If you want to write a blog post from scratch…

…first you have to create the universe. That’s the bit of wisdom I garnered from this gem of a video featuring Carl Sagan and Stephen Hawking.

Yes, I realize my geek is showing.

Still finding it difficult to blog. After all the tagline above says clearly this blog is about bike-riding, rock-climbing, beer-drinking and yoga, amongst other things.

Sadly, I am not riding much. Not climbing at all. Barely able to do the most mediocre and basic yoga. But worst of all? I have been reduced to drinking gluten-free beer.

Oh I know everyone and their mother is doing the Gluten-Free thing. In fact Fred Meyers (Pacific Northwest version of Safeway) has GF tags on “safe” options. Some stores even have whole Gluten-Free sections. It’s nuts! (Nuts are GF, just FYI.)

Now, let it be known. I am not much of a follower. I don’t give a rat’s ass what the cool kids are doing. It’s long been established that I am too square to be cool, and too cool to be square. And yet. Who ISN’T doing the GF thing? I heard about it a while ago and thought: Fad.

But then lately I’ve been noticing how much less energy I have, how long it takes to recover from anything, horrible sleep patterns, and chronic inflammation. Injuries that once healed quickly take forever. But mostly, I noticed when I eat processed food I feel like I’m going to give birth to a loaf of bread. A big one. Whole. Through my navel.

Gross, is it not?

Yeah, so. I decided to TRY IT. This GF thing. Every freakin’ naturopath and holistic MD I know recommends it. Personally I wonder if they’re not getting kickbacks from the International Tofu Foundation and Organic Broccoli Consortium.

I’ve been wheat free for a month. Except that one night at Steve’s party with the fried chicken. Oh my god. How can you NOT eat fresh home-fried chicken? Well, The Guy suggested I should just put the tasty, crispy, deliciously spiced chicken skin in my mouth, chew it up, get the taste of it, and then spit it out. He went so far as to demonstrate. But no… I persevered and ingested no fried chicken. You have no idea how hard this was. The Deschutes Time Trial Festival is easier than the discipline required to just say no to fried chicken. People teased me, egged me on, but I’ll be damned if after a month of drinking wheat-free beer I’d be brought down by a freakin’ piece of chicken–white or dark.

. . . . .

Beer. The final frontier. To boldly go where no brewer has gone before. THAT, my friends, is what gluten-free beer is like. In other words, it sucks. I was extremely excited when I discovered Oregon brewer Deschutes Brewing Company’s gluten-free beer: Krystal Weisen. I even met friends for a pint or three, telling myself it was okay. Maybe even good. You know… for GF beer.

And then, these so-called friends, they finally burst the bubble. They broke me from my reverie, and shattered my illusion. They were ruthless. After all, do real friends let friends drink beer that tastes like hot dog water?

. . . . .

Take a New York hot dog cart. Pull out one of those dirty, foamy, disguting pans of grey water the dogs have been boiled in, and chill. Add a golden-ish beer-like hue. Serve in a frosty cold imperial pint glass. Call is Krystal Weizen cause it sounds palatable, but still… Hot dog water. Bloody hell.

I am hopeful I will return to bike-riding, rock-climbing, radtarded yoga, and proper beer-drinking, because a) wine is fine but twice the price, and b) life is too short to drink bad beer.

More so than being hopeful, it is my INTENTION to return to my passions with renewed vigor. On that note, I leave you to ponder your own intentions and invite you to share your gluten-free horror stories (or success stories) with me at churchofbike@gmail.com.

I would also invite any beer brewers to seriously hook a sister up with GF beer that tastes better than hot dog water. Seriously.

p.s. The pictures inserted in this particular blog post are just random selections of snapshots I like. No reason other than that.

Blog Much?

Like most things in life, there’s an ebb and a fow to everything. Lately I’ve been ebbing, at least on the blogging side, but it’s for a good cause. I’ve been writing the book! Seriously! It is almost done. Well, at least part of it. Some of it?

Th eproblem is there’s more than one book I’ve been working on over the years. My path has ever been a long and winding one, never very straight or direct, so why should authoring books be any different?

Anyway, there’s a change in the air as I shift gears, both figuratively and literally. Actually, I’m planning on just riding the SS 29er through the fall as much as possible, so no shifting there. But I have decided to sell my full suspension RacerX 29er. Apparently I’ve outgrown it. I’m no longer a cross-country girl. I am. An All-Mountain Woman.

More about all this soon (ish). Gotta run. But this just arrived this week and I just had to share. Good and bad people of cyclocross, prepare for a new singlespeed contest this year. Prepare… to enter the Thunderdome.

A funny thing happened on the way to the blog post.

Pardon my delinquency. Getting used to spending half of my week in Bend and half in Portland is awesome but requires some shifts in how I schedule my time. Mostly it requires that I actually DO schedule my time, which is in itself a curious thing. Since I’ve been largely self-employed as an independent contractor most of my life I’ve enjoyed a somewhat fluid and flexible schedule. I don’t mind working late in order to get some sweet riding in mid-afternoon. But getting to and from Bend is about 7 hours travel time round-trip. That’s seven hours I’m not doing anything else… Other than continuing to plot my diabolical world-domination scheme to get more people riding bikes, doing yoga and being happy. So no complaints at all… Just need a bit of structure to my PDX time is all.

To make up for the past couple weeks I’m stealing a page from Stevil’s notebook and going long on images, short on words.

Last week’s Monday Night Short Track race put me right in the center of the field again, but I won two bombers of beer for the Farrah Fawcett tribute. Nice! I was a bit miffed that Farrah’s death was so eclipsed by Michael…. Michael…. what’s the dude’s name? Anyway, it’s not everyday that there is an opportunity to win beer by dressing as a celebrity with hair bigger than the state of Montana and more teeth than the entire Osmond family, so I just want to acknowledge Farrah’s passing with a moment of silence before I hit my winnings (HUB’s Crosstown Pale Ale) in her honor.

Armed, ready... to be loaded.

But that was last week, and so was all the rest of this report. It started with a little more rock climbing action at Smith Rock on the way down to Bend.

Getting more lead climbing practice.

Followed the next day by a bonafide 6+ hour ride with the Portland Dirt Liberation Posse.

MotherChucker, J-Rad aka 'The Rep', Miz Vanilla (aka Uma), Chainsaw, Steve-eh, Junior Mint, and Alex

It was hot. About 95 degrees in the shade. And dusty. And we ran out of water. And food. 7 people sharing one Peanut Butter Clif bar is not a pretty sight. Still, we soldiered on determined to cap off the day with a run on Whoops. Along the way there was some of this:

and this

and this!

After which we did this:

And then rolled into town to have a serious conversation…

…and a few drinks.

Due to my yogic purity (read: lightweight) after two of these damn pink highly alcoholic liquid-candy sugar bombs, I was pretty much lit up like roman candle. MotherChucker and I called it an early night as we had plans to meet Steve C. early to summit Mt. Bachelor the following day and ski/board, or in my case, run down.

The hike up to Bachelor on the 4th was a trip. Literally. I became a bit hypoxic at about 8k, lightheaded, dizzy and tired, and started seeing things like little pink mountain octopus in the snowmelt. Better living through brain chemistry I call it!

Is that oxygen deprivation in your brain or are you just happy to see me?

Once we reached and my weak little puny underdeveloped asthmatic lungs could recover a bit the boys decided to test the alpine snowmelt water. Note: The deep blue color is submerged ice. The water temp is probably 32.01°F.

I double dog dared the guys to take a swim. Note: Someone had to remain dry and secure on shore for safety purposes. Besides, I was stoned on thin air, remember? So no, I did not put on the Man Pants and jump in. But these guys did…

While the menfolk were recovering from their plunge into near instant cardiac arrest, the dog was unimpressed.

At the summit, we paused for the obligatory peak-bagging yoga shots. I warmed up with a little of this…

Then adjusted the bibs

To work on this:

Before anyone gets into criticizing the yoga form, let me just invite YOU to wear too-big heavy leather hiking boots, thick socks and gaiters and get your legs straight in good alignment. ExACTly.

Finally, the ride down was a run for me as I did not bring my AT skis to keep up with the guys. Somehow I kept a pretty good pace running the 3000 vertical descent, taking huge, galloping strides hurtling myself downhill with the aid of backcountry poles. Occasionally I was able to hit a pitch steep enough to do a sort of ass-glissade. Good times!

By evening, we were pretty much spent and missed the Freedom Ride in Bend, and went straight to the Blow Shit Up in the Cul-de-Sac party across town, hosted by a few local MTBers.

It was without a doubt one of the tastiest bar-b-ques I’ve ever enjoyed, and one of the most fun. Met a bunch of old (two week’s ago old) Bend connections and made some new ones. Best deck conversation: Trading tales of older sister domination of little brothers and when that tide turned. My favorite was Erika’s story: “I pretty much owned that punk-ass kid until he turned 14, punched me in the chest and broke my sternum.” Ah… Sibling rivalry. Such fond memories.

The PDX posse returned Sunday morning, leaving me and CB to float the Deschutes River through town, toss a frisbee around and people watch. To say I was relieved no one asked us to DO (climb, ski, ride, run) anything would be an understatement. It was all I could do to shoot innocent passersby with the Super Rad 220D water pistols Charles acquired for “keeping pirates and ducks away”. Or more accurately so WE could board and raid other vessels… vessels with beer!

Note to would-be river floaters: When floating on inflatable camping mattress, be sure to examine mattress inflation nozzle for locking o-ring. Trust me on this one.

After a brief frisbee hammerfest to get the blood moving again, I headed home, sore as hell but happy as a clam. Monday night Short Track may have to be sacrificed on account of extreme (and I mean extreme) muscle soreness from that wicked descent off Mt. Bachelor but… there’s a hole shot contest for beer…

Need I say more?

The Fine Art of Mediocrity, Part 1

Race Day Training: Throwing elbows. Not that I'd ever do that in a race. Oh no. Not me.

There’s a woman in Portland. She races bikes, enjoys fantastic dinner parties, is strong, smart and absolutely stunning. She’s a published writer, a talented photographer, and writes an awesome blog. Her name is Heidi and she is daily reminder that no matter how hard I try, I will never be as fast, as gorgeous, as strong, as young, or as talented as she.

In fact there are days when I see her or read something new she’s written when I feel so damn pathetic. An eternal wannabe. At everything. In fact, so sure am I that she is my superior in every way that I’ll bet once you click her link here (if you hadn’t already clicked it above) and read her clever, nuanced, tight prose you’ll never be back.

But on the odd chance you come back for more of my turgid prose, there’s a point to this public acknowledgment of my inner green. See, even Heidi’s personal motto is so brilliant it blows me away. It is the simple aphorism: I work hard to be this mediocre, damnit.

Last night at the first Short Track race of the season, I found myself uninspired, wondering if I’d completely lost the thrill of competition. I donned my natty race attire. Leopard print dress, hot pink gloves, Super Relax arms and cap. I rode out to Portland International Raceway to warm up, then proceeded to get all social with about 300 of my Portland OBRA friends. I didn’t even bother with a pre-ride lap. Lame. I’ve NEVER done a race without pre-riding or at least attempting to. Ever.

Lining up at the start with about 45 women, I feel the familiar pre-race jitters. I don’t even have a race goal for myself… Hole shot? Nah. I’ll spend everything I’ve got to get it and then blow up, and watch riders pick me in a repeat performance of Pickett’s Charge in Bend a couple weeks ago. Can’t go by LT or heart rate: no monitor on deck. What would be the point anyway? I don’t train anymore. I’m lucky if I manage two rides a week in Portland because there’s no mountain biking here. Finally I decide I’m just going to ride smart. No crashing. Ace the handling and ride every lap consistently.

Race Day Training: Game face practice. Braking practice too apparently.

This I did. Except for the first log jump, which had some traffic in front and I just didn’t see it in time. But I cleared everything else, every time. And came in exactly in the middle of the pack. Perfectly mediocre. Two for two, I was dead middle of the pack at Pickett’s Charge, too. I didn’t exactly suck, but I didn’t not suck either. I was especially pleased that I didn’t run over the poor girl who endo’d directly in front of me on the whoop dees. It was on that lap when I felt my strength waning that I remembered Heidi’s pithy aphorism, like a mantra. I work hard to be this mediocre, damnit.

As soon as I heard myself think it, came this thundering reply from deep within: THAT’S BULLS**T.

I don’t work hard anymore, which is exactly why I’m so mediocre. Not that I was ever anything but mediocre as a racer, but I felt like I had potential before, whereas life with Janky has pretty much negated that potential. And I realized that if I could be this so-so without working on it at all, then I was actually great! Great!

Suddenly I felt much more content with where I was in the race, on my bike, in life. I’ve gone from being a focused, dedicated road racer to a complete pleasure rider who still feels competitive even if she can’t actually be competitive. The reality is I’m a bonafide dilettante and rank amateur fueled mostly by passion, maybe tinged with stupidity and a healthy dose of denial. Giving up racing as my primary athletic goal was hard, but it brought me to rock climbing and I know I’ll never give up climbing for racing now. I love them both! Besides, if I can be this mediocre without working hard on it… BONUS! Imagine all the extra time I have for I dunno… goofing off. Road trips. Tossing a frisbee on warm summer nights. Eating pizza and strawberry shortcake and beer! BEER! Hell, maybe I’ll even get invited to one of Heidi’s infamous dinner parties, someday.

Then it occurred to me. I should challenge Heidi to a duel. A duel of mediocrity! In fact… I will have already won, because I’m not even going to issue the challenge directly to her. It’s masterful! Someone will tell her about this post, maybe she’ll read it, maybe she won’t but it won’t matter. I’m too mediocre to actually fight. Ha! Maybe we should just have a beer instead and toast our mediocrity. Hell, I might even build a shrine to it! I can see it now: The Temple of Mediocrity….

In the end, I enjoyed the race. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected, but probably that means I wasn’t riding hard enough. Oh well, next week…

SUPER D PRERIDE REPORT
Speaking of next week, while I look forward to the sweet suffering of Short Track #2, I will not–I repeat: will NOT–be riding the Hood River Super D this weekend. Yeah, no. Me and Motherchucker met up in HR to preride the course this past Sunday, and found some rideable parts but there were enough super steep parts that I’d definitely need a big hit bike and full body armor to even begin to attempt to ride. The 70degree head tube and 3.5 inches of travel on my 29er just weren’t going cut it. The upper parts of the trail are a total powder run, 6-8″ of pure dust strewn with embedded football sized rocks from ATV use and lack of rain. Not fun.

Of course, because of my mediocre riding abilities, I had to bail several times and even walk some steeps. A better rider than I would do fine but I still think a DH bike would be the ticket.

As we regrouped at the first part of the DH run that sucked, Motherchucker mused whether or not I’d still be talking to him by the end of the day or if I’d be hating life too much. By the end of the day I was still smiling, laughing, talking smack and hammering down the fire road to the car. I realized I was in this nebulous in-between realm, no longer roadie, and yet not quite mountain biker realm. And who cares anyway? The sun was shining I was riding my bike, powered not so much by well-trained quadriceps and powerful calves, but rather by a heart full of passion and gusto.

Ride on!

Of Super Powers, Kryptonite and Salvation

Alpenglow over Phil's Trails.

The sun has set on my road trip. I returned to Portland last Friday just in time for the freakshow that is Pedalpalooza to erupt. Pretty much I went straight from car to teaching my yin yoga class, to the Wend Magazine (a super rad adventure magazine for and by “ordinary people doing extraordinary things”) release party, featuring a good old fashioned ping-pong tournament. What was so cool about this scene was knowing probably half of the guests in attendance. Hundreds packed the Lizard Lounge overflow space, drank up the free beer, crossed their fingers for raffle prizes and tried to remain upright. I had the biggest, goofiest grin on my face and a twinkle in my eye, and when people said “Welcome home” I thought: I’m back, but far from home.

Home is where the heart is, and I left mine strewn all over Central Oregon. On singletrack and teeter-totters, by the river crossings and alpine lakes, up high on Smith Rock and Meadow Crags, on the deck where I did my morning yoga practice outside in the warm sun with the toasty scent of baking pine needles, along Cascade Lakes Highway and in several brewpubs, in countless little scenarios and events that pushed my little crush on Bend into something far more serious.

When I set out on this trip I wasn’t sure what I’d find. I knew I needed a change, but not sure exactly what. Unplugging from “regular life” to drift across the Western U.S. and ride my mountain bike seemed like the best way to figure it out. My itinerary was shot to hell pretty much the moment I started and Plan B quickly became Plan B, rev. 32 soon enough as weather drove me out of the desert solitude I sought. But wasn’t that part of the idea? To simply raise my sails and let the wind take me where it would?

I let myself be guided by chance and randomness the first few weeks, but my intuition kept pulling me back to Bend for a longer stay. And one thing I’ve learned about intuition is not to go against it. I think intuition is like a latent super power that everyone possesses but not all choose to use. And people, if you don’t use it, you lose it. I spent most of first 30 years of my life insisting I didn’t have an intuitive bone in my body, but when I think back now I realize I just chose to ignore it, deeming it irrational. I’ve made some absolutely retarded decisions that went directly against intuition and paid a high price for it. But since I’ve tuned in to this internal compass I’ve never regretted honoring it.

Super powers should not be squandered or taken for granted. Ignoring one’s intuition is akin to Superman making himself a Kryptonite-enhanced Kryptonite smoothie with Kryptonite berries and a garnish of Kryptonite for breakfast.

Okay, so intuition is not as glamorous as say, telekinesis or mind reading, but it’s a pretty useful super power, albeit a humble one.

Speaking of superpowers, here’s a trailer for an odd little film tat won at Sundance last year and really deserves a viewing. Check it:

In the meantime… back here in Stumptown, Pedalpalooza kicked off with a street parade on Saturday, followed by a fast, fierce criterium that exacted some blood and bone sacrifices, and culminated in the World Naked Bike Ride which was hailed as the largest ever, with approximate 5000 naked(ish) riders! For the next two weeks there are bike-centric events all over town, daily. Some are silly, some serious, but the general theme is: More fun with bikes.

And while Portland is THE place to be for a bike party of epic (and yes, I do mean epic) proportions, my intuition told me to move to Bend part-time post-haste. Never one to argue with either intuition or Janky (who refuses to do road rides in Portland any longer), I’ve rearranged my work schedule to teach in Portland Monday through Thursday, leaving a long weekend in which to continue healing Janky on the sweet singletrack and rocky crags of Central Oregon.

Maybe that’s the book I should be writing… Saved by Singletrack: Seeking Salvation in Church of Bike.

What shall our commandments be? You tell me. No seriously. Post a comment. So come on. Let’s hear it. I want to know. Leave a comment, or if you prefer send me an email at churchofbike@gmail.com

And on that note, I’m out like an size-7 hipster’s butt crack in size-5 skinny jeans.

When you add it all up, B-E-N-D spells EPIC

I would have happily blogged the weekend sooner, but I had things to do, places to go, beer to drink, people to see. Better late than never. Just FYI the epic part refers more to the length of this story than the actual weekend itself. I know many people misuse the term ‘epic’ when describing very pedestrian adventures, rides, whatever. I assure you I am not one of them. Your eyes may bleed by the time this blog post is complete. Hell, just typing this has rendered my fingertips cramped and useless. I can barely lift my beer to my lips, and that my friends, is a tragedy right there.

To start this party right, you’ll have to go back with me in time… To last Friday, which very well could end up being any Friday here in the perfect perfection that is called Bend, Oregon. (cue hypnotic harp music and wavy visual effects)

Happy Hour Ride @ Whoops
Early evening. The Portland posse coming down for the Night Ride is bailing out. Something about too much beer and suddenly all the bikes are disassembled. What. Ever. I get a tip off to another night ride, simply called Happy Hour Ride and by now I’m chomping at the bit to ride and not wait for darkness to fall. Yes sure it was a perfect night for a night ride, but Happy Hour took place on a favorite trail which I was soon to fall madly, deeply, hopelessly head over heels for.

Since it’s a Happy Hour ride I don my leopard print cocktail riding dress. I always dress up all girlie like for Fridays, why would a bike ride be any different? I roll up to the trailhead to meet best new Bend friend CB and about a dozen of his friends. The outfit is a smash hit. Tasty! Ridicuous, but tasty!

While not the most epic, or scenic or technical trail ever, this ride clinched it for me. I knew the honeymoon was over between me and Fruita. So I broke it off with Fruita. See, it’s not that Whoops was the Best Trail Ever. And yes, Fruita kicks ass and always will as far as I’m concerned. Fruita, Grand Junction, Moab… all incredible riding destinations that anyone who loves MTB should experience. But Bend is right here. The trails rock, the weather is amazing, the community of riders have all been so welcoming and inviting that I can’t imagine a better place to be. There is such an assortment of trails here there really is something for everyone from first-time novices to expert riders.

Whoops is one of the most fun trails I’ve ridden here and I can’t wait to go back and do it again. And again. And again… In fact, it’s now Wednesday as I write this and I’ve been back to do laps on Whoops and every time get a little bit faster, a little more air. So much air I broke a chain on my last run. Talk about buzzkill! But if my grin gets any bigger my face will split and peel back off of my skull.

I know I’ve only seen the tip of the iceburg as far as local rides are concerned, and what an iceburg it is. I decided to keep the Friday ride mellow because I’m racing on Sunday, and hoping to climb on Saturday, sooo….

CLIMBING @ Smith Rock!
Solo riding is one thing. I do it all the time. But solo climbing is, well… It’s done but it’s not a widely accepted practice in the climbing community and even those who are very experienced and skilled frown upon it. The truth is, for most people rock climbing requires a belay partner. This is the one thing about rock climbing that drives me nuts. The dependence on another person is a real limiter. Finding partners with compatible schedules and skill level is a real challenge. If I thought I could solo safely I’d do it in a heartbeat, but even I won’t go there with climbing. So in all this time on the road I FINALLY got to touch rock and pull ropes on Saturday.

My hero (I couldn’t have climbed without him) picked me up and we headed out to Smith Rock, casually arriving in the heat of the day. Patiently, we waited for the route we wanted. It was a busy weekend but not terribly overcowded. I ran into familiar faces from the Portland Rock Gym and felt oddly comforted by that. I was … not really nervous, but cautious. My partner hadn’t climbed in awhile and I too felt a bit rusty. It had been about 6 weeks since my last climb. It’s still so new to me that I thought: What if I have forgotten how to climb? It’s NOT “just like riding a bike”.

My partner was the embodiment of calm, radiating ease, and so I rallied to lead. It was fantastic. The route was ridiculously easy, so I got to enjoy my lead without feeling nervous or scared… at all. It was a milestone. I’ve never felt more confident and secure in my ability. I took extra long setting the anchors and then cleaning them after I top roped the same route, because that’s where I tend to get nervous. (You may remember I lost a very close friend and mentor to a fall, so I’m a safety freak on the rock.) It was possibly the slowest climbing I’ve ever done and the slowest rapell, but no matter. It was… excellent. I had fantastic company, the weather was perfect, and the climbing was sweet. Besides, I had a race the next day to rest up for…. Right?

RACING @ Pickett’s Charge XC Race
Well, I feel a little silly calling this a race report. The reasons for this are twofold:

1) I’m not really sure I actually “raced”
2) Yeah, no. That pretty much covers it.

I say this because while I have hit that moment in many races in the past where I found myself saying to myself: Self, what the f*** do you think you’re doing out here? in this race I actually sat up and stopped racing. Someone should take my bike. It deserves a better rider.

While I’ve had these thoughts during many races, I never actually gave in to it. I’m not really sure what happened or why I did this time. I think it was just that it was my first race in 9 months. My fitness sucks anymore from lack of training, while everyone else has raced 5, maybe 6 times already this year. Comparing my fitness this year to that of three years ago when truck met Uma’s body is silly. I know this. But it still comes up. I used to be fit, fast, and super focused on competing. Now? I’m slow, janky, got no engine, weigh about 8 lbs more, and can’t go uphill to save my life. As for the focused part… Let’s have a little sample of the dialogue between the legs and Uma’s Inner Perfectionist (UIP):

Yo Uma! This is a race babe. C’mon and giddy up lil girl. Woot woot. Ride it girlfriend!

Legs: I’m trying. Give me a break. It’s my first race of the year. Everything’s cramping.

Excuses, excuses. That 50 year old lady in orange is gonna pass you, woman!

Legs: No she’s not. She’s NOT. That CANNOT happen. I swear I am gonna… (50 year old lady passes)

WTF? What the effin eff? Come ON legs! Pedal! Circles! NOW!

Legs: Can’t. Got nothing. Sleep deprived, rode too much this week, drnk too much beer, and climbed yesterday. CLIMBED!

Idiot. Who thought rock climbing would be a good pre-race activity!

Me: Shut up all of you! Shut the fuck UP! I’m trying to RACE here!

Legs: Oh look…. Such a pretty flower. That looks like a good place for a picnic.

Really? Seriously? This bike deserves better.

And that’s pretty much when I thought maybe I should take up paint-by-numbers instead of racing.

In hindsight, though my performance was one of the worst ever, there were some breakthroughs. I rode the technical sections decisively. If I hadn’t blown up at the start trying to get a good position entering the singletrack I would have placed better, but as it was I dropped a chain (rookie move, geez) on the first hill, and this is where the field split. I thought I was racing for DFL status, but then discovered I had company and duked it out with a couple of women in out own sort of private race. The desire to crush it returned, I focused, passed the two I’d been leapfrogging with for 12 miles on the technical stuff and hammered home.

Janky Hip didn’t say a word.

This alone is a triumph of epic proportions. It’s been over two and a half years since I’ve had full and pain-free function of my hip. At some point in the race I reflected on this… I’ve just gotten so used to the constant driving pain that had become my daily companion, I’d come to expect it. Somewhere around mile 14 I found myself nearly in tears, grateful beyond words for this gift. Of course, my calves, lower back quads and arms were screaming at me from the climbing the day before and probably being dehydrated as a result. I cramped many times during this race, something that’s never happened before.

But I finished solidly in the middle of the pack. And though she didn’t get a medal or stand on the podium, Janky took the gold.

If there’s anything I could say to those of you working with chronic pain: Take heart. It can heal, it can change, it won’t be the same forever. How long it will take? No one can know. But don’t lose heart.

As for myself, I *will* race again. Short track starts in two weeks and there are even rumblings deep within me to give a Super D a try.

Meanwhile, I have a few more days to enjoy Bend, riding, climbing and yoga on the deck.

Have I mentioned how much I <3 Bend?

… to be continued …

Dear Fruita (The Breakup Letter)

Dear Fruita:

The past few years spending time with you has been great and all, but I’m writing to tell you we’re breaking up. Its not you. It’s me. Or rather, it’s Bend. And more specifically, it’s Phil’s trails. And even more specifically, it’s Whoops.

See, before I met Whoops I was just sort of crushed out on Phil’s Trails. We fooled around a little but it didn’t mean anything. You were still my number one trail riding love. The first time my handsome RacerX ever touched wheels to your 18 Road side, I fell for you… hard. On Zippety Do Dah. Do you remember? I left a piece of my heart and a piece of my right knee there. You were such a joy to be around, such delightful fun, that I couldn’t stay mad (or hurt) for long. You were so sweet, so gentle, I trusted you.

And then you opened up to me and showed me your rougher, rowdy side. Kokopelli. Horsethief Bench. Mary’s. Steve’s. Lion’s. All of it. You held nothing back. I followed your lead and you rewarded me with some of the most rad riding, epic views, gnarliest rock rash and amazing trails. Our night rides were some of the best times of my life.

But long-distance affairs are tricky. The time between our visits has become too great to bear; the distance between us too difficult to ignore. I love you Fruita but the truth is you’re not really available. I feel like I’m always chasing after you. And you say the same thing to all the girls, something like: “Hey sugar… Take a ride on the wild side.” It’s not that you’ve been unfaithful but you’re still not really available to me. And I’ve become too strong to settle for so little. I want a trail who’s gonna fight for me! I want… more.

Last Friday I was invited to a ‘Happy Hour ride’ at Lower Whoops in Bend. A regular group ride that happens weekly, the deal is ride a lap or two, have a martini/beer/margarita/whatever, ride another lap, or however one desired to mix it up. I dressed for the occasion, donning my evening bike attire.

At the top of the trail, my new best Bend friend and ride guide extraordinaire CB suggested I lower my saddle for the descent. Most of Phil’s trails don’t really require this, but I soon discovered why Whoops is different. Fast, twisty, flowy singletrack with deep, perfectly bermed turns to pump through and about 3 dozen jumps, doubles, even a few triples and table tops. My first run was characteristically cautious, slow, analytical… and hella fun. Rejoining the group at the bottom, the grin on my face said it all…

“How was it?” they chirped, knowing I just had my Whoops cherry popped.

“That SUCKED!” I lied.

The second run was faster, radder and I went for bigger air an sweeter jumps, and when I rolled up to the group again at the bottom someone asked me: “What was your favorite place you’ve ridden over these past 5 weeks? Moab? Durango? Vernal? Fruita?”

That’s when I knew. It was over between us.

. . . . .

They say you never forget your first epic. You will always have a special place in my heart, Fruita. You’re where I fell in love with mountain biking and I will never forget you for that. But it’s time for me to move on. I’ve grown and changed, and I need more than just an occasional Huck Buddy. I think I’m ready for an LTR (Long Trail Relationship). And Bend has captured my fancy, stolen my heart, and asked me to move in.

I will always love you and like you always say, I know we will be friends for life. I’m sure I’ll be passing through again next Spring or Fall, and would love to get together for a night ride or a quickie up down Kessel’s or Joe’s. Until then, thanks for all the amazing memories. I will miss you, but as you’ve always had my best interests at heart, I’m sure you’ll agree this is for the best.

Love Always,

Uma