I wanna be that girl who knows how to stop and smell the goats

 I know what people mean by living 'in the moment'. I think it's pretty cool, really.

And I really wish I could be that. But on a bike, I don't think it's possible.

I have a friend/teammate who stops regularly at a local farmstead to watch newborn goats play in the pasture. It's a sweet scene: tiny fuzzy babies no bigger than your average lap dog, bawling for their mamas on spindly legs - but, of course, I'm really just imagining all of this. Because, even though Emily decides that it's worth pulling over to fully take in this all-too-temporary image of spring, I'm flying by at 20+ mph and giving the moment nothing but all of the corner of my eye.

Sometimes I do this because I'm focused on my training goals, and the landscape is just there to keep me from losing my mind (like I do when I'm training indoors all winter).

But often it's simply because I get on that bike, and I don't want to stop. For anything. Not even baby goats.

Today, at the Sunday in June ride,  we rode past lush green fields, peaceful country scenes filled with grazing cattle, amish kids walking barefoot to somewhere, even alpacas. And we kept moving at a pretty decent clip.

It's not for lack of appreciation, but maybe it's because we humans always expect another day. Another day to come out and ride, another day to watch baby goats. Maybe on another day we'll be riding past, and there's this incredible scene, and the lighting is just perfect, and, hey - we just so happen to be carrying our box camera in our back pocket and we're inspired to stop, finally, in a place we've been past a thousand times. And this time it's simply epic. Just like that Ansel Adams shot of Hernandez, NM.


But not today. Today we ride on.



In a couple of days, I will be traveling with my Race Across America team and crew to Oceanside, CA. The race starts on June 14th. You can follow the team's progress at www.raceacrossamerica.org. And, you can follow the crew's musings through Twitter, using the handle @RAAMCrewViews. I'm hoping that sleep deprivation and the personality mash-up will make for some interesting tweets. No guarantees, of course, but it would be great to have you along for the ride.

Coast to Coast: My Crewing insights into Race Across America

I've agreed to be Crew Chief for the 4-man Ohio Cycleworks Charities team in the 2014 Race Across America.

I've had plenty of 'what the hell did I agree to?' moments about this, but this past weekend we had the entire team and crew together for a practice run within the Cuyahoga Valley. It let me visualize the many moving parts that need to come together for the success of this race, and I'm a lot more confident now about what we need to do.

I won't be posting anything during the race, but I will be tweeting my Crew Chief experiences through Twitter. I invite anyone who is interested in the Crew perspective of this race to sign on to @RAAMCrewView to get the latest feed. You will need to have a Twitter account, but it's relatively painless.

The Twitter feed will be strictly Crew perspective. It won't be about stats, or training miles, or fundraising for their cause (although I am asking for donations through www.ohiocycleworkscharities.com. The guys are raising money for Akron Children's Hospital).

And I won't be tweeting the blow-by-blow about the race, either. You can find all of that info at the official RAAM site once the race begins (www.raceacrossamerica.org).

The team and crew will be flying out to California on June 11th. The race begins at noon PST from Oceanside, CA on June 14th, and we end in Annapolis, MD. The goal is to finish in under 6 days 18 hours (the time it took these same riders to complete the race as an 8-man team).

Team: Brian Ray, Brian Zupancic, Matt Geis, Shawn Aker
Crew: Pam Semanik (Crew Chief), Jill Marks, Angie Ridgel, Larry Smith, Glenn Peterson, Erica Ray, Malinda Geis, David Nemer, and Dave Drabison

Off the back and into the 2014 season!

If the first race of the season is any indication, I'm in for a tough year.

The girls all flew out of the starting gate like racing greyhounds. I thought I was ready for anything, but I didn't expect this. My legs were burning and we had just started the first lap.

I responded, recovered from the initial shock, and took my place near the back of the pack. My coach told me that I should sit in and wait for the right moment to attack. I sat in, alright, but not because it was the plan. I had no choice;  I was hanging on with everything I had.

It's a little frustrating to spend hours and hours in off-season training brutality, only to bust onto the spring racing scene to a resounding yawn. OK, I confess: the last few months I've felt my motivation dying as other competing commitments have begun to heat up. Personally and professionally, there's really just been an awful lot going on lately.*

I mentioned in this blog before that cycling is my sanity, my escape hatch when things get a little too hairy. But when cycling starts to become just another thing in a long list of things I have to do, that's when you know something's gonna give. (Cycling has not become 'just another thing'. Training for races, however, requires an element of dedication and sacrifice that has become a bit less palatable lately. Mainly because I haven't yet figured out how to warp time.)

No excuses. I simply can't afford the focus and determination it takes to excel at this sport right now. And I need to come to grips with that:  this year isn't going to be a repeat of last year, when I had very few bad days on the bike (although the ride with Tim, in Prescott, WI, still weighs heavily on the mind.) This season I figure I'm in for a few surprises, and maybe a (much needed) humility-meter reset.

I'm aware of all this going in, and I'm learning to manage my own expectations.  But I'm not going to stop racing with the intent to win. I'll go out, get humbled, find resolve, come back - hopefully stronger and in a better place, and do it all over again. And maybe I'll still finish at the back of the pack. Or maybe I'll surprise myself.

I approach the turn still in the break pack, but I don't have the best line. The other girls fly past me and I'm once again given the choice of digging in deep to hang on to a wheel, or get spit out the back and into no-man's land for the rest of the race.

It makes me wonder if this is how my race year stacks up: watching the field pull away from me. Should I burn my last match to catch on, or should I sit up and let them go?

My guess is that there will be plenty of opportunities for both those choices, and I'll just have to trust myself to know what to do when I get there.


*I haven't posted anything about this yet, and although I keep telling myself that I should, it's not likely that I will. Bottom line: I'm crew chief for the 4-man Ohio Cycleworks Charities Team. It's my job to get the team and 9 crew members across the country as efficiently as possible, without losing anybody. BIG responsibility. Lots of details to consider. Huge time, energy, and emotional bandwidth requirement. A once in a lifetime experience, and I am looking forward to it.

**UPDATE: Today's race was a helluva lot better than the one featured in this posting.

Lurking in the shadows of greatness, Part 1

Regular readers of my blog likely already know who George Hincapie is. For those who may not be so familiar, here's the lowdown, from his website:

During his 19-year professional career Hincapie was regarded as the premier American classics rider of his generation. He competed in a record 17 Ronde van Vlaanderen races and finished second at the grueling Paris-Roubaix, the best ever for any American. Beyond the classics he rode in the Tour de France 17 times and won three US National Road Race championships.

And he's hot. (That's not from the website. That's from me).

At the end of February, I was already heading to the Los Angeles area for a week of cycling in the Santa Monica mountains, with AdventureCorps (details reserved for Part 2 of this posting).

Coincidentally, the Saturday I arrive in LA/Westlake Village there's a Gran Fondo in the area (won't be there in time for it) and a Time Trial on Sunday.

Dave is ready to explode trying to reach me with this news on my last day of work before a weeklong vacation: George Hincapie is hosting these events, staying at our hotel, making an appearance at a pre-race wine and cheese reception. Want in?

(HELL, YES!!!)

Stupid excited and with an uncharacteristic bit of bravado, I posted to Facebook a photo of me from last year's Tour of the Valley TT. I wrote in the description 'Better watch out, George Hincapie. I'm coming to get you." And then I tagged him in the photo. And then I got a bunch of likes from my Facebook friends. And then I got a 'like' from George Hincapie.

Holy smoke! Did I really just challenge a 17 time TdF pro in an amateur race? Always finding new ways to get myself in trouble.

Saturday: Arrived in Westlake Village in the afternoon. Put our bikes together (they were shipped from Cleveland a week ago). Reconnect with long-time AdventureCorps friends, and then, off to the Stonehaus wine bar!

Registration table: His bike is parked in front, fresh (?) from the day's Gran Fondo. BIG bike, nameplate on the top tube. I'm in awe. Where's GH? Not here yet, but I sense his presence.
















Registration list: I see my name on the start list, 8:30. I'm starting 6 minutes behind George Hincapie! How cool is it to see your name on the same list as your favorite pro rider?

 

What will I say to him when I meet him? "Hi, George. I'm Pam. I'm the one who dropped the gauntlet on you on Facebook, remember?" I need liquid courage.

 

He walks in, people flock to him like iron shavings to a magnet. I'm patient, waiting for my moment. I wait for one overly-eager guest to start in on day 6 of his entire life's story, then I cut in. Introduce myself, name drop (turns out we have a friend in common). Photo op. Wonder if he remembers my challenge to him. Decide not to go there.

Sunday morning: Jill and Tim go with us to the TT start, in Malibu. The race is 20K, a one way all-out along the Pacific Coast Highway. Awesome. Crazy awesome.

PCH is not exactly Deerfield. It's not a road you can warm up on,  because it's 4 lanes of wanna-be race car drivers.  I find a short climb nearby, go up and down that a few times before remembering that I should probably not stress too much about this race. This is for fun. I don't even have a proper TT bike - just my good ol' workhorse Bianchi  with the added-on climbing cogset and the 25 mm tires. Perfect for the long rides and steep climbs ahead, not ideal but perfectly fine for this TT. I go to the line early.

Tim and Jill are watching riders take off. They're watching Dave and I fiddle with our bib numbers. They're watching George Hincapie sidle up to the start line, stop next to me, and, as Tim would later recount, 'chat like they're old friends' (you have to imagine this in a Minnesota accent).

(Dave says Tim was jealous. No worries, Tim, you know who's still my favorite person of all time to ride with.)

Last thing I said to George before he went to the start line:
"You  know I'm only 6 minutes behind you."

I think I lost my fire

I can't do this anymore. I can't force myself to burn my legs out on this indoor trainer. I can't bring images of future glory to factor into my motivation. I have no motivation left.

This winter has been hard, harder than any in recent years - at least in the years since I've been training indoors in the winter. I'm told that this is what winter used to be like, back in the 60's and 70's. I think I would remember, but I wasn't riding inside at that time and, besides, I didn't feel the cold the same way as a kid that I do now. I think I used to like it.

But I'm done trying to HTFU. I'm done 'embracing the suck'. The suck became too big to embrace. The suck became the drunken uncle that always wants to open mouth kiss you at Christmas. No no no no no...

I want to move to a place where a 'chilly' day is one that is 70° and sunny. With no wind.

Because I just. Can't. Keep. Going. Like. This. 

One more time to finish out the year

I left early, well ahead of the predicted arctic blast that was to deliver the next round of snow and bone-chilling cold.

I've done this enough times that it has become a ritual: base layer, tights, wool socks, jersey, arm warmers. Those hand warmer things for my feet, wrapped up in Windstopper shoe covers. A quick assessment of current conditions: Gore jacket, full finger gloves (not the lobster claws today), just enough fuel for a 2-and-a half hour ride. Automatic. It doesn't take me long to get out the door.

The route is familiar, and easy enough even on a fixie. I ride the trail near my home on days like this because I don't want to have to think about traffic or route selection. One of my favorite things to do on a bike, as you well know, is to get lost. But on my winter rides, I prefer to not get off-the-map lost, but to ride where my thoughts can wander around while my body stays with the task at hand.

Typical winter training ride.

Until it started raining.

First there were just a few cold, wet kisses on my face. I pulled my buff up higher, up to my eyes. I cursed my complacency for not packing any rain gear. Let's just cut to the chase and say that, within 10 minutes, I was soaked to the skin, and I still had a long way to go.

I've met The Man with the Hammer before. The first time was many years ago, on a long ride that I wasn't prepared for. That day, underfueled and riding with a group of fast friends, I became dizzy and nauseated, a typical bonk. I had to get off the bike until the world stopped spinning. I vowed never again to meet him this way.

The next time was in the desert. I admit that we meet there frequently. After hours of riding into a huge headwind and not getting very far, I felt The Man breathing down my neck. I pretended not to notice. My false detachment just seems to encourage him;  he becomes more persistent.

And there he was again, for one last visit to end the year. Fingers and feet frozen, lungs burning from the fresh cold, snot pouring out my nose and unable to see through foggy glasses, I seriously wondered if I was going to make it back home.

I considered my options:

1. Hide out for a while under the shelter of a bridge.
2. Cut the ride short and call for a pick-up.
3. Stop thinking about it, and keep going.

I kept going.

Next year, I hope for more days on the bike where I have serious doubts about making it to the finish. If you've never had this experience, I suggest seeking out a reason to up the ante, and find opportunities that take you all the way to your edge. I'm not saying that you should actually make a date with the Man with the Hammer; I'm just saying that you shouldn't go out of your way to avoid him.

Riding no-handed for the last few miles, I tucked my balled-up fists under my armpits for warmth. I arrived home with all digits intact (blood flow returns - painfully - under a steady stream of hot water), looking like something that was dredged out of a lake. Dave helped peel off the wet layers, offered me a shot of bourbon, and asked why I hadn't called him for a ride home.

Because I know what he would have told me. And I know how I would have felt if I pulled in to my driveway under anything but my own volition.

The Man with the Hammer has taught me a thing or two over the years!

Here's to a New Year of all good things. Approach it with a clear mind, an open heart, and the courage to keep going.

Fuel for the Fire

Dressed all in indignation and plenty of Gore Tex

This is what motivates me to ride outside all winter long:

• The other option is riding inside on a trainer for 3 hours
• A splash of vodka in each water bottle (to keep them from freezing, of course)
• I like to suffer and I need to exorcise demons
• Cold air brings clarity
• Dopamine keeps me on the high road
• Physical discomfort expels the emotional variety. Or, as one of my teammates recently expressed it, 'My mind can't pay attention to both. Trade one pain for another.'
• The small victory I achieve in summoning the activation energy required to overcome the 'holy shit it's cold out there' inertia
• Cold weather riding steels my resolve
• The taste of road salt
• The long, way-too-hot shower at the end of the ride
• The way my skin burns when that shower water hits where I embrocated
• The solitude. Duh.
• Putting Rule #6* into practice.
• If winter is here, can spring be far behind?

*Rule #6

// Free your mind and your legs will follow.

Your mind is your worst enemy. Do all your thinking before you start riding your bike.  Once the pedals start to turn, wrap yourself in the sensations of the ride – the smell of the air, the sound of the tires, the feeling of flight as the bicycle rolls over the road.