Shortly after moving to Portland I witnessed my first cyclocross race. During a wet, miserable December I trudged out in rain boots to Portland International Raceway for the last USGP race of the year, idly curious to see what all the buzz was about. I mean, why would anyone get off a perfectly good bike, throw it over their shoulder and run with it? Because I loved riding my bike (and hated running) it sounded utterly ridiculous to me, so I had to see for myself.
The mud was thick, the rain biting, and the fans rabid. Giant cowbells clanged their support and beer flowed freely between spectators and racers. The scene was outrageous. I’d never seen more a crazed group of spectators at a bike racing event.
And then the dancers came out. On bikes. In the freezing mud.
Suddenly, I didn’t see the suffering, the miserable cold, the wretchedness. Suddenly, I was swept up in the most graceful, exquisite ballet ever imagined. Well-muscled, with nary a spare percentage point of body fat on their freshly embrocated bodies, the racers flew past, breath heaving, blowing steamy clouds that lingered in the air moments after they’d gone. Sporting gleaming, skin-tight leotards, like superheros, minus the cape, they bounded, slipped, sloshed, ran and rode through the mud, splattering bystanders who screamed for more.
The spectacle of it was exciting to say the least. Hooked at once, I began attending other events, invested in a giant cowbell and proceeded to heckle, cheer and shout support for friends and strangers alike. At less “serious” races, I found that many racers chose a more subdued appearance, eschewing the roadie garb for something more, uh, casual. Still others came for the fun factor, riding mini-bikes and kids’ trikes for fun and to “warm up” without the aid of a soulless stationery trainer. This was the warmest, most friendly, most inclusive racing event I’ve ever seen.
I was intrigued, stimulated, one might even say inspired to explore it. But I knew—despite my yoga prowess and grace, I’d never have half the mastery these guys had. Dismounting, shouldering the bike and running the barriers, smoothly, seamlessly seemed unlikely at best. As a dyed-in-the-wool roadie (I hadn’t seen the light of the Church of Mountain Bike, yet) I was skeptical that I could even learn the basic moves to make it happen.
Fast forward to the next summer, and find me—along with about 300 other women—on my road bike, bottle cages and skinny tires and all, at the local cyclocross instruction clinic. Some great names in cyclocross and mountain bike racing were there to show us the ropes: Tonkin, Slavin, Williams, Brubaker, Skerrit.
A few weeks later, cross bike in hand, I rescheduled my training rides to include more rain and mud time. I sought out and built barriers to practice dismounting smoothly. I never did get very good at it—my version of the mud ballet was more like a filthy Riverdance jig—stomping and clogging about. And in between the fun stuff like barrier jumping and attempts at graceful mounting of the bike post-obstacle it was an all-out, head-down, teeth-bared, snot-nosed sufferfest for 45 minutes.
In other words, it was glorious. Even the running with the bike part. Especially that.
In the Bhagavad Gita, a classical and definitive yoga text, Krishna instructs Arjuna as he is about to enter into battle, telling him that a man has the right to his work, but not the fruits of his work. In other words, the work is the reward. In Cyclocross, the suffering is the work, and in devoting oneself fully to it—beyond any hope of a podium finish—the work itself was transformed into a sort of grace. It wasn’t the grace of a prima ballerina, but rather the grace that comes from utter surrender and acceptance. It is the grace of knowing, at the end of the day, you’d done your best, regardless of whether you finished on the podium or 97th. It was the grace born of the singular realization: One does not master cyclocross. One is mastered by cyclocross.
In classical yoga, it is said that all life experience is grist for the yoga mill. In the case of cyclocross, the ‘yoga mat’ is cold, muddy and miserable. But the muddy grins by far outnumber the crushed dreams of a good result. Call it the Belgian version of ‘yoga’, where, at the end of class (or just getting schooled) one concludes their practice with a hearty beer and a high five instead of a cup of green tea and a “Namaste”.
I’ve given up participating in cyclocross as a racer, preferring fat tires to skinny these days, and balancing out mountain bike season with snow sports. But I’ll always be excited by ‘cross and for those who dedicate themselves to it with a passion that is unmatched in road racing. Superheros of mud, snow and freezing rain, I salute you in true cyclocross spirit:
More cowbell!
CYCLOCROSS NATIONALS UPDATE: If you’re heading to 2010 Cyclocross Nationals competition in Bend, OR, check out all the BikeYoga goodness being offered by yours truly. The complete schedule an online registration can be found here. Though specifically designed to benefit cyclists, these practices will be accessible to all levels of yoga experience, and all categories of racers from beginner to pro.
IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT.
Okay, not exactly. It was nine in the morning but may as well have been dusk. The cool, wet, dark summer was making a final stand, trying to squeeze whatever light was left out of the atmosphere and me. Today would be my return to racing after illness, injury and major surgery. It had been 15 months since my last race and this would be my first Super D. Ever.
How to describe a Super D for those of you unfamiliar with this form of bike racing? We have a term for it called “throwing it down the stairs”. It in this case,would be yourself, or more accurately, myself and my bike. And rather than stairs, I’d be throwing it down roughly 9 miles of technical, rocky, slippery singletrack twisting through tight stands of trees, all in an effort to reach the finish with the fastest time. I had the added goal of arriving there in one piece.
I arrived early to get my start time and found out I didn’t roll out until 1pm. Great. Now I get to sit around for four hours with my acid stomach, my knocking knees, my jangly nerves. Guys started pre-riding the course, but it was pissing rain and miserable and I didn’t want to get soaked and then freeze my ass off waiting for my starts. A real pro would have brought two kits. I didn’t even have a rain vest. So I drove back into town, undecided if I should even race. Race day anxiety gave way to a surly melancholy courtesy mother nature. So I drank coffee and went shopping at a sporting goods store where—lo and behold—the sun came out, briefly, just long enough to bitch slap me into action.
“Uma, dahrling. You paid $65 for this silly bike ride. You damn well better go ride your bike. Now scoot.”
I hustled back out to the course where the weather began to turn nasty again. But I rode. I rode hard. One minor crash on a slippy root. Course was muddy slick gloopy soupy greasy and fast! Rather like a typical Portland cyclocross race, with lots of two wheel drifting in mud. I rode the technical stuff well, with only two b-lines chosen at the last minute given the conditions.
I raced until I puked. It’s been years since that’s happened. I didn’t have much to offer up to the race goddess that day, but whatever I had, I left it all out there. I could practically feel the leader of the Oregon Super D cup breathing down my neck. She caught me on the climb. Always my weakness, climbing. But as much as it sucked getting caught by the champ (who, by the way, is 10 years younger, way fitter, and lives at 5K elevation whereas I’m at rain puddle level) I was pleased with my effort. I didn’t screw up much, I finished intact, and best of all? I caught the last girl in the Under 35 category who started her race 5 minutes ahead of me! Awesome!
Results: Second in my age category. 4th overall Cat 2 women. Not bad for a janky old lady who hasn’t raced in 15 months or trained, had a major surgery and been sitting around on her ass for months before the surgery, and who really only feel in love with mountain biking a couple of years ago.
I may have lost the race on that hill, but I won it at the start when I showed up on the line and kicked my Negative Nellie’s ass to the curb. The greatest obstacle, it turned out was not the rock of doom I sessioned the day before with the ladies. It wasn’t even the minor wipe-out on that silly little root. (BTW The 661 Kyle Strait pads kick booty as protection!) The greatest obstacle—in racing, creative work, writing, relationships, yoga, you-name-it—is what always has been:
Me.
It occurred to me after the race that my lack of writing much was directly related to my lack of riding much. I gained much more than a decent result from this race. I had a sense of connecting with a part of myself that had been dormant for too long. I maintain that samadhi, the yoga term for “flow”, is a state of mind that different people cultivate or experience through different means. After years of meditating and yoga, I find it here, in rough and tumble conditions, where things are gritty and beautiful and edgy and hard and focused in sharp, sharp relief. Most people go from extreme and endurance sports to yoga as they slow down. So, I happen to be going backwards. Anyone care to join me?
May 2010. I still felt tired, weary, depressed following my surgery. I didn’t really expect a miracle cure, but I was desperate to get back to the life I knew: bikes, beers and booyah. At my two-week post-op appointment with my surgeon, she assured me my after-effects were all quite normal and would subside in time, and that I was indeed on the path to a good and awesome recovery.
“Can I ride my bike?” I sheepishly asked.
“Absolutely!” she replied, grinning.
I went home, packed up the NinjaCougar and proceeded to drive to Bend with a few friends to ride about 10 hours over the next three days. My friends beseeched me to ride my geared squishy bike. Why on earth would anyone choose a rigid singlespeed to ride when they were still recovering from a major abdominal surgery?
It didn’t make sense even to myself. See… I actually don’t like to work that hard. I think of myself as a hedonist, a pleasure junkie. What’s pleasant about never having the right gear? Or not having a little suspension to take the edge off? Or being completely spun out with a cadence of about 2 million on the downhill?
It doesn’t make sense. I’ve stopped trying to make sense of it and just enjoy the ride. Clearly I need to update my definition of pleasure. And I’m pretty sure my surgeon had something else in mind when she gave the green light to bike riding. She probably imagined me pedaling my step-through mixte with flowery basket (a bike I do not own, FWIW) to the grocery store to get some ice cream and bonbons.
That little weekend of “recovery riding” definitely threw a wrench into my recovery plan. My doc warned me that if I “pushed myself” I’d probably be exhausted for a few days. She was right, and even now, four months later I still don’t have the strength or fitness I had even a year ago. What I do have is way more skill.
Riding my rigid singlespeed has improved my handling tremendously. Admittedly, I’m no rock star freeride bike monkey. But I’m no chopped liver either. I’d say I’m a solid intermediate rider with room for improvement. I tend to ride a little conservatively because I don’t session technical stuff without protection. But guess who just upgraded her protection?
OCT 2010: 24 Hours of Moab. After having work conflicts over the past couple years, I finally had that weekend free. I had a few ladies interested in racing as a team. I wanted it. But once I became ill and faced surgery that dream faded. There was too much fitness lost, too much weight gained, and frankly I was a little concerned that I no longer had the head for racing.
But then the good people of Bend decided to host their first Super D race. It fell way outside the Oregon Super D cup series, but by now I’d managed to log several burly rides, and the trail the race was held on is one of the newest and most fun in the area. It was a varied course—fast, flat, twisty sections followed by even faster, rocky, technical sections, perfect s-curves and deep berms.
Despite the cold, wet, menacing Portland-like weather I pre-rode on Saturday with a few lady friends. There was one technical section that had previously stumped me. I’d been approaching it all wrong. Super awesome pro rider Erika coached me along with a little lesson in how to tame the rock.
“I can’t.” I protested. “It’s too steep. I can’t launch it, the landing’s all wrong. I need pads. And a full face helmet.”
Erika persisted. “Yes you can. You don’t have to wheelie drop it, just roll it, through here, then push hard, there… like this…”
Effortlessly, she carves once again through the tunnel of rocks. When I imagine attempting the same myself all I can see is bloody carnage, bruises and painful humiliation.
“I can’t. My head tube angle is too steep. I need a more relaxed geometry and more suspension.”
Erika did her best to not roll her eyeballs and gave another demonstration. “Peek and push” she intoned.
“Peek and push and peek and push and…” I silently chanted, approaching the rock drop which featured two giant boulders on either side, creating this illusion of weird scariness. “…and peek and push…” And… I stalled. Once more Erika patiently coached me through another demo. “You can do this. I KNOW you can,” she insisted.
After two botched attempts where I bailed out, I finally rolled up, hesitated right over the lip, and then reluctantly committed. I pushed down hard, and rolled through the Rock Tunnel of Doom, silly head tube angle and all. Turning to look back suddenly it seemed absurd that such a minor feature could weird me out so utterly. Immediately I insisted on riding it again, as if to convince myself it hadn’t been a fluke or that it hadn’t been luck, but rather, skill. Though my heart was still pounding loudly from the first attempt, I went again, hesitating a little less, but still hesitating. Third time’s a charm, so I hit it one more time. No brakes. Give the girl a gold star.
Whatever happened the next day, this weekend was already triumphant. I won. Uma 1; Fear 0. And not 5 minutes later as we were wrapping up the technical section I caught Erika and excitedly said “I can’t wait to hit that again on my rigid SS!” I had gone from utter paralysis by fear to ramping up the difficulty by a factor of 11 in a matter of moments. Make that Uma 2; Fear -1.
NEXT UP: The Greatest Obstacle—A Race(-ish) Report
I have good news and bad news. The good news list is short, and sadly much of the good news is being chaperoned by bad news. It’s as if, left to its own devices, the good news would somehow become too exuberant, too ecstatic, drunk on its own juiciness and start making out with wild abandon with the entire glee club and the whole swim team, at the same time. I’ll give you the bad news first. It gives the good news context.
I reflect back to where I was a year ago, heading out to my road trip, enthusiastic, open, fearless. I was in great shape, riding strong and my yoga practice was solid. I wanted to spend an extended period of time (longer than your usual vacation) near and with the things most important to me: trail access, winter activities, quiet home life, fresh air, community, good eating. I found it very unexpectedly in Bend, Oregon, along with an unmistakable sense of belonging. I broke up with Fruita when I fell in love with Bend.
Enter 2010: Illness. Injury. Chronic fatigue. Dizziness. Foggy thinking, crappy mood and virtually no exercise. Finally, after weeks of bleeding—hemorrhaging for weeks, actually—I got the right doctor and the right tests. Results: not only do I have endometriosis which I’ve managed to live with for over 20 years, I now have fibroids, polyps and adenomyosis. The combination rendered me incapable of much beyond my normal teaching schedule and an occasional bike ride here and there. In phenomenal pain, exhausted beyond comprehension, and anemic to boot, the solution was clear: hysterectomy. It’s radical, it’s invasive, it’s permanent. But what was far more disturbing to me was this:
I couldn’t even rally for a bike ride if I wanted to. And trust me, I wanted to.
I managed a ride maybe once a week, purely on willpower and the insistence of my dear friends. But they mostly felt like endurance competition. The 4 mile road ride up to the Sandy Ridge drop may as well have been the Leadville 100. Being so anemic for so long left me spent, wasted before I even swung a leg over the bike. I’m used to doing rides that hurt some of the time, but now most of the rides hurt most of the time. Often I cried my way up the hill. Determination was all I had, and even that was faltering.
My yoga practice became a restorative practice—basically rolling around on the floor desperately trying to ignore the pain. Meditation? Always a cornerstone of practice for me, but so much of my “meditation practice” comes on the bike, or rock climbing. Sitting alone in my living room, watching my breath move in and out, observing thoughts, feelings, sensations… Everything was tinged with suffering. This was not the radiant, luminescent yoga the glossy magazines would promise you. This was as real as it gets. This was the lowest of lows.
(This is where the good news starts.)
A uterus is a totally optional organ. (See? Good news!) Everyone—and I mean everyone— can live without a uterus. Millions of men do it every day! I’m not emotionally attached to it. It’s just a baby maker and I’ve never wanted children. I like to spend my time unemcumbered by that sort of responsibility, preferring to have time to ride bikes, practice yoga, dance, hike, eat at normal times, have sex without getting busted by the kids walking in and so on. I’m told by many parents that’s a selfish choice, but I say having kids without really wanting them or having lots of kids because you think it’s some sort of divinely ordained purpose is selfish. I’ve believed since I was a young girl that the world would get on just fine without my genetic contribution to the survival of the human race. After all, millions of women have bus loads of kids every day because of the Catholic church. So, at the tender age of 24 I had a tubal ligation, so certain was I that I was never going to want to have kids.
I kept my uterus even though I wasn’t going to have kids, even though I have endometriosis because I didn’t want to take synthetic hormones all throughout my 20s and 30s. I’m vehemently anti-pharmaceutical intervention. As a result I’ve managed a difficult but tolerable relationship with my uterus. Crippling pain is the main hallmark of endometriosis along with occasionally heavy bleeding in between cycles. All the usual problems that healthy women face with their monthly cycle are exaggerated with endo. But one of the biggest problems is when you live with something like endometriosis you get used to feeling terrible too much of the time. What becomes “normal” for you is anything but.
“Normal.” It’s a very subjective thing, really. What had become normal for me was pretty messed up. So I missed a lot of the signs last summer and fall—signs that would have told me I was slowly becoming anemic as a result of all these complications. One of the most poignant examples of how effed up my version of “normal” had become is just a few years back when I was so passionately into time trialing. I still held my goal of getting to Nationals to compete in the women’s TT champs. My first TT of the season I pulled a mediocre time at best. I’d raced “by the numbers” (on my heart rate monitor) and knew I’d held too much in reserve. I should have won the race. I was determined to improve my time the next week by chopping (not shaving) 3 minutes off my time. The next race was day two of my cycle. I forgot my heart rate monitor, bled through three tampons in less than three hours, had a horrible headache and the deep, gut-wrenching abdominal and back pains that are so severe I’d break out in a cold sweat. I could have wrung blood from my chamois and I was so distraught that I missed my start time. I started two minutes back, caught my minute-woman, passed a few more, and bested my previous time by 2:39, for a second place finish despite my late start. Had I not been penalized with the late start time added I’d have won the race. I had the satisfaction of knowing I was the fastest woman on the road, despite my infirmities.
I could have come in DFL and it wouldn’t have mattered. Just showing up was the victory. I’ve never been one of those people who could stand on the able-bodied side of the fence and laugh at the poor suckers who show up to sporting events with bumper stickered cars and tee-shirts proclaiming that JUST SHOWING UP IS HALF THE BATTLE. Sometimes it’s the whole battle. Normal for me had become feeling like bloody hell on a fairly constant basis, bleeding half to death, and still showing up to do my thing.
: For the past few months I have been at an all time low, physically, mentally, emotionally. I’ve doubted my faith in yoga’s healing powers (of course I didn’t know exactly what I was dealing with). Additionally I had a book to finish, the stress of which was compounded by the total loss of the contents of one entire hard drive–ironically–during backup! A book on how yoga can improve your health! Haha hee hee ho ho! Oh, oh… it’s making my sides hurt! Make it stop!
Not only did I finish the first book, Essential Yoga: A Simple Practice For A Busy Life, but I went on to produce a second title. BikeYoga: A Simple Practice to Tune-Up Your Mind, Body, and Spirit was ready in ti
I guess that’s the good news in a nutshell. Soon I’ll be rid of this ridiculous problem organ of mine and back on a path to health and vitality. I’ve discovered my dreams and goals of integrating my passions for yoga and mountain biking haven’t truly been derailed as much as they’ve just been shuttled to a maintenance yard for a bit.
Those of us with endometriosis shorten it to “endo” for expediency’s sake. It strikes me as funny because in mountain biking there’s a type of crash that’s referred to as an “endo”. This young lad had the grace to show us firsthand and in slow motion, how to execute a proper endo:
While I will attest that there is nothing funny about having a janky uterus and the problems that go with endometriosis, I think perhaps the best way to deal with it is the same way Endo Dude did: you laugh at the fact that life handed you a difficult body, a proverbial wall o’ rock to deal with instead of a healthy body, and then your brush yourself off and get back on your bike or whatever floats your boat.
I know many women suffering from the awfulness of endometriosis and other complicated “female health issues”. Mostly, we suffer in silence. Suffering in silence is awful. I have found it especially hard to suffer in silence as a “health professional” because in addition to being betrayed by your body—even though you take damn good care of it—because your work is public the expectation is your should be somehow above it, always cheerful and positive and upbeat. Well, that’s bullshit. As one of my teachers says, sometimes ecstacy is your practice, sometimes suffering is, either way the work of yoga is to be present with what is. Yoga is about being really present, not abut being really perfect.
Patanjali, the first yoga teacher to codify yoga and give us our very first written instruction on skillfull living through yoga, was very clear about being real, so I’m just following the lead of thousands of years of tradition. To look at what’s really happening: This is the heart of yoga’s teachings. The sanskrit term for it is vidya. It means clear, undistorted vision. So while I agree it is important not to wallow in self-pity and sorrow, it is far more harmful to bottle up genuine feelings of sadness, shame, fear, doubt, an the inevitable blows to self worth that come from long-term illness or disability.
I don’t know if anyone is reading this blog anymore (especially since I’m barely writing it anymore) or even how many women ever did, but as always, I welcome your comments and even better–invite you to share your story with others. Especially women riders who have had similar health challenges. We shouldn’t suffer alone, in silence. And no man is going to understand our plight. Hell, you mention the word “hysterectomy” to a guy and their eyes glaze over while mumbling something about “not really sure… what?… something… women’s stuff…” (Pssst… guys! It’s not contagious, okay?)
After all, besides being a weapon of mass distraction, this internet thingy might just help us stay connected and sane when it feels like our lives are falling apart. Endometriosis and fibroids aren’t cancer—they won’t kill you. Not directly, anyway. They are considered “quality of life” diseases. I suspect the physicians who coined the term “quality of life disease” did not live in near constant or daily pain.They are difficult to manage diseases that slowly drain you of energy, passion, and ability, bringing one to a point where one just spins their wheels to stay awake, never mind riding bikes or whatever your passion is.
Oh! I nearly forgot. I suppose the best news is that I’m still here, still passionate (albeit incapable of expressing that very well), still marching forward, and still—and always—grateful for this thing we call “life”. Sometimes that gratitude is tinged with great suffering and an unladylike amount of swearing, but all in all, it’s been a good life, made better by sharing it with others. It’s my intention that sharing these somewhat gruesome details will help another who feels like they suffer alone to realize: you don’t.
Never, ever let go of your passion. You might have to put it in the maintenance yard for a spell, and focus on something else, but passion itself is reason enough to hold on… loosely.
If you have ACTUALLY READ THIS FAR, thanks! I’m not really feeling very self-promotional at the moment, but my business advisor (aka Boss Uma) says I should do it anyway because it really is a fine practice manual, so here goes:
Order my yoga book. Yo. It’s actually pretty good. At least that’s what the folks who have bought one are telling me. Who am I to argue? After all, I teach them that authentic expressions and vidya are part of the practice, so I’m pretty sure they’d tell me it sucked if it did.
Or at least leave a comment or drop me a note if you want to share your story with others. You know who you are.
Let’s face it: Size matters. I like big bikes and I cannot lie. I have two 29ers, one full suspension the other is built up as a rigid singlespeed. While not “big hit” bikes, they are definitely a different ride than your average 26er AM bike. They have unique purposes: the RacerX is a true XC bike with enough forgiveness that I can sorta coerce it into AM characteristics, but not always. I think I’m ready for something with a little more plush for the type of riding I’ve been doing lately. Really, I think a 5″ (okay maybe 6″) travel bike will be just the ticket. Why not? Bigger is better, right?
This decision to acquire yet another bicycle comes with a mixed bag of self-revelation. I started blogging a few years ago when I began racing. I was passionate, fiercely determined to race at Nationals by the time I turned 45. I utterly devoted myself to that goal. I had five years to get there. I trained intensively, lived on Hammer gel and Endurolytes, and was religious about my sleep schedule. And I would have gotten to Nats–I’m sure of it–had I not been derailed by a bad driver in a big truck. I wasn’t hurt badly, just permanently, but badly enough that my racing days were numbered.
I took up Mountain biking again in a desperate attempt to keep “training” for road racing. Along the way I fell in love with riding dirt, in a way I’d never felt for road riding. I fell so madly in love with mountain biking I started planning week-long and then month-long road trips to ride some of the best singletrack the US has to offer. Up until this year, I still clung to the illusion that I’d return to road racing and to Nationals. I’ve held onto once-useful bikes, just in case.
No more. The illusion has been vanquished, the madness stops here. I’ve let go. I don’t care about road racing anymore. These days I ride for pure selfish pleasure, which may sometimes include racing, though it will be cross country endurance racing and maybe a little Super D action just for fun. My current MTB collection can get me pretty far, but I’m finding the downhill side of things a little lacking. That selfish pleasure is also my primary form and motivation for fitness. So it’s really about mental and physical health, not merely hedonistic pleasure-seeking. Mostly, I feel happiest when I get to ride dirt with some frequency. As such, it’s only a matter of time before I move to the trailhead. (Ya hear that, Bend, Oregon? I’m coming for ya.)
So. Here I am, a former roadie with several fine bikes that need a good home. A home where aspiring and passionate racers and roadies could provide better bike love than I. Spread the word. I’m getting the PayPal account setup, but prefer not to deal with shipping bikes, so all you Oregonians with the ‘cross bug…don’t dilly-dally. In the meantime, if’n yer interested in anything, post a comment and I’ll holla back real quick-like.
Bikes are sold built as-is. No parting out. Reasonable offers will be entertained (meaning I’ll put Lady Gaga on the iPod and don my Wookie boots for a sick Riverdance variation just for you. I guarantee it’ll be entertaining.
Please repost/share with bike riding/racing friends.
Kona Jake the Snake, ’07 ($900)
54cm, Aluminum Butted 7005 frame, blue. Reynolds WCS carbon fork.
Chris King headset, red.
SRAM Rival 10-speed shifters, front derailleur.
SRAM Force rear derailleur and crankset (carbon).
Thomson seatpost, setback, black
Selle Italia SLC Saddle
Bontrager Select Wheels.
Vittoria Cross XO Pro tires, grey.
Crosstops brake levers
Kore brakes
Has seen one season of racing. New cables, brakes, etc.
Trek XO-2, 08 NEW ($900)
54cm, aluminum frame, white.
Bontrager HCM Satellite Plus carbon fork.
FSA integrated headset
FSA carbon fiber crankset
Shimano 105 9-speed shifters, front and rear derailleur.
Tektro brakes
WTB All Terrain tires
New frame/fork, never ridden or raced.
New cables, brakes, etc.
Cervelo Dual Time Trial bike, ’07 ($999)
56cm, silvery grey, near new.
Integrated headset.
Vision TT bars with brake levers and Shimano bar-end shifters.
Wolf TT carbon fiber fork.
Ultegra front and rear derailleur.
FSA Gossamer crankset.
Easton Vista wheelset (no cassette).
Fizik Arione saddle
Cervelo brakes
NOTE: Sweet pink bottle cage not included or make offer
Bianchi Veloce ’96 or 97 ($500)
58cm, Chromo-Lite double-butted steel frame, yellow. Carbon fork.
9-speed Veloce triple components.
Mavic Cxp 21 front wheel, Mavic Cxp 33 rear wheel.
Bontrager race lite tires, yellow.
Fizik Arione saddle, black.
Circa 1996, when they were still made-in-Italy!
No braze-ons/rackmounts, this bike is perfect for randonneuring, training.
RELATED ITEMS ALSO FOR SALE
ZIPP 404 Carbon wheelset $1250
Clinchers, ’07 near new, perfect condition.
Continental Grand Prix tires, new (retail $120)
Wheelbag and Zipp skewers included.
Vision Aero Brake Levers $70 (retail $95)
For TT bars. new in box.
Includes cables.
velodevi@gmail.com
Showing bikes this weekend. Email if interested to set up time or if you want to see photos.
Like I said: See something you want, make an offer. Cash/money order only.
What? March already and I haven’t done a damn thing with 2010 so far except get laid up with bronchitis, pop a couple ligaments in my ankle skiing, and lose half of my book in a classic hard-drive-fail-and-the-backup’s-hosed-too incident. Oh yeah, and I’ve managed to get fat in the process too. Not from stress eating, but from being laid up for so long. Once January hit I was in bed or on the sofa for weeks. And everyone knows January is fat storage month when your body goes into starvation mode because a meteorite could hit the earth and cause a major climactic shift rendering agriculture meaningless under 18-hour long nights. Or Yellowstone could blow again and render agriculture meaningless because of the thick layer of ash encrusting our atmosphere. Stop laughing! It could happen! You never know! But your body… it KNOWS. And so, with my current body mass index, I should be good for at least a couple of apocalypses at this point.
There is a light at the end of this doom-ridden tunnel though. Its name is Sandy Ridge. Witness the Glory:
After watching all my friends’ twitter, facebook, text and IM about “heading out to Sandy Ridge” while I sat at home collecting little fat cells to sustain me through various real and imaginary perils, I finally got to sample some of Sandy Ridge myself. Witness… Uma still knows how to ride a bike!
Even thinking about this trail makes me giddy. A classic downhill trail, the trail features two distinct parts: The upper half is classic Pacific Northwest: wet, rooty, rocky, bench-cut trails with a bit of technical aspect here and there, but overall rideable even for an intermdiate level rider like myself. A river crossing divides the upper and lower trails and it’s the lower trails that positively rock my world.
Sweet, flowing fast, tacky, deep and perfectly bermed S curves, and too many double and jumps to count… It’s like a little piece of Whoops trail in Bend right here in Sandy, less than an hour from Portland. If you’ve been following this blog for awhile you know that I broke up with Fruita over Whoops trail. That’s how serious it is.
The extra mass really, really hurt going uphill. I haven’t had my heart rate up above 80 for months, except for the few times I actually heard someone mention “Rush Limbaugh”, “health care reform” or “economy” (so maybe I didn’t lose as much fitness as I first thought, hmmm…) To say I climbed the road ride up to the trailhead slowly would be a massive understatement.
On the bright side, extra body mass means extra speed on the descents. Gravity is always your friend when it comes to mountain biking, but more so, the higher your BMI. This wonderful discovery was apparent especially on my second trip back to the trail, in the same week. I sessioned the lower half a number of times, each run yielding a little more air, a bigger smile and and that stoopid giggle that comes only from doing something radtarded. Along with the WWF victory salutes that somehow emerge spontaneously from me as I channel the 14 year old boy inside of me:
Actually, the above image is from another, different ride undertaken recently at Souixon Creek in southern Washington. Another favorite of mine, this one also involves a tedious road climb but instead of being a pure DH trail, Souixon flows more like a cross country ride through the Land of Ewoks—with beds of ferns and moss dripping everywhere. I half-expected a wookie to jump out at every giant Redwood. What really rocked this ride is the fact that in all the time I’ve been riding dirt I’ve never just been out with a group of strong, capable women riders. In fact, it was a first for all of us. Usually we’re in the minority on group rides, or the token female. I still like riding with guys, but it was a totally different vibe, and way more relaxed, and still kicked ass. I see a great number more “women-only” rides in my future!
But back to the funnest trail in the whole of the Mt Hood recreation area: Fast flowy descents make me feel like doing a new happy dance. But then the last time I got über-ecstatic before a day of shreddin’ it was I who got shredded and ended up on crutches for a few weeks. So I’ll just keep my happy dance inside, spare you the indignity of it, and save it for the trail.
P.S. My book is almost complete! Yay! Technical disasters notwithstanding, I should be selling online from my NEW blog and website, within a week (to be announced)!
Rumors have been flying across the internet that my happy dance video from last week’s post caused me to bust my ankle. Relax (Mom). This is absolutely untrue.
What caused me to bust my ankle was trying to carve that stupid, wet, shitty snow. Fast forward several angry, Percocet-filled bed-ridden days later to me hobbling about on crutches bored out of my skull. I thought it only fitting to commemorate this event with an Un-Happy Dance.
Behold: A slightly opioid-addled un-Happy Dance, just for you. Kids: Don’t try this at home.
My deepest thanks for everyone who came by this week to bring me dinner, take the garbage out, go grocery shopping for me, and make stupid videos.
Before I became ambulatory again, I spent a great deal of time lying in bed or on the sofa, elevating said busted foot and contemplating life, the universe and everything. I spent a great deal of time reading Ken Wilbur. Ingesting Ken Wilbur’s ideas is sometimes no small feat sober, never mind with a brain awash in pain killers.
unhappy ankle
I also spent a great deal of time catching up on youtube videos of my trials riding rockstar superhero, Danny MacAskill, or as some like to say, Danny Megaskill.
Behold: Danny in his own words.
Some of my people watch those sorts of things and then have visions of me riding like that. Yeah. First of all, NOBODY rides like that. Danny is a unique trials rider. No one flows lines together the way he does. I can’t even manage a well-executed wheelie-drop yet, never mind ride skinnies, or throw a tailwhip. So I dug up a little video that would sort of show what “my” version of trials riding might look like.
Behold: A dude with a giant suitcase of perseverance, and hopefully a giant vat of ibuprofen.
And then finally, Danny at his finest, and in slow-motion.
What I love about this video is that it depicts for me the way I feel when I’m deeply engrossed in a somatic problem, whether it’s rock climbing, yoga or mountain biking. Time slows down. You feel the flow differently. Sadly for me, I wasn’t feeling the flow quite as succinctly skiing what I now know is referred to as “Cascade Cement”.
What you see at the unexpected end of an otherwise unspectacular ski season: A ride down the mountain in a sled. This is almost NEVER a good thing.
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I’m taking a very conservative approach to healing these days. I’m listening to my body very closely. My main goal this year is to focus on mountain biking again and let go of the rock climbing until after this year’s crown jewel in my adventure schedule: 24 Hours of Moab. I finally feel relieved to be in a place where I’m forced to slow down and focus on endurance rather than intensity, but this little mishap rocked me to my core. I felt betrayed by my body. I worried about defending myself to my students, my colleagues. I worry that people will see me as reckless and wild.
I am wild. Wildly passionate about doing what I love. But I’m not reckless. I’m… enthusiastic. I learned a valuable lesson from this misadventure. As Arno Ligner reminds us in The Rock Warrior’s Way, there are no failures if you’re learning.
Lesson learned?
Before you take a leap of faith, make sure conditions are ripe and you have the biggest, fattest boards you can handle before you drop in.
Shortly after moving to Portland I witnessed my first cyclocross race. During a wet, miserable December I trudged out in rain boots to Portland International Raceway for the last USGP race of the year, idly curious to see what all the buzz was about. I mean, why would anyone get off a perfectly good bike, throw it over their shoulder and run with it? Because I loved riding my bike (and hated running) it sounded utterly ridiculous to me, so I had to see for myself.
The spectacle of it was exciting to say the least. Hooked at once, I began attending other events, invested in a giant cowbell and proceeded to heckle, cheer and shout support for friends and strangers alike. At less “serious” races, I found that many racers chose a more subdued appearance, eschewing the roadie garb for something more, uh, casual. Still others came for the fun factor, riding mini-bikes and kids’ trikes for fun and to “warm up” without the aid of a soulless stationery trainer. This was the warmest, most friendly, most inclusive racing event I’ve ever seen.
A few weeks later, cross bike in hand, I rescheduled my training rides to include more rain and mud time. I sought out and built barriers to practice dismounting smoothly. I never did get very good at it—my version of the mud ballet was more like a filthy Riverdance jig—stomping and clogging about. And in between the fun stuff like barrier jumping and attempts at graceful mounting of the bike post-obstacle it was an all-out, head-down, teeth-bared, snot-nosed sufferfest for 45 minutes.
