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.

The Ideal Ratio of Masochism to Hedonism

This ad was in a recent issue of Bicycling magazine:

The tag line reads: Masochists tend to be more fit than hedonists.

I have no idea what product it's supposed to be selling (I'm a marketing agent's nightmare in that regard), even after going to the Optum website, which is really cool. No matter. I ripped the page out and tacked it to the wall of the pain cave, so I can put all of that indoor training in perspective at the very moment when I need some perspective.

It really makes you wonder why we endure all this suffering, particularly in the off season, when indoor workouts are the only option and why are they so freaking HARD?!

During my high-cadence workout early early one morning last week, in the time-space warp that makes a 5-minute interval feel like a lingering ride through the third circle of Hell and the 1 minute rest in between just enough time to grab a swig of hydration, I thought about the trade-off between pain and pleasure.

I readily admit: my Transition period was all about pleasure. There were tough workout days, of course, but these always came with immediate rewards: morning martinis after the Akron Half Marathon,  expensive cocktails after the Las Vegas Gran Fondo. Obviously, my hedonism mainly takes the form of things that come out of bottles, like a soused Genie.

Anyway, back to the indoor training thing.

My high-cadence drill workout, early season.

Sometime between 'I can do this' and 'WTF?', I started thinking that this masochism thing really isn't so bad. I felt like I was peeling off that layer of alcohol-induced insulation that I was working on over the past month. (I won't need it, no matter how cold Northeast Ohio winter gets. I have Gore-Tex). I was shedding the skin of the just-finished season, ready to begin the transformation into what I'll be next year when I roll up to that first starting line.

The suffering makes me tougher, and stronger. The suffering pushes me to where I used to think my limits were.

When I train, I often think about the reward I've just earned. (Maybe that second bottle of Mission IPA? Gardener martini, anyone?) But as soon as I get off the trainer, I weigh out the balance between that perceived reward and the pain I just put myself through. And you know what? I often find myself walking away from that so-called 'reward'. Because I know that the real reward isn't on that top shelf of immediate gratification.

The real reward is what happens during race season next year.

The real reward comes with strong finishes, podium photos, the satisfaction of a long and strong race season.

That's my kind of hedonism.





2013 season ends, 2014 training is about to start, and all the stuff in between

This season, more than any other since I started racing about 5 years ago, couldn't have ended any sooner. My most awesome season so far - with more racing, more variety, more focus (not to mention a couple of State Championship titles!) - was also the hardest I've ever worked at this sport.

And so it was that I was counting the days to Transition Week, which turned into Transition Month-and-a-Half, so that I could finally -finally! - go do something else for a change. Even if 'something else' maybe every once in a while involved a bike. Which it did, because, hey, after spending THAT much time on a bike all year, you kind of lose any of your other identifying characteristics (that I hope to reclaim between now and spring).

These are just some of the ways I've been occupying my time, now that I don't have to train for 'the next race':



• Cheer on someone else who's season hasn't quite ended yet

Writing encouraging words to my favorite Furnace Creek 508 contender, in the middle of Death Valley, where he didn't see it anyway because of a re-route caused by some government shut-down thing.



Tim Marks with George Vargas at the end of the 2013 FC508
 



• Indulge in something previously off-limits

Pisco Sour at VTR

• Cross-train!

Akron Half-Marathon, post race with Dave and Beate. I won my age group!

• Take the time to stop and smell Autumn in the air...

Along the Ohio and Erie Canal Towpath

The Headless Rider arrives! OK, not really...

• Dress up stupid for a ride into town

Me and Angie in Valkyrie attire, at Lily's Chocolates in Tremont.

• Hang out with teammates without having to wear spandex

Chappy, Russ, and I warming up outside...







...ready to feast on THIS amazing seafood spread

 

Kristen enjoying the benefits of our new 2014 Team Sponsor, Fat Heads Brewery



• And lastly, dig out the indoor trainer, because before you know it,  training starts up again. Like, tomorrow. Because the 2014 season is gonna be even better than the last...







 





What a crazy fun weekend - Interbike 2013, etc

Thanks to the guys at Ohio Cycleworks, I had the opportunity to attend Interbike 2013 as a VIP guest. 

The Mandalay Bay convention center was packed wall-to-wall with bikes, bike parts, bike accessories, anything you can think of that might be bike related. The show spilled outside into the Mandalay parking lot, with a course to test ride new bikes and for racing in the evenings.

The highlight of the show, for me, was meeting Greg Lemond. 

The next day, I got the rare opportunity to ride the Las Vegas Strip with almost 3000 other cyclists. Dave and I were looking forward to the Viva Bike Vegas Gran Fondo, especially since it took us through the stunning (and challenging) Red Rock Canyon loop.

We opted for the Metric Century version, and I'm glad we did: the desert winds picked up around 9 AM, and soon became a steady 20 to 30 mph with 40+ mph gusts. A little too familiar for us!

We had one more day left of our trip. When we realized that we weren't flying out until Monday night, we knew there was only one choice:

Zabriskie Point, Death Valley National Park

It was back to Death Valley for us, the place that owns my soul.

And as an added bonus, while we were having breakfast this morning in walks this guy sporting his Furnace Creek 508 finisher's jersey!

This is Danny Bonneville, who raced previously in a two-man team (Stubborn Bulls) with Patrice Pellerin. I know Patrice from past AdventureCorps camps. Crazy small world!

Yep, that's Patrice on my right...

And now, getting ready to board a plane back to reality.

Sometimes I really hate reality.

Road race season ends abruptly, and not a moment too soon

My race season ended suddenly and with little warning.

The last of the Eastern Ohio Time Trial 5-race series was derailed by road construction on the race route.

So, my 2013 road race season just came to an abrupt end. I'm not that disappointed. It was a wildly successful season, but I'm ready to stop.

Now I'm in the training phase known as 'Transition'. My workouts for the next two weeks are all the same: "Do whatever you want, but have fun doing it and don't take it too seriously".

After 5+ months of hard work and racing and getting up early every weekend, I'm ready for transition. Because when this training phase is over, I want to be ready to start this whole cycle over again, and continue the story next year.

Tomorrow morning I'm off to Las Vegas for InterBike (thanks to Ohio Cycleworks for the passes!) and the Viva Bike Vegas Gran Fondo on Saturday, where I'll hope to catch George Hincapie's wheel. Then the following weekend I'll be running my first (and potentially last) half-marathon in Akron.

Vegas Gran Fondo starts on The Strip at 6 AM

And when I get back, I'll be transitioning into cyclocross mode, which means I won't be taking myself seriously for at least another couple of months.

The thin line that runs through everything and holds it all together

Bicycle-created art by Christian Grillitsch (Velodraw)

I was back at Tour of the Valley, waiting at the line for the start of the road race.

(Don't worry: this is not a race report. You don't come here for race reports; race reports are boring. Race stories, on the other hand, can be quite entertaining, even more so over time when memory fails and details begin to fall apart. Let's just wait.)

Everything about this race was familiar. Same start line, same sun shining down on our field of about 15 women. An electric current of nerves and hope and determination and excitement. Just like last time, and the time before that.

And, of course, it was totally different. This year I was with new teammates, wearing a different kit, racing under a new strategy. Same route, different race altogether.

In the short time I had to get philosophical, I thought how I could almost trace a line from last year to right now, following the course of where I was - who I was - back then, all the way around the year to right here, back at the start.

So much of my life is defined by this one thing, this one sport that I have chosen to pursue as if my very life depended on it. Cycling has woven itself into the fabric of my soul, and by choosing to let this passion lead me, I see how it not only determines the road I follow, but also how it connects everything together. Pull it out, and I will unravel.

It was surprising to consider how most of the choices I make are very much informed by my cyclophilia. Has it become that much of an obsession? I can look back on my past as if it were a tapestry woven through with the colors and patterns and designs of all those things, of the people and places I've formed connections with because of the bike: strangers who have become friends, friends who will become memories, those whose own lines are inextricably interwoven with mine forever. On two wheels, I spin myself into a future of familiar uncertainty.

I point my bike in the direction of my choice. I may not know what I'll find when I get there, or what will happen along the way. The only thing that is certain is how I got there.

I've lost count of how many races I've done, how many times I've waited at the line for that starting gun. I won't even jinx myself by wondering how many more times I'll be here again. I'll just keep following, or maybe I'll get pulled along by, that thin line that leads me to where I need to be.


P.S. Next weekend I'll be in Minnesota, riding (once again) with my friend Tim Marks who is training (once again) for the Furnace Creek 508. I'll be joining him on his usual 125-mile Saturday training ride, in Prescott, WI. That route is a bitch. It was last year, and I expect that it will be the same this year. Some events feel less like a 'spiral' of time, and more like a really painful re-run.