tiny tin bird

Walk about

2012-02-29T22:05:00.002-06:00

Almost every night (except for when I want to sit down and instead ply them with chew things like bones and rawhide) I take Mavis and Hitch for a walk.

Lately, we've been taking a route along the bay of Lake Monona. My favorite part of our trampin' about, aside from the fact that Hitch can be off leash for most of it and I get to watch him prance about, is a very nice Capitol view.

Scrambled

2012-02-28T23:30:00.003-06:00

Whoa nelly the past week has got me all in a tizzy. Getting sick really bleeped with my mojo. I'm used to moving at a sprint, but this cold was like, betch please, and I came to a dead halt sleeping in my bed.

I'm trying to claw my way back with DayQuil, NyQuil and Sudafed. Not at the same time thanks. And that has let me limp along. I feel better enough to go to work and ride my bike. I pretend to have enough energy to do the same stuff I normally do.

But I'll be straight wit'chu. Trying to keep pace with my healthy self, it's just killing me. I'm walking around bleary eyed, saying dumb stuff, not understanding and sort of probably because I'm not really hearing out of my congested right ear. Sidenote, I mean, how do people with kids do this no sleep fatigue thing. And to my expecting readers, enjoy, you're bleeped, sorry for bringing it up.

It's cool though.

My big project at work is finally coming together. So I have the fortune to obsess over that for most of the day. I love it. Finally after months of coordinating, I'm putting all of the pieces together. Like looking at fonts, thinking of a word that means donate but doesn't mean giving something away ownership-wise, and choosing hex codes for dark gray which looks better than black. It takes up all of my brainspace and that's fine; I'm pumped about what I get to do for a living. How sweet is that.

I'll get back in the groove. But I'm feeling a leeeetle bit slow these days. And the past two days when I sat down to write, I just stared at the screen and forgot what I was doing. Or I wanted to write about things that I told myself I wouldn't write about on this blog. Like, say, dating. Or who I dated. Or whatever. Or other things. Not a diary, I told myself, not a diary.

I'll feel better soon enough. And on the upside, my new bedroom has really wonderful light throughout the day, so being in bed on and off for 48 hours wasn't so bad after all:

Sick bird enjoys yoga

2012-02-24T16:49:00.000-06:00

Holy crap. I haven't been sick since August or some such thing. How lucky was I to have forgotten how miserable it is.

My head's all like, a million beating drums with so much pressure and I can't get anything done without feeling like it's some gigantic triumph. A giumph?

But I went to yoga last night anyway because I'm probably, one, not that sick and more just feeling sorry for myself and two, needed to sweat it out a little. I don't normally seek out hot yoga classes because I'll be straight with you, I sweat more than anyone I know. I rival three hundred pound men sitting in the hot Alabama sun. It's no joke. And I know, yes, it's super attractive.

So I went to a new class with my friend Sophie. I hadn't ever been to any of this particular instructor's classes, and told myself not to be too harsh if I didn't love her style. One love people, one love of yoga mats, stretchy pants and sweat.

Turns out, the class was just the pace I needed and except for one little blip, I quite liked it. Sure, I was sorta annoyed because I didn't know what she was doing. And maybe I didn't want to hear that I needed to reach for the positive rays of the sun. And I won't lie; I took a really deep breath when she put on some sort of acoustic folk blend with a woman singing "Killing Me Softly."

But I rolled with it, took it all in, this new experience. So sweaty.

It wasn't until, about 30 minutes into class that I let myself judge. Don't hate. You'll see why. She moved us into chair pose and asked that we hold it. To sink deeper. To breathe. To, wait for it, can you guess?

That's right. She told us to, enjoy the pose.

Not a basement, just in the remote dark woods

2012-02-23T21:35:00.000-06:00

I mentioned that I was pretty dang excited to get back into a printmaking studio. Monday rolled around, my bags were packed, ready to go: sketch pad, old shirt with ink stains on it, pencils and markers. I walked to work that day, lost track of time, left the office late and was a sweaty mess by the time I got home, hurrying about, feeding the dogs, letting them out and trying to cram some sort of caloric item down my gullet.

I didn't want to be late. Because that's rude. But also because I had no bloomin' idea where the dink I was going.

The guy who owns the studio gave me directions on the phone, but I sort of didn't listen and just pretended to write it all down. Listen, I don't know why. That's just how it happened. All I caught was, country roads, really dark, not a lot of lights and pretty remote, not a lot of neighbors or people.

I mean, I had met this guy once. I gave him my press. Uh, but still, I was like, okay cool. Remote, dark studio in the woods. With a near-stranger man. Haven't I done this before?

I found the place though, without too much trouble and boom goes the dynamite. Fears assuaged. That studio and everything about it is awesome. Housed in an old shed-type building are four presses, the smell of ink, carved-up wooden work tables, good music playing, nice lights, and walls adorned with incredible prints from current and former artists. Love it all.

I was greeted with a kind hello and given copper and tools and told to get to work.

And so I did.

The start.

First proof.

Chasing tail

2012-02-21T22:10:00.003-06:00

My younger dog, Hitch, is about two and a half years old. He's going to be three at some point this summer I think. Nervous and a little shy as a puppy, he's come a long way since then. I can honestly say that in many ways, he's the dog that I've always wanted. (No offense, Mavis.)

Hitch as a wee pup

He's smart enough, but not so much that he gets into trouble, always needing some sort of mental stimulation. My old dog Cosmo was a cattle dog mix and had a mind like Einstein--always wanting some problem to solve or some job to do. I'd come home and he'd have just torn the place apart--garbage everywhere, blankets thrown from the bed onto the floor. Maybe his bed or my college degree chewed up.

What problem did he solve? Mostly what I was going to do with my free time.

But not Hitch. As long as he has some company, he's a pretty happy guy. Put a leash on him, or let him run loose in an open space and he's cuckoo bananas happy. So happy that he will run right into a tree. He only needs to stop for a second and then he'll just keep on truckin'.

Yeah, maybe he's a little dumb. Maybe if you put a blanket on his head, he will sit like a statue for minutes on end. But that's sorta fun, right? And who's counting anyway. I mean, this guy passed his Canine Good Citizen test and that was no small feat. Especially at seven months old. (Gold star!)

Although Hitch is getting older, he's still goofy, especially so when he's happy about something or gets settled in to a new place. The first few days in my new she-lair, he stuck very close to me at all times and was always waiting by the door when I got home. After about a week, I was at my desk one night, taking a break from unpacking tub upon tub of stuff, and I was so happy to see him doing one of his old routines. One that he does when he's really happy and feeling his oats.

Without fail, always, always a good time. Take it away, Hitch:

Tail chaser from alyssa Severn on Vimeo.

Leather bird plumage

2012-02-20T16:43:00.003-06:00

I've been asked a bunch about a particular pair of earrings that I've been sporting a lot lately. So let me tell you a litte story.

See, I'm a big fan of leather. And I like birds. Also, screen printed items. So how blipping pumped was I to discover these sweet-ass leather feather (say it again: leather feather) hand screen printed earrings when I was visiting lovely Louisville back in January.

I found them at Cherry Bomb, in Bardstown after my sassy Southern belle of a friend Sarah (thanks, lady!) told me to go there.

But wait. Best part of the story? I went all the way to Kin-tukee to buy earrings from North Dakota. Thaz right, homies--those gems are made by a talented North Dakota artist named Michelle Brusegaard. She makes some loverly wares. I mean, don't even get me started on these. And these make me want to slap someone. And this is a definite high five as well.

Her website is here. But let's get real. What you really want are those earrings because honestly, don't front, they're hot. And they're right here.

Now go on. Get in there and support your new favorite artist from North Dakota.

Printmaking again

2012-02-17T11:33:00.002-06:00

I used to do printmaking. I loved it. Here are some things I made:

I really miss printmaking, being in a studio.

Five years ago I bought a printmaking press for pennies. I thought it was a relief press. See, guy selling the press had no idea what it was; former tenants moved out, owed him back rent, so it sat in a basement corner in pieces.

I put it together. It was missing something. But it wasn't. It was not a relief press, but rather a lithography press. So there you go. I have no idea how to do any sort of etching.

I didn't use it. But still thought I might; I moved it with me to three different apartments. Count 'em: three. Now take three times one thousand pounds; that equals no friends. Finally, I donated that beautiful blue beast to a small printmaking studio in Verona, a neighboring town to Madison. The artist, Andrew who owns the studio, AGB Graphics Workshop, was pumped.

As a thank you, he offered me free use of the space and to teach me intaglio. This was two years ago. No time like the present, I called him yesterday.

Starting next week I'll be joining him in his studio. So, homies, holler back about that one. It's been a long time coming. Can't wait to get back into the studio, huffing caustic mineral spirits, staining my skin with ink and producing very nice things.

Yoga revisited

2012-02-15T23:10:00.003-06:00

I wrote somewhat recently about getting back into training, and needing to incorporate more yoga into what I do. For many reasons, but mostly because it makes me feel really good and it's incredibly calming for me. Eight years ago, I had a job at a certain corporate headquarters in the bike industry. I sat in a chair all the ding dong day, jabbering on the phone. And you know what, I fucking hated it. If any of my former co-workers read this thing: it wasn't you. Basically, this bird you cannot change, know what I'm sayin?

My body was not accustomed to a desk job. After a few months, I developed back pain with the occasional shooting pains down the backs of my legs. Boof.

A chiropractor suggested that I start doing yoga. So I went to a yoga class at a studio in my neighborhood. And oh my god I sucked so bad at it. Everything felt so awkward, as I bumbled along trying to lift and raise my hands and put my foot there, trying to look at the instructor the entire time. Beep beep blip boop, just robot arms and legs, trying to bend.

But, I'll be damned, I kept going back until about two or so years ago, when I dropped off in my practice. Last year, I told myself, get back into it.

I tried, shopped around, but couldn't find anything I liked. Hot yoga makes me want to slap someone. Collapse in a sweaty mess on my mat and do an incredibly spiteful shavasana. Another class was very slow flow. Molasses slow. And that somehow makes me angry? I'm fine. I don't need to talk to anyone, thanks.

Too new-agey teachers drive me bananas telling me that I'm a lotus. Hipster teachers, also tough, because regardless of class level, they're at the front of the room zooming through poses no one else can do, so you're like, okie dokie, I'll just kinda diddle around over here while you do your thing with those insane splits and arm stands. Good job. I can't keep up.

Basically, the first yoga class that I ever walked into, I loved. I loved every doodle thing about it: the instructor, the flow of the class, the people in the class, the studio, the time of day. So ever since then, I'm lukewarm about most classes that I attend. Because I pine for that class.

I sold a bike last week to a nice fellow in Fargo, North Dakota. His name is Derek and he and his wife, Brenda, co-own a yoga studio. It's located downtown and it's in a badass old building and it's called ecce and if you live in Fargo, you're a dumbass for not giving it a whirl.

People love to give me loads of shit for being from Fargo. But don't knock it til you try it, homies. Cool things are happening there, especially downtown, and this studio is one of them. The front part is an art gallery, and the back is the yoga studio. A yoga studio that is sincerely one of my all-time favorites; they nailed it. From the brick walls to the high ceilings to the candles to the color. I almost flat out refuse to do yoga in new construction. If I can help it, I want old. I know why and I'm not getting into it, but I'll just say: it's only fitting.

Anyway.

Derek was kind enough to take a lot of his time while I was back in Fargo and go through some things with me so that when I'm practicing at home, I can be more aware of particulars. Body position, good postures to counteract the tightness from cycling so much, what I'm working toward in certain poses and a really great warm-up sequence.

I went to one class with Brenda over the summer, and that kicked ass. Then I had that one on one time with Derek and I was like, boom, this couple knows my kind of yoga. They don't say ninny things, like lose your fiction or be a shining star or channel the energy of the universe's karma into your ribs. And they don't stand at the front of the room, doing what you can't do on purpose.

They guide, suggest and help, gently. And best of all, they tell you to keep your eyes on your own mat. Because the very worst part of some classes is this very counterintuitive energy that gets put out there that can be uber competitive (touching my nose to the mat, in your face!). And uber pretentious and self-righteous (oh my god, someone just asked me if I can do full lotus and I'm like, duh of course) and it drives me insane. It's like someone shaming me about eating meat while I'm chomping on a steak. It's like, we're on this path, same room, same class, for 90 minutes. Let's just all be quiet, flow and namaste.

That's why I like this yoga supercouple of the universe. They're like, yeah, that's cool. Do it how you do it. Whatever your body can do. We're here for you, we'll help when you need it. And gosh darnit, thanks for coming to class. That's why beginners take note. They don't give a shit what your skill level is. Well, not quite that harsh. But you know, they'll treat you just the same as they guy doing a 20 minute handstand in the corner.

So a particularly big thanks to Derek for taking the time to give me a little guidance. High fives!

Now you be sure to enjoy that bike.

ecce yoga studio @ 216 N Broadway in Fargo
Photo credit: Ann Arbor Miller

Valentine's Day

2012-02-14T09:16:00.000-06:00

Thumpa thumpa. Today is Valentine's Day. The one day of the year where single people hole up in a dark room and rock themselves soothingly in a corner. Oh stop.

No really, a day that a lot of people rank in their top 5 least favorite holidays. A day on which we are forced to express our deepest love for our significant others with sincere gestures of giving flowers farmed cheaply in foreign countries where the workers get paid next to nothing and the mark-up at florists is around 150%, accompanied by beautifully mass-produced cards with heartfelt words written by those who know our love best, like, for example, Hallmark.

Also, a holiday referred to widely in the food service industry as Amateur Night. You know, when the guys or gals who never take their girlfriends or boyfriends out to dinner, and they choose the 14th to just really give it their all. Only the finest, only the finest in elegance, expense and tons of booze. Maybe also some sort of steak. Whatever my honey wants, is maybe said a few times. And then, the grand gesture of something from Chalmer's Jewelers right there on the goddang table for desert. Oh, you shouldn't have!

Take heart though, haters, it wasn't always like this.

Formerly a bawdy, pagan fertility holiday created by those crazy ancient Romans in the fifth century, this day was originally called Lupercalia, after Lupa. You know Lupa, right? That's the mama wolf whose very milk was supposedly responsible for keeping those twins Romulus and Remus alive and then went on to start a little, tiny city called Rome. A wolf founding a city. Now how crazy is that.

People now do things to celebrate like buy boxed chocolates and make dinner reservations with appetizers or deserts of diamonds and jewels. Before, they did other things. Different things. Like sacrifice dogs and goats.

In current times, people do things like go to movies and maybe play a little Barry White in the boo-dwah. Before, back in ancient Rome, the men got naked in public and ran through the streets with strips of the sacrificed dog and goat hides in their hands. And instead of whispering sweet nothings into their sweethearts' ears, those Roman men would then take those strips of animal hide and slap the booties of the ladies who would line the streets, hoping to be spanked with that animal hide so that they could get a little bump in their fertility.

Aside from slaughtering animals, that's sorta fun, right? Total chaos. Dionysian, if you will. All in the name of love.

Sounds about right to me.

One for the road

2012-02-13T07:58:00.000-06:00

While I was home over the past week, I took another trip back to my favorite antique mall in Fargo-Moorhead. And you'll never guess what I found there. Thaz right. The trio is complete.

And another trip back to the Lamp Man's basement is in order.

The lamp guy

2012-02-09T17:30:00.000-06:00

Over the Christmas holiday, I bought two lamps:

Neither of them had shades and that was okay because there they were- two badass lamps at just the right price. No shades, no problem. I figured that I'd just rustle two nice fiberglass shades up and get these things doing what they do.

Not so much.

Impossible to find for that style shade for the price I wanted to pay, which was not $90 per shade bought on Ebay. After the 'cross season ended, I put my mind back to getting these things up and running. I called around to a bunch of antique malls and no one seemed to have anything. Finally, I was given the number of a guy who really knows lamps, as she put it.

So I call the guy. He's all, gosh, just come on over. I have a lot of stuff in my basement. I mean, just a whole mess of stuff. In my basement. And it's really tough for some people to navigate around down there. In my basement. But just come on out to my house in the country and we'll see what we can do. In my basement. Truly, he kept saying in my basement.

So I did what any young female would do. During the conversation I imagined him clubbing me in his basement and selling me into sex slavery. And then, after I hung up, I immediately called any friend I had to try and drag someone along with me. Safety first, folks.

No one was available. And I badly wanted those lamps to have shades. So I did what absolutely anyone would do in my situation. I emailed my friend Claire the guy's name, address and phone number and told her exactly when I was going there. You know, just in case she wanted to stop by or give him a call. Look at some lamps. Okay, not really. Just in case he wanted to kill me. Oh stop.

I roll over to this guy's house which is definitely in the country. And the first thing I notice when I pull into the driveway is that there's cardboard over the garage windows. On the inside. Oh shit. That's where he keeps them.

I walk up the drive. Um, maybe after texting Claire to tell her I was there. And I ring the bell. And this guy answers the door. And he is just exactly not what I pictured. Sweater vest, glasses, khakis, some nice brown Rockport oxfords and he was probs around 75 years old, pushing 80. Listen, he sounded way younger on the phone.

I step in, and see the Badger basketball game on the television next to a roaring fire. And his wife is knitting or something on the couch. Hello dear, she says to me. Hello, m'am, I say back.

Then guy's all, let's go downstairs to my basement. Did I mention that I had put a pair of scissors in my pocket? Oh my god, no I'm not insane. I just wanted to be ready. To get scrapbooking. No really, to do some damage if lamp homey got too close. I know though, scissors?

Anyway, we walked down into the basement and suddenly, it was all fine. This guy was legit.

It was incredible. A basement jam packed full of lamps. I've been in clock shops before. There used to be one down the street from the house I grew up in. And the feeling of space was very similar. Everywhere your eye went, there was a clock tick tocking away. Or clock parts strewn about. The lamps. Same thing. But obviously no noise.

Although he specializes in Art Deco and World War II-era lamps and lighting fixtures, in the very back corner, he happened to have just what I was looking for. Just a note, if you're in the Madison area and are into lamps, lighting, whatever, let me know and I'll put you in touch with this guy. He does a lot of restoration, so everything is kept meticulously in line with the aesthetic of the era. He's honestly very good at the craft.

I left the lamps with him and he made a few repairs and I picked them up the next week. As I was leaving, he stopped me at the door, "Oh, I think also, that these are yours. I found them in the box with the lamps when you dropped them off."

And then he held out his hand and gave me back my pair of scissors.

On lamps

2012-02-07T21:52:00.001-06:00

I've gotten rid of a lot of my things. Partly because, that's right you guessed it, I've moved three times within the past calendar year. Also, I've developed a sensitivity to stuff. Just in general. Just as in get it out of my life. If I can't make a pancake in it or sleep on it or make it provide light or seating, then get it out ma face.

The first time I moved, I took several boxes of things to goodwill. The second time I moved, I took a bunch of things to goodwill again, and at that time, because I was going to be living in a very tiny space, I rented a small storage unit from those creepers over at UHaul. Not always. Sometimes. Really good guys though. Neck tattoos for everyone! For real though, thanks. Enjoy.

Anyway, I can't say that I missed those things that were living in my storage unit for six months. So when I moved into my latest and greatest apartment, and started moving all of that stuff, I was all, bleep, I don't even need this. I still had so much stuff that I didn't need. Never used. Didn't want.

I've moved away from being anywhere near the type of person who collects things; way too sensitive to non-functional items. Before, I was not so much that way. Now, I've gone total logic on each and every thing. Do I love it? I ask myself. No? Do I use it? No? Is it worth a lot of money? No? Okie dokie. We had a good run. in the box you go.

I am guilty, however, of harboring strong fondnesses for certain types of things. Like, for example, bicycles and old wooden crates. Also, cast iron pans, earrings and old hardcover books about linguistics. And, lamps. Damnit all, I love lamps.

{Story coming up about those horse lamps. Eight words: Some dude. His basement. In the country. Alone.}

And then we begin again

2012-02-06T09:17:00.002-06:00

Well then. I mentioned that I took a few weeks off from structured training. I badly needed a break from riding my bike, but boy, I sure did feel like shit for pretty much all of those three weeks.

At first, I just felt tired; my body's obvious reaction to going going going for so long. I thought for sure I was going to get sick. Something epic where I'd be down for the count for a long time. The flu, a bad cold, something. I had been playing immune system roulette for what felt like a really long time: navigating a sea of people around me sick as dogs, hacking, coughing, feverish. But, I sidestepped it all. So when the season finally wrapped up, I thought, okay, it's my time. VapoRub and tissues in hand, I thought, bring it. I'm ready.

And while I never actually got sick, I just felt really blah. In general. And overall.

Sure, mentally, as discussed. But, more surprising than the mental dip was how my body just felt totally out of whack. I thought I'd feel great--putting my feet up, doing the hang loose, not training. Instead, I think my body revolted. It would seem that truly, and especially after the past year of doing nothing but, it's very hard for me to not push myself physically on a daily basis. I don't function correctly; it goes against my nature. I mean, for real, homey don't play that.

It all became glaringly obvious this weekend. The difference in how I felt on Saturday before and after finishing my first training ride of the upcoming season was whatever word you want to put in there for really beeping incredible.

I've had some doubts in the last few weeks about how long I can maintain this schedule of rigorous training and racing while having a demanding job and wanting to also have a life full of friends and adventure and social goings-ons. Especially in light of the fact that bike racing is not my job. It's not how I make a living and it never will be.

I thought a lot about the season and how well it had gone for me and I wondered what I'd have to do to get to a higher level next season. Whether or not I had the motivation, dedication and energy to do it again, for another year.

But the weekend made all of the difference. I was able to get in five hours of road riding outside. And I enjoyed the hell out of that.

Suddenly, it's not so much about if I can, but rather, I know that I need to. Because results and racing aside, training, pushing my lungs and legs and being on the bike, it just feels right.

Scene from a February road ride in Wisco

Looks, deceiving once again

2012-02-03T08:28:00.000-06:00

A few days ago I was driving my dogs to the vet. As I headed down one of the main thoroughfares in central Madison, I noticed that traffic was backed up going the opposite direction. I counted about nine police cars blocking off the road in various spots. Cars snaked down the road for at least a mile, stopped.

In the midst of it all, I saw what looked like a young dog, pitbullish in appearance but obviously a mutt, stuck between some cars, leash dragging on the ground.

Gosh, I thought to myself. It's great that I live in a city where a loose animal will cause that much concern. Not so big that the animal would get mowed down and police are too busy to respond. I mean, they shut down traffic during the busiest time of the morning. To call so many Madison police officers to the scene to help this puppy that obviously got away from its owner and ran into four lanes of traffic.

I thought about that for probably five or so minutes. I had a good feeling. I thought positive thoughts about the city I live in. I felt especially good because the Madison police and reporting media tend to treat certain breeds of dogs in a particularly rough and sensational manner. Mostly anything with short fur that has muscles and weighs over 30 pounds is coupled with words like suddenly attacks and maul and aggressive. Everything is called a pitbull, regardless of whether it is or not. And the behavior is always bad, whether it actually is or not. For real though, misreporting is an incredible thing.

And you know, I have two very well behaved, rescued pitbulls and it gets old after awhile. Especially because I still, on a regular basis get asked by strangers if my dogs bite me often.

So there I am driving along, thinking, geez such compassion to make sure that that animal's well being was taken into consideration. Above all else, compassion was the word I kept thinking about.

A few hours later, I went to a local news website to read about a movie that I wanted to see. I was clicking through to the right page when I noticed a little headline off to the right in the police blotter section: Police taser loose dog, disrupt morning commute

Next season planning

2012-02-01T21:25:00.001-06:00

My time off from structured training is coming to a close, so in the last week I've been mapping out some training and racing goals and a schedule for myself. Thinking a lot about what I did right over the past year and what I could do better.

Stuff like, what sort of racing I'm planning to do this summer, which races I'd like to do and which ones will be more mandatory (sometimes baby does get put in the corner). Let me just pause here and say that road racing makes no sense to me. I know that I'm going to have to do some of that this spring and I'm all, bleep. I'm a cat 4 on the road and I seem to lack any ambition to move up. Makes no sense. I know, there's a goal in there somewhere that goes something like, do better and try to understand how to sit still when you want to sprint. Blip.

I've also been pondering what sort of training routine I'd like to have and maintain. Running and yoga are in there. I need to be better about yoga. And getting massages. Sometimes. I'm wound tight as a big ass rubber band ball by midseason. But who knows. I have this knee thing and I'm going to see a knee surgeon in a few weeks and maybe what tumbles out of his mouth changes everything. I don't know. Stay tuned.

Anyway, I get a little wound up thinking about some things, but very rarely about training. Training in general, I get. I've had to really work hard to develop a fondness for racing. But training has always been my homie. I love training. And I love it even more when someone simply tells me what I need to do.

This is why I have a coach. Gordy says microbursts, I do microbursts. Gordy says three hour ride, I do three hour ride. To me, the real work is planning it all out and figuring out how to get the peak at the right time in the season. Me? Well shoot, I just have to ride my bike.

I've also been thinking a bit about diet. Usually, I'm like beep my diet, Imma eat what I want. But yesterday I read an article about how carbohydrates, not fat, will make you fat. Or gain weight. I'm not super susceptible to advice on nutrition. Because normally if I exercise, I burn off whatever I put in my food furnace. That, and I do tend to eat healthy things.

I'll say this though, that article got my attention. One because I am obsessed with infographics. Also, I eat a shitload of carbs. I mean, for real. If you find me at the grocery store, you're going to see a whole lot of pasta, bagel, bread in that basket. But I read that article and was thinking about my goals and I'm like damnit. Maybe I need to pay attention to some things.

Because if you're a cyclist, the big deal thing is weight to power ratio. Okay, just stop. Anytime I talk about eating and diet and my weight I get all of these alarming emails from people. Are you okay? or Do you need to talk to someone? or I hate you, you're so skinny or Eat more donuts. It's like, okie dokie, thanks for that. No help at all.

But that's not the point here. The point is that I'm trying to figure out what to do about my nutrition off-season so that I can have it all dialed in, in-season. But the main problem is that I don't know where to start.

And then, as I'm writing this, pondering what I could do better, I find myself just absolutely destroying a carrot cake cupcake for dinner.

Seriously enjoy the living bleep out of that

2012-01-31T22:54:00.001-06:00

I have noticed a trend within the last year or so. And that trend is for people to use the word enjoy. In situations ranging from, but not limited to, all of the time.

This is a thing, right?

Bueller?

No idea what I'm talking about? You'll for sure hear it now. You'll also see it and read it constantly.

Food no longer expires by or has a use by date, but rather an enjoy by date stamped on it. When the waitperson puts your food down on the table, they will tell you to, enjoy. When the bartender gives you your drink you will be instructed to, enjoy. When the bagger at the grocery store gives you your bags of groceries you're sent away with an, enjoy. When the internet tech guy hooks up your service you will be told to surf and, enjoy.

When someone sends you an email with a link to an article, enjoy. Get a new car? Enjoy. Promotion at work? Enjoy that too. And while you're at it, enjoy the oil change that you just got for your car. And the new shirt that you bought at The Gap. Need to get off of the phone with someone? Enjoy the reason you're getting off the phone.

Moving into a new apartment? Going to yoga? How about going for a run? Grabbing coffee with an old friend? Headed to the dog park? Someone posted a link to your Facebook wall? Buying a new couch? Well shoot, you know what to do.

So at some point, I noticed this. So I, too, began saying it all of the time, but in a way that was not, how you say, in the same spirit exactly. Someone emails me saying that they need to cancel a meeting because they have a fever and are sick. Enjoy. Someone tells me they got a flat on their road ride that morning. Enjoy. A memo goes out at work telling everyone that they are doing it wrong. Enjoy that for sure. Hit my car? Enjoy, a-hole! Cuz I got yer plates memorized!

Just wait for it. It will infiltrate your world.

And of course. When that happens. Please. Enjoy!

Post-season blahs

2012-01-30T23:23:00.003-06:00

Hey guys? I have a confession to make. I've been feeling a little low since the season ended. There was so much going on, and it was so great.

And then, blam, the season was over.

And then I was doing stuff like moving boxes into a new apartment. Which is fun and all, but not quite the same as racing and training. Or getting your picture taken. Or winning things like money and medals, getting a high five or a slap on the ass while you're just trying to put your dum dum leg warmers on (Jessica Heenan, I'm talking to you). Or having a focused routine and schedule of workouts, then races, then laundry, then workouts, then races.

Despite the anti-social aspect that can accompany training and needing to do things like not be drunk and get up early, the weekends in-season include a lot of good people. Who are pretty darn fun to hang out with.

And then, those people's seasons are over too and you don't see them on the weekends anymore.

I now have a few weeks off from training. That's nice. Because I'll finally admit that I was getting to be a leeetle burned out by the time Masters Worlds rolled around. So now I can go for a run. Or not. I can do some yoga. And I do. Maybe twice a day. Maybe I can't move my arms today. Or yesterday.

But, I haven't ridden my bike in two weeks. Whoa. I haven't had that much time off since December of 2010. Wait. No, that's right. So obviously, I'm a little like, uh, so here I am, not riding my bike. What the beep do I do with myself. Well, I sat at my desk doing work for twelve hours. I sat at a coffee shop doing work as well. I stared at the wall for five minutes thinking about Justin's Chocolate Hazelnut Blend Nut Butter. Can I put any of this into Training Peaks?

I know this is normal. I hear other cyclists talk about it. I just didn't think that I'd succumb to it. Because I've got shit to do. I'm a busy lady, moving and shaking. But it crept in there somehow. Gosh darnit, cyclocross season, I wish I knew how to quit you.

So for now, I will just look at this new favorite photo that I found today.

And maybe I will ride my bike tomorrow. Because my next cross race is in seven months.

Photo courtesy of NPT Photography

Thank you to: Renee Callaway

2012-01-28T08:50:00.004-06:00

The caboose in this thank you train is an important one. I mentioned in this post, that the people are one of my favorite aspects of racing 'cross. And then I went into a very long few paragraphs and thanked a bunch of folks who personally helped me in some way.

But what I failed to do was acknowledge that there are a lot of key people behind the scenes who make local and national bike racing possible. Actually, not only possible, but enjoyable, streamlined and evermore lucrative for the pros with big prize purses and matching payouts for men and women.

I don't know a lot of race promoters, and because I haven't spent a lot of time at the big UCI races yet, I don't know much of how everything works--what's important to have at a venue, who does the best job of it and so on and so forth. What I do know is that there's a lady who lives in Madison who has busted her ass the last few years to take cyclocross racing in Madison to the next level. And along the way, she's helped some very fast 'cross ladies get the sponsorship and support that they need.

This lady has a name. And that name is Renee Callaway and she is one BAMF. Let me also say this, I don't really know her at all. She stopped racing 'cross as seriously right around when I got into it (why you gotta play me like that, Renee?), but has maintained her involvement in the local and National race scene by doing impressive things like being the co-organizer of the USGP that's held in Sun Prairie, right in Madison's backyard, every year. In addition, she does a fair amount of consulting when other race organizers ask for an opinion. I can't say for sure, but Nationals likely went a bunch smoother with some of her input.

She's also had a hand in finding some now-established and some still up and coming lady racers sponsorship and support. And that more than anything else is what I want to give her the biggest thank you for: doing what she can to promote and support the growing presence of women in 'cross racing. It's still a lycra-clad man's world in the bike scene (and industry in general), but little by little that's changing. Renee puts on a lot of women's events before the big races and helps raise funds to cover travel expenses for women looking to race nationally.

And on top of it all, she puts on magic shows and does trapeze art every weekend to benefit homeless shelters here in Madison. I think. I might have made that last part up.

So good bleepin' job and a huge thanks to you, Renee. My race season and many other people's went more more smoothly because of your hard work. Now please stop focusing so much on skiing so I have another lady to ride and train with on ma bike. Oh stop. I'm kidding.

Not really.

A no thank you

2012-01-25T23:13:00.000-06:00

I have an advanced degree in a somewhat esoteric field called Applied English Linguistics. Never heard of it? Oh, well it's an academic field of study that's big in Europe.

Tiny aside. That phrase, big in Europe, is something I pull out of my bag of conversational tricks when I want to describe something that I don't know much about. Like cognac. Or cyclocross. Or things that I'm super into, but that might be lame. I throw that phrase out there to give them, oh how do you say a little je ne sais quoi to up the cool factor. Like gold lamé. Or white lycra. Or the couch I'm about to buy.

Or sometimes, it's a default phrase deployed if I don't have the energy to actually describe said thing. Suddenly I hear the words, Well, it's really big in Europe, tumbling out of my mouth and then I find myself cocking my head to the side and sort of doing that frowny, hands raised, palms upturned gesture.

I admit it. Sort of a dick move. Because are you actually going to disagree with me that cognac is not big in Europe? Probs not.

But anyway, back to that degree. A lot of people assume that I'm some sort of grammar marm who subscribes to any and all traditional conventions about language, punctuation and everything in-between. Like, maybe I have yard signs that say stuff like, Give me the Oxford comma or give me death or Grammar rights or Strunk & White for President. People will actually stop talking at the mention of this degree. Or they will preface emails with things like, Sorry. I wrote this in a hurry, it probably has tons of grammatical errors.

I'll be honest, no need to watch what you say or write around me. Because I don't care about your comma splice or lack of capitalization or your dangling participle. And that's not how I roll anyway.

Sure, I took syntax, phonology and conversational analysis courses. And yes, my knowledge of the English language and the building blocks upon which it is built likely surpass the common person's grasp of the words we speak, day in, day out.

But more than anything else, I studied how people use language. And how they don't use language. I had, and still have, a particular fondness for regional dialect and regionalisms. I studied, very generally speaking, what you meant by that. And how you conveyed what you meant. I actually have a penchant for slang. Srsly. I luh dat.

But I'll be honest, there are a few things regarding language that get me super hot under the collar. For example, I get really riled up about people not understanding something that I find to be really super basic. And this simple thing is the difference between to and too, or your and you're. It bugs the living hell out of me. Your insane. Gah. You are to funny. Come on. But for real, who's it from?

I mean what the what. Let's review:

The present is from me to you. vs. The present I actually wanted was too expensive. [Free tip for success: excess= extra 'o']

Your dog ate my glove. vs. You're in trouble. [This one's pretty easy. You're is a contraction put together with the words you + are, as in you are in trouble. Sound it out, read it aloud.]

There, rules for getting it right.

No charge.

Thank you to: Pete

2012-01-24T23:01:00.001-06:00

Pete is my one of my best friends and very likely my favorite person in the entire world. We've been friends since my freshman year in college and I can't imagine my life without him in it. I mean, I can, but I don't like it nearly as much.

There are few people who can make me laugh so hard that I cry. Pete, though, he tops that very short list (of four). The humor we share is so similar that all he has to do is make a gesture or show me an object and game over, I'm crying, trying hard to breathe. When I started this blog, most people were all like, good for you go for it, nice job. But Pete, always a straight shooter, was like, That's lame. Are you going to write about your feelings?

That's why I got nothin' but love for Pete. Boy doesn't blow smoke. In fact, I dedicated my first ever blog post to him.

We haven't lived in the same city, the same state or even the same region of the country since he graduated from Colby one year ahead of me. Which is too bad. Because I miss him. He visits me and I visit him. Though not as often as I should.

Gmail's chat feature has done wonders for our friendship. Especially when they added in the video feature. Pete is the only person I know who has the same inclination as me when faced with the camera addition. And that inclination is to continue typing in lieu of speaking. I don't know why. Everyone else seems to get it. But Pete and I just sit there, typing. I watch while he types and then he watches while I type. Makes no sense.

But it does.

So it's no surprise that when I started writing about guinea pigs (background is here, and then here), Pete would somehow have his hand in making the story legendary. He didn't disappoint, coming up with the most brilliant photo of my cross season.

He only said that he had made me a present. And that he would be sending it. I expected some odd photo collage in the mail. Instead, I got this in my email inbox:

I mean, truly, there are no words. How lucky could I be to have a friend like that in my life?

Pete has been really supportive of my racing, though he hasn't been able to make it to any of my races yet. That said, one weekend, when I did have a race in Wisconsin, he was driving somewhere in Vermont. And he happened to drive by a park where a cross race was going on. He told me that he stopped to watch and even though there were just a bunch of old, fat guys racing, he told me that he imagined that I was one of those fat old guys. So he sort of felt like he got to see me race.

So this special post is just for you Pete. Because I never say it, mostly because when I do, you respond with things like, stop being lame or I don't want to hear that or dirty, shut your mouth, but you're the best. Seriously. Thanks for being my be-ef-ef.

Awkward hugs and high fives.

Thank you to: the people

2012-01-23T23:26:00.003-06:00

The best part of the lycra circus that is a cross race are the spectators watching and cheering weekend after weekend. This is a different kind of spectator. The kind that gets all up in your business. They will scream in your face with a bullhorn, throw beer on you, offer you a marshmallow, tell you that their grandma is about to lap you because you're so damn slow and then slap your ass as you ride away. And that's if they're being kind.

And that, quite honestly, is a really good time.

At first, maybe not. The possibility of looking like a complete doof in front of a bunch of people that you may or may not know is a leeetle scary. Has everyone seen Joey's mishap? No? Look here. There are things to crash into, onto, fall from, slide into, run into, trip over, you name it. Add in nasty course conditions and boom goes the dynamite. It's mayhem. And maybe it's on YouTube the next day.

It's taken me awhile, but I've learned to embrace the 'on display-ness' of the sport just as much as the spectators do. Because no matter how good you are, it happens to everyone from first time racers to seasoned pros to reigning world champs. You will look like an idiot at some point. So just get over it.

Racing cross has taught me a lot about learning to get up, get over it and keep going. To not dwell. And along the way I've learned to embrace the unfortunate moves I've made that have led to blaze of glory crashes. Or just bad form that leads to doing dum dum things like cracking barriers in half. Rhups. My bad.

The spectators at Wisco races are particularly wonderful and have a special place in my heart. I have been amazed at how much people care about this sport. And, in a very humbling and absolutely flattering way, how much people care about the progress of my racing. The community that develops around the local race scene here is mind blowing.

This season, for me, was all I could have hoped that it would be. And honestly, in all seriousness (for once), I owe so much of it to the people who have surrounded me over the last year.

Things got a little upside down, turned around in my life this summer and I didn't know for sure how much I would realistically be able to focus on racing and training. I had worked so hard, though, through the winter and spring, training diligently, that I decided to fight for the satisfaction and fulfillment that I knew would come from a successful race season. In the end, the bike and the people who provided so much support and encouragement were the very things that held me up during a time in my life that was a little bit tough. Tough, but not impossible.

Sorta, if not exactly, like a cross race.

A million and two thank yous to everyone for a killer season. There are so many people to thank. To Gordy, for being a great coach, a calming influence and always reminding me that yes, actually I can. To cyclocrossracing.com for taking a chance on sponsoring me in my second season. To Ted Schweitzer for getting that hooked up. To my mom and John for coming out to watch me race. To the rest of my family for asking about my races and learning about the sport.

To Pattycakes for the encouragement, race advice and next level secrets. To Claire for asking my advice on training and racing, and paying me back in kind with life advice. To Meredith for being my homegirl and at the ready to go out and train. To Abby for pushing me all season long--I'm gunnin' for ya next year, so you best keep on it at the gym. To Ruckus who never reads this thing, but was the reason my chains were greased and my wheels turned true all season long.

To Nate Phelps for all of the cheering and for making me feel like a BFD when really, I am not. To Jessica Heenan for the cupcakes, the love and putting ideas in my head for next year. To Tim Strege for the help with my pit bikes and reminding me to do stuff like drink water. To Chris Kreidl for mechanic ability and tire pressure upon tire pressure check. To Brendan for being my homie and providing some of the best heckles on earth at the most important races. To David Kohli, Meghan, Dave, Glen and Kari for taking turns as stellar pit crews. To Vogelmann for the loaner race wheels. To Shriver for some advice on technical stuffs. To Ryan Weber for the Powertap hook-up.

Still there?

To Greg Ferguson for some really good training and race advice and for being an all-around good human being. To my Murfie bosses and co-workers for being understanding during the last part of my race season that happened to coincide with a particularly busy time at the office. To Elicia Hildebrand for the guinea pig stickers. To MWI for letting me crash in yer tent and use or eat pretty much everything in there for several races in a row. Justin Lackner for his great photos that he was so kind to let me use. To Chris Newlin for being Chris Newlin. To Mark for introducing me to Dr. Steve Brule--I mean, I thank you but my friends, they maybe don't as they are subjected to quote after dingus quote day in day out, enjoy!

To some of my newest homies: Linda Sone, Daniel Casper, Kelly Minx Riordan, Adam Myerson and Dave Towle.

And to everyone who has cheered for me, told me good job, nice race, asked about a race or given me a thumbs up, virtually or literally.

I am truly grateful and so thankful for all of you (in addition to everyone I forgot to mention) for giving a blippity bleep about my season. Because really, in the end, that reflects quite nicely upon your good taste.

An odd start to the thank yous

2012-01-20T16:15:00.002-06:00

I once dated a Polish guy. Not for very long. It was a summer thing. Who on earth knows why it didn't work out. Maybe it was because I was also dating two other people. Aaaaaand, maybe it was because the Polish guy, the other two people and I all worked at the same place. Together. Every day.

I mostly pulled it off. And mostly was just fine because right around the time when everyone figured out what was going on summer was over and it was time for me to saddle up and ride into the horizon. Time out. Before everyone is like, whoa, you're some sort of turbo slut, let me just say, this is not standard practice for me. Not that I owe you an explanation. I mean, I'm a player running some major game. But not really. Or at all.

Anyway. Was just a summer. When maybe I drank a little too much. That's enough about that.

But sometimes leaving town doesn't mean having to say goodbye, whether you like it or not. We call that, the beauty of someone having your email address. I continued to receive emails from Polish guy through fall, into winter and almost through spring.

The emails at first were long and ranty. Then they were short and nasty. Then the emails stopped completely and in their place I received seasonal e-greeting cards. Oh that's nice, you're thinking, he got over it and just wanted to stay in touch and used the holidays to do so.

No.

You should've seen these greeting cards. One was of Santa, animated to pull down his bright red, furry Santa pants to show off his Santa behind. And the text said something like, Ho ho you're a ho.

So that was fun. And super sweet of him.

But the best one was the e-card that I received for Valentine's Day. Everyone loves Valentine's Day. Total lie. But if you don't love it, you hate it so much that you love it. What? Sound reasoning.

On this particular e-card, there was a cartoon-y drawing of a blender with some hearts in it. And when you clicked on it, it animated and the hearts started jumbling around inside. I can't remember what the actual card said. I only remember what he wrote. And that was: Can you imagine what a mess an actual heart smoothie would be? But it would be full of love.

Okie dokie.

I don't usually like to use my blog as a forum to highlight tales from my fumbles through romance land. So why the bleep am I telling you this? Well, it's sort of a good story. Also, it's been on my mind.

Because lately, I feel a lot of love for a lot of things. I feel sorta like (and hats off to you Polish guy I dated for a hot second for providing me with this metaphor) a big love smoothie. My love hearts are just a-bumpin' around full of appreciation and gratefulness for many, many things and events and people.

And I feel really excited about the wheels turning on a bunch of stuff, personally and professionally. I'm talking to you know who you are. I have a lot of great people around me who support the things I do and the blathering on I do about those things.

I have a lot of thank yous to write to a lot of people for their support throughout this past season. And because I am bad at actually writing and sending physical cards in the mail, Ima blog it out. So this is a prelude to many posts of thanks for a really killer second season.

An odd prelude. About cartoon hearts in blenders and scorned Polish suitors. And love smoothies.

An apology post-it on the mailboxes should suffice

2012-01-19T12:54:00.002-06:00

Have you ever moved a Tempur-Pedic mattress three times in twelve dum dum months? No? Well you know I hate to brag, but I have.

But first, if you're thinking, why the dingle dangle does she have a Tempur-Pedic mattress, because you thought those were for old or really geeky people, let me just tell you. Those mattresses are lo maximo. Sleeping on one of those suckers with a battered body from training and racing is like a little slice of heaven. Right there in your very own bedroom. No, I am not sponsored by them. But I should be. (Jessica Heenan, are you on it?)

Unfortunately, moving them is not like a little slice of heaven. Imagine a giant pancake, about 6 feet long and 6 feet tall. Then imagine that it is about 2 feet thick. Then make it weigh about 100+ pounds. Then hoist that bitch over yer head and truck it up a flight of steep, narrow stairs. Then go back down those stairs. Fun, right?

I am so dang lucky to have friends who actually want to help me do that kind of stuff. Or, they want some drinks and dinner. And that's cool. You scratch my back, I ply you with booze and dinner. Everyone wins.

Claire and David, super-couple of the Milky Way galaxy, helped me move my bed last night. (She is some sort of insane astrophysicist (science! math!) who sometimes lives in places like Antarctica and the South Pole and knows a lot about clouds and he knows everything about fixing a bike. And then some more. So they are, in short, srsly smart.)

So they are reason number one as to how I was able to snooze it up in my new she-lair last night. That's right. I said she-lair. Mostly because she-den doesn't roll off the tongue in quite the same way.

I ended up moving the last carful of stuff and my dogs over to said new apartment sort of late. Probably around 11 at night. Or, also known as, when the other three apartments in the building might have already gone to bed. I tried to be quiet. I was probably 70% successful with that.

There I was, getting all settled in when I remembered something.

Pre-emptive sidenote. I am not a hippie. Nor am I a vegan, gluten-free or nut-free, have dreadlocks or say things about aligning my chi. I shave both my legs and my armpits. I shower pretty much every day.

What did I remember? Well, that I bought a sage smudge stick that I wanted to burn. Because I like the smell. And also, I admit it, I believe in new starts and getting rid of lingering stuff from the last inhabitant. I told Claire this. Her response: hippie feng shui stuffs. Guilty.

So what better time to do this than before I settled in for the night? No better time. That was right about midnight. I lit that sucker and holy shit, it was really well dried because boom goes the dynamite. It was up in flames before I could say, you are srsly harshing my mellow.

What happened next is a bit of a blur, but I do remember a few things. Mostly getting acquainted with one of my smoke detectors that is horribly, eardrum piercingly loud. And my dogs tweaking out, circling around and whining. Did I mention that this new place has 12 foot high ceilings? And that's where the smoke detector is mounted? Um, I have no idea where my stepstool is.

It felt like five minutes of pure chaos. Me trying to reach the damn thing on the ceiling to silence it. Or be able to wave a book near enough it to get it to turn off. I started sweating. Sort of a lot. I opened windows, I opened the balcony door. I could just feel everyone in the building hating me. They were thinking, hey, welcome to the building, asshole.

Oh my god though. That thing finally shut off and I had to sit down. My heart was racing like crazy. I almost killed myself falling off of some stacked boxes and furniture I had to rig up to get close to the ceiling.

Too bad I didn't catch it all on video. Off-season happenings, Volume 1. (Nate Phelps? You feel me?)

To my dogs

2012-01-17T23:03:00.000-06:00

My dogs put up with a fair amount of bullshit during race season. I'm able to easily manage my training and their exercise right up until about September. And then the continuous weekends of racing begin. That means that I have to give up some time in one area to put it into another area.

For example, I begin eating almost the exact same thing every single day. Because then I don't have to think about what to get at the grocery store when I roll in there after a race, which I inevitably always do against my better judgement, exhausted, hungry and bleary eyed, and have no blippin' idea what is going on.

If I don't have a plan for my grocery basket, it ends up a disaster. I get home with vegan marshmallows, dishwashing liquid and sausage. And that does not a meal make, folks. If I eat the same thing, I can go on autopilot and buy the same ten ingredients that will go into the same meal. That I eat. Every single day. Until the season is over.

Sure, this is likely not a great idea in many ways. And if I had a nutritional advisor, he or she would probably say something like, eat something different. Or, you are doing it wrong. Or, you aren't listening to me. But I don't. And the repetition allows me to eat healthy food every day without thinking. That said, I do have a personal videographer now, so perhaps I can add a personal nutritionist. Is that a word that I made up? Personal dietitian? Nutritional dietist? Truck it.

So, anyway, about ma dogs.

Their walks get shorter. Hitch doesn't get to go to the dog park as much. Mavis doesn't get to play fetch as often. I'm not always home to sit on the couch with them. The weekends are a mad dash to and fro race venues. Weird people come into the house to let them out to pee.

The evenings after work are a rush to get in my workout. I come home, let them out and feed them, then need to go directly to whatever training I need to get done. I mean, what a roller coaster for them. Home alone all day. I finally get home. They are super pumped. They eat, they get to release their bladders. Life is good. And then I'm like, peace out, I'm going for a ride.

But gosh dangit, I'm lucky to have them. They know their commands. They're pretty dang mellow. And they roll with all of it. I'm moving now, for the third time in twelve months. Not because of anything reality television terrific like eviction, or getting preggers by some random who I decide is my soulmate and I move in with him to raise the baby, or a stalker. Simply, there was some up in the air-ness to life for a bit and that meant a few moves while I figured it out.

And after this move, now that the race season is over, now that I have a job that I love, now that I have a little bit of extra time, things are going to go into settle down, town. As in, I can put my feet up for a minute and take a deep breath. Hitch and Mavis, too, will get some quality of life back. Quieter days with more routine, longer walks, more fetch, more me.

They are some seriously good dogs.

UCI Masters Cyclocross World Championships

2012-01-17T01:05:00.000-06:00

When I get worried, I get real quiet. Like a mouse. The more nervous I get, the quieter I become. And if you know me, or have ever been enchanted by my presence, you'll know what a departure this is from the norm. On Friday afternoon, Gordy, Diane and I went to watch some of the races. I didn't make a peep on the ride back to the hotel. Quieter than a mouse.

As I stood and watched Friday's races, I took note. The ground was just a bleepin' mess. Totally mucked up. Muck me. This mud chaos would surely freeze overnight.

People were running large sections, even though they had shortened the course and taken out a particularly tough off-camber part near the run up. The ground was changing as the day went on and the officials were trying to keep up by making the course at least a little more rideable by taking out and adding sections. They were moving stakes to give riders some grass so that there was at least some sort of line. Racers with running backgrounds did really well that day.

I got a little panicky, but quickly reminded myself: there is nothing you can do. Because here's the thing about race day weather: you do not get to pick. If it's raining, you get rained on. If there's a foot of snow on the ground, you ride in the snow. If it's muddy, you ride in the mud. If it's frozen, hang the h, ee, double hockey sticks on, because that's when speed is your friend and you ride it out. (Not that kind of speed, don't do drugs, kids.) In short, deal with it, because the race will not be cancelled.

And, believe it or not, you will survive.

I tried to keep the fret low. I walked the course with Gordy, Diane and Daniel Casper. (We missed you, Linda!) Between the three of them, they gave me all of the advice I needed for having some good times with frozen ruts in the morning. I had sort of mastered that at Nationals, but these ruts were a different beast. Much more frozen and much more deeply rutted. The flyover was new to me as well. First time on one of those that required a remount at the top. So, lots of questions answered and lots of good advice given. Thanks and thanks a million more times you three.

I opted out of a pre-ride on the course on Friday and rode on the trainer back at the hotel. The course would be nothing like what I would be racing on, and cleaning up thirty two pounds of mud off of everything didn't sound like a good way to get down the night before a race.

Though I couldn't control the weather, I could make sure that I was prepared equipment-wise. I would be racing on frozen mud ruts in temperatures hovering around twenty degrees. The clothing part I had dialed in. So, I threw my energy at tire selection and tire pressure. You know I love to talk about tire pressure.

So I started asking around. High fives to Adam Myerson for being an all-around good human who enjoys helping others. He only just recently became my homie, but that didn't hold him back from giving me good advice on what tires to use and suggestions for pressure. Thanks, Adam! Someday I will repay you in kind. Maybe not with race advice. How about I ghost write your autobiography?

The day of the race, I was nervous. I always am. But it was manageable. The field was small and I knew that there were two women in the field who could really whoop on me. My goal was top three.

As for the frozen ruts, I lacked the confidence that comes from experience, but decided to fake it and go as fast as I could manage. I had pre-ridden a few laps on the course and that helped a lot. I could do everything. I did make the mistake of hesitating on the flyover my first go-round, which made me stop at the end of the ramp, where I looked straight down. Here's my advice for that move: don't. It looks so steep, you can't help but stand there and be like uh. No.

Next lap, I got up, got on and went. Much better. Flyover, check it off.

The other thing I immediately had to settle into was the noise of carbon tubular wheels on frozen mud ruts. With ground like that, it's best to run a very low tire pressure so that the tires wrap around the ground, versus bouncing off of things (like, well, like ruts). Normally wheels don't make much noise, but in those conditions, they do. And that noise is tough to describe.

Let me say this, carbon tubular wheels are not cheap. Not cheap to the tune of at least two gees for a wheelset. Essentially you do what you can to not break them. So when you roll out there on the frozen ice and you're mashing into ruts and bumpin' around. Just, yikes. Pure distraction if you let it.

I had to settle into the noise because at first, I wanted to stop every ten feet and check to make sure I hadn't just split the damn wheels in half. I worked it out though, convinced myself that this would just be the soundtrack for the race. And, carry on.

After my pre-ride, I tooled around a bit and made my way over to the starting grid. I had pulled the number one, so they called my name to line up first. I felt excited to see what I could do. The UCI official who started us was French. I sure did love that. He looked French and had the accent to match. He gave us the countdown. Three minutes to start. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds.

The whistle blew and we were off. The group splintered somewhat early on. I stayed with the leader for as long as I could before she gapped me for the first time on the flyover, and then she just rode away with it. Props to her. She killed it out there. I continued to chase as she widened her gap.

I got the hang of those dingus ruts after a lap. I was pumped to have Wayne Simon scream something at me about zig-zagging over them in one particularly nasty section of the course. So I zigged and zagged. And I learned that the best way through the ruts is by riding over, and not through, them. I was able to ride a section of the course that I couldn't in my pre-ride and I was really pumped about that. It was a sort of an S dingle dangle deal. What?

Try again. It was a section that went up, down, up, down, and then there was a run-up. The second up was tough, but if you could ride up it, the second down was way easier. The first lap I ran it, and that sucked. So I decided to ride it the next lap and gosh darnit I did. That got the people going. Good times.

That section was a wee sketchy, as the downhill was steep, rutted and icy and if you got your wheel in the wrong groove, into the stakes and fencing you went. I couldn't ride it at all before the race, so to do that three of four laps was a good time.

I keep chuggin' along and was so happy to cross the line in second. Second in the world. I could parentheses-ize the hell out of that last statement. I could add (only Americans showed up) (30-34 Women's) (Masters) (small field) but I'm not going to. Because in the end, I showed up, I raced and I crossed the line second.

And just for a little bit, it feels really great to bask in the glow of that silver medal as the last race of my second season of bike racing.

A huge thanks to Gordy and Diane for hauling me around all weekend, to Dave Towle for following me on Twitter, to Daniel for the great advice, good conversation and for being my new homie, to Glen Jones for being my pit guy, to Nate for watching Mavis and to Dan and Diana for dog-sitting Hitch. You all made the magic happen.

The start.

The course.

The podium.

Tomorrow, Worlds

2012-01-13T21:00:00.000-06:00

Today is the day before my first ever race at Masters Worlds. Or, the day before the race where I first shat in my chamois on the starting line. Oh stop. It's fine. Not a nervous bone in my body.

Well, okay I might be a little nervous. Last week, I was beside myself anxious about riding on frozen mud ruts for the first time before Sunday's Elite race at Nationals. All I can say is, those were not frozen mud ruts.

What I saw today on the Worlds course, well, those are some bonafide frozen mud ruts. I race at 9am tomorrow morning. Nothing will have done anything other than freeze more.

Holy shit.

It's going to be gnarly.

But fun, right? Capital ef you en.

Because that's why I do this. For fun. And goddamnit, tomorrow is going to be so much bleepity bleeping fun I'm going to just puke.

*mindovermatter*

Hello, Louisville!

2012-01-12T22:50:00.000-06:00

I haven't been here very long, but so far, outlook good. Ima just come right out and say it: Louisville, I'm sorta into you. This is a town full of a lot of things that I love. Small-batch Kentucky bourbon, well-dressed handsome men everywhere (a veritable plethora), plenty of good restaurants and a lot of badass old buildings not in disrepair. And I had some beef brisket soaked in bourbon for dinner. High fives.

The trip here went smoothly. And no thanks to me. I hitched a ride with my coach Gordy and his wife Diane and they've been towing my ass around in their sweet minivan. I got to take a long nap today while they switched off driving, navigating some wintry travel conditions. (Teamwork! I'll sleep!) I read a little something, did some work, expanded my social network footprint. I read another magazine.

I got to do so much stuff in that seven hours. That's something I'm not used to because normally I do all of the long haul trucking solo. (My dogs do not yet have their driving permits and are unable to help.) Thanks Gordy and Diane! Because the best part of driving is not having to. Passive travel. Is nice.

This is the second time that I've traveled for a bike race. The first was going out to Bend for last season for Nationals. The travel there was stressful. This time, I'm into it. Maybe because I'm rolling with the pros or maybe because I'm just really happy to be here. Either way, I'm feeling pretty good. And for the moment I'm choosing to not fret about everything I've heard so far about the course conditions. Words like unrideable, running nine run-ups per lap, running almost the entire lap, no good lines, power-sucking mud, deep puddles and total insanity.

Because what the weather does and what the course looks like is completely out of my hands. So at the moment, I'm riding on the no-fret train to not-worry city.

And just a little icing on the cake, I drew starting position numbah one from the bag tonight. Thaz right, homies! This means that I get called up to the starting line first. Not that it makes that big of a diff in my small field, but mentally, seeing the number one, well, that's a really good time.

Tomorrow we do a little course recon and then Saturday is race day. And Saturday night is bourbon enjoying time.

Minivan, locked and loaded

Sort of sums of my feelings for Indiana

Good choice!

The season must go on

2012-01-11T23:26:00.000-06:00

This week: whoa bananas. It's been a sprint from sunrise on Monday. And that's a good thing. Because I like to move and shake. Actually, I'll be honest. It's a little much this week.

My eye has been twitching, I am forgetting things I memorized forever ago, like my member number at the co-op and I think I have some sort of insane rapid onset of TMJ from stress-clenching my jaw. I have about fifty different lists of five million things to do, four million of which are just repeats of other things on the other to-do lists that I wrote and forgot about.

Those lists are mostly worthless when I'm having trouble getting it all done anyway. Because I start writing gimmes down, like, eat dinner, go to bed and let dogs out to pee, just so that I can cross something off. Otherwise I just stare at the line items that are not getting crossed off, such as move to new apartment, finish work projects (times two gabillion) and do laundry, and get real frustrated. It's all good stress, exciting stress and the inability to have more than 24 hours in a day stress. And I'll take it.

Tomorrow I leave for Cyclocross Masters Worlds, which will be held in Louisville, KY. I mean, which will be held in Louisville, y'all. First time it's been in the United States in a very long time. (Ever? Maybe? Fact check, please.)

I hadn't really planned on Worlds as my last race. I was thinking that I'd be done after Nationals, but goddangit, I'm just not ready to give up the 'cross racing ghost just yet. After some nudging, I registered last Saturday.

I have no idea what's driving me. I mean, yes I do, because I always know, but I'm surprised with myself. I thought that I'd be ready to be done by this point. The season has been going on for awhile now, since September to be exact.

And I don't do this for a living. And I'm not really killing it out there, place-wise or anything, so I'm not gunning for prize money. And usually, money and winning are two of my driving forces in life, something that racing at a higher level will get me none of. Not yet anyway. And maybe not ever. But that's not the point.

So what is the point? Why the truck am I doing it?

Well let me just tell you. I am actually enjoying racing. And shoot, just holler back about that one. It's taken me all of last year and pretty much all of this season to even think that, let alone really feel it.

And oh, believe you me, I feel it. Racing in a big field on Sunday was motivating and awesome. I still don't know what I'm doing all of the time, exactly. Of course, there's always more to learn and to do better, but I don't feel like such a nervous wreck that I can't do it. Or that I'm so nervous that I won't do it.

The butterflies are different now. Wiser and more confident. So wish me luck. Last race of the season. Hoping for a good one.

Photo by Eric Baillies

Sunday's race: on video

2012-01-09T21:39:00.001-06:00

Gosh. I sure am tired. Still.

Maybe just watch this a few times while I muster up some energy to actually write something. But before I go, big ups to Nate Phelps for making this montage. He's been a really great supporter, cheer-er and heckler all season and it was awesome to have him screaming things at me about Ecuadorian taxi drivers and racing for all of the pitbulls out there during Sunday's race. Gotta love a fan who pays attention to detail. Thanks so much, Nate!

Cyclocross Nationals Race 2: Elite women

2012-01-08T22:11:00.000-06:00

Golly. What a day. It started much like any other race day. I got up, smoked a pack of cigarettes and drank a six-pack of beer. Oh stop. It was lite beer. No, but really. Don't do drugs, kids.

I'll admit that I was a little intimidated about Sunday's Elite race. It would be my second Elite race ever. So there was that. Also, with 80+ women registered to start, it would be the biggest field I had ever raced in by about 40 people. So there was that.

Then there was the course itself. There was a hard frost the night before and I knew that would make the mud freeze. Which would mean that the ruts would also freeze. I hadn't ridden much in mud and I hadn't ever ridden on frozen mud. The jitters were mostly equalized with excitement at that point.

I pre-rode two laps with Sarah Huang and Linda Sone and high fives to them for showing me the way. Those two have a way of just rolling with it. They've both been racing for at least twice as long as I have and Linda, in particular, is just sorta like, yeah, just do it this way, it's fine, no problem. And somehow, it calms me the truck down. Immediately. So thanks ladies. Good advice.

So I felt better. But then, suddenly, after parting ways with those two, I felt worse. My stomach got knotted up. I was still unsure about the course conditions. True confessions, that is a major understatement.

I was scared shitless. I ran through horrible scenarios, imagining getting stuck in a rut, freaking out and impaling myself on a stake. Bleeding everywhere. In my mind, I saw a crash at the start. A huge pile-up in which I would somehow be dismembered. Or just get body-slammed hard onto the pavement.

I was quickly getting the better of myself. Holy shit I was so nervous. Full-on, full-blown fret. And so scared of those dingus ruts.

Which is why it was good that I ran into my coach, Gordy. Get yourself settled down. That is sorta like the thing he says to me on race day. And he immediately said that. And then we talked it out. And he pinned on my numbers and I rolled over to staging for the start. My call-up was not bad--49th, I think. And I was able to line up behind someone I knew was a good rider and wouldn't get all tweaky in the starting madness. Linda was next to her and I looked around and saw a lot of familiar faces. I was settling in.

The start was not so bananas. I got clipped in right away and I focused on moving up cleanly and avoiding getting shoved into the stakes at the transition from the pavement to the mud. I used a lot of what I learned from Friday's race and I kept pushing. I stayed with Linda for as long as I could before she pulled away from me on a climb.

How rad to race in a big field though. I had people all around to race with, pass, get passed by, pass them back. I loved it. And the spectators were just insane. So many people just screaming and shaking cowbells and firing off bullhorns. It was the greatest thing. There were a few sections so thick with people screaming that I forgot, temporarily about how much the race hurt. Thanks everyone! Hometown advantage. Holla back.

I gave up a few more spots than I would have liked, and need to remember more often to get my legs moving when they say no, but in the end, I finished 33rd out of 74 starters, well above where I thought I'd be. And I didn't get pulled, which to me, was huge. I expected to do three laps, tops, today before Katie Compton came around put me out of my misery, letting the officials pull me off the course.

Not so! I was one of the lucky ladies who got to do the full five laps. And I sure am feeling that now.

Thanks to so many people. Kari and Glenn for being available to pit for me. And to Mike M. for helping me haul my crap back and forth to the tent. To Jessica and Mike Heenan and the MWI team for letting me crash in yer tent once again. And to Heenan for the help with my tire pressure. And to Dave Thomas for looking over my bikes this morning. And to Mike Curtes for that badass hug, getting me water and helping me with that trainer after the race. And Brendan for the heckles and, uh, lip balm? And to Nate Phelps. You know what you did. And of course, to Gordy, for being the best coach around.

What a day, what a day. I would say, what a season, but I'm not finished yet. I'm headed to Lousiville on Thursday to compete in Masters Worlds. Thaz right homies! I'm taking it to the dirty, dirty south for one last race.

One broken-nosed gal on two wheels, gutting it out on the prairie.

Hammer down.

Frozen, rutted mud thawed as the race went on.

The finish. Favorite photo from the weekend.

All photos courtesy of Justin Lackner
http://lacknerphotography.tumblr.com/

Cyclocross Nationals Race 1: Masters 30-34

2012-01-07T21:43:00.000-06:00

Whoa nelly. Sometimes when you hear the words 'masters' and 'bike racing' put next to each other in a sentence, you might think 'slow' and 'old' and then picture a bunch of people in lycra sorta putzing around on the course, maybe chatting about wine tastings or kidney stones.

Not so, friends, not so. The younger Masters groups are stacked with some of the top Elite racers and the older fields are stacked with all former Elite racers. So, in some ways, the racing never gets slower, just more competitive as people stop racing the Elite and only focus on Masters.

So basically, don't front. Masters racing is not for the faint of heart. I'm currently rolling with the youngest crew: 30-34. Some of the top ladies in US cyclocross are in this age group. How did I feel about this? I was nervous. It was going to be fast and it was muddy. All I could do was try to hang on for as long as possible.

My start was good--I stayed up with the front ladies and we were flying: here's a video clip. Then, we hit the mud and though I'm told that I, in fact, was not moving backwards, it sure felt like it at some points. There was a flat section around a soccer field that just sucked the living life out of me. And another long, gradual climb that led to a steeper climb that was rutted to hell and really taxing.

That's the section where I gave someone the middle finger. I don't even know what the heckle was. It might have been, hey, love your socks. And I would've been like, shove it up your such and such, buddy. Because that's what the course did to you on Friday afternoon. Claire described the conditions as being just like a bad dream. I wouldn't completely disagree with that.

The mud was a consistency like nothing I had raced in before. Really thick like peanut butter that clogged up every possible thing on the bike and weighed it down, but also sort of greasy, making a lot of the corners slick.

I pitted almost every lap and was really thankful to have Meghan and Dave there for me. They roll pro and it made all of the difference to get a clean bike. If you haven't ever seen a cyclcross race, there's a section called the pit where you can enter at a specific spot on the course. For big races, you have two chances a lap, as the course will wrap around the pit. Also at larger events, there's a separate pit lane that you take to go into the pits. If you take that lane, you have to go into the pit, at which point, you have to take a bike. If there is not a bike for you, then you still have to get off of your bike, and in the Elite race, you have to wait for your bike. Or, you wait for some penalty number of seconds (I think?).

On Friday, I learned by doing.

I went into the pit for the second time in one lap, not realizing that with only one pressure washer, that wasn't enough time. So I went into the pit, at which point Meghan told me that there was no bike. And I must've looked at her, like, uh, so, here I am though. And so she yelled, you have to get off your bike. So I did.

And you know, when you're in the thick of a race and then something like that happens, it's really hard to understand what in the hell is going on. There's so much adrenaline coursing through your body. And your lungs are getting ripped out of your chest and your heart is thumping and your quads are burning.

So when she said, you have to get off of your bike, and I did, then I just could not sort out what the eff I was supposed to do next. I just kind of slowed down and ran with my bike, thinking that I had to just keep running because she told me to get off the bike. And then, I thought, oh, maybe I wait for the other bike? Do I have to run the whole damn lap? What? At which point, I heard Meghan yell that I needed to get back on my bike. Followed by, go. Go, go, go.

So I listened. And I went. Had that been the Elite race, I would have been flagged by an official, I believe. And I think that I would have had to wait. So now I know. So confused.

The race was tough. I don't know how to ride in mud. Not very well. I ran well. I had one particularly bad remount where I crotched my bike seat. That'll wake a person up. Having an audience for those moments is always humbling. Or annoying. Because you really just want to throw out the most insane profanity possible. But instead you're like, oh hi, thanks for cheering, really appreciate it.

But truly, as for the cheering: oh hell yes. It was so great to have so many people screaming my name. Thaz right, say ma name! Thanks so much to all of you who yelled kind and unkind things at me. I loved it all.

I didn't finish place-wise where I would have liked. I had hoped to finish as I was seeded, which was 10th, and I ended up rolling over the line in the 15th spot. Had I missed the podium in a sprint, I would've been upset. As it is, it's just a race in which I learned a lot about racing in the mud. Some dos and don'ts if you will.

Maybe I try to fix a few things for tomorrow. Stay tuned! Elite race goes off at noon!

All photos courtesy of Justin Lackner
http://lacknerphotography.tumblr.com/

Cross Nationals Day 2: Mudlicious

2012-01-05T22:22:00.002-06:00

Well, well, well. What do you know. It's January in Wisconsin. And there's not only no snow on the ground, but it's well above freezing. High 40s today and tomorrow. So what happens when you have a National cyclocross event in a prairie? Well, first a full sheet of ice. And then, salt on the course, the sun came out and the temperature rose. Now, it is mud. And that is what happened in the Badger Prairie so far.

I get the sense that there are some mixed emotions among the racers out there. Some happy about the warm temps. Others pissed because they want cold and snow and ice. In general, there's some solid twe-twe-tweaking out. January in Wisconsin is an unpredictable thing. It follows no pattern that makes any sense. And don't try to refute any of that with science. Because I am an English major. Sure, I can understand your science-y talk, but I'm just going to go right on and interpret it exactly how I want to. As though I were reading a modernist poem. Try me. I'm really good.

So, anyway.

When Madison won the bid for Cyclocross Nationals last year, local folks knew that it was anybody's guess what the weather will hold. And it's true. Until this past week, it was winter. Now, it's sorta spring. Non-Wisconsinites thought for sure we'd be racing in and out of humongous snow caves, dodging polar bears and hurdling between ice floes. Au contrarie. It is sunny with bare ground. And mud. So holla back.

The favorite game among spectators and racers is called, What's the course going to look like in an hour? Followed by, What's the course going to look like tomorrow? Best part, nobody wins because nobody truly knows!

Sorta exciting. Super messy. So much lycra. So much muscular legs. Get down!

Huge high fives to some of my homies who killed it out there today. And yesterday. You all know who you are. And you know I like your moves.

Two days to go

2012-01-04T23:08:00.002-06:00

My first race for Nationals is on Friday. It's been easy to not get really worked up about it. I have plenty of good distractions. There's that new apartment, just waiting for me to get moved into. Also there's so much good stuff going on at work. Oh, just so many exciting things. The kind of things that make me work or think about work sort of, mostly, just about always and maybe sometimes not when I'm not sleeping.

Today, though, after wrapping up an important meeting and an important phone call for an upcoming campaign (that someone put me in charge of--holler), I had just a second to think about some other things. And it sort of hit me: I'm racing at Nationals in two days. At one of my favorite venues. Just right next door to Madison. Cyclocross racers will be taking over the town. So much lycra! I got so excited.

Then I got just a wee bit nervous.

After chewing off all of my nails, passing out, coming to and then having a stroke, I employed some solid tactics that I've developed over the season to calm down. First, I went and got a manicure. (My sister in law Katie taught me the magic of that. Holla back, Kates!)

Then I watched a whole lot of Dr. Steve Brule. And I mean a whole lot of Dr. Steve Brule.

And now, a testament to the fact that racing is 99% psychological, I can safely say that I am ready to go. And also, bonus comment, somehow, my hand really looks a lot like ET. Whut.

New Year nose incident

2012-01-03T20:56:00.000-06:00

Holla back, homies. It's the new year! And it's been a few days. Let me get you up to speed on 2012 so far.

New Year's Day: I slept in. All the way until 7am. I packed some things into boxes. I rode my bike. I moved things into my new apartment. I thought about how much I love that new apartment. I broke my nose.

I tried not to cry. But shit. That hurts. Truly. I had no idea. How do boxers do it? I mean just babam whabam in the face over and over and over. I went to the ER. Claire drove me. Thanks to Claire and David. They always help me out. Even when I don't show up at their door crying with blood dripping out of my face. Then, finally, I fell asleep with an ice pack on my face.

How did it happen? Well, I turned off my alarm, which usually goes off at 6am, and that way I was able to sleep in. And there you have it: how I was able to sleep until 7am.

Be cool. I know, the nose. You want details. Listen, I'll be honest. I have no idea how it happened. Lie. I know exactly what happened. I haven't really answered that question directly because, one, rumors are always way more interesting than straight-up fact, and two, my friends feel really bad about it. Honest to god awful and so apologetic.

Before you get too far with that thought. No, my friends did not punch me in the face.

The story really isn't that exciting. No skank fight. No insane bike crash. No acrobatics off of the bar at midnight on New Year's. No punch in the face. In fact, it was just a dog. The dog of some friends. A dog who happened to get a little over-exuberant. A dog who headbutted me. Headbutt, then crunching sound. I tried to just carry on--like what. I'm fine. It was only when they said to me, Your nose is bleeding, and I lifted my hand to touch the bottom of nose and felt nothing and they said, No, out of the sides of your nose, that I got a little worried.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Ruh-roh. Nationals, I thought. How on earth will I wear sunglasses? Can I breathe? How much is the cold going to make this hurt during the race? And, most importantly, is my modeling career over?

It was pronounced broken at the ER. I was told to just let it heal. Ice it. Expect swelling and bruising.

I can look for meaning in everyday occurrences. We don't need to get into how my brain works, exactly, but I'll just say, in life, I don't think that everything is completely and totally random. So to that end, I kept thinking, what does this mean? My nose gets broken for the first time ever in my life on the first day of the new year.

Does it mean that I'm really going to get it this year; a year of getting headbutted, literally and figuratively? Does it mean that I am going to be in pain? Does it mean that I'm going to experience a lot of firsts? Is it a lesson that I need to just get ready and be prepared for the unexpected?

Jury's still out, folks. We're only on day three of the new year after all. But hey, in the meantime, check out some photos. Everyone enjoys those.

The Night Of

Day One

Day Two

And ode to the New Year holiday tradition

2011-12-31T10:09:00.004-06:00

Here it is. The very last day of twenty eleven. The day where we usher in a shiny, brand new year full of possibility, hope and dreams-coming-true by obsessing about the past. I mean really, truly mulling the shit out of the last twelve months. We do this in a lot of ways.

We make top ten lists, we talk about the best moments and the worst, we create collaged cards of photos that document the year's events. I bet some people probably scrapbook about it. Maybe their book is called, My Scrapbook of 2011 or Scrap 2011, Bring in 2012! or 2011 Was Total Scrap!, but I don't actually know. This is all conjecture. Not a scrapbooker myself.

We might set resolutions, but really resolutions are just a way of talking about the past again. Like, in 2012 I'm going to lose 10 pounds because I ate too much in 2011. Or, I will not date anyone seventeen years older than me in 2012. Because that didn't work out so well in 2011.

Then the story goes, after we talk about the past, we raise our glasses and cheers to the past. This can start as early as you like and go on for as long as you want. We are honest to god drunk with memories of our waking hours from the past 52 weeks. That is to say, we usher in the new year by forgetting. Especially wiped clean from the slate are the final hours.

Oh stop. It's fine. I'm kidding. Merriment, it's all merry. We sing, we cheers, we make out with strangers in bars. We wake up to a brand new year by rolling over in bed and saying stuff like, Hey, what was your name again?

Oh, sorry. Different holiday, different story.

Anyway, New Year's.

Second worst holiday in the calendar year. Second to Halloween. That's right. I said it. Gosh, what a lame person, you're thinking. And, listen here, guilty as charged! No, but really. Everybody be cool. It's super fun to have a stab at shaping something shiny and new and talking a lot about the potential of the year to come. I love New Year's for that. And, I'll admit it, I love a good party with good music for shakin' ma rump. It just seems like sometimes, let's just stop talking about it and carry on. See the potential in the days of the year every day? Shake our rumps more often than the last day of the year? Uh, New Year's every day?

Or, just this: this past year has been really bananas. I look at where it started and I look at where it ended. And I can't believe how quickly things can change, both for the better and for the worse, but always for forward motion. And that's the true beauty of it all. Moving forward. So let's cheers to that.

And also, butter. Never, ever forget to give it up for butter. Because butter too, is all about potential. Just think of all of the great things that it can make happen: from pastry to sauces to better toast. Butter is, essentially, packaged hope of good to come.

That's right. A butter metaphor to end 2011. How rad is that?

Apropos much?

The final countdown

2011-12-30T07:15:00.002-06:00

Well, here we are. One week until my first race at Nationals. I went back and forth for awhile about which races to do--just the Masters 30-34 race or just the Elite race or both? My indecision was made worse when my knee started acting up right after the regionals race a few weeks back.

I'm not good at being injured. I don't accept it. My natural instinct is to just ignore whatever pain comes up and only stop when that pain becomes debilitating, preventing me from doing any more. That, in part, is one of the main reasons that I hired a coach. I need someone to tell me when to stop. We could extend this to a big life metaphor, but it's early in the morning and we don't need to get into that right now.

I'm not exactly sure what got my knee so stirred up, but it feels very similar to an old overuse injury that I used to get from running a lot. Crunching, clicking and general rubbin' around inside of ma kneepiece. I told Gordy and we monitored it and last week, when the pain became sharp and shooting, I was put on mandatory rest. Gordy says, I do. Really simple equation that works like a charm.

I don't like to talk about injuries. Mostly because I have to admit being less than superhuman. Oh, I'm kidding. I don't like to talk about them because then it becomes a thing. A topic for conversation. A known entity that becomes fodder for questions about how it's going to impact my most important races of the season, which are yet to come. Despite knowing that people are asking because they care, I don't like that added stress and the doubt that those questions bring. It's on my mind already, and with added questions, it only magnifies my concern.

I'll also add that I've been on taper, which means that while my training is still plenty tough and intense, the bulk of the workouts is lessened. This does a lot of things. Like makes me have a lot of extra energy and bounce off of the walls and makes me feel like a big balloon burning less calories per day, but unable to stop shoving Christmas cookies down my gullet. Also, somewhere in there, there's something good that it does, like gets my legs and body ready for my 'A' races.

So that knee, it's feeling much better. I'm back to more or less doing my normal thing. Though I was told to stop wearing high heels for a few weeks, which I did, but adamantly oppose, for the record. I finally registered for, wait for it, two races and renewed my racing license for 2012.

And now, well, I'm getting pretty damn excited for next week. The Elite race will have live streaming on the internets and although the camera guys will be more concerned with the people in the front of the pack, winning, you might catch a glimpse of me. Stay tuned for more details.

You are in trouble. If you are a squirrel.

2011-12-29T07:57:00.002-06:00

I get a lot of interesting questions and comments about my dogs. Things that range from, can I buy them, to, do they bite, to, do you have any puppies for sale, to, I bet they really like to eat raw meat to, wow they look so scary, to, hey mama what are you doing later. Not all bad, I get plenty of complimentary things thrown my way when I'm with them as well. I mean, try to tell me that any dog in a butterfly or pink fair isle sweater doesn't make you want to slap someone it's so adorable.

One thing that people tend to say to me, a single woman who often lives alone, is, boy, you definitely don't have to worry about being scared of anyone breaking in with two pitbulls in your house. And I get this line of thought. Dogs, in general, especially bigger ones, are a good deterrent for a lot of things. Like people creepin' in.

Just let me say that pitbulls are historically the worst guard dogs in the history of the world. I'm sure you've seen some snarling ones behind chainlink fences on Law & Order, but those dogs are exceptions, not the standard when it comes to the breed. Also, put any animal on a short chain, starve it of attention, affection, shelter and food, more than likely be cruel to it, and you'd likely be snarling as well. Any dog on a chain has something to be pretty pissed off about.

Pitbulls, though originally bred to fight other dogs, were never bred to be aggressive toward people. (Let me emphasize originally, as in two full centuries ago in the 1800s, like when the Queen of England used to settle in with some popcorn to watch a good bear-dog bait fight. It was a different time and it's a trait that has been bred out by responsible breeders over the years.)

The American Pitbull Terrier was once regarded just as the Lab is in our current culture. The All-American, family dog. Teddy Roosevelt had one. Helen Keller too. The breed used to be called the nanny dog for their gentle nature with children. I won't do their history justice though, so go here if you're interested in knowing more.

And, well, maybe it's not all that smart to publish this on a blog, but unless you are some sort of rabbit or squirrel (in which case you will cause tons of chaos and be chased around the house), you will be greeted with a lot of exuberance from Mavis and, if you're lucky, Hitch will lift up his head and acknowledge that you exist.

So when people say things to me about feeling safe from intruders because I have these big (40 pound), powerful dogs protecting me, I often smile and chuckle.

Because in my mind, I am seeing things like this:

The Hutterite woman next to me was not phased

2011-12-27T23:17:00.000-06:00

I am no longer used to big stores. With really bright lights and really tall ceilings and tons of stuff to buy. I realized this the other day when my mom sent me on an errand to the grocery store down the street. It's an express version of the bigger local chain in Fargo, so it was maybe a quarter of the size of a regular store.

I had two items that I had to get and upon walking through the doors, I had to work to remember them both. Immediately overwhelmed by the lights and the layout. And all of the food, bright colors and big signs. Also, some kid was in charge of the Salvation Army bell and he was killing it with that thing. I mean a ring a ding ding a ding, buddy. So intense and loud as he shook the blessed life out of the bell. I walked in, feeling like I had just entered Narnia or something.

What?

No, I don't live in a hole. I know what a grocery store is and how to be out and function in society. That said, I became acutely aware, in that moment, of how infrequently I shop outside of small, locally owned places. I want to note that I am not above anything, especially not shopping at big stores. Simply put, I feel lucky to live in a town where I just don't have to and yes, I choose to and can also afford to. I feel better when I eat good food that's responsibly sourced. And as for the shopping environment, it's so much more enjoyable to spend money in a small space that makes sense with nice lighting and people who know your name. And sure, there's an obnoxious side to some of that culture, but we don't need to get into that here.

Like how once, when buying a rump roast at my neighborhood co-op, the checker asked me if I ever think about what it looked like alive. I said no. Because I have never seen a naked chunk of meat running around. That is just crazy talk.

I knew what he meant.

Anyway. I was in that small Fargo grocery store, way overstimulated and super confused. Maraschino cherries are not where you'd think they'd be. So as I strolled around, I found myself staring, asking myself things like, how many dingus choices of canned beans can one person need?

It didn't go to the next level until I hit the baking goods aisle. I can only say this: I have never seen so much Jell-o in my entire life.

Odd Jobs: Part 1

2011-12-26T13:04:00.001-06:00

Did I ever tell you about the time right after college when I moved back to my hometown of Fargo, North Dakota?

No?

Well, shoot.

There's a lot to tell. Where to start. Maybe with my sweet barista job? Or being about 25 pounds overweight (shut-up Pete, it was only 25 pounds)? Or my cocktail waitressing job at Rooter's Sports Bar? Could it be my job as a substitute teacher's aid in the Moorhead Public Schools? Maybe my other sweet job as the cashier at Wallwork Tractor & Trailer Repair Center? Bingo. We have a winner.

I'll preface this by saying that I used to know everything. After high school, I went to college in Maine at a highly-ranked liberal arts college. (The best liberal arts college in the world if you ask me. Claire, that's for you--Carlton can suck it. Also, anyone who went to Bates or Bowdoin.)

Anyway, because I knew everything, I knew that I wouldn't ever be coming back to Fargo. No hate. At that time, I just wanted out. In a bad way. (Think caged animal.)

So how surprised was I when I set up shop back in my old room, in my parent's house, in Fargo, in August of 2002? I had just returned from working in France for the summer. I had no idea what I was going to do next. Worse, I had no idea what I wanted to do next. I quickly realized that, due to my indecisive nature at the time, I would just apply for any and every job I saw. The buckshot approach, if you will.

Nice.

Among my slew of jobs, was a temp job at Wallwork Tractor Trailer Repair Center. I worked second shift as a cashier. What exactly does that mean? It means that I went to work at 3pm and did a lot of things that exclusively revolved around repair bills for semi trucks. All to a soundtrack courtesy of 107.9 The Fox: #1 For Classic Rock That Really Rocks. (Once, I changed the station to Y94, Fargo-Moorhead's #1 Hit Music Station and forgot to change it back. I was told, in so many words, to never ever do that again.)

I took the repair bills from the mechanics, coded them, re-printed them, rung them up when the trucker appeared at my cashier window, stamped paid and the date on them and then, filed them. It actually wasn't that bad of a job, to be honest.

At times it was like living in a blue-collar version of People magazine. There was always some drama between one of the office workers and a mechanic. You know, someone was engaged, but cheated on that person with a different person and then they broke up and then got re-engaged and then found out that the other one was pregnant. Always something about a hot tub. And they all worked under the same roof.

I worked with folks like Butch and Moose and Flash and Bubba. I memorized the lyrics to Radar Love. I learned all of the repair abbreviations for anything under the sun. I heard a type of next-level lewdness and all sorts of jokes and stories that ended with things like, And she said, that's the wrong hole. And I said, that's how babies get made.

And sometimes, just sometimes, after paying their repair bill, a trucker would offer to take me out for a nice steak dinner over at the Wagon Wheel after I was done with my shift.

Moving again. Enjoy!

2011-12-22T15:29:00.002-06:00

This morning I got a phone call. It was my new German landlady telling me that I got the apartment. Which one? Of the gamillion and five that I looked at? The one I wanted. Thaz right homies.

Actually, not true. The one I really wanted was a magnificent one bedroom right on the lake with a wood-burning dark brick fireplace, hardwood floors, clawfoot tub, 12-foot ceilings, laundry on site, black and white tiled bathroom and kitchen, a screened-in side porch that faced the lake, parking off-street and a landlord that gave a shit that my dogs are both pitbulls. 600 glorious square feet. For 13hundy a month. Youch.

I almost did it. I could've. I wanted to. But there would go my shoe budget. And my race wheel budget. And my going out to Tempest and guzzling cilantro and dill-infused vodka cocktails with Claire budget. Always staying true, I did try to talk the guy down. And he kindly entertained my counter-offer for a three seconds before saying, No. This discussion is closed.

I moved into a place in August where some friends kindly offered to put me up while I figured a few things out. We don't need to get into that, but let's say just say that they saved me. (Thanks Luke and Nicole!) Moving in, I knew that I'd need to find new digs by March. I recently began an apartment-finding blitz.

So, I applied for another apartment. Above an old storefront in a neighborhood where I've never lived. I looked at it, loved it. Then the vetting process started. That was three weeks ago? First, the dogs. Landlady met them, remarked that they are incredibly friendly and not at all dangerous like she pictured. Angenehm to you as well.

Checkbook in hand, ready to write her a deposit check, I'm told that she needs to check on a few things first.

What did she check on? Well, all of the other people in the building. And one tenant's boyfriend, who lives in Milwaukee but visits often. And two previous landlords. And my bank. And my former boss. Also, my current boss. Also my other former boss. My paystub. My insurance agent. Two other people who vouch for my dogs. My mom. My dad. My grandmother. My best friend from first grade.

Time out. I'll give her a pat on the back for being thorough. And watching her own back. If I knew exactly how to say that in German, I would.

Along the way, I got some feedback from the folks she talked to. Things like, Boy, she was really convinced that your dogs had killed people. And other animals. She asked questions like, How many people have her dogs bitten? How many animals have they attacked? What do they do if you look them in the eyes? How many times have they bitten you?

That's a good time. Because the answers are: none, none, wag their tail, none. Also, you, m'am, are ridiculous.

Not phased, people said that she continued her line of questioning in that way. Finally, my insurance agent worked some crazy magic with words of liability, 500K coverage and always pays on time, and she finally felt okay about me.

I get it. I mean, what's riskier than a 31 year old single woman who holds an undergraduate degree from a highly ranked liberal arts college, a masters in an esoteric field from a top-ranked public university, races as a sponsored rider in the elite women's cyclocross category, goes to bed at 9pm (not really), trains 6 days a week, has a solid paying, full-time job? The answer: pitbulls.

But let's focus on the positive here. I get to move for a third time within a calendar year. Wait.

More like, I have a badass new apartment and was able to overcome some solid misconceptions about my dogs! Prost, y'all!

Ready to guard and defend stuff

Haiku for the skinsuit

2011-12-21T07:26:00.001-06:00

There is nothing wrong
with a lycra clad body,
zipper down the front

My skinsuit fondness
a bond forged over the fall
never to go back

I say: little feels
so right as pulling it on
race day readiness

one piece construction
saves belly from exposure
over barriers

looks so boss, feels fast
know this: getting in smoothly
wiggle, little bit

when not bike racing,
tie those sleeves around your waist
a sleek lycra hug

the pre-race routine
untying the hugging arms
shoulder shimmy, zip

high temperatures
unzip it daringly low
gets the crowd going

show off your assets
ideally, gold lamé, white
best to be noticed

Winter riding annoucement: I am still alive

2011-12-20T10:32:00.002-06:00

Saturday morning presented Madison with its first snow of season. And that was just fine by me. We're halfway through December, so it was time for Mother Nature to give us what we deserve, seasonally speaking.

I haven't been riding outside a lot lately and boy, do people really love to give me endless amounts of shit about that. All I have to utter is, trainer in the basement and suddenly my ears are filled with such encouraging phrases as, wow, you suck, that's incredibly lame, you're a surprisingly huge wuss and maybe you should man up.

But all those people can suck it. Because I can't think of anything I'd want to do less than intervals or microbursts in the dark, cold and whatever precipitation happens to be falling out of the sky. (Actually, not true. There are close to a million things that I'd want to do less, like, say wrestling alligators in the dark. Or, walking a tightrope in the dark across a ravine filled with sharks. Or go to Filene's Basement during a fire sale. In the dark. Certain death there.)

I don't have to race in the dark, so I don't want to train in the dark. I can see it now. (Actually, I can't, which is the problem. Poor night vision.) In the middle of some insanely difficult, long interval, I hit a possum. Boom. Lights out. Ambulance. Hospital. No thanks.

Riding a bike in darkness, in general, well sure, I can get down with that. Just don't make me train in it.

Thing is, I actually do like riding outside in crap weather and during the winter. So when I woke up to see snow, I was genuinely excited to get on out to the Cyclocross Nationals course at Badger Prairie and see what the trails would be like with some snow cover.

My friend Claire accompanied me. It was, as expected, a very good time. So good in fact, that we went back on Sunday and did it all over again. Even though it was only 18 ma-grees when we rolled out. I was ready for it though. I have these sweet new Gore bibtights (holla back Brendan Gecik) that are thermal windstopper fabric, have stirrups and best part, are partially white.

Let's just take a moment and give it up for white lycra--the most underappreciated thing since gold lamé lycra. Sure, when it goes wrong, it's a veritable visual trainwreck, but when it goes right, it's a thing of beauty. Just stop cringing (think tan, muscular legs) and trust me. Goddangit, I love it. It's so scandalous. I mean, if you're going to cloak yourself in skin-tight lycra, which is already way out on a fashion limb that not many are willing to climb, and you've got what it takes, why not add in a dash of see-through and really give the crowd something to talk about?

But I digress.

Really, I just want to say, I'm out there. Doin' it. In the cold. Not dying. And I can't wait for Nationals.

Boom.

White snow. White lycra. Good times.

Claire points to the Badger Prairie water tower.

Sunday afternoon ride

In fact, you are not on fire and you never were

2011-12-19T09:54:00.000-06:00

This weekend I noticed that my car smelled exactly like hot, burning plastic. Right, so, super good. I'm not a person who really knows that much about cars. And by not much, I mean nothing. This means that slight issues cause big panic.

The hot smell was stressing me out. So I pulled my thinking cap on real tight and said to myself, what could this be? It's hot and it smells of burning plastic. First thought: car is going to catch on fire. Second thought: car is already on fire. Third thought: maybe the coolant is low. I drove to the gas station and bought some coolant.

To make sure that I hadn't steered myself wrong, I called my step-dad for some advice. During all of this advice-giving and taking, I'm standing with the hood of my car open in the gas station parking lot, my head hovering over the auto guts, cell phone in one hand, coolant jug in the other. And I keep hearing, Hey, excuse me. Hey, excuse me. Hey, hey. Finally after the gabillionth time, I look up and see this dude about 20 feet away, staring, waving at me.

I'm having none of it. I'm like, hey, yeah, let me start a conversation with you while my car is about to be on fire. Or just out of coolant. Either way, we're in crisis.

I made eye contact with the guy, finally, and he said, Are you okay? Do you need help with your battery? Oh gosh, I'm okay, I said back, But thank you. He smiled, waved and went back to his business. At which point, I realized that I am definitely a total bitch. Or, he's a creeper in disguise. It's a wash.

I drove around for awhile and the smell only got worse. By Sunday, I was real stressed.

I checked the coolant again. Looked fine. Another call to my step-dad. He told me to bring it into the shop on Monday morning. Which was fine. I was headed there anyway for an oil change.

True confessions, I love the place where I take my car to get fixed. They have the most current issues of People magazine, the most comfortable couches and the radio stays on a really low volume. I will always wait for my car to be fixed. Always. I settled into that couch this morning, coffee in hand and read all about why The Bachelorette broke it off with her boyfriend and how J-Lo has a new man. I retained next to nothing. It was awesome.

Anyway. The car. I had been sitting there for no more than 10 minutes when the service person came in and said to me, Easy fix, and held up what appeared to be a burned-up sheet of packing foam. In fact, it was exactly that: a piece of burned up packing foam. I looked at the woman. This was stuck on the undercarriage of the car, near something hot, she said.

I stared.

She kind of shook the plastic at me a little. This is what was causing your car to smell like burning plastic, she said. Sort of like, are you simple? I just told you I fixed it, do something. Like thank me.

Oh, I said. Wait, I thought. That was it? My car is not on fire? Somehow, on the inside while I am driving it? It is not near combustion and I am not throwing myself into insane danger each time I slide into that driver's seat?

Well shoot. Thanks, I said, That was easy.

I feel like there has to be a life lesson in there somewhere. Like, maybe, when you think you are on fire, or about to be on fire, you should just calm down and take a breath because all it is, is just a piece of plastic on a hot piece of something slowly burning into oblivion. On your undercarriage.

Or, maybe this: calm down. Everything's going to be just fine.

Thumbs are up

2011-12-16T10:42:00.000-06:00

Whoa, Nellie. It's Friday. So much break-neck speed busy-ness. So many lists. So many meetings. So many brainstorms. So many looking at other people's apartments. (When time allowed, also, so much Dr. Steve Brule.) It's not going to stop for quite some time. And I can get down with that. Life is better at high speeds.

This week was bananas in every good way possible. Except for the vegan marshmallows I mistook for actual marshmallows that I put in my hot chocolate last night. Maybe next time I just put balls of Elmer's glue in my hot bev. Will be same diff as vegan marshmallows.

And (continuing my run of mentioning the greatest musicians and their most beautiful hits) maybe not when I got MMMBop stuck in my head for a few hours on Thursday. Also, Hitch is still wearing a cone. And if you think that a dog wearing a cone is even the slightest bit amusing, try living with it for two weeks in a really small space. I'm talking 200 square feet. Tops. Yeah, poor Hitch, but really poor me. That thing is freight train loud in the middle of the night, scrapin' and bumpin' against everything.

On the upside, the Madison Police Department has been putting a lot of those radar signs that tell you how fast you're going around town. This is perfect for me. Because my speedometer has worked intermittently or not at all for, oh, let's see here, about four years now and I can only gauge my speed based off of my gut and other people. And depending on the day, one or both of those can go really wrong. So with all of these signs, I can see how fast I'm going, then look at the needle on the RPM thing, and figure it all out. Boom.

Oh, and one more positive thing. So, I don't have a full-length mirror. Because, as I mentioned up there, I'm living in a small space. But today, just this morning, I figured out that I can use the built-in camera on my computer just like a full-length mirror. No more using the expressions on passerby and co-workers' faces to see if my outfit makes sense. Or doesn't make sense. Not a reliable gauge. Especially when you work with mostly all dudes.

Also my roommate made creme brulee last night. I opened the fridge this morning to a dozen ramekins of that heavyweight caloric goodness. And, unlike me, he shares. Bingo!

This week, thumbs up.

On race day nerves

2011-12-14T15:44:00.002-06:00

I am prone to pre-race jitters. Last season it was a little out of hand. I quickly figured out that I was doing myself in before the race even started. I was wasting way too much energy. So, I figured out some coping mechanisms. Among them, listening to music.

Last year the Carpenter's song, Close To You, became like some sort of meditative chant. I don't know exactly how it started, but it became a joke between me and the guy that I was dating at the time. We'd be warming up together and he'd start singing that song. I mean, try being nervous and keeping a straight face while someone sings that song to you. Impossible. Absolutely impossible. And if you can resist singing along, you are a freak of nature. No way can you not join in to that irresistible two-part harmony.

And you know, him singing that song to me worked every single damn time. It took my mind off of the race and calmed me down. When he wasn't at certain races, I'd sing it to myself. Do I sound crazy? No one reads this thing anyway, right?

There's still a noticeable difference between my demeanor pre and post race, as most people like to tell me. And as Chris Newlin (what's up homie) so eloquently pointed out with this quote from rock climber John Long, "It's easy to confuse terror with exhilaration." Indeed. So, despite appearing to be mute and stone cold serious before races, this season, the nerves have been much better. Maybe not for that first race of the season, but after that was out of the way, I got into a good groove.

I still listen to a lot of music. Just give me a solid beat, some funk, some hand claps and a little bass and we're set. But I needed a new distraction. I was watching clips of The Office for awhile, but it didn't distract me enough. Then, I was tipped off to a special guy named Dr. Steve Brule and his show, Check it Out! Now he's a solid part of my pre-race repertoire. I could watch these clips all day long and never stop laughing. Never. Ever.

So to end, I'll leave you with this, one of my favorites that I probably watched close to a bazillion times on both Saturday and Sunday:

WCA #17- Badger Cross Day 2

2011-12-12T14:49:00.002-06:00

So Saturday, Day 1 of Badger Cross was, as discussed, a super good time. But oh em gee was Sunday even better. Why? Well, I'll tell you this. It wasn't just because I threw up in my mouth twice during the race. No sir-ee. It takes a lot more than that to put a smile on this face.

It was much warmer on Sunday. Above freezing. So, balmy. I set up shop in the MWI tent again. Welcomed by the lovely hospitality coordinator Jessica. Again. It was good to be back. That tent made me feel like a tiny baby bird in a nest. Sure, pushed out into the cold to tear out my lungs, torture my legs and puke, but welcomed back with open arms. And a bag of tortilla chips and hummus. Bingo.

I warmed up, did my same routine with next-level secrets (vaseline, holler!) and rode around outside before they put us into the starting grid. I noticed that a few more ladies had shown up for day two. And they looked fast. I got a call-up for my third place finish. A call-up isn't too major in a smaller field, but starting in the first row never hurts. Well, maybe if you are facing the wrong way? Blind and facing the wrong way would be a certain disadvantage. But someone would help you with that. Right?

Anyway.

It was a fast start again and the first part of it is a bit of a blur. I think I was fifth or so going into the first turn. Sam, Abby and I were all in the lead group and were riding together. I passed Abby. She passed me back. We rode next to each other up the first climb, elbow to elbow. We hit the run-up all together.

And that was pretty badass. Because we're all in the same kit, on the same team. And who doesn't love rolling with their homies? Eventually, it splintered again and I was chasing Sam. Then Corrie Osborne flew past me and I was slow to respond. Though she gapped me, I turned it up a bit and pushed harder, knowing that if she could catch me, then drop me, someone else very well might too. I had no idea how close the next person was behind me.

They re-routed us through the sandpit on Sunday and I had a hell of a time with that on every lap other than my first one. Just couldn't get the line I needed and kept bobbling it. In retrospect, I should've run. Maybe. I saw that Linda Sone was making up ground on me coming around into the last lap. Oh god, I thought, not again. Feeling already pretty tuckered out, I geared up and pushed harder. I was racing scared. I wanted third. It was at that point that I turned myself inside out.

Up one of the last climbs, my quads burned like nothing I've ever felt. The last section of the lap goes from some turns in prairie grass, onto pavement, back into grass and then a right-hand turn back onto pavement around to the finish. I thought I could hear her breathing in my ear as I turned onto the final pavement section. I stood up and sprinted. My legs. Oh my legs. My lungs. I crossed the line third. Great race. Actually, I might be so bold as to call it my best race yet.

I haven't said much about the course, but in short, I loved it. From what I understand, with some slight additions and subtractions, it will more or less be the 2012 Cyclocross Nationals course.

In regard to Nationals, there are a lot of folks having a really hard time with this course and the fact that it's in a cold place and that, supposedly, everything about it sucks. As always, everyone is entitled to their opinions. But particularly to those who live in the Madison area, suck it up and support the big-ass race that's coming to town. Because whether you love it or not, that's what's going to happen.

If you don't like it, offer some constructive criticism and make it better. It's a two-year bid so help make 2013 even sweeter. Support it how you can and encourage others to come out to lovely Wisconsin and try racing in January. Because that's really bananas. And if you're going to brag about something on Facebook, that might as well be it. Because no one cares what you ate for lunch. Sorry, they don't. We already have the obstacle of convincing people that they won't die of exposure, don't make it any harder to make the fields nice and big and competitive.

And when you think about it, regardless of who's doing what or not doing what in regard to promotions and course planning, having Cyclocross Nationals in your backyard is the shit. It is. Don't fight it. Just say it with me: it-is-the-shit. I mean, it's a sport where people blow up condoms and tie them to stakes on course, offer whiskey hand-ups and dress like big pieces of fruit to cheer. Roll with it. Embrace it.

And don't blame me if you have to listen to Phil Collins on that stair run-up.

There was climbing.
[All photos courtesy of Justin Lackner. Find more here.]

There were uphill barriers.

There was a badass downhill.

There was sand.

That I need to master.

Podium Day 2: Borrowed a hat to cover bad hair (thanks Dave!). Instead, covered half of my face.

WCA #16- Badger Cross Day 1

2011-12-12T08:30:00.002-06:00

Listen, I don't know how else to say this. This weekend was the shit.

I set my sights on this for my second season of cyclocross: feel good during most of the season, great during the last part to come into form for Nationals in January, get stronger, race as much as possible and learn a ton. With under a month left in the season, I'm really happy with how it's all gone so far.

When it comes to training, I don't know what I'm doing, really, but my coach Gordy Paulson does. So I trust him, his process and the training regiment he sets out for me. I ask questions and give feedback along the way, but largely, I just listen, do exactly what he tells me and learn.

When it comes to racing, I still have a lot to learn. I've made up some ground this season and developed an understanding of what it means to race people and not the course. I was really lucky to have Abby pushing me all season. We developed a friendly rivalry and sure, it was frustrating at times to not be able to close down a gap or hang with her, but I'd rather that than an easy win. All season I struggled to get beyond a mental barrier that seemed to hold me back from going above and beyond my pain threshold in races. I just wasn't pushing myself enough. Killing myself to hold off gaps from developing. Ignoring legs that screamed and lungs that felt near collapse. Sometimes, yes, but not consistently.

This weekend, I feel like it all came together. My legs were there in full effect and mentally I pushed through a lot of pain. Boo-ya.

Saturday, as predicted, was cold. It was around 20 degrees for my race at 1:15 in the afternoon. I got there early to check out the course and then sought shelter in the MWI tent. High five. Big one. That tent was so dang warm. Saved my life. Part fine dining restaurant, part massage parlor and part beauty salon gossip shop. Boom. Jessica Heenan does not disappoint. Check out some of her work here with her side project called The Cupcake Chronicles. Then check out the photo below of what she had cookin' on Saturday.

Despite the cold and being nervous about some of the fast ladies I'd be facing off with, I felt pretty good. I had plenty of people around me to keep me relaxed (pre-ride with Chris Newlin in his Camper shoes was a highlight) and I decided that I would be better off doing a few laps on the course, but not much of a warm-up. I just needed to stay warm. My good friend Pattycakes gave me a little next level secret and told me to put vaseline on my feet to keep them warm. That guy, he knows all the tricks.

About 45 minutes before the race, I got ready. I had already put embro on an hour or two earlier, so that was all set and feeling warm. I put vaseline on my feet, switched out my baselayer, socks and shoes and put on a skull cap. I rolled over to the line with a few layers on for standing on the line, waiting for the start. I succeeded in staying mostly warm and aside from my toes being a little cold, I was surprised at how comfortable I was during the race.

The start was fast. I didn't want the hole shot because of how windy it was and because I wanted to see what sort of pace Sam would set, so I hung back a bit and was fifth or sixth around the first turn. Then someone ran into a stake (truly. totally broke in half), Sam dropped her chain and then it was Jess Hill and I off the front. Sam caught back up, attacked and I went with her up the first climb. It was the two of us for awhile and eventually she gapped me. I kept pushing though, trying to mark and pass people ahead. I saw that Linda Sone was making up ground quickly. Around lap 3, she caught me, and on the last lap, 5, she dropped me. Tried to go, but just didn't have the juice. I finished third and was really happy with that.

It was a great race and I was exhausted. Really, truly exhausted. There were a few long, grinding climbs and a stair run-up and I killed myself on all of it trying to maintain a gap on the field. Nathan Phelps of Big Ring Flyers put together a little video. There's a post race interview here, around the 6:16 mark. But to get it, you have to watch the beginning. The run-up is around 1:49.

Thanks so much to everyone for all of the support and cheering, especially to Jessica and MWI for taking me in as a sort of wayward, homeless step-child. And again to Jessica. I just can't say it enough. I mean, lady fed me apples with peanut butter and chocolate sauce as I was cooling down on the trainer. Right? Dammit that was good. Thanks to Tim Strege for ferrying things around for me and Chris Kreidl with SRAM Neutral Support for helping me with pitting and tire pressure (having my own gauge just isn't the same kind of fun). Thanks to Claire and David as well--you know what you did.

And, lastly, to my little homie, the guinea pig.

MWI tent: where anything is possible. Doesn't get any better.

Podiums are pretty good too. Nice racing Sam and Linda!

Bike racing in winter

2011-12-09T11:09:00.001-06:00

We are solidly into the twelfth month of December. A time for lights, ornaments, mulled this and that and plenty of holiday cheer. A time when smart mammals hibernate. Wild animals, in particular, get an A+: they get fat, get hyggeli and take a long nap next to a big pile of nuts. That's how that goes, right?

People in cold climates pull on their silk and wool underthings, layer on enough clothes to mask gender, build a fire and drink warm things. Maybe they get fat too. And that's okay. Because sweaters and down jackets are your best friend when it comes to that extra piece of pie, an entire tin of Christmas cookies or several mugs of whole milk hot chocolate with extra whipped cream. Not that I have ever done all of that. Multiple times a day, several days in a row. Whatever. It's Christmas. And my mom said it's okay.

Anyway.

There is, however, a sub-set of people that fight this natural flow of slow-down and think, gosh, I should just keep racing my bike. Bingo. Guilty. I am that.

This weekend there's a two-day race, loosely touted as Midwest Regionals, taking place in Verona, right in Madison's backyard. I'm excited for a bigger, more competitive field, but here's what I'm a tad bit less excited about: a high temperature of 20 degrees tomorrow.

I'm sorry, I wish I could be a badass and be like, bring it, love it, can't wait. Instead I'm a little more, holy shit I am going to die. Followed by, I need to learn how to properly embrocate. Also, I should buy heat packs for my shoes. And maybe dig out my moon boots (SPD-compatible?) and snowsuit (sans chamois).

Stay tuned. Is getting real in-ta-restin'.

I am thinking warm thoughts.

Cupcakes for quitters

2011-12-08T08:33:00.001-06:00

Well then. My last day at the bike shop was on Tuesday. Certainly I was ready to get out of retail and pretty okay with ending my run as an hourly employee. Still, there's a lot about that job that I'm going to miss.

Above all else, the people. It's a motley crew: one holds an (even more) odd advanced degree like me, another had early fame as the drummer in a punk band, one goes by the name Ruckus, one likes to make huge batches of meat sauce at midnight, one speaks Dutch, another loves his cat as much as he loves death metal, one carries big stalks of brussel sprouts in his backpack and another loves food and thinking about it just as much as I do.

Every day, at some point, at least one person will make a run to the coffee shop down the street. And if they are a nice person (ie: not me), they will ask around to see if anyone else wants something. Food? Coffee? Cookie? Sometimes I request coffee. Almost always, I request a cupcake. For free. Sometimes, the person does not laugh in my face. Other times, I don't ask and am nicely surprised.

So last week, my friend Dan said he was going to the coffee shop. And I decided to really play out my announced departure. I would like a cupcake, I told him. For free, I added. Because I am leaving.

Dan is really awesome. He gets crabby-hungry just like me. Also he is a large-scale devourer of pastries and desert.

Okay, he said. I'll get you a cupcake. I thought he was playing along with the usual song and dance where I ask for a cupcake and then the person says, Okay, sure, and then returns empty handed. Don't tell, but there's always a glimmer of secret hope there that the cupcake will indeed appear.

But, dangit, that Dan is a good guy. And dreams do come true. Would you just look at what he put on my desk at work to congratulate me.

Thanks for the good times, everyone. I'll be seeing you on the flip-side of that retail counter real soon.

The view from here

2011-12-07T14:28:00.001-06:00

Here's the deal. I love downtown. Any city. If it's thriving with plenty to see, do and eat, then I want to explore every bit of it. If it's crappy, broken and run-down, I think ~~from the safety of inside of a cab~~ about how sweet it would be if just this, and the potential in that building and the business that could go there. Maybe I don't hang out there, uh, as long, but I take it in nonetheless.

I'm lucky to live in a place that has a a thriving, and growing, downtown population of people and locally-owned shops, restaurants and bars. Though it wasn't always so, the capital square and downtown in general has been getting better and better each year that I'm here.

So how psyched am I that the offices for my new job are smack dab in the middle of it all? Eighth floor view with Lake Mendota on one side, the Capitol building on the other. Boom. That's what I'm talking about.

The future looks bright

2011-12-06T09:09:00.001-06:00

So last week I accepted a job offer with a start-up in Madison. Because the staff is so small and it's run by two guys who are awesome and care more about making things happen than doling out titles, no one gets a title, exactly. We know what we do and we know how to help other people do what they do. So, when asked, I will say that I am Editorial Director. This means that I write, I manage (charitable) campaigns, I edit, I brainstorm and I work with another lovely co-worker to keep our messaging consistent, whether it's our email messaging, mailers, social media or newsletter. Communications, branding, customer support--whatever you want to call it.

I had been freelancing for the company for a bit when they picked me up as a part-time employee several months ago. I hoped that it would have the potential to grow into a full-time opportunity if the company did well. But I didn't know. Part of the beauty of start-ups is the intense energy and excitement put behind a product/company. But with all of that is the uncertainty of whether or not it's a viable business. I decided to learn to be okay with uncertainty. There was no other way.

I finished my Masters in January of 2010, and well before that I had been looking to get into a job where I would be able to utilize my writing skills along with some creative and analytical brainpower as well. I was lucky to land a pretty sweet job as the apparel buyer at a bike shop in town, and with that I was able to support myself and keep digging around for freelance work. I told myself that I'd keep plugging along, looking for opportunities where I could and just really bank on something at some point, coming my way.

This summer, feeling frustrated with a lack of fulfillment in my work, I realized that I might have to start looking on a more national scale and go where the opportunities were. Madison is a great place to live and a lot of folks are really content to stay here. Forever. Meaning that the job market can get a little stagnant, especially so in the realm of jobs related to creative fields and liberal arts degrees.

Luckily there are also a fair number of creative folks who create start-ups. I happened to fall in with the crew at this start-up at just the right time. When the full-time job offer with benefits came through, I was so happy that I didn't know what to do. I truly did not know what to do.

I sat on the couch at my mom and step-dad's house in Fargo the Monday after Thanksgiving and stared at my computer screen. I re-read the email very carefully. For two years, I had been daydreaming about this very moment. In spite of hearing radio silence after sending out rounds of resumes and cover letters. After listening to people tell me that it was a really competitive field and I might want to consider something else. In finding nothing posted on different company websites. I ignored everything that told me to give up.

When I was in first grade, we had to make predictions about our future for a class project. We wrote out where we thought that we'd be in ten, fifteen and thirty years. I predicted that I would be a runner at Fargo South High School in ten years. I was correct. In fifteen, I predicted that I would be in college. Okay, that was a gimme, but still. Correct. At the thirty-year mark, I predicted that I would be a writer. I'm not at that thirty year mark, yet. Yet.

How I liked to have a nice, little chuckle at my silly seven-year-old self writing that. A writer, I thought, as I declared a pre-med major my freshman year in college. A writer, I thought, as I took a job in sales within the bicycle industry. A writer, I thought, as began a Masters program in English linguistics. A writer I thought.

Well, shoot. Maybe I was on to something after all.

So here I go. Wish me luck.

WCA #15- Wizzard Cross

2011-12-05T08:10:00.001-06:00

The last regular race of the Wisconsin Series. And boy, she was a real doozy. This course had the most climbing of anything yet this season. It also had the most running. These two things are, as you might have guessed, sometimes connected. Because when you can't get up something on the bike, you get the truck off of your two wheels and run fast as you can up said feature. I've said that I like running and, well, I got it.

I felt a little flat yesterday. It's been a really long and exciting week. Exhausting and overwhelming, but good in many ways. Still, it left me wanting to just sit and stare at the wall all weekend. So in thinking about the race on Sunday, I was a little bit, I'm excited to race and maybe a little more, I'm not feelin' it. But it was literally down the street and being put on by my old team, Team Magnus. I couldn't and wouldn't miss it.

It was cold. After my pre-ride, I was a little unsure about some of the course features and how best to navigate them, so I tried my best to focus on working out my tactics before the race started. After missing my pedal at the start, I got out in front and was feeling good. Great actually. Abby and I were out in front, staying close to each other and I hoped that we could stay that way.

Unfortunately, I made a few dumb mistakes and she got away from me. My first mistake was a really sloppy remount that put me on the ground, underneath my bike. After the race I was talking to my coach Gordy, about my little slip-up. He asked me if I tried to catch back up after I took that spill. Yes, was my immediate answer. In the moment, I did try to catch up, but in retrospect, maybe I didn't push myself enough. Maybe? I figure that if I'm questioning this, I should've pushed harder. Aaaand, lesson learned.

The group I had been riding with--Abby and a bunch of masters men--got away from me and I never caught back up. And that was the most disappointing thing about the race-my inability to push myself hard enough to bridge back up to that group and have some people to race and ride with. It was a tough race physically and mentally and I won't lie--it was a relief to cross the finish line. I felt ragged. So ragged.

But done. Still a few races in the season left--this weekend is technically a Wisconsin series race, but is a regional race that will be on the same course as Nationals, so there will be some out of state talent coming in for it. I'm looking forward to that--I've been itching to race in some bigger fields and this one definitely won't disappoint with some very fast and skilled regional lady racers.

All photos courtesy of Justin Lackner
[http://lacknerphotography.tumblr.com/]

A stop-off at the beach in Manta

2011-12-01T21:40:00.001-06:00

So I mentioned that I had gotten a bit of a bug while vacationing at the beach. And I mentioned that there was a fair amount of travel to get back to Quito. A bus ride, a plane ride and a taxi ride before I would be home.

The bus ride was really out of this world. So jam-packed with people and chickens in bags and bags of livestock feed and babies and people and chickens in bags. I stood, backwards, most of the way to Manta, the city where the airport was located. So there I am, sweating my ass off, cold like ice and nauseated to a level I had never before experienced. This is just how this is, I kept telling myself. You can do absolutely nothing about this. So just vomit if you have to.

We finally arrived at the bus depot in Manta and we needed to get to the airport. It was just me and another girl from my program, as the third in the group flew back earlier in the day. Or maybe she stayed longer at the beach. I have absolutely no idea.

I wanted to take a taxi to the airport. The other girl, god I wish I could just type her name, because it's a really fitting one and really rounds out the story. But I can't. Anyway, that other one, she wanted to walk. You know, take in some of the local flavor. Have you ever been to Manta? Just, there's no need for seeing the local flavor. Maybe it was my fever talking, but it's a seaport, houses a military base and has a booming chemical industry, and I could've given a shit. I wanted out. Home. Bed.

So this other chick wanted to walk. And I was exhausted and for some reason, I was like, okay, fine, I'll walk. If you read anything about most of the beaches of Ecuador, this is what the advice will be: if you are a tourist, do not go there. You will get robbed. Manta was called out as being one of the worst. Especially with a big backpack containing important items like, say, a passport, a camera, a credit card and your plane ticket back to your warm bed in Quito. Just like anything with traveling, common sense prevails.

So other chick said, hey, I'd like to go and sit on the beach and think for a bit because we have some time before we need to go to the airport. Bitches be trippin'. No, I said. No we don't go to the beach to think. Especially not the beach where everyone and everything says don't go. Absolutely not.

Somehow, ten minutes later, I found myself on the beach in Manta. And I was nervous as hell. Other chick, she just sat right on down, crossed her legs and rested her chin atop her fist and stared out at the ocean. I was doing 180s behind her, scanning for thieves and muggers. Relax, she told me.

She finally got up and I'm like, let's get the truck on up out of here. Hustle, lady, hustle. But she just stood there, got her backpack on, and then looked at me. She held up a fist and pointed to her middle knuckle, "Do you ever feel like you're just sitting right here on top of the world and watching everything just turn around you?"

She was so lucky that I was out of my mind sick. So lucky.

We were finally walking away from the beach. I saw two men out of the corner of my eye around the same time that I saw three people look toward us and then scurry into buildings. And then, in what seemed like the span of a nanosecond, I heard footsteps behind me, I was shoved really hard and I was on the ground, looking into the face of a really ugly, short dude who brandished a knife. A rusty knife. I laid on my back on top of my backpack and the dude tried really hard to maneuver that thing off of my back, which wasn't working so well. He had that knife on my throat or near it and yelled like crazy.

I was frozen. I wore a little messenger bag and I don't know why, but I had my passport in that. Which was really dumb and I knew better. I had pulled it out of my backpack, thinking that it would be easier to get to when we arrived at the airport. The fug dude finally got that little messenger bag, which really sucked. It was a bag that had been my aunt's that I loved. In it was my journal and my camera along with my passport. The passport, fine, but the photos I had just taken, my journal and that bag were not only worthless to the mugger, but impossible to replace. Above anything else, that's what made me so upset.

I looked over at the other chick, who had wet her pants.

We got up and decided that I needed to report my passport stolen. So we went to the police station, which was such a dumb idea. Because there was a soccer game on. And so we would need to wait until they were done watching that.

Finally someone came out and was basically like, Oh you got mugged I'm so sorry let's go out and really try our best to get those guys. And then he was like, oh wait, the highlights clip is on, sit tight.

The best part of the whole interaction with the police was when they loaded us up into the back of their police truck and drove around so that we could try and identify the muggers. I sat in the back of a small Toyota pick-up truck with about ten policemen all holding machine guns while we drove all around Manta.

Later I learned that the police do this so that people will point out who did it and instead of arresting the muggers, they shake them down for the stolen goods. And keep them. Or sell them. And keep the money. Because that's how la policia en Ecuador roll.

Finally, after about four hours of all this, we arrived at the airport. In the back of that police truck. Now that is a good way to make an entrance.

Luckily, I had my credit card tucked into the waistband of my pants and I could buy a new plane ticket. Because my other one was stolen.

And then finally. Finally, we were on the plane.

A hospital stay in Quito

2011-11-30T08:20:00.001-06:00

While living in Ecuador, I took a little vacation to the beach one weekend. I went with two other people from my program. There's a lot of material there, but we can't really delve into it just yet. That's for another post. Or three. Okay, maybe five.

Anyway.

While I was on vacation (super loose use of that word, by the way), I started feeling pretty crummy. We decided on the ultra-economical option of forgoing actual stable shelter and slept in a tent on the beach. That was an option at the resort (yeah, right) where we stayed. In retrospect, I have no idea why the three of us didn't just rent a nice little cabin/hut like the smart Dutch people had.

So one night, huddled in this tent, I woke up soaked. I was immediately terrified, thinking that we had been swept out to sea and now were just floating around out there in the Pacific. Listen, I know that makes no sense. But that's what I thought.

I then realized that I was sweating bullets. And freezing cold. I was nauseated. And so sick. I hadn't felt great when we left Quito, but I just figured it was a little cold. Or maybe stress. But I was indeed really sick and with what I had no idea.

When I am sick, the sky falls down. I have no wherewithal to do anything except feel bad for myself and I get really weepy. I am upset that this just might be it. I will never, ever get better. She was so young, so healthy they'll say. Now she is sick forever. Poor thing.

Being sick in a foreign country took it to a new level. I was so upset. So very upset. Long story short, I was just trying to hang on and get back to Quito. Just so happens, on the way to the airport, I got mugged at knifepoint. That was super fun. Especially with a 103 degree fever. It was like being on a really strange vision quest. Like a super fucked-up one where, in the end, you never find your spirit animal.

Anyway, so I finally get back to my host family's house in Quito. And I'm sick. Still so sick. Feverish, feeling like I got dengue fever or the Bubonic plague or chlamydia or something. Okay, so I don't know what any of those feel like. Except for one. Oh, I'm kidding.

Eventually, after telling me that I was being a little bit dramatic about this all, including the mugging, my host mother took me to the hospital. Just a little aside here. When I told my host mother and father that I had been mugged, they looked at me, not emoting much, and asked if I was okay. I said yes, but the men did have knives. And they did put one on my throat. They looked at each other and my host mother waved a hand at me. Oh, well, at least it wasn't a gun, she said. Right, said my host father, and at least they weren't on a moped. And then they went on to share the stories of all of the times they were mugged at gunpoint with and without the moped involvement.

At the hospital, they admitted me. I had a bad case of pneumonia. A word that is, to the day, one of my favorite Spanish words. Say it with me: neh-mo-nee-ah.

I had been running a fever of about 103-104 for several days and hadn't been able to eat anything in just as long. I had slept on a damp, cold beach, taken a really long bus ride packed with livestock and people, gotten robbed at knifepoint (did I mention they took my passport?), taken a plane ride that felt like some sort of broken roller coaster ride, and survived a 20 minute taxi ride (see previous post) with this fever. By the time I was admitted to the hospital, I was, how do you say, completely delirious.

Being in a hospital in a different country is sort of the same as being in a hospital in your own country. The cast and characters are the same. The setting, slightly different. The food, shockingly, the same. They needed to take chest x-rays of me. And so the nurse kind of shuffled me around, lined me up in the sights and told me to stand still. Wait, I said, where's my? I couldn't remember the word for lead apron. Oh right, I never knew it to begin with.

I fumbled to explain to the nurse, who was getting really annoyed with my gesturing that must have looked something like I was bragging about my body. Like, see this? But I was trying to make the motion of putting an apron over my body so that my insides wouldn't get poisoned. Eventually, I cobbled together something that was probably like, "Hey, wait. Before you do that, I need you to put a dress on me. So that my insides aren't on fire."

She told me that I wasn't admitted wearing a dress. And now please be quiet and stand still. I gave up.

I got checked into my room and slept. For a long time. Maybe a day. My fever finally broke. I ate some fish broth or some such nasty thing. They had Jello though. Word up! I figured out how to work the television that was hanging over my bed.

I turned it on, I remember, just in time to see election coverage from the United States. It was the year of the hanging chads. It took me a minute to figure out what was going on. That Al Gore didn't win. That was really upsetting to me. I'm not all that politically minded, to be honest, but I just got really sad in that moment. It was obviously everything--I was so homesick. I was sick in a weird and foreign land. My language faculties were failing me. Nothing made sense.

The nurse came in to find me crying into my Jello. She did something like patted me on the head and said, in very slow and perfect English, "It's okay. I will find your dress."

Taxi drivers in Quito

2011-11-29T06:59:00.001-06:00

Taxi drivers in Quito, Ecuador are insane. Hands down, one hundred percent certified, unmistakably cray.

My first day in Quito, the director of the program warned us all that drivers, in particular taxi and bus drivers, did not consider pedestrians as they do in the United States. Meaning, if you see one of them speed up and swerve at you while you are crossing the street, that is no mistake. Or, if you see one of them drive up onto the sidewalk because traffic is stopped and they need to keep the wheels turning, get out the damn way.

I took pride in doing as much as possible among Ecuadorians and didn't spend a lot of time with other students from the United States. As my Spanish got better and better, I realized that for a solid month, I had been charged double or maybe quadruple for pretty much everything. I remember when it hit me. I was standing in line to buy avocados from a street vendor. The guy in front of me bought two avocados for a grand total of $0.14. I stepped up with mis dos aguacates, already having my $0.14 ready and as I was about to put the coins in the guy's hand he said to me, "One dollar."

After that, I was having none of it. I negotiated the price on every damn thing that I could. Including, but not limited to, bus fare, newspaper prices, wool at the market and, my favorite, taxi rides. I walked or took the bus as often as I could, but the taxi was inevitable in such a big city that wasn't all that safe after dusk. With careful polling of classmates at school, the maid and my host family, I figured out exactly what I should be paying the taxi driver for most of my trips to and fro. And I quickly learned that all I had to do when faced with a driver who overcharged me, was give him what I thought I should pay. I'd talk him down in price, give him his money and then hustle out of the cab as quickly as I possibly could.

At first, the taxi ride itself was unnerving enough with all of the swerving, honking and assorted renegade driving manuvers, but that was replaced by being unnerved by giving the cabbie far less than he told me I owed. Things sometimes got a little heated. And then after about three months, it just became what I did.

My brother and dad came to visit me at one point. They stayed at a hotel a few miles away from my host family's house. One of their first days in town, I met them at their hotel and we hailed a taxi to take a ride over to meet my host family. It was, hands down, the most terrifying taxi ride of my brother and dad's life.

We got into the cab and told the cabbie, and his incredibly bloodshot eyes, where we needed to go. He pushed the button on the obviously broken meter and we were off. I mean, truly. He stomped on that gas pedal and there was no looking back. I mean that in a very literal way. Because if you did look back, you were taking the chance of your neck being in a world of hurt if the driver decided to stop, change lanes or speed up, which he did often by stomping alternately on the accelerator and the brake pedals as though he were playing a piano.

He was driving like a man who might have been up all night. Possibly snorting a lot of cocaine up his nose. Maybe drinking a full bottle of strong booze. Did I mention that he was wearing leather driving gloves?

He swerved in and out of traffic. He must have been going at least 60 mph and at one point, he decided to draft off of an ambulance. And yes, the ambulance was en route, sirens blaring. My dad gripped the door. My brother gripped the back of the front seat. I sat in the middle, hoping no one would vomit on me.

We finally arrived at my host family's house. The taxi driver turned around and told us what we owed. It was something like, $1.50. My dad was about to hand the guy his money, but I wasn't having it. The fare shouldn't have been more than $0.75. I told my dad and brother to get out of the cab. I told the driver that here was the correct fare and don't try and rip us off.

The driver, in turn, wasn't having any of me. As I got out of the cab, so did he. Oh shit, this is new, was all I could think as I scurried up to the front gate with the guy in hot pursuit yelling at me that I owed him money. But I couldn't back down. I pushed the buzzer, trying my best to let my dad and brother, who were now I'm sure entering the beginning stages of PTSD, that I got this with a little smile. That this was, you know, just something we do in Ecuador. Like trading stories of the last time we were robbed at gunpoint by a guy on a moped.

My brother, at one point, told me to just give the guy another three quarters. Because that's all this was about--three quarters. But it wasn't. It was about the fact that I didn't actually owe the guy three quarters. I mean, at that, why not just give him a hund-o and call it a day? Here's why: it wasn't his money to have. And, he almost killed us. Multiple times. So he was going to almost kill me, multiple times, and then charge us double fare? I don't think so.

My dad remained mostly mute through all of this and after what seemed like minutes of having a stand-off with the ranting cabbie outside, the gate opened and we scurried into the house.

I could still hear the guy yelling as the door closed.

¡Bienvenidos a Quito, familia!

The screaming child in Ecuador

2011-11-28T08:48:00.001-06:00

Back at the turn of the century, I lived in Quito, Ecuador for six months. I prefer to say that I lived there versus I studied abroad there, because in my mind, studying abroad conjures up images of late nights at discotheques, learning to smoke cigarettes in a sexy fashion and making out with well-dressed, attractive men who speak with alluring foreign accents. At least this is what I heard from those who made the decision to go to places like Spain, France, Australia and Mexico.

Me? I chose Ecuador. Corruption, major recession and bank failure were all words that fit perfectly when I arrived in 2001. What says carefree and young at heart, enjoy yourself while learning a new culture, more than that?

When I think of living in Ecuador, the first words that pop into my head are: rampant kidnappings, sweaty, uncomfortable and terrifying. Maybe I'm exaggerating. Let me try again: a little overweight, bad haircut, bewildered, and marriage proposals by lecherous men. Still not right: a maid that asked me for money and my shoes every other day, being left alone by my host family my first night in town to watch re-runs of Beverly Hills 90210 on Telemundo, directly enrolled at the university with Ecuadorian hipsters who made fun of my Spanish and my host mother telling me that my face would be much prettier with some make-up on it and also to lose some weight.

Okay, last attempt: robbed at knifepoint, passport stolen, hospital stay due to pneumonia and buying a passport off of the black market so I could get the truck out of the country and home in time for Christmas. Not sure if I'm really getting it, but that will have to do.

Anyway.

The house where I lived was near what my host mother told me was a children's hospital. It was essentially what looked like a big house a few doors down from us and I wouldn't have thought much of it, had she not offered that information. The neighborhood, in general, was pretty quiet. Aside from the morning that the neighbor was pulled out of his car at the stop sign in front of our house and kidnapped. "Bad business," was the only explanation I got there.

Normally the guards posted on every block with their huge AK-47s would have stopped such happenings, but our block did not want to pay to have a guard. And just because you are a guard across the street with a big ass machine gun, standing across the street from another guard with a big ass machine gun does not mean that you will intervene in a kidnapping across the street. Because that is not your block. And Ecuador is real like that. So if you don't want to pay for a guard, then don't complain when you get kidnapped.

I had a good view from my bedroom window and often sat on my bed, just staring, watching. I was so tired most of the time, mentally exhausted trying to think and talk in Spanish that I enjoyed sitting, doing nothing. In the far distance, I could see Pichincha, an active volcano nearest the city. There was rarely anything to watch, save for inanimate objects--the volcano, the house across the street, the city sprawling below. Some people walked around, but I would be pressed to recognize a neighbor--people kept to themselves.

So this hospital. Every morning I'd wake up to some poor little boy screaming for his mother. "Mama, maaaaammmmmmaaaa!" I'd try to explain, in Spanish, this sound to my host parents or host brothers. I'd get a blank look, a shrug and something about the hospital down the way. I kept trying to explain because that answer never made sense. The sound was not coming from the right direction. Sound from the north, hospital to the west. Did the people across the street have kids? The answer: No. Also, mind your own business.

One day about five months into my stay, while staring at the volcano, movement on the patio across the street caught my attention. The maid was sweeping. I saw her put down her broom, go inside and come out with some sort of big cage containing a huge, colorful parrot.

I looked back to the volcano as the child started screaming. The sound, though, was coming unmistakably from. Wait.

I looked back to the patio just in time to see the parrot open up his beak and scream for this mother.

Riding in Fargo

2011-11-25T09:13:00.001-06:00

One of my favorite things about riding my bike is the randomness of what I might find out there in the world. Here we have Exhibit A and Exhibit B of what happened yesterday. I mean, how sweet is that?

Thanksgiving Day

2011-11-24T12:03:00.001-06:00

I was considering writing a sort of long-winded rant against vegan pastries. Not the right topic for today, I told myself. Then I considered writing about how much I love Thanksgiving food. But that brought me back to thinking about how essential butter is to living a good life. And then I got irritated thinking about vegan pastries again.

Maybe, you just say you are thankful for a lot of things, I told myself. And then you list some of those things. Because that's what we do on Thanksgiving.

After all, this is a day when, so many hundreds of years ago, Pilgrims landed with their crazy-ass hats and goofy shoes, seeking refuge from religious persecution, and told the Indians that they were doing it all wrong. And then they had the Indians make them a nice meal, ate it and showed gratitude by taking their land. Not ones to only take, the Pilgrims, in return, gave the Indians diseases against which they had no immunity. Live it, learn it. Give and take. Give and take, people.

But I think I got off track somewhere. Where was I.

Thanks. Giving thanks. I'm spending the week in my hometown of Fargo (North, not South, Dakota and yes, in the United States of America, not Canada), already driving my mother bananas. She's thankful that I'm only here for a week. I gave her that to be thankful for on this day of giving thanks. Wait. Let me try again.

I'm thankful for my mother, who puts up with me. God bless that woman. Truly. I should probably say that more often. High five, mom! I was a pain in the ass from the moment before I was born (feet first or not at all, baby) right up until this morning. Maybe into the afternoon, but I've been helping in the kitchen so I earned back some points there.

She stocks the fridge before I come home to visit. She lets me use her blow dryer. She offers to go on walks with me and the dogs. She listens to me ramble on about the dumb stuff I'm currently choosing to obsess about. And she does a really good job of showing interest and listening. Sometimes I catch her nodding off. Not often. Not really. I'd probably just keep talking anyway. She has a kind heart and gives a lot. And I'm not always as appreciative of that as I should be.

I'm pretty stubborn. I don't always listen. I tend to leave piles of my stuff around the house. I never hang up my jacket. Essentially, I disrupt order around here.

But I always say I'm sorry. Also, thank you. And please. So something's working in regard to her parenting.

Thanks, Mom. I wouldn't be who I am without you.

And my therapist says so too.

Oh, I'm kidding! Be cool.

Love you lots, Liz.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Happy Thanksgiving. Be sure to share the love today.

Staying true

2011-11-22T07:48:00.001-06:00

My mom emailed me this photo the other day. She remarked that some things never change. For example, my propensity for knee wounds. Also, my love of food.

The knee wounds part is maybe obvious. I have an older brother, who had older friends and I was constantly trying to keep up with them. Sometimes small limbs don't move as fast as you want them to. So I'd trip, fall and scrape something. Maybe break something. Then I'd get up and carry on. Unless I got shut down by an adult and had to stop for some sort of triage. This continues, though now I am the adult who is supposed to stop myself. What?

The food part, maybe not so obvious. To strangers. Because my thighs don't touch and I'm slight of build. Don't hate. Not boasting. Just stating facts. But anyone who knows me knows that it's best not to get between me and my caloric needs. I don't share food very well. Unless I'm not hungry, having just eaten a full meal. Then I'm super generous. Also, if I say I'm ordering something for the table, it's just a polite way for me to get in an order before everyone else has decided. That's a trick my good friend Pete taught me.

Pete gets it. He's a tall drink of water with a high metabolism. In a New Year's Eve incident that could have gone horribly awry, he almost stabbed my hand with a fork to protect the last bite of a desert we were sharing. (And by sharing I mean we frantically portioned out huge bites so as to get a distinct advantage, percentage-wise of the apple crisp.) We both eat with one arm bent at a 90 degree angle around our dinner plates. It's aggressive, but it gets the point across nicely and silently.

So now that people are lining up to eat a meal with me, let me say this, at least you're not my roommate. Basically, I will kill you if you eat my food. Not really. But it will feel that way. My last roommate and I can now safely joke, a year later, about the great Kashi cereal incident of Summer 2010. Let's not talk about it.

Gosh, though, I hope I haven't given anyone the wrong impression. Here, let's just do this. I'll tell you the basic tenets of knowing me and then we can just roll with it. Expect me to say things like, "Do you want to see my wound?" and "Do you want to see my scar? It's in the shape of Wisconsin," and know that I will expect you to say something like, "Oh hell yes," or "Absolutely," back to me. Also, always offer me a bite and never expect the same in return. If I do happen to offer you some of what I'm eating, then just know that I've got a lot of love for you.

See, not so hard at all.

Two years old: keepin' it real.

WCA #14- Wisconsin State Cross Championships

2011-11-21T07:14:00.000-06:00

Already time for State Cross. And still two more months of the season to go. Shall be interesting...

So about State. Before I was able to hop on the course yesterday, someone told me that they had added turns. Argh, I thought. Then, why. Then, it was fine without those. Then, why didn't anyone ask me before they did that. Then, okay. And it was okay. Because there weren't any logs. No, I got over that. I embrace logs now.

Overall, this course had a great flow to it with a lot of features that I do like--rideable sandpit, a nice climb, barriers on a straightaway, open straight sections. Loved it.

There was a good group on the start line, the biggest one that we've had in a few weeks with the big UCI races in Cincy and Louisville. I knew that I'd have to try and get out in front quickly, as the start went into a turn and around to a sandpit. I wanted to control the race at least for a bit, knowing that Abby has me in her turning ability. My plan was to hold on as long as I could before Abby disappeared from me.

I got out in front and there was a group of us for awhile during the first lap. Always good to have a group--the ladies fields are often far too small.

We worked our way through the back of the Master's field and then, at some point, Abby got away from me and I gapped the ladies behind me. This has been a hard thing for me to learn--staying on the gas and pushing as hard as I can if no one else is around. I was lucky to have some men to race with for a bit and worked my way to pick off as many people as I could.

There were a lot of people out cheering yesterday and that ruled. Thanks to everyone who came out and stood around in the cold, yelling and screaming. Waving gummy butterflies and whatnot. There was one set of uphill barriers and my favorite part of the course was right there. Not the barriers, necessarily, but someone hung up a Happy Birthday banner. It didn't make any sense. I loved it.

It was a good race for me with a solid second place finish. I learned some more things, I had a great time and I know exactly what I'd do differently. Thanks to the person who yelled at me every lap to stop using my brakes. To that person, you're right, I heard you, and I would have loved to have been able to actually do that.

Next time.

Happy birthday!

Givin' thanks for: D. Ruckus

2011-11-18T17:09:00.001-06:00

'Tis the season for thanks. So let me just take a second and give a big shout out to the guy who makes up for all of my mechanical ineptitude when it comes to my race rigs. His real name is Derek, but we call him Ruckus.

Cyclocross is notoriously hard on bikes. There's a lot that can go wrong. Having the right equipment and enough of it is huge--mud wheelset, training wheelset, race wheelset, race bike, pit bike, and the list goes on and on. Having a good mechanic is even huge-r. I'm super lucky to have Ruckus helping me out this season, putting up with me, answering myriad questions, making my broken shit work, making my worked and wore the truck out components last just a little longer. And, most importantly, sometimes just telling me to calm down. Er, I can be a little high strung.

All of this in addition to helping me along with some bike handling skills and cheering for me at the races. Dang-it, Ruck, you're a good man. Thanks so much. This season wouldn't be going this smoothly without you.

Whoa.

The guinea pig rides again

2011-11-17T10:45:00.001-06:00

I have written somewhat extensively (and, believe me, unexpectedly) about guinea pigs this season. For example, here. If you're just tuning in, long story short, I saw a guinea pig when I was out training one day at a place called Badger Prairie. I saw the guinea pig meet its maker (in the form of a hawk).

The guinea pig, now dubbed the BPGP (Badger Prairie Guinea Pig) posthumously, became larger than life, looming over what will be the venue for Cyclocross Nationals, which will be held at Badger Prairie in January. Here's the course map:

BPGP sees all, heckles from the sky.

So the guinea pig became a thing. I dedicated races to him. I talked a lot about feeling his presence in all of my training and racing. It didn't really get intense until my good friend Pete ramped it up with this little concoction:

Courtesy of Peter Hanby Designs

Ride the guinea pig became a sort of call to arms. You know, for racing, for training, shoot, for life in general. But it was only figurative. That is, until last Saturday.

My friend (we really just met, but I think we're there now) and racing companion in the ladies P/1/2 field, Elicia Hildebrand, sauntered up and put a little sheet of paper in my hand. What was on said paper? Oh you know, JUST SIX FUZZY GUINEA PIG STICKERS. No big deal. I couldn't believe it. Such magic.

I couldn't affix one to my top tube fast enough. Never one to be greedy. I know. That's a bold-faced life. Work with me. I offered up the others to some of the ladies in the field.

So thanks, Elicia. Huge high fives to you. Sharing really is caring. Totally made my week.

Yeah, I'm ridin' like that.

You shall not pass

2011-11-16T22:11:00.001-06:00

Came upon this today during my ride. Doesn't that single glove nailed to that wooden post make this whole ordeal with the signs and the bright yellow and the all caps, seem super ominous?

WCA #13- Silver Lake Border Battle

2011-11-15T20:16:00.001-06:00

Sunday's race: a little rough. Also, so very windy.

For some reason, I felt a little flat and I'm still not completely sure why. The whole drive up, I felt, just, meh. We got to the course and pre-rode and it didn't get any better. I don't like to hate on courses because a lot of love, sweat and work goes into each and every race and mapping out of the race courses. People rarely make much money off of the race, yet they plan for a full year and work their asses off to get everything ready to go on race day.

So let me just say, before I launch into what I'm about to, a huge thank you to all the race promoters and directors in the WCA series. You're all great and work really hard to make our weekends of cross racing super fun.

That said, there will always be courses that I love more than others. And usually, and I doubt I'm alone in this, I love courses that, for me, flow really well. See, I've been racing for just over a year. This means that I have deficits when it comes to certain things. Courses with a lot of turns, especially off-camber and sharp into other turns, and/or technical sections do not, at the moment, play to my strong suits. I like to ride my bike as fast as I can. Love it, actually. When I get slowed down and am not able to get around things quickly or smoothly, I get real frustrated real quick. (Yeah, I know, that's a really sad story, right?)

A lot of people really loved this course. Like, mostly everyone. I, however, did not. I wanted fewer turns. I wanted to be able to get over that log (fiddlesticks! another log!) with more speed and ease. I wanted to be able to get down the hill section faster with less brakes. But some things don't just happen like that. And for an impatient person like myself, that's super annoying.

As I warmed up, I got myself pretty nervous thinking about the course. Bad move. So, as I've been coached by Gordy when I let my mind go there, I backpedaled. I decided that I would stick with the leader as long as possible and then just keep working on getting around all of the turns faster with each lap. So that's what I did.

I felt slow for a lot of the race, as I couldn't get into a good groove, but I figured some things out. I'd like to think that I chose some better lines each lap. I kept on the gas whenever I hit any sort of straight section. I attacked the climbs. And, best part, I showed that log what was up each lap.

But, as I suspected would happen, I got gapped in the first lap on the long technical section and never caught back up. I decided not to be frustrated about that. Just now I decided actually. I gave myself a few days and now I need to let it go. So I just did. No really.

So let's make this sunny-side up. I learned a lot. I can safely say that this weekend, I conquered my fear of logs on course. I loved the park where the race was held--right on the water--what's up 30mph wind. And the best part, I wasn't so hard on myself for not having a better, bigger and broader skill set. Because that's something that I get to look forward to. And learning is half the fun, right?

Right.

WCA #12- UW Madison Cross @ CamRock

2011-11-14T08:29:00.001-06:00

First off, high fives! I loved this course.

There was a race at this same venue earlier in the season and I had a lot of love for that course. This race, they switched it up, used a few different sections of the park, added in a sweet downhill, a log (which I'll talk about extensively later) and I'll just come right out and say it: I'm in full support of every change the course designers made. Nice work!

I really love local races. I get to sleep in a little later. I get to show up a little earlier and have the opportunity to cheer on people in the earlier races. There's also a good contingency of local people who come out, often with a boombox, to heckle and cheer all day. It's awesome.

This race will go down in history as teaching me to stop underestimating myself. Let me back up.

There was one feature, a log, that I knew was going to make or break my ability to win. I figured that Abby would be bunny hopping it, and I was planning to run it. In fact, I didn't even try riding over it in my pre-ride of the course. I still haven't learned to bunny hop much of anything, and as chronicled before, I broke a very expensive wheel last year attempting to jump something in a race. This didn't seem to be much of an issue last year, as only one course had anything like that. This year, annoyingly enough, there's something like it, seemingly, every race.

However, If I had looked at the course a little more closely, I would have seen that because of where and how it was positioned, at the bottom of a little uphill, riding would be far faster. If I had thought a bit more about strategy, I would have realized that this played very well to Abby's strong suits, as that section went right into a bunch of turning around a bunch of trees.

This is the thing about this season, I learn an incredible amount every single time I race.

The start of the race was really exciting, I'll say that. We were on pavement, sprinting to get to the first turn, which was a hard left. I stayed out front, then promptly chose the worst line possible into the turn and ran everyone behind me into a fairly large pine tree. My bad. There was then a right-hand turn up a little hill, then right down into the woods.

Abby was trying to creep around me on that little hill, but I wasn't having it. Elbows were thrown by both parties, I believe. She got around me, I think and we went down into the woods. I passed her back on a straightaway and led into another turn. I took the turn super hot, trying not to use my brakes and ruin my momentum. Meaning, I almost took myself out. Almost.

Around we went, neck and neck until we got to that log. She rode. I ran. I baubled getting back on. She gapped me. I caught back up eventually. We rode together again until the log. She rode. I ran. I baubled again. She gapped me. At this point, the people standing there watching were getting mouthy. They heckled that I would never catch her unless I rode it. That she was going to crush me. That I sucked. You know, basic kind words of love and encouragement.

I tried to catch Abby, but caught up with some traffic and lost time. I stayed on the gas and had her within sight. The next lap, as I approached the log, the hecklers started up again. Kiss my ass, I thought. Then, fine, I'll attempt to ride the damn log. Much to my surprise, I found a low spot far to the left, and I rode that thing. If I wasn't working so hard to catch Abby, I would had slowed down to give out a bunch of high fives and pump my fist in the air a bit.

From that point on, for the next three laps, I rode the log. Maybe it wasn't pretty, but it was a whole hell of a lot faster than running it. In the end, I didn't catch her, which was a bit disappointing, more than anything because I'd rather race than ride alone. But it was a beautiful day, the course was rad, there were so many folks out there, cheering, yelling for me, which is one of the best parts of racing, hands down.

Thanks to everyone who came out and screamed, especially a guy named Nils Gibson, who brought that boombox and had James Brown screaming at the top of that hill. So sweet. And thanks to Chris Kreidl of SRAM Neutral Support, for help in the pits. And to Gordy Paulson and Diane Ostenso, who are always so encouraging and supportive.

I'll skip getting into some obvious life metaphors about obstacles, believing in myself and taking chances and just say that, overall, I'm happy with the race. I put down a solid effort and took some good notes for next time. Holler!

The dreaded, yet triumphant log obstacle. Where's Abby?

The prairie section.
[Photo courtesy of Justin Lackner]

The woods section.
[Photo courtesy of Justin Lackner]

The view from here

2011-11-11T09:59:00.001-06:00

One time, I worked at a job at a corporate headquarters for a company in the outdoor industry. It was my second actual desk job. About two months in, major construction started on the building. They were essentially rebuilding everything. This meant that my cubicle would be moved. Where was it moved? Let me tell you.

Into a windowless room that had formerly only housed computer hard drives. It was spacious, about 100 square feet, and became even more so when they put two other people in there with me. One of the guys really loved to put tons of Tabasco sauce on his eggs. He also really enjoyed onions on his sandwiches at lunch. The other guy, I will say, made me laugh my ass off. That is, when I got a momentary break from being chained to the customer service phone queue.

I love a lot of simple things. Like movement, natural light and being able to breathe in fresh air. Which is why my move into that closet immediately felt like psychological warfare. Out of spite (nobody puts baby in the corner), I lasted almost a year. Just shy. Couldn't do it. White flag, baby.

Sometimes, riding a bike on a trainer feels a little like I felt in that windowless space. You are stuck, inside, stationary on a bike, which goes against most things that are really great about riding a bike. Like forward movement, natural light and fresh air. Different, still better than the hard drive closet, but sometimes similar.

Lately, I've been relegated to doing my riding on a trainer in the basement. The daylight is short. The weather has been nasty. To be honest, I don't mind it so much. Not yet. Maybe in another month. I know what it might feel like and I hope to not get to that place by trying to ride outside whenever I can.

In the meantime, I'll just turn my headphones up and enjoy the company.

A view from Sunday's ride

2011-11-10T10:01:00.002-06:00

No race on Sunday, so Claire and I did some hot laps, then rode around on some nice gravel paths to cool down. We went over a few bridges. I love bridges, so this was one of my favorite parts of the ride.

Last ride before the snow flew.

Mavis Jean the dog

2011-11-09T08:17:00.001-06:00

I have two dogs: Hitch and Mavis. They are both American Pitbull Terriers with probably something else thrown in. They were both rescues, adopted from the same group five years apart.

Hitch I adopted a few years ago when he was a pup. Even when he was little, at four months old, he was the dog I had always wanted: calm, dog social, and smart, but not too smart and loyal. He's about two now and he maintains the disposition of an easy dog. I can bring him anywhere. He doesn't run away from me. He can walk off-leash. He listens. He enjoys all adventures.

Mavis, god bless her, is a different kind of dog. Sweet, anxious, fearful and really demanding of attention. A classic Mavis move is where she sits no less than a foot away and stares, waiting for you to either get up and do something outside with her, pet her or let her sit in your lap. Here, it's exactly like this:

She was found in 2004 running totally naked with two other dogs on one of the few nude beaches in this area, about 20 miles away. She had been bred very young. I don't think she was ever abused, but certainly neglected and kept in a backyard and not in a house. I assume this because I used to come home to find her sitting politely on top of the dining room table.

She was at the Humane Society for seven months when she started to show signs of shutting down--not wanting to play fetch, not eating. Seven months is a really long time for a dog to be in that kind of environment, even though the Humane Society here is a good one. Pitbulls, despite their contrary reputation, are very sensitive creatures and need people. They bond closely.

She was transferred to a breed specific rescue and I adopted her in November of 2004. We've been through a lot in the last seven years and she's rolled with me every step of the way. She's a handful--high energy, fear reactive to certain things and always getting into something. Mostly the garbage.

That said, I love her dearly. She can cuddle like no other creature I've encountered. She's always ready for an adventure. She can now be slowly and successfully introduced to other dogs. When I'm upset, she calmly sits next to me.

I expected that by this age of about nine, she'd slow down. In some ways, she has. She can't run with me anymore because of some arthritis in her hips. She can't play fetch for hours on end. Her muzzle is getting a little lighter colored and she has old dog lumps and bumps.

In other ways, she hasn't. She jumps on people, she wants to play fetch always, she digs in any and all bags brought into the house, she eats whatever passes for something that might be edible (twist ties, paper clips, toilet paper, empty yogurt containers), and begs.

But when she's sleeping, and not frustrating me by pulling on her leash like a Mack truck, sleeping on the furniture I chase her off of every two minutes or eating some sort of plastic out of the garbage can, and she looks so darn sweet, it's hard to have anything but love for her.

So much love.

The little things

2011-11-08T07:57:00.001-06:00

Last week, I think it might have been Wednesday, I was feeling a little crabby. Maybe super crabby. I don't hide such things very well. However, that's not to say I don't try. I never used to try to fake it, but as I've gotten older, I've become more sensitive to all of the social norms that escaped me in my teens and twenties. Like, don't be grumpy in public. Mostly because it promotes frown lines and wrinkles. Prematurely. Am I really that vain? Ain't no shame. Yes, yes I am.

I believe on that particular day, my foul mood had something to do with a severe lack of sleep, crappy weather and not being able to find a pair of fall/winter boots that I liked. I know what you're thinking, and you're right--yes, my life is incredibly difficult. I also know what you're asking yourself and I've got to say, I don't know how I do it either, day in and day out. Somehow persevering despite such crushing life stresses.

You also might be wondering if I have any friends given my wonderfully sunny disposition and obvious concern for anything other than my personal aging process. Somehow, yes, I do. They are great people. Very understanding, patient and tolerant. Ask any of them. But make sure that you give them a few drinks first. And maybe some cash that you say is from me.

Anyway. One of those very nice friends recognized that I was having a sub-par day. And he left me what I thought was an empty coffee cup on my desk. Sweet. Thanks man. Gosh, before I had this empty coffee cup, this day was total shit. But now I can do anything.

I was about to pick up the cup to throw it away. Not so fast. Much to my surprise, the thing had heft.

See? I really am fortunate to have some truly great friends. That cupcake was really fantastic. Red velvet. Cream cheese frosting. Boom. Day was better.

WCA #11- Estabrook Park

2011-11-07T08:28:00.000-06:00

When I think back on this race, my first thought is, oooo, sorta rough. My second thought is, thanks for that killer payout! Boom!

There are sections of this race where I could've been better, smoother, more focused maybe. Is that what happened? A lapse of focus? It started with the start. I realized as I left the line, that I didn't have a plan for the start. I almost always have a plan for the start. So I went with the group, not gunning for the hole shot, then in the first straight, moved up and led. Abby tried to get around me a few times, but I wouldn't let her. I bet she was pissed too, because on the first lap through the turny sections, she is way faster than me.

She got around me finally and I went with her. That little ~~jerk~~ tiny friend of mine rode up the run up and gapped me. I didn't see it coming and had expected to make up ground on her with the running. Long legs vs. short legs, holler! She extended the gap, and despite my legs not opening up at all (meaning, in non-cycling dork language, it feels like you're toting around cement blocks in your quads), I told myself that I wasn't going to sit up and give her an easy win.

There was a guy standing on course over near the singletrack woods section who yelled at me each lap how many seconds up Abby had on me. To this guy, who has no idea that this blog exists and will never see this recognition, thank you. Thank you a lot. This was huge.

So on lap three, with four to go, she had me by eight seconds, lap four, 12 seconds, lap five, she had her biggest gap of 21 seconds. I did not like that. At that point, my legs had finally opened up and I was feeling better. I pushed a lot harder. This means that I was talking to myself, telling myself to go faster, push a bigger gear, go, go, go. So all I have to say to the bystanders who might have heard me yelling at myself, well, you know me a little better now.

I had two laps to make up time and that I did. Coming around on lap six, going into the last lap, she only had me by six seconds. I turned it on. So did she. Around the vomit spiral, Abby and I passed each other, she was going away from it and I was coming into it. I took that opportunity to tell her that I was going to get her. Because I was. Or, I badly wanted to.

After the race she told me that her first response was a bit of a laugh, a reaction quickly replaced by panic. Because she saw that I was closing that gap and I saw that she was hurting. Abby was killing herself on those straight, flat sections to hold onto her gap. I knew she was. I was just trying to kill myself more. Gosh, doesn't cross racing sound fun?

In the end, I made up a lot of time, but couldn't make up enough to get the win. Or even instigate a sprint finish. But, unlike races past, I kept the gas on and didn't give up easily. Anything can happen in cross. Wheels literally come off. Tires too. Crashes happen.

Abby rode a clean race. I had a few fumbles that cost me. Among other things like sloppy dismounts and remounts, did I mention that I broke a barrier? Yeah buddy. Something about dismounting like a spaz on the barriers that were inside of that awkward turn and ramming my front wheel into what I thought was a pretty bullet-proof piece of thick wood. To the bystanders there, I hope your children don't repeat what I said. If they do, it will be hilarious. Like, 10 years from now when you think back on it, reminiscing at some family holiday. Promise.

So, there were a lot of good things about this race. Mostly that I didn't give up, and that I learned a little more about actual racing and tactics. The bad things are good to note. Better not to obsess about. Best to fix in the next race.

Accent the 'e' or it doesn't work

2011-11-04T10:41:00.002-05:00

Gold lamé is one of my top 100 things on the face of the earth. It has been for a solid decade and a half. In fact, I can tell you exactly when it started.

There was once a really awesome Italian mountain biker named Paola Pezzo. I think that she hung up her racing shoes, but back in the day she dominated the scene. Mostly with speed and flashy skinsuits unzipped perilously low. Totally ridic. Super awesome.

Castelli let her design some women's clothing for their company one year. Among those things were a pair of gold lamé shorts. It was 1997, I think. I was in high school working at my high school job at Island Park Cycles in Fargo, ND. (Rad shop--holler!) I saw them in a catalog and wanted them. Despite some chiding and heckling from my male co-workers, I bought them.

I can get down with some intense buyer's remorse, but I have never, ever at any point regretted my decision to buy these sweet, sweet shorts.

Prairie at dusk

2011-11-03T08:33:00.000-05:00

The days are getting shorter. The end of my workouts are starting to look like this. I get a little nostalgic for summer's nine o'clock light, but I really love autumn and everything that comes with it. Leaves changing, shorter days, chillier weather, cross season...

And whatever the season, there's nothing like the light at sunset. No messin', it's a damn beautiful time of day to be outside.

Race photos are for racers

2011-11-02T06:30:00.000-05:00

A few good ones from Sunday's race in Sheboygan.

(All photos credited to cycling photographer extraordinaire, xtrphoto.com)

Mini run up and over an old lake raft. Nice!

Does this skinsuit make my butt look big?

Getting ready for The Equalizer run-up.

Pushin' it up The Equalizer. Lots of hecklers drinking beer. Good times!

WCA #10- Sheboygan Bicycle Company Classic

2011-11-01T09:35:00.000-05:00

Well then. Enough about costumes. Sunday's race was a new addition to the Wisconsin Series, held in Sheboygan with a course that ran partly on a section of the Wisconsin Off-Road Series (WORS) mountain bike race course. Mountain bikes and cyclocross bikes are very different animals. There was rain in the forecast. There was a very steep hill called The Equalizer. I wasn't sure what to expect.

Dogs, loaded into the car, Abby kindly drove again. The turnout was better than I thought that it would be, which was good to see. Putting on a race, from what I hear, is a labor of love without a lot of payoff, so it's always nice when people show up to race, enjoy the promoter's hard work and help pay back some of the expense in entry fees.

I pre-rode the course and was presented with something of an anomaly. This was one unique lap. There were no barriers. There was singletrack. There was a pretty steep gravel downhill that turned left into a straight by a lake. Favorite part, hands down. There was an old lake raft with railroad ties on either side, functioning like a sort of flyover. I think yes! It was also bumpy as hell. I was a little worried about that, but got over it. I thought this was going to be a complete mountain biker's course, but maybe not so much. Still, I prepared myself to get run into the ground by Abby.

I tried to strategize. First, I asked Abby to just ride slower. She laughed. I was serious.

Next tactic, study the course and figure out what I could do well. The running was clumped together on the back half and there were several straight aways in-between the running. The turns were somewhat wide and often had little tiny climbs in-between them. This, for me, was super. A lot of folks hate the running part of cross. Me, I'm all about it. Just let me run. As a former 400m and 800m runner, the pain of running in cross is so fleeting compared to what I used to know.

The field was small. I figured that I'd be duking it out with Abby. Maybe there'd be another someone in there. The thing about cross is that absolutely anything can happen. And often does. So in a lot of ways, in regard to the competition and races, vague ideas are better than solid expectations. That said, I always go in with a plan for myself.

We were off and I was chasing Abby. I just badly wanted to stick with her. She's so tiny and so fast. At one point, I tried attacking and couldn't get around her fast enough. So I waited and attacked on a back straight stretch after the sandpit. She went with me. Through the singletrack and up The Equalizer. She was hot on my tail. We remounted, went around the first turn. Abby dumped.

Now here's where I thought about waiting. I wanted a race. So did I wait or would she catch up? There were masters riders from the men's field in the mix, so I decided to keep going rather than having to work to pass them again. No problem, she caught back up. There was a really bumpy straight-away and then the course went into a dizzying spiral, around and around. Vomit city. So much sprialing.

With four laps to go, Abby was still with me. I attacked on a horrendously bumpy uphill and I was suffering deep in the pain cave. I told my legs to shut-up. Sometime around there, I got a gap. I felt good. I widened the gap. I ran like hell. I went as hard as I could as often as I could. Was I a little panicky that Abby was going to catch me? Absolutely. The feeling was very fresh in my mind- it had just happened the day before. When that lady is racing, she is not messing around. She's used to winning and that's what she's chasing.

I stayed on it and made the front of the masters field my goal. I never caught them, but it was good incentive. I was also pumped to hear so much cheering. I had my favorite mechanic Ruckus cheering for me from the sidelines along with my second favorite mechanic, Scott. And there were some good hecklers on The Equalizer, including my friend Claire, who encouraged more than heckled. I think she told me, at one point, that I was an animal. Nice. There was also a guy who told me to keep my head up. That was really good advice. When I get tired, I start to look down. Not good. So thanks, guy on the sidelines near the pits!

In the end, I got the win and that felt really good. It felt really awful, actually. But in a good way. Like oh man, I'm so happy and so worked over that I could just throw up. I pushed myself harder on Sunday than I have yet this season, I think. And maybe the friendly rivalry has been born again. Less rival, more friend though. I'm lucky to have someone who kicks so much ass (including mine), makes me laugh really hard and pushes me in every race. Thanks, Abby.

WCA #9- Halloween Cross @ Washington Park

2011-10-31T09:29:00.001-05:00

Oh boy, Halloween! Costumes, face paint, keggers, parties and lots of talk about costumes! This is truly a holiday that I love to hate. I won't bore anyone with the details of why or how I came to dislike this much-loved holiday. I will just say that it involved me spending the night at a sports bar in Fargo, ND, dressed as a Twisted Sister groupie in a blonde mullet, leather skirt and lots of make-up pulling a woman dressed as a naughty fairy off of a stage by tugging on her naughty fairy wings. I had had a few cocktails and didn't want her dancing with my then boyfriend, who was the lead singer in the band on stage. I then got kicked out by the bouncer, Mr. Potato Head. It's just sort of like, the Halloween to end all Halloweens.

But enough about that.

The story of this race has a familiar start: Abby and I drove to Washington Park together with the dogs. I heard that they had added a bunch of turns to the course from last year. Depending on the turns, I would smile or frown about this. This race is famous for the little coffin that you have to bunny hop or run over. Last year I made a really smart decision to try and bunny hop it and broke a Zipp 404 carbon tubular rear wheel. Oh, also, it wasn't mine. And it retails for around $700. My bad.

So this year, I wasn't going to attempt it. As for the costume, a few people made really solid efforts to get me to dress up and unlike other years, I really considered it. (I did!) The lovely Elicia Hildebrand suggested that I be a Smurf. Abby even gave me a full Superman costume to wear. All I had to do was put it on. Ladies, you have such faith. And I admire that. But I shut it down anyway.

I pre-rode the course and knew that it was going to hurt. There were a lot of turns into turns, flat sections, some uphill barriers, some rad log barriers and a sweet pile of woodchips that you could ride through and maybe catch a little air. Boo-ya! Still, the turns would wear me down a bit and I'd be killing myself on the flats. My goal was to see how long I could stay with Sam. It was a good group of 15 ladies though, so I knew that I'd have some company, which would be good.

We were off and soon I was just chasing Sam, trying to keep an eye out for who was behind me. I wasn't too far off of Sam's tail for the first 4 or 5 laps (it becomes a blur) and then I got a little bogged down trying to pass in the men's field. It was a tough course for passing--the straight sections were for power and most guys can get me there--and the turning was tight enough that it was tricky to get on the inside of someone. So that was my first mistake in hesitation.

At some point in my first or second lap, I took a corner really hot and clipped a tree with my shoulder. It didn't hurt at the time, but whoa mama is it sore and uncomfy now.

Around 1.5 to go, Abby came up on me and got me. I tried to go with her, but the section of uphill pavement into the wind was killing me. She gapped me. I tried to keep on it, and on the last lap in the very same stretch, which was right near the finish line, I felt someone right on my wheel. I thought it was a guy from the Masters field. In fact it was not. It was someone in my field and I couldn't react fast enough to get up and go and lost another place in a sprint. A sort of sprint. I was so confused. So there's my second mistake. The sort of mistake that you only make once in a race. Never again. That said, good racing ladies. You made me work.

I ended up fourth and although I was disappointed with my inability to respond to the attacks and the sprint, I felt like I got some good schooling. And schooling is critical--my ability and experience need to be growing together. And I got a cupcake! So boom! Good times!

And sincerely, to those people who dressed up, good job. You're way more fun than me.

Trees do not move. No matter how hard you clip them with your shoulder.

Mummy cupcake! Thanks, Jessica!

Fashion meets function

2011-10-28T11:26:00.000-05:00

One of my jobs is as an apparel buyer for a bike shop here in Madison. There are a lot of things that I love about it. One of those things is getting to see the latest in tech fabrics, especially how the Europeans are continuing to make pieces that look like you could ride a bike in them all day and then wear them to the disco and shake it all night long. Because I like those things.

Every now and again I become completely obsessed with an item. Last spring, I was looking at the Winter 2011 line of Castelli clothing. If you don't know it, it's an Italian company that has been around for quite some time. And if you haven't seen it, well then, friend, you're missing out. There was a long sleeved women's jersey that I started just frothing over. The sample was too small for me so I couldn't just rip it off of the rolling rack and make a break for it out the front door. Instead, I politely put it back. But not until I was asked to. And I maybe I white-knuckled the hanger a little.

The thing was just beautiful. White and black. Seamless construction. Best part: ruching! I mean, come on. So functional. So hot. Super hot. I wanted it. My obsession had reached a new level. I don't know what it was. Yes I do. I was mesmerized by the ruching.

I figured that they wouldn't have any available after shipping out the orders, so my chances of getting one were slim. But I never gave up hope. And hey, you know what, sometimes dreams come true. So would you just take a look at what showed up for me yesterday! Hell yes!

All I'm thinking is, now that I've done my riding for the day, I just need someone to show me to the nearest discothèque. Dance, baby, dance! Maybe they'll even be playing my song. You love it.

Ruching, baby, ruching! Work it out!

Race photos are for racers

2011-10-27T07:00:00.000-05:00

My favorite series of photos from Sunday's race, going up The Wall on lap 1. These were taken by Justin Lackner, a fellow bike shop employee and a guy who's just getting his photography business going. He takes a lot of nice photos and sends them to me.

Which is super sweet because after all, we all know that the only reason anyone bike races is so that they can stare at photos of themselves bike racing. So thanks for obliging, Justin.

WCA #8- Sun Prairie Cup

2011-10-26T06:30:00.000-05:00

I love this course so much it makes me want to slap someone. Anyone. This was my favorite race last year and so far, it's my favorite this season as well.

It's right on over in Sun Prairie (same place as the USGP, but different venue), next door to Madison, and put on by The Brazen Dropouts, a local cycling club that seems to be amassing a solid force of racers, including some juniors who represent at the national level. A guy named Paul does a lot of the work for the course set-up and design and high fives to him for doing it so well. He changed a few course features from last year, and I loved every single damn one of them.

Abby and I went out there together. We brought the dogs. We rolled around the course and whoa, did I get super pumped. So fun. There was The Wall, a rideable if you're a fast dude feature that most people ran. A very steep dirt hill. So we had a run-up. Sweet. And then there was a downhill into a swoopy turn and a straightaway that led into a super sweet section with a turn that went into a rolling downhill, a swoopy uphill, some turns and then over a bridge. Yes.

Turns. Another bridge. Like it. And then a false flat on grass that hurt. Also yes. Turns. Then a little kick hill and a steep downhill up and around an off-camber turn into a downhill, then weaving around trees. Yes! Slapping people. Then, barriers on a straight away! That's what I'm talking about. Turns. And some pavement around to the start finish, which was also on a false flat. Well played.

I should stop here and give some props to my coach, Gordy Paulson, who not only puts up with me, but calms me like nothing else can before races. It's hard to know how to put into words just how important he's been through the last year of training and racing. I'll just say, thanks Gordy!

We were off. We were a group of four pretty quick. Sarah led us out, then me, then Abby and Corrie, another talented junior racer and a current Cyclocross National Junior Champ. Sarah, also a multiple-time National Champ in both road and 'cross, led for awhile until Abby got antsy and attacked. I stayed behind Sarah for a bit, then attacked after that run up on the second or third lap, eventually getting a bit of a gap. Abby had dropped me at that point, so I then worked to close the gap that she had on me.

I was working so hard, in fact, that I threw up. Just a little. On that killer grass covered false flat. And no worries, 'cause it didn't slow me down. Boo-ya!

I continued to close the gap on Abby, but couldn't catch her. I finished the race in second place and I was happy with that. Because Abby is no slouch. And she knows that I'm gunning for her. No, I'm kidding. Really, I'm not. Kidding that is. We're friends! And team mates! We just say these things.

Abby is always a real peach and takes my pit bike for me after races. Mostly because I don't have the skill required to ride a bike while rolling another one. I mean, I can do it, but it's not pretty if you add in any sort of terrain. Then we cooled down. I didn't fall at all during the race, but somehow found a two foot hole to ride into during that cool down. No prob! Over the bars. I'm fine! Good times.

Super fun and completely brutal weekend of racing. Thanks for making me work, ladies! Two thumbs up!

Me, sans head, then Abby.
[Photo courtesy of djonny mac.]

There's the wall behind me. Looks fun, yes?
[Photo courtesy of djonny mac]

1, 2: cyclocrossracing.com represent!

WCA #6- Doyne Park

2011-10-24T22:18:00.005-05:00

There used to be this race called Kletzsch Park. It had so many consonants, and weird ones right in a row at that, that they had to cancel it. Which is too bad. Because it had a killer run up. And barriers on a straight-away. And that's what I'm talking about.

So instead, there was a race at a place called Doyne Park, which is a golf course. MWI picked up the Kletzsch race somewhat last minute, and the venue change was super last minute. So high fives for pulling it off, guys! Well, some to the guys, but mostly to Jessica Heenan [check her out around the 3 minute mark], because she brings the cupcakes and the sass. And she always looks stylish. Holler!

I wasn't sure what to expect for the course, but I was super pumped that my teammate Abby was back in action racing cross after a killer season on her mountain bike. So we can drive to races together. With our dogs. And we can yammer on about how sweet it would be if we could just ride our bikes all day. Though lately, we've been talking a lot about jeans. And the mall.

Anyway.

We rolled up to the venue, signed up for the race and headed out for a spin around the course. First impression was that there wasn't a run up. Okay. Also, just one barrier. Come on. Then, lots of off-camber turning on one part. Not cool. False flats on grass. Little better. And some wide open sections. Still upset about the run up. I saw suffering in my future.

Before I forget, I was psyched to be sporting some new Smith Pivlock V90 sunglasses courtesy of my good friend Chatham, who's a badass graphic designer for Smith Optics and a good pal from college.

The field for the ladies P/1/2 race was a good one. My other teammate, Sam Schneider, was there, and she likes to put the hurt on us all, and we all love her for it. Also Sarah Huang, who's so sweet and so talented and incredibly fast. I wanted to hang on to the front three and decided to hang back instead of gunning for the hole shot.

We were off. The first lap was at a moderate pace. Abby got antsy, moved to the front and towed us around for awhile. Then Sam made her move. She was off. I chased Abby and Sarah for awhile and at some point, on a technical section, maybe?, they gapped me. This is when, looking back, it hits me that I have a lot to learn about racing. Like, for example, to go with people when they go. I believe it's called responding. As in, respond to the attack.

I often employ a less effective tactic when I get gapped, or passed. You might call it ignoring. As in, ignore that you are falling more behind everyone else. I rode my bike for a lap or two. Honestly, I don't know what I was doing. Mostly just not going that fast. I got my mojo back in the last two laps, but it was too late and the front three were all riding well. No catching those ladies.

I crossed the line in 4th and though I missed the podium and a cupcake, I was happy to see two of my cyclocrossracing.com teammates up there in the first and second spots. Represent!

And, truth be told, I made a really pathetic plea for a cupcake and Jessica, that feisty baker, she obliged. Thanks, lady! You're the best.

Ready for Doyne Park! Abby will hate me forever for posting her photo. Such is life!

Check out my sweet Smith shades--thanks Chat! Photo courtesy of Michael McKinney.

Ready or not

2011-10-21T10:26:00.003-05:00

First hard frost of the year. Which makes me think: cold toes, numb flanks. This is when training for a big race in January gets interesting.

Riding in cold temperatures and winter weather is actually not bad at all. I might just say that it's pretty darn fun. Last year I rode outside through the winter, though doing all of my workouts outside doesn't always make sense. Like, when there's a blizzard. Or freezing rain. And then there's daylight. Or lack thereof. So sometimes, I'm forced inside and relegated to rollers or a trainer. Not a huge fan.

Riding outside in the sun, rain or snow is as thrilling as riding inside isn't. It's lonely. It's pretty boring. And movies don't help. They just slow waaaay down. Someone used the analogy that training inside is a lot like drinking. You do it by yourself at home and it's lonely, sad and maybe the start of a problem. You go and do it around other people and it's a good time. That's why I'm lucky to have a place like Speed Cycling so close. It's like a bar, but for people who are super insane about training and riding bikes. And we drink Accelerade and R4 instead of vodka.

The Badger Prairie guinea pig

2011-10-19T06:06:00.000-05:00

As promised, I dedicated Saturday's race, and win, to the fallen guinea pig of Badger Prairie. Though not completely sure what happened, I now have confirmation of his demise.

Just as I suspected, our little furry friend had an unfortunate late afternoon pas de deux with a hawk. Well, maybe not so much a dance as a somewhat bewildering and brutal end becoming the meal of a very large bird with sharp talons and a razor sharp beak. And by 'confirmation' you know what I really mean. But there's no need to know the details. Let's not think about it.

R.I.P little pig.

BPGP sees all, loves hot cyclocross action.

[Photo courtesy of the talented Chatham Baker, who delivers on an odd demand from me once again. Thank you!]

Military Ridge Trail

2011-10-18T07:26:00.001-05:00

No race on Sunday, so I spent some time riding on gravel down this lovely trail.

WCA #5- FurtherCross @ Badger Prairie

2011-10-17T06:05:00.004-05:00

[Photo courtesy of the always dashing djonnny mac]

Saturday's race was close to home--right next door to Madison in Verona at Badger Prairie Park. The thing that I think of first when I think of the venue is how hard some people hate on it. A grass criterium, they say. Not enough turning, they add, shaking their heads. No elevation gains. No insane run up. No rest.

I see no problems here.

I love this venue. It's 20 minutes away. The trails are permanent for off road biking, so I can head on out and train there anytime. And best of all, the terrain plays to some of my strong suits. It's an all around win. For me. And that's what I'm talking about.

I had decided to stay put and support the Wisconsin series in lieu of driving down to Chicago. I'm happy that I did. We had beautiful weather and a pretty good turnout for the women's P/1/2 race. Elicia Hildebrand [yay!] came back and joined us. Always nice to have another fast lady on the line. I think she was branding mountain lions in California for the park service. Is it true? I don't know. Probably ask her yourself.

I decided to bring my dog Hitch with me. I've never attempted this before, afraid of adding stress to the day, but, sometimes I get crazy and try new things. Much to my relief, he did great. He played with some dogs, chewed on some sticks, greeted some folks and sat in the grass next to me as I warmed up on my trainer. High fives.

I pre-rode the course, thought it flowed well and liked the changes from last year. Start on the pavement, little prologue lap, then back around some trees, barriers, up a hill, barrier, trees, gravel turn, another hill, downhill, sweet turn, trees, sandpit, hill, run up, pavement, do it again. I liked it. But I already said that.

We lined up. We were off. Minor issue with the pedal again, but I recovered quickly and got out in front for the first sharp turn onto the grass. From that point on, I held onto the lead. I kept glimpsing Kristin Wentworth and even though she's still coming back from having that cute-ass baby and not training much, the lady's got skills, talent and knows how to dig deep, so having her within eyesight made me nervous enough to keep the gas on.

Somewhere around the 3rd lap, I felt as though I might have taken it out too fast, burned a few too many matches. So I employed a few techniques that get me to focus on the race and not the hurt. I counted pedal strokes in my head. I looked ahead for riders to catch. I concentrated on each element--turns, barriers, remounts.

But there's nothing that gets me to focus better during a race than a good anthem. I'll let you in on a little secret. I bother people for music suggestions all of the time. During cross season, I really ramp it up. This is why. When I'm really feeling it, starting to run a little ragged, legs burning, lungs bursting, I cue up music. Normally it's a song that I listened to while warming up. So on Saturday, it was this song playing on full blast in my head.

I won't lie. I love the hell out of this song. It makes no sense. At all. Just listen to it. But on that downhill, sweeping in a fast left-hand turn, all I could hear was Cola, cola bottle... On the run-up, 7up, fizz fizz! Fizz fizz fizz fizz... On that long hill by the playground, You can get it...

That funk, it powered me a second win.

Special thanks to Brian Rybarik for coming out and announcing--that's always a good time.

[Hitch: so pumped for his next race. Photo by Eric Baillies]

Badger Prairie

2011-10-14T10:14:00.003-05:00

Deja vu: Claire picked me up this morning and she came bearing a cherry scone (good Claire!). We headed off to do a little pre-race spin about out in the grass at Badger Prairie Park in Verona. This is where Cyclocross Nationals will be held in January. Outside. In January.

Anyway, this is the place where I saw a guinea pig a few weeks ago while I was out riding around training. I didn't believe it at first either, but no, I wasn't high on drugs and yes, it was a guinea pig. Black and white if you care. He watched me from the side of the trail as I killed myself doing a little loop around and around. We had a good time. Every now and again, he'd scurry into the grass when I'd try to catch him. What? You would've too. Guinea pigs are not equipped to handle any situation wilder than a second grade classroom terrarium.

A few days later I was out there again and saw a huge hawk rustle around and lift out of the tall grass right around that same spot. Maybe something in its mouth. Maybe my little friend for lunch. Let's not think about it.

Tomorrow's race will also be at the same venue. Little guinea pig, I'm dedicating it to you.

Tractors

2011-10-13T17:00:00.007-05:00

On Tuesday morning, I headed out to do some intervals. Along the way, I came upon a heap of tractors all lined up, sitting in a field. A sort of farm machinery army.

WCA #4- UW-Whitewater Cross

2011-10-11T23:00:00.003-05:00

Whoa mama, I loved this race. CamRock Park was the race venue, a place that I'm quite fond of, and that I've written about before. I was excited about this race the entire week. The entire week.

I knew the race was going to be fast, a nice treat from last year's insane mudfest. It's a pretty straight-forward course without too many bells or whistles. The start is on pavement that goes into the grass with a 90 degree turn into the woods, down a sweet little descent and then sweeps into a different wooded section. If you get some speed going off of that little downhill--that's what I'm talking about- you can really speed racer it into that second corner. Holla!

The field was small again (where the ladies at?) with only about 5 of us. High fives to Kristin Wentworth who's back after giving birth to one of the universe's cutest babies. So we're off. I led out the group and worked hard to get a good gap. I wasn't sure how close the ladies were behind me, so I didn't let off the gas until the 3rd or 4th lap. And that was fleeting because by then I had moved up into the men's masters fields and someone was hot on my tail, so I worked to pass and then traded up with two guys for the last few laps.

So what I'm saying is, I worked my ass off. It felt like the course kept getting faster and faster, which was pretty awesome. By the end I felt ragged, but good enough for a sprint finish. Yeah yeah, I was racing against a dude in a different category, but a sprint is a sprint and it hurts the same no matter.

First win of the season. Now to get more ladies out there...

Full swing

2011-10-11T22:00:00.002-05:00

The huge pile of laundry waiting for the washing machine, my dogs staring at me intently, waiting for any movement toward the door and their leashes, my race bag sitting unpacked in the corner and a dearth of groceries can only mean one thing: race season is in full swing.

Really simple things just seem really overwhelming and difficult after racing both Saturday and Sunday. It's really a two-fold problem: insane lack of energy and an intense lack of speed and refined motor skills. So Mondays are sort of like, slack-jawed, slo-mo walk-abouts where I take fifty times as long to do absolutely anything.

It's taken me awhile to accept this, because, though it gets better as my race fitness improves, it's a lasting thing throughout the season. And it bugs me because I'm normally an incredibly efficient person. Go on, ask anyone. They'll tell you. It's super annoying.

There's no better place to showcase this lack of efficiency than at the grocery store after a race. It's not so much the hunger as looking at all of the shelves full of things that are supposed to join together in different combinations to make delicious meals. It's like, well shit, how on earth am I going to even start to make that happen.

Here's the answer: I don't. That's how I start, by not. I leave with a grocery bag full of candy corn, tomatillos, yogurt, ice cream, a bulb of garlic and bagels. Good luck is what I tell myself as I unpack the contents onto the countertop. Good truckin' luck with that.

At which point I usually decide to have ice cream for dinner.

WCA #3- Grafton PumpkinCross

2011-10-11T10:32:00.002-05:00

Okay then. Next up: the race to celebrate the favorite fruit (yes, fruit, just learned this) of the season.

So, just to put it out there, it was hot. Um, say, 82 ma-grees hot. The course was a fun one that included a sand pit, a steep little hill, a tiny little creek crossing that was surprisingly muddy for how wee it was, and a tricky little uphill barrier positioned right after a 180 turn. There were also a few flat sections on pavement (boo-yah!). I was happy to hitch a ride to the race with one of the baddest ass racing couples around--my favorite coach, Gordy Paulson, and a lady I'd like to be like someday, albeit taller, his lovely wife, Diane Ostenso. I rode in style-minivans are super cush. (Thanks, Diane and Gordy!)

We roll up. I'm feeling maybe nervous, but, from what I remember pretty good. I just got a new digital tire pressure gauge and I was (and still am) super excited about that. Life just got easier. And by easier I mean that I won't have to walk around and ask 50 people to feel my tires and give me an opinion on what pressure I should be running. I know everyone at the races will really miss that. But, sorry folks, I had to find a better way.

So I'm warming up. I should say heating up. I mean, really just sweating bullets. Maybe I should have warmed up in the shade. But I didn't. Mental note.

So then it's time. I roll over to the line. I notice no one has gloves on. Right, I think, good idea, too hot. I ride back to the van to ditch my gloves. I'm standing there on the line next to my teammate, Sam, and I reach down to feel my back tire.

It would seem that it is completely flat. So, resorting to my old tire gauge methods, I turn to Sam's dad and ask him what he thinks of the pressure. He politely tells me that it seems somewhat low. Probably at the same time realizing that I need a special kind of help when it comes to equipment.

The race is starting. Sorta soon. Like maybe in a minute. Sam's dad runs over and talks to SRAM neutral support (holla! special high fives to Chris Kreidel!) where I get a new rear wheel all plugged in. Bike is returned to the line. Stroke averted.

We go. My motherlovin' pedals. I switched from Crank Bros. Eggbeaters to Shimano XTR and while I love the XTR pedals for a lot of reasons, I'm still finding a groove with getting into them 100% of the time. Anyway, I struggle to clip in. I hang on. I chase the two lead ladies for a bit. Not as long as I would have liked. But hey, some days you do and some days you don't. And let me add that the P/1/2 women's field that I race against is no joke- there are some super fast and super awesome ladies in there. You know who you are.

Then I settled into a pace and tried to keep moving faster around the course, all the while trying to find my legs. I am not sure I met with total success at either goal. The front three of us were strung out by the middle of the race, not so much racing against each other as moving along and holding tight to our places. I finished up 3rd and was happy with that.

I went over to one of the promoters to collect my winnings. I had two hands full of too much stuff--like a can of Mountain Dew (honestly, it's only after hot races) and a bottle of water and something else. So the guy asks me, what place? And I attempt to hold up three fingers to indicate third place. But two of those fingers don't end up going up in the air and there I am, holding up my middle finger in the guy's face. He sort of gave me a look like, Really? Sorry buddy!

I put down the beverages, held up the three correct fingers and apologized. We worked it out. Had a laugh. And, thankfully, he didn't withhold my magic envelope with cash money.

CamRock Park

2011-10-07T16:34:00.004-05:00

Well, shoot. Not to lead with a completely tired subject, but dammit, it's been a beautiful week here. Waking up to temperatures in the 50s, afternoons in the 80s and then evenings in the 60s. Wha-bam! Love it.

Here we are. It's Friday again. This morning I was excited to head over to CamRock Park, which is about 30 miles outside of Madison, with my friend Claire. I haven't known this lady long, but when she offered to pick up pastries on her way over, I knew she was someone to have on my side. (Thanks, Claire!) She just started racing cyclocross and it's been, honestly, I say this with no sarcasm, a real joy to watch this lady in action. So far, she's killing it and pretty darn fearless.

CamRock (located between Cambridge and Rockdale--get it?) is one of the few places close to Madison where you can ride on off-road bike trails. Sunday's race will be there, so I figured it might be nice to go and spin around a bit. See where the gopher holes were, look at the tree roots, have an excuse to go ride in the woods. The trails are nothing crazy or challenging, but when it's dry, like it is now, it's super fast. Meaning, it's super fun. Last year's race was mud, mud, mud, so it should be interesting to see how it goes with dry conditions.

This weekend is another double header race weekend. No doubt it's going to be fast and hot--no rain in the forecast to speak of. I might get crazy and throw a water bottle cage back on my bike so that I can have at least some water.

As for my knee, I promised I wouldn't post any more photos (not the crowd pleaser I had expected). So let me just say, the gaping wound continues to be less gaping. And that, along with all of the fall colors and this damn beautiful weather, is pretty sweet.