my story of falling in love

Okay, I've had parts of this post written for about 9 months.  Figured it was time to get it up or throw it out. So if it's too sentimental in a week where I already posted a long race report from a longer emotionally satisfying race, then just don't read it.

I am not a natural cyclist. I lived on a farm as a kid - we didn't just ride our bikes to the neighbors or go the BMX parks.  We rode horses and threw haybales.

I hated cycling the first time around.  I actually sold my first mountain bike not long after I bought it as an (expensive) high school graduation gift.  Some guys had taken me well over my head (yellow trail at Gambrill for those who know it, among others), and, suffice it to say, it hadn't been fun.  I pretty much swore I'd never ride again and became a rock climber instead.  I loved that for a while, got all the gear, learned a ton and pushed myself, but it didn't stick.

And then I met Shea.  Shea was also a climber.  But he had only a harness and shoes.  And two bikes.  And a motorcycle.  And some useful furniture.  We moved from Colorado to Utah.  What he didn't have yet was a job.  But he's a pretty resourceful guy... he used his spare time to trade website work for a brand new bike for me. Turns out he had bike shop connections from his time as a teenager.  We picked out a Cannondale that could be upgraded to disc brakes and had a flower on the saddle (yes, seriously). 

I didn't really want a bike, but everyone in Utah rides and hey, this guy I really liked was giving it to me as a gift.  It might be the first gift he gave me.  And it's a pretty color.  I was excited one day early in grad school to get home to a new bike - he had it built up by the time I got home.  Even though I didn't like to ride.

I was skeptical.  A pretty color will not make me love it.  I bought a matching jersey (both color and flower pattern).* We went to the hill near our apartment.  It's probably a 4% grade on a quiet city street in Salt Lake.  I was terrified to ride down it.  Shea was patient.  I still didn't love it. 

*Aside: this foreshadowed what would turn out to be a lot of matching in my cycling life.  Just look at the bottle cages on my mountain bike or anything on my cross race bike.

The first time on a trail, I picked an easy one, according to the guidebook.  Wide doubletrack at the top of a canyon.  But, like many trails in Utah, it goes up.  Then you turn around and ride down.  Our first few trips to Dog Lake only went about a mile up the trail.  A month or so later, I made it the 4 or so miles up to Dog Lake.  It's not a pretty lake.

Still, I'd be hard pressed to say I loved cycling.  I was giving it a go, that's for sure, and easy trails were helping.  But it was really hard.  Like there's not enough air, i can't breathe, how much longer do we need to go up this hill hard.  I was starting to like the downhill part.

I'm not sure when I truly fell in love with cycling.  It could have been about a year later when I thought it was a good idea to go ride some lift-serviced downhill at Deer Valley.  On my hard-tail with a head shock.  Without a pump.  We flatted 3 times and got scolded by the locals.  I ditched the bike on the outside of every switchback on the black diamond trail.  I got my first nasty sunburn line from bike shorts.

It could have been two years or so after I got that bike, when a colleague of mine in graduate school was killed in a car-hits-cyclist accident.  The memorial ride for Josie was my first group ride.  I did it on the same hard-tail.  The power and love of people on bikes was pretty inspiring.

But really, I think I can distill it to one moment in the fall, probably of 2004, but I'm not sure.  One of my first dozen or so rides with clipless pedals.  American Fork Canyon.  The dry, mountain singletrack is stunning.  Views with just-starting-to-change-color aspen were worth every climb.  A snake squiggled across the trail.  We got a bit lost.  But what I really remember - trying to stop at a trail intersection where Shea was waiting.  A couple other guys we didn't know were watching.  I came up to the group, having just ridden a loose rocky downhill and was feeling proud.  I pulled up to the trail junction sign.  I fell over.  Yup, I forgot to unclip.  Felt like I'd finally joined the club.

It would be quite a while before I assimilated into the collection of those who ride their bikes with numbers on them, trying to go faster.  I love racing, too, but that's another story.

That Cannondale holds a special place in my heart (and our basement).  Eventually we converted it to disc brakes, and I raced on it for a while.  It now boasts only a single gear and has the unfortunate problem of "loaning" its parts when race bikes go askew.  People who've borrowed it know about the flaws of a very shiny carbon seatpost.

The matching jersey I gave away long ago to someone else who I hope finds the passion that makes them want to rearrange their days, nights, weekends, diet and basement.

tough enough

Two years ago... on a little old cannondale with a headshock that had seen better days... I tackled my first Michaux race.  In the rain. 40 couple degrees.  I was not a happy camper.  At all.  Shea won his division.  I took over 2 1/2 hours to ride 10 miles.  Sloppy mud.  Wet, rocky climbs.  I wanted to put my bike on the side of the trail, leave it there, and never ride it again.

Yesterday - I rode my ass off to get a chance to ride those same 10 miles - they would be the last 10 of the 40 mile race.  A field of 9 women started, and with the advertised cut-off of 2pm, I knew I'd be close.  We started at 9:15 - that gave me 4:45 to ride 31 miles.  Sounds easy, right?  Ha, then you've never raced at Michaux.

We started in the middle of last year's 20 - a fire road climb then a rideable rock garden climb and descent.  I was feeling really good on the bike.  Got behind a BBC rider who was a bit slower on the downhill, but it worked ok to keep me riding in control.  Through a preview of the mud to come.  Sloshy Michaux mud.  Last year, I learned that at Michaux, it's always better to ride in the running water than the peanut butter glop on the sides.  The water runs on rock or clay.  Wet feet.  Wool socks were smart.

Up up up a fireroad climb.  I passed a woman who mentioned I was cooking along - yeah, but I have a healthy respect for Michaux and putting the hammer down on the fire roads could make up for the hike-a-biking I was sure to do later.  I didn't see her again.  And hike-a-bike I did.  Somewhere, probably mile 8-10, but maybe it was mile 16ish, maybe both... a contour line trail that was a bit off-camber and strewn with large rocks, angled logs, mini rock gardens.  I'd hike thirty yards, get back on the bike, and be back off of it very shortly later.  There were a couple tough climbs, too, but I've come to expect that. 

I wound up chanting to myself to trust myself on the bike.  It worked, and I got a bit of flow back.  Then I dismounted for a totally rideable rock drop-off.  I commented that it was rideable, to which the guy nearby who was fixing a flat said, "Yeah, but I've seen 3 people crash there, including me".  I felt better. 

I'd been warned by teammates about two downhill sections - one of them I'm sure I knew what they were talking about.  There were pretty substantial boulders, and so many leaves that you couldn't really distinguish the rocks underneath.  I scrambled down it very carefully.

I waded through the deeper streams.  They washed off the mud on my legs, so I was clean mid-calf down.  For a while, anyway.

I knew I had to pull out of the 23 mile aid station by 1pm to make the cut.  As my GPS counted up to 23 miles and a bit beyond (they have a special way of measuring at Michaux), I still wasn't there and 1pm came and past.  Shortly thereafter, I was handing my camelback to an awesome volunteer to fill, scrabbling through my drop bag for a cookie, and back on the bike.  I had 7 miles (it would add up to 8 according to my math) and not enough time.  I decided to put the hammer down and go for it.  Either I'd get pulled having finished strong, or I'd make the cut.  Helped by some of the flowiest sections, I was on track, then we started climbing and I wasn't.  It started raining lightly.

But I made it - this is probably the first negative split I've ever managed in a race.  They were pulling the tape across when me and the PVC guy I'd climbed the fire road with came up to it.  They let us through to the last 10 miles as the last ones through.  He didn't finish - not sure what happened.  Then, predictably, I bonked and it took me nearly 2 hours to finish in a cold, persistent rain.

I have not many words for those last 7 miles.  I got cold.  Stopped to put on my shoved-in-the-pack-at-the-last-minute-jacket.  I rode some stuff okay.  I crashed.  I found the mental drag that always comes at some point in a long race - flashed back to 2 years ago and laughed at myself.  No quitting now.  I hiked.  Through the mud.  Uphill.  Special Michaux mud.  I worried about my brakes, which weren't working great, had a ton of grit in them, and were squealing loudly.  I smiled at the moto guys, who were pulling arrows and waiting for me.  I almost crashed on the wet roots coming into the finish.  But when I pulled into the tent, everyone stopped race cleanup for a minute and cheered.

Shea handed me a towel.  Someone handed me a bottle of homemade coffee liquor.  Love Michaux - one sip and I was buzzed within about 30 seconds.  A huge quantity of french fries appeared.  I shoveled my bike off to Shea then discovered he'd prewarmed the car for my muddy disrobing.

This year, one of my written goals was to finish a Michaux 40 miler.  I did.

practicing the transition - ski-bike bricks

Ski season is over.  But before it was, I got in a few ski-bike bricks* in Utah.  A morning to mid-afternoon of big mountain powder followed by an evening ride up scenic Emigration canyon.  With a wide shoulder, moderate climb, and lack of ski tourist traffic, it's my choice for some hill climbing when I borrow a road bike out there.

 *Brick: I'm borrowing this term from triathlon, where athletes practice brick workouts to get used to the transition (both in equipment and movements) between swimming and cycling and between cycling and running.  Since I don't swim and don't love running, this ski-bike brick is way more fun, though thankfully no one is timing my transitions.

Funny thing is, I never rode the canyons and hills when I lived in Salt Lake.  I apparently believed that road biking should be a flat endeavor and mountain biking was more the ride-uphill-for-45 minutes-turn-around-and-ride-down style.  Oh how a few thousand miles on the bike, 40 or 50 races, and a few years of riding the steep, rolling hills of Baltimore County can change one's perspective.  There is something very pure about riding a bike to the top of a big hill.

The ski boots are in the basement, pants and jackets hung in the closet, mittens packed away.  It was a good season that I'll probably reflect on more here before summer.  Bike shoes, helmets, gloves, arm warmers, camelbacks, chamois cream, and gu packets have taken over our dining room table and guest room bed.  When you work, train, and play too hard, organization goes out the window.

elevator shaft

The taunting line.  The one that's easy to find but hairy to get into and usually rocky once you are there.  The one I've shown to guests and eyed at least 50 times but never skied.

It went down today.   I didn't take a picture in the white-out that was the Cirque Traverse today.  I dropped in the easy way, but the snow in the chute was creamy, buttery, wind-blown March powder.  Shea followed.  I left him some untracked lines.

A few hours later we came back for seconds.

It was so filled in, I'm not sure it counts.  We should probably check it out again tomorrow.

Mach Schnell, end of the day

Same spot, looking downhill...