for another hour and half (and I hadn't peed since when I finally gave in to the urge somewhere over France) and nobody answered when I called the taxi.

By some stroke of luck, a guy from New Orleans and his wife had called their own taxi at that very moment, and we were able to share the fare. I'm not sure how things always seem to work out in Italy. Somehow they just do.

After we dropped our bags at the B&B, I took Karen on a quick tour of the town. It's small but very hilly with lots of narrow, stone paths (that they somehow fit cars through – we're not sure how). We actually haven't eaten a real meal since we ingested Detroit's version of tacos, which was sometime yesterday. Or the day before. I'm not sure at this point. So before Karen passes out from exhaustion, I better find us some sketti!

A domani.

* * *

Wednesday, October 21, 2009 – Yes, you may have noticed that we just went from Monday to Wednesday. Yep, pretty much just skipped over Tuesday. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I think we lost it. All I know is that yesterday we woke up and it was Monday. And today we woke up and it was Wednesday. 3am on Wednesday, to be exact.

Hello, jet lag.

Karen and I went out for dinner at a small osteria last night and actually managed to stay awake till 9pm. We figured that we had totally won the jet-lag battle until we both ended up wide awake about five hours before dawn.

We stared at maps of Siena, Florence and Venice until 5am and then got up and got ready to grab some food. The problem here was that the rest of Italy was still sleeping. The bar where we were told that we could enjoy the breakfast part of 'bed and breakfast' was called Nessuno Dorme, which means 'nobody sleeps'. Well, nobody except the cafe owners.

Anyhoo. Right now we're actually sitting on a train from Chiusi to Siena. We didn't really get to stay long in Cortona, but it was enough to give Karen a taste of a sleepy hill town before moving on to the hustle and bustle of Siena.

* * *

Day one of Siena-ness has come to an end. Gotta say, it was a pretty decent day. We wandered around for a few hours, ate some pizza in il Campo, bought some wine, met up with my friend Rodrigo for a quick chat and then went back to catch a nap before dinner.

The guy downstairs gave us the name of a restaurant frequented by the locals, which we were pretty excited about. Of course, then he went and told the rest of the tourists at our hotel the same thing, so when we got there, the dining room was actually full of Americans. The waiter did not seem at all pleased by this, but the food was good. Despite the server's wonky attitude, the night wasn't a total loss. When we went to get our coats out of the closet, I said something to the owner in Italian about how great the food was. He got all excited and sent us home with a bottle of wine!

Woot!

We'll have to taste this one tomorrow. The wine we bought today was a Chianti that just might be the worst wine ev-ar. Please refer to our faces below for a photo re-enactment of the damage we inflicted on our taste buds.

Seriously. Worst Wine Ev-Ar!

Yes, we drank it anyway. And that's all I've got for tonight. A domani.

* * *

So that is what has happened so far (until this morning). Today has been pretty darn entertaining. We met our new BFFs Cathy and Alex from London (and some other girl named Sara from I'm not sure where) and now we're meeting them for dinner at 9pm.

So Euro, I know.

Except it's 8pm right now - Karen's passed out behind me, and I can barely keep my eyes open.

So, anyhoo, more later. And if you want to follow along, the latest photos have been added to the Flickr collection HERE.

And So It Begins

2009-10-18T18:54:00.000-07:00

All smiles at the pre-flight dinner at 13 Coins

I honestly can't believe it's finally here. Our Big Italian Adventure has been "on the horizon" for so long now that it was always something fun to dream about, but it just never felt real.

Until now.

The dogs are out at the kennel. Our bags are packed. And we're up at a SeaTac hotel watching Sunday Night Football and cramming as many Italian verb tenses into our brains as we possibly can before tomorrow morning's flight.

Italian Essentials: "Più vi- vino, più vino, per fa- per favore!"

This will be Karen's first trip to Europe, and my first Italian adventure with a companion. I've made the trip three times, but always by myself. And I've never brought a laptop before. Holy smokes, it's like you're all along on the adventure with us!

Live from SeaTac: editing photos and updating the blog

If you'd like to follow along, our adventure should look a little like this:

10/19/09 - Fly from Seattle to Detroit, depart for Rome
10/20/09 - Land in Rome, trains to Cortona
10/21/09 - Siena
10/22/09 - Siena
10/23/09 - Florence
10/24/09 - Florence
10/25/09 - Venice
10/26/09 - Venice
10/27/09 - Verona
10/28/09 - Cinque Terre
10/29/09 - Cinque Terre
10/30/09 - Cinque Terre
10/31/09 - Trains to Rome
11/1/09 - Rome (soccer match!)
11/2/09 - Fly to Amsterdam, then back to Seattle

So there you have it. Prepare yourselves for the adventure of a lifetime!

Italia! Here we come!

Mud and Cowbells

2009-09-09T15:56:00.000-07:00

What time is it?

Well, Labor Day weekend has come and gone, and Karen and I spent the unofficial end of summer as we always do, celebrating Teg's birthday with cake and beer.

And (for an added twist) mud and cowbells.

Yes, summer may be on its way out, but cyclocross season is just now getting underway. And let me tell you (in case you were wondering) cake, beer, mud and cowbells make for a seriously fun weekend!

Soooo, just what is this cyclocross madness, you ask? Well, in a nutshell, you basically take your road bike, outfit it with some knobby tires, grab your best (and craziest) cycling buddies and suffer together over hills and obstacles for 30-60 minutes of all-out effort.

And then you drink beer together.

Seriously. Other than the whole all-out, lungs-bursting, quads-burning, oops-almost-crashed-into-that-tree, ouch-that's-gonna-leave-a-mark thing, it's a lot of fun! Check out the video below if you don't believe me.

Yes, despite our relative inexperience, the Valley Girls showed up at North SeaTac Park in numbers on Monday, ready to soak up this unique racing atmosphere and - above all - have fun. Led by our teammate Brandee, whose grace on a cyclocross bike makes the sport look like a muddy form of dance, the eight of us (Jen, Michelle, Ann, Erica, Stef, Chris, Kerry and yours truly) did our best to show the rest of the field that the girls in green are a force to be reckoned with.

Or in my case, the goal was to just stay upright.

I know, it sounds easy. Just trust me on this one. There were moments on Monday when I wanted nothing more than to get off my bike (not to be confused with that moment in which I was involuntarily catapulted from my bike when the girl in front of me crashed on an exposed tree root and took a whole group of riders down with her).

Erm, yeah, so much for staying upright.

"If we're not bleeding," laughed Michelle afterward, "we're not really having fun!" I thought she was kidding until Jen lifted up her pant leg and showed us what happens when you try to go around another rider by taking a shortcut through the blackberry bushes.

Blackberry Bushes 1, Jen's Legs 0

I'm really glad that Jen is a doctor, because (as long as she's conscious) she'll be able to treat her own wounds. I wish I had more pictures of her to share with you, but she learned the hard way that cyclocross tires are different than mountain bike tires and ended up flatting during the second lap. Knowing Jen, she probably wanted to pick up her bike and run with it for the rest of the race.

Yes, she is that hardcore.

Actually, this whole group is made up of a bunch of amazing/crazy athletes. Inspired by a flurry of cyclocross-related reply-to-all emails that landed in her inbox over the holiday weekend, Michelle decided that this madness that everyone else was going on and on about actually sounded kind of fun. An accomplished road racer and mountain biker, Michelle laced up her bright yellow shoes, hopped on her bike and went out and took 8th place in the Cat 3 race.

Yeah, just like that.

Michelle's Magic Shoes (Scars From Carnation Circuit Race)

It was actually a first-time experience for most of us, and as you can imagine, there were a few nervous stomachs on the drive up. Ann, who had sent me a mid-week text message saying, "...Feeling great! Can't wait to race..." got out of the car on Monday and looked like she wanted to throw up. Despite the fact that she and Brian had been training hard for last couple of weeks, and despite the fact that she had nailed what she later would dub "the flying lotus" remount on the first try, she was suddenly a very nervous nellie.

That is, until the race started. Once she got moving, Ann was a natural. In fact, I spent the better part of three laps chasing her around the course. The only reason I was finally able to pass her was because the girl in front of us had a minor freak-out going into the muddy section before a railroad tie and came to a dead stop in the middle of the path. When it was all said and done, Ann powered through for a 6th place finish in the Cat 4 race.

Yes, this is the same girl who wanted to throw up an hour earlier.

To be honest, I was actually a little bit relieved that some of my teammates were experiencing a bout of nerves prior to the race. For once, I wasn't the only newcomer, and since everyone else seemed to have the nervous energy thing covered, I decided that I might as well just have a good time.

Of course, my definition of a "good time" doesn't always line up with other people's interpretation. Take Erica, for example. Last time I used my infamous c'mon-it'll-be-fun line on her, she ended up chasing me six miles straight up Crystal Mountain Boulevard. Fortunately, Erica has apparently blocked that entire weekend out of her mind, and she once again let herself be coaxed into trying a new (very much insane) adventure.

The good news is that Erica (not-surprisingly) had a fantastic first race, despite suffering a mysterious* flat tire just moments before the start. And what makes her success even more impressive is the fact that she was out of town most of the previous week. Her first cyclocross practice ever came just two days before the race.

[okay, it was a little strange how the relief drained from her face when Brian and Lee pulled off the world's fastest wheel swap right before the starting whistle]

Afterward, however, Erica actually came up to me and thanked me for encouraging her to race. "That really wasn't so hard," she said.

Holy smokes, either she and I were competing in two different races, or that was the beer talking.

Erica admires her post-race liquid goodness

Anyhoo, if you've read any of my earlier cycling-related blog posts, you're probably familiar with most of the teammates I've mentioned above. Kerry, Stef and Chris, however, are actually newcomers to my blog (which - depending upon your point of view - is either an entertaining benefit of racing with me, or a rather unfortunate consequence).

I actually met Kerry before joining the race team. She teaches an outstanding Urban Cycling Workshop through the City of Olympia and is partially responsible for not only keeping me safe in traffic but also for encouraging (and possibly enabling) my new cycling addiction. She is an extremely skilled mountain biker who recently bought her first road bike and has decided to join the race team. It was awesome competing (and drinking) with her over the weekend, and we're so excited that she has decided to give road racing and cyclocross a try.

It was actually not long after graduating from Kerry's workshop that I "ran into" Stef on my first team training ride. Yes, it was with her bike that I nearly collided during that now-infamous speed-sensor-in-the-front-spokes mishap. And over the past couple of months, I have discovered that our friend Stef is truly a walking paradox. She works out by flipping tractor tires, and yet she races in a pink and blue helmet.

Stef in her fierce pink and blue helmet

So, as you can imagine, it was really no surprise when she showed up on Monday with the attitude of "I'm just going to make this a fun practice session" and then went out, hoisted her bike on her shoulder and passed a bunch of people. In fact, before Monday's bruises even had a chance to form, she was already sending out emails to set up our next practice session.

Yes, the girl is hooked!

And she's not the only one.

Take Chris, for example. At the start line, she was shaking her head as she questioned her own sanity. And yet, when it came right down to it, she knew that the way she was choosing to spend her Labor Day was way cooler than what most people she knew had planned.

Erica leads as Chris looks over at the upcoming stair section

If you ever get a chance to sit down with Chris, ask her for more details about her first cyclocross race. She has some seriously funny stories to tell about hanging upside down in the blackberry bushes. And, erm, a new flatulence-enhanced remounting technique that Brandee never taught us!

[sorry, Chris, it was just too blog-worthy to leave out - beer's on me]

Brandee and her hardware - not a bad way to start the season

And speaking of Brandee, as you can tell from the photo above, she definitely started the cyclocross season on a high note, winning the Cat 3 race by a fairly significant margin. If you knew how focused she has been on preparing for the 2009 season, the result really isn't all that surprising.

What is more impressive, at least to me, is that she has also taken time out of her training to help the rest of us learn this sport that she loves so much. I can't imagine that it is very easy to take a group of newcomers and try to convert their enthusiasm into complicated skills. I personally have the grace of an elephant, and somehow she's got me running around in the mud, flinging myself on and off my bike like a crazy kid.

Pushing my way to a 5th place finish

To be honest, I'm loving it. We all are. And I'm pretty sure that if you come out to experience cyclocross - whether as a participant or a spectator - you will, too. The Valley team, along with hundreds of other competitors will be racing Starcrossed at Marymoor Park in Redmond on Saturday, September 19, 2009. It will offer a little something for almost everyone - bikes, barriers, mud, music, a beer garden, and of course...

MORE COWBELL!

Fortune Cookies

2009-08-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I woke up to the sound of rain. Not a heavy downpour. Just enough to give the lawn a much-needed drink. And more than enough to make me slightly nervous about driving up to Carnation to race on a "flat and fast" course with a slippery, wet surface. I got out of bed - mumbling something about how the weather gods had it in for me - and started the coffee maker.

Yeah, seriously, whatchagonnado?

Honestly, I was just happy that this time around I managed to clean my chain without getting lube all over my tires. If it stopped raining, I thought I might just have a halfway decent race. Sure, I had put in a lot of tough training hours this week, but my legs were feeling okay, and my Tea Leaf II fortune cookie from last Saturday had promised, "...next week, green is a lucky color for you...." I taped this to a piece of paper and put it in my jersey pocket.

Hey, you never know.

Soooo, we loaded up the car and went around the corner to pick up Ann. Despite battling a wonky stomach all week, she had pushed herself hard in training (I know this because I was there for a few of those "zone 5" interval sessions). On Saturday morning, she woke up tired and not really feeling her best. As we drove north - with the rain coming down even harder with each passing mile - I can only wonder what was going through her head. I'm guessing that she was wishing she had just stayed in bed.

Well, as it turns out, Ann was not alone. While we were warming up on the trainers, Brandee admitted to not feeling 100%, and Erica had spent the morning looking at the rain and wondering if one of us would call and cancel. Despite missing the first race, Erica was still in contention for the series lead. I'm sure there was part of her that would have loved to sleep in yesterday. But Erica - like Ann and Brandee - is a competitor. A little bit of rain wasn't going to stop her.

My mom gets ready to watch her first race

Fortunately, by the time the Cat 4 women were getting ready to start, the rain had stopped, and the pavement was dry. There was reportedly debris on the inside of the corners, so it would be important to establish an outside line and play it smart and safe as we went into these sections.

Just moments after the Cat 3 men left the starting area, we followed into our neutral roll-out, rounded the first corner at a very conservative pace, and then the final Lake Washington Velo Series Circuit Race began. As we took the second corner, I started to realize just how important positioning was going to be in this race. The back side of the course was a narrow country road with no center line. There was enough room for two pacelines, which made passing almost impossible.

The first two laps were fairly slow, and I found myself stuck at the back, unsure of how to get up to my teammates. We didn't all ride in the same car on the way to Carnation, and I really didn't know what our game plan (or my role) would be. All I knew at that point was that my impatience was getting the better of me, and I was really, really tired of riding on the back. So, as we came out of the last turn and hit the wider section by the start/finish line, I pushed forward. And this is where the race really started to get interesting.

Lap number three - the girls in green start to move up

A few moments earlier, Group Health had sent a rider off the front, and I pushed forward to bridge the gap. Seconds later, they sent a counter-attack, and Brandee quickly responded. The two of us rode forward until we were able to latch onto her back tire. I thought this was a great team effort, until a moment later when Group Health sent yet another counter-attack, and we suddenly found ourselves boxed in until the turn. It was incredibly frustrating to be stuck like that (excellent tactics by Team Group Health). Fortunately, Brandee has a very consistent and powerful acceleration coming out of turns, and the two of us, with Ann and Erica not far behind, were soon up front once again.

It was still too early in the race to blow myself up completely, and as I did my work at the front, I knew that I wouldn't be able to sustain this effort for two more laps. But this was a team effort, and just as I started to feel my pace slowing, I saw Ann shoot off the front with Heidi from Group Health in tow.

Reflecting back on the sequence of events leading up to the finish, Ann said she was more than a little surprised when Erica initially encouraged her to launch a counter-attack of her own. However, it ended up being an extremely well-timed maneuver, for two different reasons. Despite the fact that they weren't able to stay away from the main field, Ann's breakaway kept her near the front going into the final lap. And it took one of Group Health's stronger riders out of the mix for the final sprint - Heidi ended up doing most of the work on that break-away, and never did recover.

Ann had talked to me earlier in the race about positioning, especially going into and coming out of the last corner. It was there that the race would be won or lost, and you know what? She was absolutely right. Ann and Erica handled that last tricky corner just right and managed to position themselves perfectly for the final 400 meters.

If you watch the video (above) you can see just how exciting the finish was. Ann stuck to the Group Health wheel in front of her and pulled ahead to nab fifth place with Erica crossing the line just behind her in sixth. It was truly an awesome result for these two. They raced hard and - above all - raced smart. I learned so much just from being out there with them.

Above all, I learned once again what it means to be a teammate. Victory sometimes means that you get to help someone else have a good day. And sometimes it means just finishing the race. On the back stretch, Brandee and I found ourselves struggling to get positioned up front. At one point a gap opened up, and I could hear her urging me forward. We did make up some ground going into the slight uphill section before the descent into the final turn.

It was just moments later - with less than a half mile to go - that our race changed completely.

As we started to swing wide going into that turn, a Group Health rider slightly ahead of me and to my right (and I think almost directly in front of Brandee) hit something in the road. A yellow reflector maybe. Or a rut. I don't know. I heard the clunk of her front tire and watched in disbelief as her bike went airborne, and she went straight over her handlebars. As I went by her (in what seemed like slow-motion) her rear tire passed just inches from my head, and I held my breath, expecting it to slam into the back of my bike on the way down.

Not knowing what to do at this point, I slowed and turned around to make sure Brandee didn't get caught up in the wreck. She got through it, but what now? Was I supposed to keep racing? Should I stop to help? A voice behind me (that I mistakenly took for Brandee) yelled to keep going. I turned around to keep riding, but the main field had already pulled ahead. With a heavy heart, I rode onward and crossed the finish line.

Brandee, who had stopped to help, crossed the finish line a few minutes later, visibly shaken. She, too, had witnessed the entire accident (barely avoiding it herself). Seeing the girl on the ground, unconscious and seizing, was almost too much for her to bear. Seeing Brandee in that state was almost too much for me to bear.

The day was truly bitter-sweet. Ann had pulled off a fantastic top-five finish, and Erica took home an overall series award. Brandee had barely avoided a horrific wreck, and I....I'm still trying to make sense of it all. Am I happy finishing in 13th place? No, not really. Do I regret stopping to look back and make sure everything (or everyone) was okay? I guess my take is this. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you get to help someone else win. Sometimes things go completely sideways, and you just have to hold on and hope for the best.

The truth is, you never know.

What I do know is that I was extremely proud to ride with my teammates yesterday. Ann demonstrated the importance of trusting each other - when Erica said to go, she went. During the entire race, Erica showed us over and over again the importance of communicating. And Brandee, in an incredible display of selflessness, reminded us what it means to be human, sacrificing her own goals in order to stop and help someone else.

You know, I've never really believed in fortune cookies.

Until now.

* * *

I just wanted to follow up on the status of the Team Group Health rider (Kim). Brandee received an email from one of her teammates this morning:

"Kim is doing well with breathing tube out. She has to stay in the ICU over night due to some bleeding in the brain but they are pleased with her progress. Her memory is coming back. Her face is swollen with road rash but no broken bones from what they can tell. Husband is staying with her tonight. See you out there in the dirt soon!"

Something To Write About

2009-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

2009 Washington State Hill Climb Time Trial Championships

Sometimes I get these crazy ideas that (some would say) are best left rattling around in my head. Just ask my teammate, Erica. Last week I somehow convinced her that racing in an individual time trial that went six miles straight up Crystal Mountain Boulevard was a good idea. I'm not really sure how I managed to talk her into this utter insanity. In fact, I have no idea how (or why) I talked myself into it.

I mean, hey, don't get me wrong. I like hills. Little ones. Prior to Saturday, I'd never climbed a six-mile hill. In fact, I wasn't sure if I had ever seen a six-mile hill. And yet, for some reason (at the time) I thought this sounded like a fun, little adventure. My first reaction when I read the race flyer was, "Wow, that would definitely give me something to write about."

I know. I need professional help.

[in my own defense, I did wake up on Saturday morning and grumble, "...ooooh, this is a really bad idea..."]

During the two-hour drive to Crystal Mountain, I had even more time to reflect on my own flawed decision-making process, and by the time Karen, Erica and I hopped out of the car at the staging area up top, I was convinced that this was one of my dumbest ideas ever. But since I'd coaxed Erica into coming along, I had to at least outwardly appear like it was no big deal (even if I was pretty sure that half a mile into the race I was going to run out of gas and fall sideways off my bike).

Yeah. That bad.

Fortunately, Erica and I were soon joined by our other lunatic teammates, Maggie, Jen, Steve and Rick (as well as Tom, who I don't think I've met, and a couple of younger riders in Valley kits whose names I forgot to ask). When you're about to do something really foolish, it helps to be surrounded by other just-as-nutty cyclists.

Getting ready to warm up (a look of concern on my face)

One rather interesting aspect of this race (I mean, other than the whole all-uphill part) was that we had to park up top at the finish line and ride our bikes down to the start. This didn't make a lot of sense to me, but by that point I had figured out that common sense was clearly not my thing.

Well, hey, at least the descent gave us an opportunity to see the other riders as they were making their way up the hill. Prior to Saturday, I don't think I'd ever seen Steve Jones without some sort of a smile. Or at least a smirk. Saturday? Notsomuch. The sheer look of determination (mixed with total anguish) on his face was a little unsettling.

Um, why was I doing this?

Something to write about?

As I stood in the starting line with the rest of the Cat 4 women, I could suddenly think of a million other things to write about. Things that didn't involve six miles of pain. The problem at this point, however, was the fact that the car was parked back at the top of the hill. There was no backing out now.

The race officially began at 11am with riders leaving every thirty seconds. My start time was listed as 12:27:30, with Maggie thirty seconds later, Erica next in line and Jen about ten minutes after me. I was fairly certain that I was going to be passed by all three.

I was also pretty sure that I was going to tip over exactly one second into the race. At the start of an individual time trial, a race official holds onto the back of your seat. The reason for this starting position is to shave precious seconds off your time (seconds that you might spend fumbling around trying to get clipped into your pedals). I was pretty sure that I was going to waste a lot more time trying to pick myself up off the ground when I tipped over, but I clipped in, sat down and tried to show the other riders (and myself) that I knew what I was doing.

I really had no clue what I was doing, but before I could protest, the starting official had already counted down from five to one, and suddenly I was pulling away from the start. "Okay," I said to myself. "Heeeeeeere we go!"

To be honest, for the first half mile or so, I seemed to forget I was racing. It felt like I was by myself on a really hilly training ride. It wasn't until I rounded a corner and saw another person up ahead that I remembered that this wasn't just a joy ride. Ask anyone who's ever run with me. If there is someone in front of me, I will run until I catch them (or nearly die trying).

Yes, I've been told that there is something broken in my brain.

But hey, on Saturday this "broken off-switch" actually worked to my advantage. I picked up my pace and passed a Cucina Fresca girl at mile two. And, as the road stretched out in front of me, I could see a handful of other women ahead.

Muahahahaha, Imagonnagetcha!

Next up was a Wines of Washington girl. I must have been breathing pretty loudly, because she turned around before I even got to her. She didn't put up much of a fight, so I kept pedaling and focused on my next roadkill - the unattached rider in the fancy Team USA jersey. She smiled and encouraged me as I went by. That was pretty cool.

With about a half mile left, I passed a second Cucina Fresca rider (who didn't seem at all pleased to see me). I said hi. She snarled. I pedaled faster and focused on the beautiful orange sign that announced 200 meters left in the race.

I think the look on my face probably speaks volumes

I saw the RideItLikeUStoleIt guy (you can watch his videos HERE) standing next to Karen at the edge of the parking area. "Stand up at the start of the cones," he yelled, "and bring it home!"

"Okay!" I told myself. "There are the cones! Get up!"

If my legs had a sense of humor, they would have been laughing hysterically at me for even trying to stand up on the pedals at that point. But try I did. And less than two pedal strokes later, my bum was back on the saddle (where it apparently should have stayed all along).

I crossed the finish line - jelly legs and all - in 33 minutes and 16 seconds, which was good enough for 5th place. The Group Health girl who won (31:21) said she knocked five minutes off her time from the previous year. Yeah, holy smokes!

Erica nears the finish (with RideItLikeUStoleIt guy filming)

I'm not sure if Erica has forgiven me for dragging her up to Crystal Mountain on Saturday or not. She finished sixth in 34:59, and Maggie crossed the line (smiling, I might add) in 38:11. Dr. Jen, who apparently worked all night, flew across the finish line in 32:32. I'm not sure if I agree with her no-sleep training technique, but I am always amazed with her results.

So, anyway, as it turns out, this whole hill climbing thing isn't so bad after all. Who knew? In fact, I'm thinking I might have to do it again next year. You know, to see if I can knock five minutes off my time.

And of course, so I have something to write about.

The Coefficient of Friction

2009-08-16T19:16:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, I had a whole bunch of plans for last weekend. You know, things I was going to get done (things that I hadn't really thought about since that first bicycle sort of innocently rolled into my life three months ago). I was going to clean the house and get caught up on laundry. I was going to do yard work and help Karen set up another (yes, another) bike rack in the garage. I was going to do research for our upcoming trip to Italy and - above all - I was going to update my blog with something other than a cycling (mis)adventure.

Of course, like most of my best laid plans, this one also crashed and burned before it even had a chance. It all started to unravel with the arrival of a seemingly innocuous mid-week email. "Hey, who wants to head up to Gig Harbor for the second Lake Washington Velo Circuit Race?"

My brain's immediate response was an emphatic "Nononono, noooooooo! I have things to do, and besides, I'm not ready for circuit racing!" Of course, even as these thoughts were rolling through my mind, my fingers were already typing back, "Oh, hell yeah!"

Sooooooo, as you can imagine, last Saturday I did not clean the house. I did not fold laundry. And I did not pull weeds. What I did do was meet up with my three teammates from the Big Time Trial Adventure - Ann, Erica and Brandee - and drove with them to quaint (but ever-so-hilly) Gig Harbor to find out what this whole "circuit race" thing was all about.

Erica prepares to for her first win of the day - the neutral roll-out

The course was a four-mile loop that started with a fairly long, chip-seal descent (7%) and ended with a short uphill climb (6%) that gradually evolved into a false flat at the finish line. We would conquer it five times.

I honestly thought my "real" road racing debut wouldn't happen until Spring, so this turn of events was a bit of a surprise. Hoping to show up prepared and ready to roll on race day, I decided to spend a little bit of extra time the night before meticulously cleaning and lubing my bike.

This was my first mistake.

Not so much the concept - it was theoretically a great plan. It was my execution of said plan that ultimately almost lead to my demise. And when I say "demise", I don't mean "bad race performance". No, when I say "demise", I mean demise. As in crash and burn and other related moments of great unpleasantness.

Don't get me wrong, a clean bike and a lubed chain is a good thing. The problem was that I got a little overzealous with the bottle of lube. Less is more? Notsomuch. Little lube here, little lube there. Little lube on the chain, little lube on the front chain ring. Little lube on the rear cassette and (oops) little lube on the rear tire.

No biggie, right? I quickly wiped the slippery substance off the rubber surface with a damp towel, cleaned up the rest of my mess and went to bed. Out of sight, out of mind. And twelve hours later, I found myself warming up on the trainer, my head full of tips and strategies that I had received from my teammates.

"Stay up in the top third," Michelle had told me earlier in the week. "Forget about results. Focus on gaining race experience." Translation? "Just don't crash!"

On the drive up, I learned more situation-specific tactics from Erica, Brandee and Ann. If one of my teammates went out with a breakaway group, I needed to stay back. It would be my job to try to slow the main field down but stay off the front. "Don't do any work," I was told.

There were so many things to remember that I barely had time to be nervous. In fact, as we pulled away from the start and headed into the neutral roll-out (which was"won" by Erica, by the way) I was feeling pretty darn good! Of course, thirty seconds later, as we were zooming down a hill at 35 miles per hour, I learned my first valuable lesson of the day - the effect of lubricant on the coefficient of friction (and the direct correlation between lack of friction and absolute loss of control while flying downhill on a bumpy chip seal surface). Please refer to the graph below.

So remember that little chain-lube-on-the-rear-tire misadventure from the night before? Right. Let me give you a little idea of what happens when you essentially "Armor All" your bike tires and then decide to race:

I didn't hit the ground Joseba-Beloki-style, but I did have enough of a fishtail going that when I looked back at the driver of the official race car, I wasn't sure who was more frightened (me at the prospect of hitting the ground, or him as he wondered if he was going to run over me when I hit the ground).

Good times.

At the bottom of the hill, I had to make a decision. Do I try to catch up to the other riders and keep racing, knowing that I'm going to have to go down that hill four more times? Or do I just ride around to the start/finish line, pull off and call it a "learning experience"?

To be honest, I was terrified of coming down that hill four more times, but I was even more terrified of having to tell my teammates, friends and family that I'd quit. So I kicked my pace up a notch, caught up to the peloton, and latched onto the back (yes, already breaking Michelle's first rule).

I have to say, lap number two went a little smoother, although having to ride my brakes all the way down the hill and then go all out to catch up to the rest of the group was incredibly frustrating. I seemed to have an advantage over some of the others going up the hill on the back side. It was a shame that I couldn't hold onto it.

Towards the end of the third lap, Brandee and Ann were near the front, setting the pace going into the steeper, uphill section. It ended up being an extremely well-timed move on their part, because going into this tough stretch, Erica was able to break away from the main field, taking a handful of riders with her to start the fourth lap.

Erica leads the break-away to begin the fourth lap

It was also during this next-to-last loop when things started to get interesting for me once again. As we crossed the start/finish line, I found myself at the front of the paceline. It was a strange feeling to go from hanging out at the back with slippy-slidy tires to suddenly leading the group, so I down-shifted and slowed the pace, wondering how Erica was doing up front.

Up ahead, I could see that one of the riders from the initial break-away had fallen back, and it was at that point that I heard an unfamiliar voice behind me. "We've got a gap! Do you want to go catch her up there?" A gap? I looked behind me in horror. I'd somehow, without even realizing it, accidentally pulled away from the main field, dragging a Blue Rooster rider right along with me.

Ack!

I could hear my teammates' voices in my head, telling me not to try to bridge the gap to the break-away because I'd only succeed in bringing the competition forward, tiring myself out and/or both. Of course, the loudest voice in my head was the one saying, "What? There's someone in front of me to catch? Go get her!"

[this is my inner runner talking - I really need to learn to ignore her]

Anyway, I focused my attention on the Hagens Berman rider in front of me, and pedaled furiously, going against all common sense and giving the Blue Rooster girl a free ride on my wheel. As the three of us approached the uphill section together, the pace slowed to a crawl, and I quickly grew impatient. All that effort for this? Switching to my little chain ring, I found my own happy cadence, tried to control my breathing and powered up the hill. I don't know why - I love hills. And when I hit the top and looked back, I couldn't see the other two any longer.

It was now official. I was stuck in No (Wo)man's Land.

All Alone - Caught Between the Break-Away & Main Field

For the entire last lap I had Phil Liggett's voice in my head, going on and on about how lone riders, no matter how hard they try, always end up getting caught from behind by the main field. It was a matter of physics, and as we all know, physics were not exactly on my side that day. The smart thing would have been to slow down, rejoin the main field and sprint it out in the end. It was crazy to try to stay away. And foolish! What a complete waste of energy!

Well, I guess you can call me a crazy fool - for the next four miles I rode as hard as I ever have, not daring to look behind me. "Just....go....forward!" I told myself. I knew well enought that I wasn't going to catch the break-away, but maybe, just maybe I could defy the odds (and Phil Liggett's logic) and finish ahead of the rest.

And you know what?

I did.

Somehow.

No, I don't know how.

Despite my bone-head chain lube moment. Despite going against almost all of the racing advice my teammates had given me. Despite a complete lack of common sense. Somehow, I finished in 6th place. Not so bad for my first "real" road race. And it was a great day for the Cat 4 Valley girls. We had three riders in the top ten (Erica took 4th, and Brandee 7th) and Ann finished strong in 12th.

To be honest, I'd really like to write more about this race, but I've actually got an appointment this afternoon with Sue Duffy (of Capital Bicycling Club fame). I'm bringing beer, cleaning supplies and chain lube. She's going to give me a lesson in proper bike maintenance and how to avoid testing the coefficient of friction with my own skin.

The Sum Of Our (Very Sore) Parts

2009-08-09T16:14:00.000-07:00

2009 Washington State Women's Cat 4 Team Time Trial Champions

When I was a little kid (actually, up until about 74 hours ago) I never fully grasped the whole "team" concept. Let's just go ahead and blame this on my parents. Yes, I am an only child (although, I'm sure my mom would love to tell you stories about my childhood adventures with Jamie, my imaginary sibling who lived under the living room sofa).

About six weeks ago, I joined the race team knowing full well that this was going to be a truly unique and challenging experience. Not only was it a new sport, it was a new team sport. And my first race? It wasn't going to be just any ol' race - it was going to be a full-on team time trial. That's right - four women, 32 miles and a clock! The only imaginary aspect of this day would be the voice in my head telling me to ignore the pain and pedal faster.

[actually, it turns out that it wasn't an imaginary voice after all - it was my teammate, Erica]

Anyway, I've sort of been struggling to write this race recap, because, honestly, the entire day was a crazy blur of whirling pedals, heavy breathing and cramping ass muscles. And as I sit here (rather gingerly) on my office chair, I'm not really sure just where to begin.

How about if we start at o'dark thirty, which was exactly when the alarm clock jolted me right out of bed. The plan (which made so much sense to me the night before) was to get up early so I could put on my fancy green kit and prance around the house in all my new-found aerodynamic glory. So that's exactly what I did.

And to be honest, I felt like a superstar!

Of course, once we arrived at the staging area, all sense of pride and/or confidence was immediately replaced by an overwhelming feeling of utter inadequacy as I got out of the car and discovered an entire parking lot full of colorful skin suits, time trial helmets (those pointy speed racer things), matching booties, flashy aerobars, disc wheels and $10,000 bikes.

Heh.

My aerodynamic advantage? I decided to go super high-tech that morning and shaved my legs with a brand new razor. Yeah, you're right - this was not looking good for me. I felt like the runner who shows up for a marathon wearing twenty-year-old Chuck Taylors.

But hey, they say half the battle is simply appearing as if you know what you're doing. So - determined to show the world (or at least the current population of Elma, Washington) that I was a "real" cyclist - I strapped on my helmet, hitched up my padded lycra and went over to warm up with my teammates.

[and, yes, they did eventually inform me that I probably didn't need to wear my helmet during the stationary warm-up]

I have to say, this pre-race routine was all very new to me. Before a marathon, my warm-up simply involved standing as close as possible to the runner next to me until the starting gun sounded. Of course, this didn't always work out very well. At the 2005 Las Vegas Marathon, the temperature at the start hovered below freezing, and I couldn't feel my legs for the first nine miles. Cyclists (who are apparently smarter than runners) actually get on a trainer and pedal furiously (as we are doing HERE).

This warm-up routine continued for another twenty minutes until we realized that it was time to get ready to race. So, with about five minutes to spare, we rolled on over to the start line and watched our competition (the ones with the fancy helmets and aerodynamic bikes) take off.

And then...all of a sudden...it was our turn (and I had to pee for the seventh time that morning).

Game Faces - Ann, Erica, Brandee and Camille

As we stood next to the race official, I don't know what was louder - the sound of the seconds ticking off the clock at the start line, or the pounding of my heart (which was about to beat right on out of my chest). When the clock hit 10:18am, however, none of that mattered. I pushed off, clipped in and found my place behind Brandee's wheel.

It was time to rock 'n' roll.

As planned, Erica led us out, gradually bringing our pace up to about 22-23 miles per hour, and we settled into our different roles (we would end up averaging 23.1 mph, which was pretty darn good given the ever-present headwind).

Earlier in the week, we decided that Erica would be our voice. She would not only keep an eye on her own time and speed, but she would also keep an eye on the rest of us and communicate when we needed to rotate back. Erica pulled this off to perfection (and still managed to set a blistering pace for us to follow). Without a doubt, her leadership skills and endurance were simply amazing.

All I can say is you want this person on your team.

In fact, I felt so incredibly fortunate to be racing with all three of these ladies. Brandee was second to take a turn at the helm, and it was her wheel that I was focused on for most of the morning. While Erica pulled long and hard, always pushing us forward (and leaving me wondering if my quads were going to burst), Brandee brought something else to the mix - her race experience and unbelievable consistency. She was so smooth in her accelerations and predictable in her movements, that I was almost lulled into a daze by the rhythmic rise and fall of her Peter Pan booties. She pulled steadily and always long enough that I was somehow able to recover from Erica's tremendous effort before having to take my own turn on the front.

I was just hoping that I could do the same for Ann, who was on my wheel for most of the race. I felt like I had a little trouble battling the headwind from my drops, but I tried my best to keep the pace up where Brandee had left off. Each time I was up front, I could hear Erica shouting encouragement from behind, and that was a huge motivator.

[of course, the sweetest word that came from her mouth time and time again was "Done!" - our signal to pull off and rotate back for a breather]

We each brought something different to the table, but it was Ann who unequivocally brought down the hammer when it counted. For thirty-one miles she quietly went about her business, taking her turns up front, giving us all a much-needed break and pulling us that much closer to the finish line. It was at the start of that last mile, though, that Ann went absolutely freaking nuts. Not only did she pull us towards the home stretch at a speed we'd never seen before, she stayed on the front for her longest pull of the day. In an amazing display of selflessness, she gave us absolutely everything she had.

Ann was our Mark Renshaw. And on Saturday, she was perfect.

Finish line photo "borrowed" from GC Racing, LLC

We finished the 32-mile course in 1 hour, 23 minutes and 8 seconds, a full 54 seconds faster than our opponents in the fancy gear (and over 4 minutes faster than the third place team). It actually turned out to be a pretty successful day for all the men and women in green. Our teammates - Sarah, Michelle, Jen and Kerri - won the Cat 3 title by a very convincing margin, and of the eight Valley Athletic Club teams competing on Saturday, five took home medals.

What an unforgettable first race experience the 2009 Washington State Team Time Trial Championships turned out to be. The lessons learned were invaluable in so many ways.

Yes, I discovered that if you sit in an aerodynamic position and pedal furiously for 90 minutes, you are going to end up with butt cramps so painful that it hurts to exist. But at the same time, I learned that when you're surrounded by good people, it's pretty darn incredible what you can accomplish.

Above all, I realized that when we work together as a team, we truly are greater than the sum of our (very sore) parts.

I Used To Be A Runner

2009-08-07T10:53:00.000-07:00

Las Vegas Marathon - December 2005

I used to be a runner.

I used to get up every morning at 5am, attach myself to Teg's leash and let him drag me down the street for a few hours. Rain or shine.

It's what I did. It's what I knew.

Then a couple times each year, I'd stand at the start line of a marathon (asking myself over and over why I was doing this) and I'd spend the next three hours trying to convince myself that running 26.2 miles for a cotton t-shirt made complete sense.

Yeah, I know, right?

Well, these days Teg is lucky if he can even get me out of bed in the morning. It's not that I realized that running 80 miles a week is slightly insane (I mean, okay, it might be a little nutso). It's that I discovered that riding 300 miles a week is waaaaay more fun.

Plus, you get to wear really cool outfits!

[and don't forget about the padded lycra]

Anyway, tomorrow morning I'll be putting on my fancy green kit and rolling to the start of my first bike race. Am I nervous? Well, it feels like a million butterflies are having a party in my stomach right now. And I haven't really slept in a week. But other than that, I'm cool as a cuke.

I just can't figure out how I got here. I mean, three months ago I wouldn't have known what a compact crankset looked like even if it smacked me upside the head and shouted, "Hey, I'm a compact crankset!" And now I'm....racing?

[hello again, butterflies - that's really some party you're having]

So how did I get here, anyway?

Well, I'm thinking it all started in a brief moment of madness back on April 30th. I distinctly remember dropping my property tax payment into the mailbox and letting out a soft whimper. I think I could almost hear the sound of the funds whooshing out of my checking account.

It was 10am, and I wanted a beer.

It probably would have been in my best interest to drop $10 at the bar that day. Instead, I came home with a $2,000 bike.

Yeah. Don't ask.

Of course, I was immediately overcome by a horrible case of buyer's remorse, which only got worse with each bottle of Alaskan Amber that I opened that night. Apparently I was determined to wake up the next morning and replace any remaining feelings of guilt with a raging hangover.

Good news. It worked.

After the pounding in my head subsided (approximately four days later) I decided to justify the purchase by riding my bike to work. I got out the map of Thurston County and began to plan my route. There was just one small problem. Cars.

I sort of knew how to keep the bike upright. I mean, I was taking a Wednesday night class that was supposedly going to teach me how to ride in a group without killing myself or anyone else (thank you, Sue and Roni). But, to be honest, I wasn't really sure how to avoid being killed by a text-crazy teenager driving a 3000-pound vehicle with no hands and even less common sense. So I signed up for the City of Olympia's Urban Cycling Workshop (thank you, Kerry).

I am happy to report that after three weeks of getting to know my bike, I was still upright (except that one time outside of Fishtale, but that was so not my fault). And riding to and from work in traffic was no problem. In fact, it was a lot of fun. But something was missing.

The butterflies.

So I asked Sue (of Wednesday Night "Let's Try To Stay Upright" fame) if she knew how to get involved with the race team. You know. So I'd have something to shoot for.

Someday.
Waaaaaay down the line.

Or, um, a few days later. That works, too. On June 30th, I showed up for my first ride with the Valley Athletic Club team. If you haven't heard about that adventure, I recommend you read about it HERE.

Yeah. The race team is a slightly different experience than the Wednesday night group. In my first class, we learned how to start and stop. On my first team ride I learned how to get dropped off the back of a paceline, how to avoid a crash and how to clean bloody knees (which is what happens when you don't avoid a crash).

That night I came home and nearly died on the couch. I didn't think I had enough energy to climb upstairs. My heart was still pounding, but - believe it or not - I was grinning ear to ear. The butterflies were back!

Soooooo, I've been training with the team for about six weeks now. During this period, I've ridden about 2,000 miles. I've purchased four pairs of padded bike shorts and consumed about 200 packets of GU. I've bought two bikes and am thinking about buying two more (I might have to sell Izzy, though). I've changed one very flat tire and removed two dork discs (thanks, Nett, for bringing this shocking display of uncoolness to my attention).

You know, despite the butterflies, I feel like I might actually be turning into a real cyclist now. Although, um, to be perfectly honest, I still don't really know what the heck a compact crankset is....

[and, hey, if you feel like coming out and supporting us, the men and women of The Valley Athletic Club team will be racing in the Washington State Team Time Trial Championships on Saturday, August 8th]

The Chick Ride

2009-07-27T16:40:00.000-07:00

Beware of Seemingly Innocent-Looking Chicks

About ten days have passed since my last cycling misadventure, and despite the fact that it is currently too hot around these parts to even think without breaking into a sweat, it is apparently just the right temperature for The Three B's:

With my first race of the two-wheeled variety looming on the horizon (August 8th, if you're interested - coincidentally one year to the day after my foot surgery) things of the cycling nature have been moving in fast forward. I'm a little embarrassed (or perhaps concerned) that I now spend more time in padded lycra than out of it.

At least my clients seem to find this humorous.

I'm glad they are laughing. Me? I'm nearly crapping my pants. At some point earlier this month I apparently decided that it would be a good idea to start my road racing adventure now (instead of...say, oh, I dunno....March of next year). And not only will my first race be eons earlier than anticipated, it will be a team time trial.

Yeah.

Those aren't smiles on the faces in that picture.

Anyway, our four-person teams have been coming together somewhat sporadically to get comfortable riding inches from each other at a high rate of speed. So far there haven't been any casualties. Well, last week one of my teammates' front tire gave my rear tire a little love pat. Can't say I'm totally comfortable with this kind of PDA so early in our relationship. It sure did get my heart racing, though!

Friday I took a break from the excitement of time trial training and skipped work (again) to participate in the Johnson Creek group ride. Unlike last week, I actually showed up at the right parking lot this time.

Woot! Off to a great start!

Of course, my good luck had to turn at some point, right? At the fifteen-mile mark, I was riding in the back of the group, chatting with a teammate about her intense dislike of criterium racing, when all of a sudden a "branch" nearly crashed down on top of her.

Only it wasn't a branch.

I knew it wasn't a branch because when it came into my line of vision, it was bright white and made a huge splatting noise (followed by intense screaming from previously-mentioned teammate). No, it wasn't a branch.

It was bird poop.

And judging from the ginormous size of the splat (which somehow missed my teammate but managed to hit my left arm) it didn't come from just any bird. No, my friends, there was only one possibility - it was pterodactyl poop.

Whahuh? Cycling is one crazy-ass sport. This never happened to me on the marathon course.

Anyhoo, the rest of the ride was thankfully free of bird offerings, and after 60 miles, I coasted into my driveway and called the day a success. My first Friday ride was in the books.

Yessssssss!

[insert fist pump]

Before I could rest, however, an email landed in my inbox - an invitation to the Saturday "Chick Ride". Hmmm. A chick ride? Kewl! I could use an easy day, I thought to myself as I responded to the message with enthusiasm. I'll be there!

Let me just tell you right now what I learned on that ride. There is nothing cute and fluffy about chicks. And there was nothing easy about that ride. Don't get me wrong, despite the fact that my lungs were nearly bursting into flames during most of that 80-mile ride (my longest ride ev-ar, I should add) I had a great time.

I couldn't walk for two days afterward, but I had a great time!

So, yeah, things are still going well. I have stretches where I can feel how much (or little) I've improved over the last month. And then, of course, I have moments where my amazing teammates hand me a reality check, like they did on Saturday.

The really cool thing, though, is that they are as supportive as they are tough-as-nails.

I'm just hoping that someday down the line - with time and effort and the experience that comes from being their teammate - somebody says the same thing about me.

Psssshhhhhhht

2009-07-17T15:37:00.000-07:00

Soooo, today was one of those interesting days - the kind that doesn't turn out at all like you thought it would. You know, the kind that ends up in this blog!

So where should I begin?

Dawn is a good start. I woke up early, not because I was going to work (to be honest, I was skipping work to go on a 10am ride with some of the ladies from the team). No, I woke up at dawn because the Izzard of Whiz had to pee. And, of course, my dog's favorite way to make this known is by making pissed off monkey noises.

All right, all right! I'm awake!

That's okay, though. This actually gave me extra time to pick out my cycling outfit. And when I say "pick out" what I really mean is "perform a sniff test". Laundry didn't exactly happen after last night's ride as I had planned. By some stroke of luck, my spiffy Cervélo Test Team jersey passed the test and was sure to impress my new teammates. Or at least not offend them.

Soooooo, dressed in my lucky, black jersey, I rolled into the Bayview Thriftway parking lot at 9:50am and waited for the other riders to show up.

Woohoo! So excited!

Ten minutes later, I was still standing there, leaning on my bike and looking around. Hmm. Maybe my watch is fast, I thought. No worries. I mean, other than the fact that I was standing in the sun, dressed in all black and sweating like nobody's business.

At 10:15am I was kicking an invisible pebble (and still sweating), wondering where everyone was, and by 10:30am I was starting to think that maybe I was supposed to be at Ralph's Thriftway, not Bayview.

Argh!

But wait! Maybe if I followed the route backwards, I would run into my teammates! Yesss! Brilliant! This would seem like a sensible plan except for the fact that I didn't bother to print out the route.

Yeah, that's a problem.

I made it just past the Olympia airport and then called for navigational support. Karen - who happened to be working from home today - rattled off a series of lefts and rights and lefts and rights that would eventually (if followed correctly) spit me out onto Johnson Creek Road, which is roughly five miles south of no-freaking-where (and also where I hoped to run into a group of fast ladies in dark green padded lycra).

After 28 miles and a couple of unexpected hills, I found Johnson Creek Road right where Karen said it would be. I did not, however, run into my teammates. And I was out of water. So I did what any thirsty, thirty-five-year-old lost in rural Thurston County would do.

I called my mom.

Camille: "Hey, um, could you do me a favor?"
Donna: "Er, okay. How was your ride???"
Camille: "Ummmmm, it's going well. I mean, other than being out of water and lost. Can you get online?"
Donna: "Oh my! Do you want me to come and get you? Stay right there!"
Camille: "No, I want you to look on the map and tell me how to get to Rainier."
Donna: "Oh. Where are you again?"
Camille: "Type in BFE and see what you come up with."

I may have paraphrased slightly (or a lot), but the conversation went more or less like that. The good news was that I found Rainier (which consists of a gas station, an espresso stand and a whole bunch of trailers) and was told that if I followed the road behind the Shell station forever and ever, at some point I would find myself back in Olympia.

Armed with two full bottles of cold water, I was ready to tackle Rainier Road. It was mostly flat with a few rollers. And apparently, as the psssssshhhhhhhhht sound emanating from my rear tire was trying to tell me, it was also full of debris.

Okay, that was not my tire in the picture link above, but you get the idea. I had a flat.

And then it hit me.

Holy smokes! I had a flat! I am a real cyclist now!

Of course, after the excitement wore off, then came the matter of actually changing my tire. Not a problem. I can do this, I told myself. But first I have to pee. And just so you know - in case this ever happens to you - there aren't a lot of places to relieve yourself along Rainier Road that aren't either covered with nettles or in plain view of the passing cars.

Let's just say that I don't mess with menacing weeds, and that guy in the F-150? I think I made his day.

Anyway, back to the mechanical issue. The problem wasn't the tube (I had a spare) as much as it was the nice gash in my tire's fancy blue sidewall. Oddly enough, I'd watched this video on YouTube a few months ago. Not because I wanted to learn how to boot a tire, but simply because I had no idea what it meant to "boot a tire". I was picturing something involving a swift kick, which is exactly what you feel like doing to your bike when it is 95º and you are lost in rural Thurston County.

Good news, though! I shoved an empty honey stinger wrapper in the tire, pumped up the spare tube, held my breath as I got back on the bike and away I went, once again in search of Olympia.

All in all, it wasn't a bad day. In fact, as I was riding along and laughing out loud at the situation, I was secretly...dare I say...joyful. This ride was full of all sorts of blog-worthy moments. And best of all...I'd finally lost my flat tire virginity.

Gotta go now. We're going out to dinner to celebrate!

The Learning Curve

2009-07-11T11:37:00.000-07:00

Another lesson learned - how NOT to get off your bike

So, I've been spending some quality time with my new bike this week, learning its idiosyncracies (or rather, coming to terms with my own).

Yes, my new ride is fast!

And, well, sadly, I am not.

Yet.

Karen (definitely the wiser of the two of us) says I shouldn't expect greatness after just a week and a half with the race team. She tries to remind me that I've only been riding a bike for two months. I don't know, though. Some nights I wonder when I'll be as fast as the other ladies. Other nights I'm more concerned about whether or not I still have enough in my legs to make it upstairs to bed.

The good news is that I have learned a lot in the past ten days.

For example, at some point when I was buying huge quantities of padded lycra, someone forgot to mention to me that I'm not supposed to wear undies.

Yeah.

Stop laughing.

I'm a runner. We wear short shorts. If you don't wear undies, bad things happen (possibly involving a prison sentence and becoming someone's bitch). Nobody told me that running and cycling don't follow the same undergarment regulations. And let me tell you, it took some getting used to! I am happy to report, however, that I now ride commando without a second thought. Hell, I'm typing this post without undies.

Kidding!

Erm. Anyway.

I've also learned that not all protein powders are created equal. Biochem Greens & Whey, for example? Yeah, it looks and tastes like alien vomit. The guy at the health food store who assured me that it was "very palatable" apparently doesn't check out his own product. If anyone has any OMG-this-shiznat-is-soooooo-good protein smoothie suggestions, please let me know. Beer doesn't really come in a high-protein variety, and I can only eat so many hardboiled eggs before they start catching up with me in a very unpleasant way.

Anyway, things are going well. I rode with two teammates and the previously mentioned group-o-fast-men on Thursday. One teammate was going to go on a "slow" ride because she was getting ready to do a 100-mile mountain bike race on Sunday (good to know that there are people even nuttier than I am). After mile eight, it was clear that her slow was faster than my fast. Didn't see her again.

Not to worry. There is actually a very positive side to being dropped off the back. You might be left to climb the hills on your own, but at least nobody is there to see you do really stupid things. Like what I did on Thursday.

As a marathon runner, I have (sadly) never really mastered the art of the snot rocket. This has always been Karen's forte. Me? I always thought it was kind of nasty and opted to suffer through miles and miles with a stuffy, runny nose. Not exactly sure why I thought it would be a good idea to try it while whizzing down the road at 25mph while attached to a bike.

And, um, judging by the big splat that hit my shoulder, I would have to say that the right side was not a great success.

Yeah. Ew.

The left side, however, was a totally different story, clearing my clavicle with room to spare! Woot! And the crowd goes wiiiild! Of course, as I was looking over my left shoulder to admire my work, I nearly rolled off the road into a ditch.

Yeah. Whoops.

But back to the actual ride. My other teammate (the one that turned around to wait for me) was a 15-year-old. Now, before you start jumping to conclusions and laughing at me, let me invite you to try to keep up with her. Go ahead, give it a try. Let me know how that goes. All I know is that when I rolled into my driveway after 54 miles, I was sure glad that we were on the same team (if only I could figure out a way to bottle her endless supply of energy - those hills on Carpenter were something else)!

Sooooo, as you can see, things are going well on the cycling front. I am so happy to have discovered a sport where I can learn from someone twenty years my junior on one day and then from someone with twice my life experience the next. And from what I can tell so far, I couldn't be surrounded by a better group of people.

One of these days I might actually be able to keep up with them! And who knows? They might even be able to teach me how to master the art of the snot rocket!

A Funny Thing Happened

2009-07-02T20:01:00.000-07:00

A photo I took at the 2009 Capitol Criterium - Women's Cat 3 Race

So, um, a funny thing happened. A few months ago, my foot (the one with two screws in it) started hurting again. As a result (actually, it was probably the cause) running attached to an 80-pound dog who thinks that he is a race horse was becoming less and less - shall we say - joyful. Soooo, I did what any marathon runner with excess energy and a bum foot would do.

I bought a bike.

And then another funny thing happened. I decided that not only did I want to ride my bike here, there and everywhere, I wanted to ride it fast. So I did what any marathon runner with excess energy, a bum foot and a new cycling addiction would do.

I joined a race team.

Yeah. Screws in foot? Not going anywhere. Screws in head? Definitely a little loose.

My first training ride with the team was on Tuesday. What can I say? I am still alive! At least I think I am. To be honest, I'm not sure if the best word to describe that ride was humbling or if a more accurate description would be holyfuckinghell!

So. Yeah. It was quite a first ride! There were six women and an entire civilization of men (30-40 maybe). I was told that we were going to try to stay with the men's team for as long as we could.

Oh. Okay.

Gulp.

So, erm, keep in mind that my racing bike won't be ready till next week. Also keep in mind that the fastest I've ever clocked riding my cyclocross bike (prior to last night) was 35.8 mph.

Going down a steep hill.

By myself.

Yeah.

For the first 10-15 miles on Tuesday night, I was in a ginormous pack of padded lycra (and testosterone) with about a 4-inch buffer around my bike. I think we averaged 25 mph and hit 36 at one point. I would have been scared except that I was too busy trying to breathe.

Eventually I got dropped off the back, which was probably a good thing, because I was pretty sure that my Clif Bar was about to resurface. Luckily, the rest of the women's team were dropped (or dropped back voluntarily to let the stragglers catch up) a few minutes later, so at least I wasn't alone for long.

For the next few miles we worked on a double pace line. That was fun, although I was trying to figure out how to get water down and pedal furiously at the same time. So much I still need to learn! For the rest of the ride we stayed in a single pace line, which was great!

Well, I mean, until the crash.

Just to clarify, I was not caught in the crash, nor did I cause it (which is a huge relief).

We were riding on a long stretch of 183rd by Rochester, which is currently a big chip seal project (gravel everywhere). I heard a clunking noise from the bike in front of me (her speed sensor was caught in the front wheel) and before she could call out a warning, her bike froze up. To the left were cars whizzing by at about 50mph, and to the right was a big gravel mess. Somehow (I have no idea how) I managed to squeeze between her bike and the traffic. The girl behind me wasn't as lucky and plowed right into her, wrecking on the rough gravel road. Ugh. It was quite a sight. I don't think I fell asleep till 2am that night, thinking about how I barely missed that crash. It probably wasn't as bad as it seemed (easy for me to say - my knees weren't bleeding).

Anyway, the rest of the ride was pretty uneventful (yay). I took a few turns at the front of the pace line (till I could feel my lungs on the verge of spontaneous combustion) and also learned the hard way that if you fall off the back, it's almost impossible to get back on. Mamma mia - these are some crazy physics!

I also learned that while I can run a 3:11 marathon with a steady diet of Pasta Roni and beer (although I'm not exactly sure how), I am actually going to have to change this if I want to hang with these women on a bike. They totally impressed me with their respective fitness levels (and I was one of the younger riders). Total eye opener (both humbling and inspiring at the same time). It's too bad Teg ate my Nutrition textbook.

So anyway, that was that. It's good to be done with the first-ride jitters! I'll do my best to post my race team adventures here. In the meantime, does anybody know where I can get my hands on some protein-enriched beer?

We've Got Rhubarb

2009-06-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

The rhubarb harvest - it's a family thang

My uncle just walked past my desk, carrying a huge sack on his shoulder. "We've got rhubarb!"

Well, that's an understatement.

(in case you were wondering, rhubarb is my 95-year-old grandpa's hobby)

And this is also an understatement.

My grandpa grows it tall (well, this crop was kind of puny - normally it stands as tall as a human), cuts it down, gives it away to people who ask and then ends up with more rhubarb pie each summer than he could possibly eat in an entire lifetime.

It's a good thing (for us all) that he's bringing new meaning to the word 'longevity'. And that he has an endless sweet tooth.

The Big Orcas Island Adventure

2009-06-09T08:16:00.000-07:00

Sooooo, for those who didn't notice we were gone, we went on a big (dog-free) Orcas Island adventure last weekend. You know. The usual. Some hiking, some beer, more hiking, more beer, a little wine, some kayaking, more beer and a little more wine. At some point during that four-day, "alcohol-enhanced" outdoor adventure I also managed to run into a glass shower door and fall off the curb in five different towns.

Yeah. I don't know, either.

It would probably take me years to write out the complete story of Karen's big birthday weekend (we actually started to jot down the highlights but ran out of space). In case you're interested, the photo evidence can be found HERE.

Meanwhile, below you will find the ultra-condensed weekend summary, written in a cryptic form that is meaningful probably only to me (side effects of shower door concussion syndrome). If you want further explanation, send me an email. Or better yet, buy me a beer. That would probably get me talking.

Camille falls off the curb (Part I)
Ship Harbor Inn suite "upgrade"
"Yu-um, best...beer...ev-ar!"
Beer goggles
Camille falls off the curb (Part II)
Fist-bump finish
Driver-less mini-van
Drunk ferry employees
The four hyenas
Coffee goes airborn
"Oh. Um. I forgot to tell you. I get car sick."
Camille falls off the curb (Part III)
"This looks like a good place to pee!"
2400' elevation gain + 3 sips of water = "Oh my head hurts"
Meeting Lisa on top of Mount Constitution
"But the food is absolutely wretched!" (We heart Luke)
Birthday beer with Lisa
"Did you just run into the shower door?"
The bread thief
"Don't touch my thumb! You're making me hot!"
"Is our rudder broken?"
Kayaking backwards
Cheeseburger in Paradise (Part I)
"We could rent bikes or hike. Or drink beer."
Camille falls off the curb (Part IV)
The "podunk cop" story at Vern's
"Is it 4:30 yet?!?!"
Cheeseburger in Paradise (Part II)

(and finally)

Camille falls off the curb (Part V).

*sigh*

Good times.

Iz Day 2009

2009-05-25T11:24:00.000-07:00

Cake Consumption Photo by Julie Peña

Holy dog farts. I just remembered why we only celebrate Iz Day once a year:

Dogs + Cake + Beer = Really, Really Bad Gas

Photos from Izzy's 11th birthday party can be viewed HERE. You might want to open a window.

BFF

2009-05-04T10:10:00.001-07:00

A true friend will drink beer with you even in the middle of a downpour.

Twofer

2009-04-20T17:04:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have been following Teg's exfoliation regimen, thumbs up! And good news! He's got a little treat in store for you. Yes indeed, a second exfoliation video, this time targeting those hard-to-reach spots on your back. Once again, don't be afraid to turn up the volume and follow along!

Also, lest you start to believe that I spent the entire weekend on my bum editing dog videos, below you will find video evidence that I actually did get out of the house. And, erm, if you're prone to car-sickness, you might want to take some dramamine first. Anyhoo, turn up the volume and hold on tight!

The Exfoliation Dance

2009-04-18T16:02:00.000-07:00

Tegwyn - Founder of the now-famous Exfoliation Dance™

While most people are aware of the many benefits of exfoliation, the truth is that not everyone is willing or able to part with the metric assload of cash necessary for ongoing spa treatments. Especially with the economy currently residing in the crapper.

The good news is that lustrous, blemish-free skin is still within your reach. As my dog Teg demonstrates in the video below, the smoothness of your skin is limited only by the smoothness of your dance moves. Watch (and don't be afraid to turn up the volume and follow along) as he demonstrates The Exfolitation Dance™!

Public Service Announcement

2009-04-16T14:41:00.000-07:00

According to wikipedia, a public service announcement is "intended to modify public attitudes by raising awareness about specific issues....A typical PSA is part of a public awareness campaign to inform or educate the public about an issue such as smoking or compulsive gambling."

Or, in this particular case, the issue of how I just tripped over somebody's carbon footprint. Figuratively, of course.

I mean...kinda.

By now, you are all aware of the environmental issues surrounding plastic bags. Um, lesseehere. Carbon emissions (bad). Erm, 60-100 million barrels of oil per year required to produce them (also bad). And you know, that whole 400 years to biodegrade thing (very, very bad). These and other facts can be found here. Or simply by googling the words "plastic" and "bag".

I think, for the most part, we've got the environmental angle covered. But what about the human-owned-by-squirrel-obsessed-dog angle? I admit, if you google "human owned by squirrel obsessed dog" (without the quotes) you get some pretty interesting search results. Nothing, however, related to plastic bags. So let me tell you. Let me tell you how switching to reusable shopping bags (see photo below if you don't happen to know what one looks like) could very well save my life.

And yours, too, if you happen to be owned by a squirrel-obsessed dog.

So here's the thing. My dog Teg has a thing for squirrels. You know this already because I've alluded to it multiple times in this post. He also has a thing for rabbits, cats, lawn gnomes and shrubs that look like they might be hiding squirrels, rabbits, cats and/or lawn gnomes. For some reason he could care less about ducks, but that's another topic for another day.

Where was I? Um, so, squirrel, shrubs....right, so yesterday morning I was nearly killed by a plastic bag!

No kidding!

As you may or may not know, I no longer live next door to the formerly-pink-but-recently-upgraded-to-periwinkle house famous for its Sunday night bible study group whose members used to knock over my garbage can with their cars and look around to see if anyone noticed before driving away (can I get a 'hallelujah'?). And not only that! The new house comes with a pretty sweet feature. The last quarter mile of the daily hell also known as "Teg takes Camille for a run" is all down hill! I know! Hap-py! Or at least I always thought it was happy times until yesterday morning when (at a full sprint - because that's the only speed my dog pretends to know) the Tegasaurus Rex spotted a "squirrel" in the bushes and took an immediate, no-turn-signal, 90-degree detour to the left.

From the right-hand lane.

Yes, at full speed.

I'm just going to let you guess how well that worked out for me.

And as for Teg, well, after sending me into orbit, he dove head-first into the shrubbery and then (probably after hearing the thud when I lost my battle with gravity) slowly backed out and pretended as if none of it had ever happened. The "squirrel" was a discarded plastic Safeway bag.

Seriously?

Yeah. Anyhoo. We scooped up (what was left of) our pride from the pavement and limped home, looking around and hoping that no one had witnessed the spectacle.

So my point is (yes, finally getting to it) that this whole dangerous episode could have been completely avoided in the first place if someone had shopped with a super-spiffy, eco-friendly, reusable bag instead of using and tossing aside that plastic death trap.

Reusable bag = goooood (also very stylish)
Plastic bag = dangerous carbon footprint

Oh, and one more thing. If you are having a hard time finding a use for the plastic bags that already came home with you before reading this handy Public Service Announcement, please let me know. We can give them to the neighbor who leaves his dog's poopsicles on my front lawn.

Come And Get It

2009-04-15T11:07:00.000-07:00

Erm, I think you left something behind.

So, um, if this not-so-wonderful pile of dog shit (or the other one three feet from it, clearly produced by the same beast) left behind on my front lawn happens to belong to you, please come and get it.

No, really.

I have two dogs of my own, and I already spend half of my waking hours picking up their backyard offerings.

The signs in the yard? They are there for one reason.

You*.

*sigh* If only you read my blog.

*Mr. Clueless-Neighbor-Who-Lets-His-Stupid-Chow-Wander-Off-Leash-On-A-Busy-Road-So-He-Can-Leave-Poopsicles-In-Other-People's-Yards. One of these days I will actually be home to catch you. Oh yes I will.

Worth The Read

2009-04-09T08:34:00.000-07:00

If you've explored any of my previous posts, you probably noticed that I tend to write about the sometimes humorous (sometimes not-so-much) mishaps that seem to shape my life. And, well, you probably also noticed that I haven't done a lot of blogging lately.

Erm, yeah. Not-so-much.

The lack of bloggy spews should not be confused, however, with a lack of misadventures (trust me on that one). Just a lack of ... shall we say ... blogger mojo.

Well, that and I discovered Twitter.

Soooo, the other day (yes, while Twittering or Tweeting or whatever it's called) I came across THIS BLOG. Yes, it is written in Italian, which may make the reading experience slightly less enjoyable for most of you. But if you do happen to understand the language or if you know how to use those online translation tools, please give this woman's page a look.

Up until a few days ago it was just your average blog. Today it is a first-hand account of surviving the L'Aquila earthquake. She's not afraid to tell it how it is (and her version of "how it is" doesn't exactly line up with that of the mainstream media).

Anyhoo, I know, I know, not my funniest post. Nothing about a bouncy, gassy 80-pound dog eating furniture. No karaoke videos. Just a link to a page written in a language that you may or may not understand.

But if you do, it's worth the read.

[and if you want to follow me on Twitter, you can do so HERE]

Sony's New Stupid POS

2009-02-10T19:49:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure how many times I've rewatched this and nearly peed my pants. Ah. And I should probably warn you. There needs to be a big NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK sticker on this one. Better put your headphones on.

About The Human Heart

2008-11-12T14:41:00.000-08:00

Okay

2008-11-09T14:47:00.000-08:00

Two years ago, I wrote a post about change. About how it was a good thing. That particular change involved a couch. I'm sort of laughing as I remember how stressed I was.

Yeah. About a couch.

Well, in the past three months, Izzy and I have taken on a bit more than couch-related stress (although there was some of that, too).

We (yes, when I say "we" I really mean "I") had foot surgery that kept us from walking for a while, driving for even longer and running? Well, we're still waiting for the green light.

We moved in with our better half (okay, better half plus Kirby). Actually, they moved in with us (under the guise of making sure that we didn't overdose on percocet and saltines, but I think they just liked being around us).

We didn't overdose on percocet and saltines, but we did go in for a routine filling and ended up having to visit the oral surgeon for a tooth implant (and more percocet).

Then, just as things were calming down, we decided that the five of us (don't forget about Teg) needed a new home. So we bought one. Yeah, just like that.

And then we were seven (yeah, add two felines to the mix, just to make things interesting).

So just like that, there were seven of us and three houses. Mine had to go. Of course, all this was happening in a market that was so bad that it couldn't even be called a "buyer's market" but rather a "non-existent market" (don't believe The Olympian - I'm guessing that the person who wrote that "uplifting" story last week isn't trying to sell his house).

Meanwhile, back at the new home, we quickly discovered that my beloved and ginormously-comfy (I know, not a word - but you'd use it, too, if you've ever sat on the thing) three-piece sectional and 61" HD TV wouldn't fit in the new living room.

Yeah. Not my happiest moment.

So we had to buy new living room furnishings, which wasn't a huge problem (well, I mean other than the fact that between us we have three mortgages, a bridge loan, maxed out credit cards and cats).

I just like blaming things on the cats.

Anyway, back to the real issue. The real problem was trying to find a home for the big, green machine (or rather, trying to find someone who was willing to pay a fraction of the original price for this almost-new, most-awesome-est furniture ev-ar in an economy where people can't even afford gas so they can drive to work and find out that they've been laid off).

Meanwhile, as all the home buying and selling nonsense was going on, we lost our grandmother (well, Izzy's great-grandmother), transplanted our grandfather to a new home, and then Izzy went and scratched her eye (probably thanks to her big little brother).

Of course, Izzy's eye wouldn't just heal on it's own, despite all the expensive eye drops I was giving to her four times a day. No, not so much. Sooooo, after two surgeries and six weeks in a cone, Izzy and I....well, we needed a break.

So we took one.

This weekend, with Teg and Kirby out at the kennel and Karen down in Oregon with the girls, Izzy and I were free to do as close to nothing as we know how to do. We synched our iPods. We watched Notre Dame lose. We started and didn't finish two movies. We went for a walk on the trail. We played on the Wii Fit. We drank too much beer and too much wine. We slept in till 7am till both of our bladders were threatening to burst. We rolled around on our backs and made snorting noises.

And we knew that everything was going to be okay. Somehow. Because Izzy said so.

Oh, and a couple of photos (plus a video of Izzy - just wait till you reach 35 seconds) from our weekend sanity-break can be found HERE on our Flickr page.

The Big, Green Machine

2008-10-05T17:56:00.000-07:00

Less than two years ago (the first week of December 2006, to be exact) The Big, Green Machine came into my life. If you've ever been to my house (and chances are that if you're reading this, you have) then you know just how comfortable (and ginormous) this unique piece of furniture is.

Seriously, I love this thing.

So you can imagine my horror when, after taking measurements, breaking out the graph paper and doing the math, I suddenly came to the realization that our new home - or more specifically, the living room in our new home - isn't large enough to contain the big, green beast. Actually, it isn't even large enough to contain the 61" TV either, but that's another story, and I don't feel like crying right now.

No, right now I'm here to talk about The Big, Green Machine.

[see additional photos below]

Actually, I'm here to try to find this awesome (did I mention comfy and super cool?) piece of furniture a good home. Well, to be honest, it doesn't have to be a good home. It just has to be a big home. Maybe you have a big home? Maybe you know someone with a big home? If so, do me a favor, eh? Send them THIS LINK. My email is in the profile link at the top of the page.

And, er, if they also happen to be in the market for an awesome, updated rambler with a terribly low price tag (don't even get me started) well, I've got one of those, too.

Women (And Polar Bears) Against Sarah Palin

2008-09-11T20:43:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to get all political on ya.

Okay, I do.

This time.

Women Against Sarah Palin

Ready

2008-08-07T17:19:00.001-07:00

Okay.

I'm ready.

Or, well, I think I will be as soon as I uncork this bottle of pinot.

Probably.

Okay, not at all.

Selective Memory

2008-07-28T08:16:00.000-07:00

Team #139 - Dude, Where's My Van?

Like most people, I remember what I want to remember. I think they call that "selective memory". Well, sometimes I forget what I need to remember, but that's a totally different bloggy spew best left untouched for now. No, this entry is dedicated solely to my apparent inability to remember what I declared after the 2007 Ragnar Relay. According to a friend, it went a little something like this:

I will never, ever run that race again. Ever! No f%$#ing way!

Right. Well, as you can see from the photos on this page, I am either full of shit, or I have a bad memory when it comes to pain.

Or both.

Chugging Along During Leg Ten

But hey, the good news is that Team Dude, Where's My Van? survived all 185 miles of the 2008 Ragnar Relay. And some of those nuts are actually already making plans for next year! Me?

I will never, ever....

Still Smiling On Day One!

Tegwyn Meets The Trainer

2008-07-22T20:06:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's true. In less than three weeks, I'm going to have foot surgery. And while this is good news for me (or at least, I hope it will be) it's not such wonderful news for The Tegasaurus Rex.

Yeah. Unless someone is willing to let Tegwyn drag them down the street in my place for however many months it takes me to get my kickers laced up again, my dog is going to have a scary surplus of energy.

[see video above for example of Teg with too much energy]

And so am I.

Double Digits

2008-05-11T17:52:00.000-07:00

Izzy (Waiting For Her Birthday Cake)

When you were five weeks old - perhaps still a little young to be separated from your litter mates (which is probably why you turned out the way you did) - the woman who was taking care of you called me, a definite sense of urgency in her voice. "Hey, uh, can you come get your dog?" she asked, almost begging.

"Um, yeah, sure, " I replied, slightly confused by the entire conversation. "When?"

Truth be told, I wasn't really expecting you for another month, so this was a bit of a surprise.

"Would now work for you?"

The woman tried to convince me that I should come get you immediately so that I'd have you home in time for the long holiday weekend. The truth was that she didn't care (and neither did you) about the 4th of July. You were digging up her yard - even at five weeks - and she'd had enough of you. She named you Badger for the intricate set of subterranean escape routes you had developed at the edge of her property, and I'm fairly certain that even if I hadn't come to get you that day, you probably would have found your way home to me one way or another.

Once settled in for the I-5 drive, you began to gnaw on my fingers and fart. I'm not sure how the name Izzy was born from your cute, little puppy farts, but we left the name Badger in the dirt of that Winlock trailer park (yes, you had a rather humble beginning) and gave you the name of a Spanish monarch. An hour later we were home, and you proceeded to waltz in the front door and pee in the hallway.

Queen Isabella has claimed her throne.

Ten years have passed, and your gums have sort of grown over your teeth, which thankfully prevents you from gnawing on my fingers (and my furniture). As for your cute, little puppy farts? Well, they are now not so cute and not so little - you have become the queen of room-clearing HazMat situations.

What can I say about you, Izzy, that you don't already know? You drive me absolutely nuts with your dookie-eating and leg-humping and 5am-pissed-off-monkey-noises. Your breath is awful, and your gas invokes a gag reflex. And for ten years, my life has revolved around the fullness of your bladder, which is apparently the size of a garbanzo bean.

And yet, for ten years I have come home - even on the worst of worst days - to your goofy stinkbombs, and you always remind me that it's useless to get stressed out about life's crazy little details. The only thing that really matters is that your dinner is served on time.

Happy birthday, Dizzy Izzy!

(click HERE for photos from Iz Day Weekend 2008)

Izzy (After Too Much Beer and Birthday Cake)

Inspiration

2008-05-04T21:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes inspiration is right in front of you all along.

* * *

The photos from Karen's Big Eugene Half Marathon Adventure can be found HERE, and a short video from her finish is below.

And in case you were wondering, yes, she kicked some serious ass:

Finishing Time: 1:51:52
Division Place: 19 of 197

(Extra)ordinary

2008-04-20T18:13:00.000-07:00

[unless you were there, you probably wouldn't understand]

Margaritaville
Insalata caprese meets self control
(or self control meets insalata caprese)
"Another one eats the grass"
La (mia) Dolce Vita on the wall

Slush and snot rockets
Trader Joe's
After Trader Joe's (splash)
Tofu-sausage meets cilantro dressing
Season two, disc three

Reheated spaghetti alla puttanesca
Sunday Sudoku
A walk in the park
Post-walk-in-the-park ice pack
Calvin-ized baseball
Cookies and beer

You make my ordinary extraordinary.

Alpha Dog

2008-04-14T16:52:00.000-07:00

In case you read my last bloggy spew (in which I spelled out the details of how Tegwyn got his 80-pound boxer arse handed to him by a ~~bunny~~, erm, ferocious Welsh Corgi) and you were wondering how things were progressing in this nut house full of four-leggers, let me give you a brief update:

Kirby Lou Is Still Numero Uno

As you can see from the video below, however, The Tegasauraus Rex has made some progress in the arena of interbreed relations. While he's still very much the low man on the totem pole, he has at least shown a few signs of understanding The Rules*.

[*The Rules, according to Kirby Lou, begin by stating that another dog shall not greet Kirby by enthusiastically thrusting his or her nose all up in Her Majesty's business, no matter how great the velocity of his or her tail wagging]

Teg, who nearly lost his face one too many times by invading Welsh airspace, has learned a new way to satisfy his ~~bunny rabbit~~ short dog urges. After numerous tests involving complex math equations, bodily harm and a bottle of his favorite cabernet sauvignon, Tegwyn has discovered that contrary to popular belief, the peripheral vision of the Welsh Corgi does not extend beyond the hind quarters.

His conclusion?

If performed with a degree of nonchalance (immediately followed by a mad dash in the opposite direction) Teg can safely greet Kirby with a quick but satisfying HeyHowsItGoin butt sniff. It's not pretty, but as you can see below, it gets the job done.

Meeting Kirby

2008-04-06T17:47:00.001-07:00

Judging by the number of hits* that my rather inactive blog generated last week, I'm going to guess that there are a few people out there hoping to view the photo evidence of My Big Italian Adventure Part III. For those of you waiting for the blow-by-blow of my misadventures across the pond, bear with me. It takes a while to weed through the metric assload of photos that somehow manifested itself onto my memory card during my three-week vacation. I can, however, share this with you - despite the fact that I didn't get to drive a train this time around, My Big Italian Adventure Part III did have it's own assortment of blog-worthy moments.

I'll share them eventually.

*On a side note, it has also come to my attention that there is someone who keeps landing on my blog by googling "camille buns flickr". That is unfortunately a topic best left untouched. At least for now.

Anyway, erm, where was I? Oh, so, instead of writing about all the great food and wine and sight-seeing I discovered over yonder (blah blah blah, Chianti, blah blah blah, pesto, blah blah blah, sunset over the Mediterranean) I'd like to take this opportunity to tackle another very important issue (yes, even more important than ravioli).

I want to talk about relationships.

Why? Well, in case you accidentally stumbled upon this blog by googling "camille buns flickr" let me give you a little background (beyond the obvious fact that my name is Camille and I have buns and a Flickr account). In case you were unaware, this is my blog. The girl with the dream? That's me. The closest I've ever come to writing about my personal life was when I once kinda-sorta made reference to the fact that I'd missed a Notre Dame football game to go on a date. The truth is that I've tried to keep this blog focused on more important issues (like exercise-induced wedgies and muffin tops). So this, my friends, is uncharted territory.

Soooo, why now, you ask? Because I am in a relationship that - just this last week - reached a critical juncture. And - much like the time my dog ate the sofa, the love seat and the stereo all in a three day period - I feel the need to ~~talk~~ write about it, regardless of whether or not anyone actually feels like reading about it.

Like I said, this is my blog. So let's continue, shall we?

It was a sunny Wednesday morning, and I'd been home from Italy for roughly eight hours and seventeen minutes when suddenly - as I sat on that stool with my elbows resting lazily on the kitchen counter, my hands wrapped around a hot cup of coffee - I heard (over the tippity-tap of fingers on a keyboard) an inquisitive little mumble. Yes, even in my jet-lagged state, my ears did keenly detect those sweet words that every** woman dreams of hearing at some point in her life:

Hey, sweetie? Do you think it's time to introduce the dogs?

**Okay, so maybe not every woman. Maybe just me.

As you know, all new relationships come with a degree of baggage. Mine happens to be 150 pounds of gassy, bunny-chasing, dookie-eating fury in the form of five-year-old Tegwyn (also known as The Great Tegwini and/or The Tegasaurus Rex) and his almost-ten-year-old sister Izzy (also known as The Wizzard of Iz and/or The Stankasaurus).

In the other corner, weighing in just a hair shy of 35-pounds soaking wet, is Kirby Lou, the Welsh Corgi that owns my better half.

So you can understand why, before giving a concrete answer, I stared blankly out the kitchen window and gave the idea some consideration. This is not a matter to be taken lightly, folks. While Izzy gets along with everyone and everything as long as she is guaranteed a meal, Teg's favorite hobby happens to be huntin' wabbits. And in case you haven't noticed from the photo, Little Miss Kirby Lou sort of resembles the Easter Bunny.

Just sayin'.

And so I sat there on that sunny Wednesday morning, blindly staring at a spot on the back fence, envisioning my dog swallowing Kirby in one gulp and then wagging his tail as a sign of gratitude.

Um, yeah. Sure. That's a good idea....

And at that point I began to formulate the conversation that I would eventually have with Teg once I got him home from the ~~kennel~~, er, dog spa (where he'd been denied the pleasure of chasing bunnies for the past three and a half weeks).

The dogs were going to meet! This was a wonderfully momentous occasion. It also scared the shit out of me.

When Teg finally came home that night, we played with his headless duck toy for a little while, and then - after dinner/wine - we got down to business and talked things over. In case you were wondering, the conversation went a little something like this:

Camille: Listen buddy, you know you're my boy, right?

Tegwyn: [wags tail, draws ears back in embarrassment]

Camille: By now you've also realized that there is someone else in my life that, um, makes my tail wag?

Tegwyn: [wags tail]

Camille: Right. So listen, there's actually someone else that I want you to meet.

Tegwyn: [tilts head in confusion]

Camille: Yeah, um, you know the two-legger that makes me so happy? Well, buddy, that two-legger is actually owned by a four-legger. Like you!

Tegwyn: [passes gas and stares at the wall]

Camille: Gah! What were they feeding you? Dude! This is serious! I need you to focus. Please?

Tegwyn: [lays down, indifferent]

Camille: Okay, I'm just going to say it. A little dog is coming over to meet you, and I have to warn you, she looks a lot like a little bunny rabbit.

Tegwyn: [suddenly on all fours and looking around to make sure the bunny didn't sneak in the house]

Camille: Teg, she looks like a bunny. She's a sweet dog, like you except a lot smaller, and if you ruin this for me, I swear, if you hurt her in any way, your days of dragging me down the street are over. Over! Do you hear me?

Tegwyn: [licks his chops]

Camille: Tegwyn! I'm begging you! This is good. This works. Do not ruin this for me!

Tegwyn: [wags tail, winks]

So, it was with this one-sided conversation in my back pocket that I approached Friday night's "meeting" of our mixed baggage. It was dark by the time Kirby got to Teg and Izzy's house, and she sniffed apprehensively around the back yard wondering what she was doing in this strange place. And where the hell was her kong?

After Kirby had figured out that there were no kongs hidden in the back yard and had started to sniff around out of boredom, I let Izzy out of her crate to say hello. And I have to say, I've never seen The Stankasaurus so off her game. The only thing I can come up with is that in her advanced age, Izzy can now recognize an Alpha Dog when she sees one. And this time, despite everything she's ever known, Izzy was not the Alpha Dog. And so it was. Izzy came rushing out of her crate, ran full-throttle into the back yard, and then proceeded to act as though Kirby didn't exist.

Self preservation.

Not wanting to overwhelm Kirby with too much boxer-ness all at once, I coaxed Izzy back inside and took a deep breath. By this time, Teg was standing up in his crate with his tail wagging so wildly that I thought both dog and pen might go airborne at any moment. With Kirby and her human in the back yard, I leaned over for one last desperate plea. "Tegwyn, I'm begging you....do not eat this dog!"

And with that said, I reluctantly opened the door to his crate and let him run into the back yard to meet Kirby Lou. What happened next I will never forget as long as I live. The rumor is that boxers, as a breed, lead with their paws in a pugilistic fashion. Not Tegwyn. My boy leads with his nose (which often earns him the nickname Mr. Sniffy, especially around human crotches). So it was to his great surprise that when he all but shoved his nose in Kirby the Welsh Corgi's face, that he nearly lost his own.

Hallo!

Yes, um, that innocent-looking shorty? Right, well, she's actually a big fucking dog in a ~~little~~, erm, height-challenged body. And she doesn't take shit from anybody. Especially not from the likes of my 80-pound mamma's boy. I'm not sure if you've ever seen a pissed off Corgi (if you haven't and you want to, you can witness the spectacle by clicking HERE). All I can say is that there is a new boss in town. And her name is Kirby Lou.

Tegwyn still hasn't figured out how to approach this new challenge. On Day Two of Meeting Kirby, Teg momentarily forgot the new pecking order and leaned in for a hey-how's-it-going sniff. This time Kirby didn't make a sound. She merely lifted her lips and showed her teeth, at which point my big boy ran and hid behind my legs. I think he might have peed a little.

What can I say? Relationships are tricky. This is new territory for both of us. Although, to be honest, Teg and I are loving every minute of it.

* * *

Oh, and if you could actually not care less about relationships (mine or yours) and were just stopping by for the photos of My Big Italian Adventure Part III, you can view them HERE.

Tulipani

2008-02-08T19:04:00.000-08:00

I'm not sure whether it is considered a noteworthy achievement or a horrific nightmare to end up with your name or your face (or your flowers) on my blog.

I guess I'll let you decide.

Either way, thank you.

Davvero.

I needed that.