PDX Cross

I just read a friend's blog, which prompted me to visit here http://www.pdxcross.com/ which is where I found this


which I love.

Bend and Stretch

It has been awhile since I last wrote anything for the vast floating void that is the interweb. I have been writing more in my non-blog, which is to say I have been using an ultra fine point Sharpie to scrawl messy script across line-less white pages... actual pages you can comb through with the lick of a thumb; not eyesight-extinguishing, one dimensional, flickering pages constructed from abstruse HTML code. Real paper pages.

Several times my fingers began to type, but any logical progression of thought seemed to peter out before something substantial could be formed. Hopefully this post will make it. I have hunch it will, as the bulk of it already exists, physically, on those gleaming, white, paper pages I spoke of a few sentences earlier. Plus, the subject under discussion addresses events I have been wanting to share with some people I care about.

In light of my imminent journey westward (as of right now, all signs point to Bend, Oregon as a 'final destination'), however historically cliche such a statement might sound, I would like to mention a few words concerning the recent travels to Bend for my first Cyclocross National Championship and first race with the Elite Women (aka: 'the big kids'). The following is an excerpt (written the morning of nationals) taken from a real, un-lined, scribbled-on page. Ahhh, I can smell the dry, black ink as I lean in to unravel the twisted lines of my disheveled handwriting...

"I am in a house by myself and I am drinking coffee. The grinds came from a can with a gingerbread man on it. I think the finished product is supposed to taste like small baked men, though I have yet to determine the validity of this assumption. Tara left yesterday to catch a plane back to Philadelphia, but the loneliness was with me long before her departure. My phone glows eight thirty-nine a.m., which tells me that three hours from now I will be on my bike, racing in circles, with one hundred and six other women. At such a point in time, I hope to be on the verge of puking. If this is not the case, it means I will not be trying hard enough. I want to try hard enough. I am three thousand miles from home, in a house that belongs to people I do not know, in a town where I know no one.

The mental aspect of being here is slightly more challenging than projected, but so are most of the paths I tend to make for myself. Something is changing, though, as I sit in this wicker chair and sip liquid gingerbread men. I had awoken with an unsettling desire not to race, perhaps fueled by fear; but as I focus on discerning some form of appreciation for all that I have done, am doing, and will do--an energy rolls in and fills me. Stored audiovisual clips from every race leading up to now consume my doubt and diffuse any perceived sense of isolation. Recognizable laughter snags a hold of caffeine, and the two do a waltz through my veins. I hear cowbells and whispered inside jokes. I see the flap of yellow tape. I feel the energy of those whose minds I am walking through back home. I feel the honor of representing my state, my family, my team, and most of all my Self. I am here and they are there, three thousand miles east and living their own lives, yet I have entered their hearts and minds enough for them to respond, and for me to feel it.

I am in a house by myself. I am drinking coffee--but I am not alone. I can recognize the voices and it makes me want to go faster. I can feel their presence in the form of a boundless, unbridled, and resolute energy. It reminds me I am fortunate to line my bike up next to one hundred and six other women and race in cold, muddy circles for forty minutes. It makes me want to represent, and represent well. It makes me want to be on the verge of puking, hearing their voices and feeling it all."

Thank you to all who sent their energies. I felt them. The experience of CX Nationals was paramount. From starting dead last, to finishing without getting lapped--to the droves of people who formed bell rattling, heckling, cheering tunnels; the intense and infectious beat of a high school marching band; the keep-you-on-your-toes conditions and job-well-done course--from the near puking feeling to the post-race shudders of adrenalin, hours after. Three thousand miles for forty minutes... I would say it was worth it.

A couple of studs (uh, yeah) at the base of Mount Bachelor. High fives for mountains and snow.


It was about six degrees outside when we took refuge in Strictly Organic, a local Bend coffee shop. They actually had from-scratch, gluten-free baked goods, the first I have come across outside of my own home. Thanks for the complimentary green tea, guys.


Judging by the amount of women, and in such close proximity, I am guessing this is lap number one of six. Woot. Woot. Jersey pride skinsuit and Campmor arm warmers. Represent.

USGP CX, Mercer Cup

Nick le Boy and I post-race, mid pit-bitch, overtired and wondering what number of individuals would inform us of the obvious.


Grass patches was like gold this weekend, few and far between but highly sought after.

More mud-caked shots to follow. Mostly ones I did not take, but have seen... words to follow, as well.

A Roll of the Dice

Always be aware of the location of the finish line. Non-awareness can cost you two hard-earned spots, an unnecessary scolding from a UCI official, and a head full of over analysis. However, depending on your ability to introspect, the overall situation of non-awareness molted into awareness can earn you skills in learning how to roll with the punches. Your own self-inflicted ones, that is. Above is the finish line from Beacon. Concealed in its fading white paint scrawl is a lesson learned.


Things have been pretty muddy these days. Yesss. Jamesburg Cross and some blue suede shoes.

Fambly photo.

Fur Cut

So, after much debate, although I knew I had wanted it done, the hair atop my head was alas cut. Reasons were as follows: less water usage during shower time; less shower time and more other time; some kid with no hair gets a wig made out of mine; and, of course, no more swinging pendulum braid during races (I knew it was time when one announcer actually made a comment). The short hair thing is, well, awesome. Now, I would like for it to be even shorter.

Cross is Boss

This past weekend was Granogue and Wissahickon. Granogue took place on the rolling grounds of the DuPont Estate, which turned out to be a most excellent venue for a cross race. Tara and I knew very well what we were in for when we had to throw Panser (my trusty old jeep) into AWD and navigate through a lane of thick mud JUST to park. Tara was not amused. I was ecstatic, times three point one four. Either way, we laughed and we shivered and ground our brake pads to nothing. The run-up was indeed something to run up, although I am not sure if you can call the action I made while moving up it actual "running". I like to think so.

Cold but dry, diehard spectators stood by and watched through the cinched peepholes of their primary-colored rain slickers. In similar colors, but not quite as dry, we piloted through the muddy grass rivers of Delaware's sopping DuPont plot. I would not have changed places for anything.

Awaiting post-race podium pictures, a nice gentleman doused my eyes with Saline solution (at my request) and hot air blew around inside the white tent, lacquering mud to my arms and legs. That night, after an Indian dinner with a friend, Tara and I made real tea that came from real India (she just got back from Delhi) and drank it inside her real Philadelphia apartment. It was Diwali Day, which is an official holiday in India and Guyana known as the Festival of Lights, so we were celebrating the best we could. The package of tea, when held in hands with eyes closed, gave off a glowing energy, something very light. I drank it in apprecaition and peace. The night was important conversation with Tara, sleepful relaxation, and reading. All the while rain poured on outside, from above, and all around us. I drifted into dream, comforted by the sound.










Wissahickon was faster and the mud sucked you into the ground, which is where I landed several times more than I would have liked to. There was a little blood, a lot of mud, and just the right amount of cowbell. I lost a few spaces as compared to yesterday, but that is the name of the game, and I was content with the morning's romp around in wind, cold, and horse poop. Plus, during warmup I ventured down an unpaved road and encountered old barns made of stone and wood, and a few roaming peacocks. The emerald green of the males' coat was enchanting and for some reason reminded me to relax and just take in the experience as it comes and as I make it. Thanks, birds.

Dee Enn Eff

Second DNF in four years, and oh do I shudder as the acronym taps onto the screen. Not much to say about it. I felt fine. Actually, I felt great. The weather was impeccable, with cool azure and white October sun, and the breeze in between their hands held tight. So I got a little excited, what with friends like family surrounding me in my home away from home. And I caught a little too much wind down a flirtatious fireroad, didn't scrub enough pre-turn speed, but it felt so good. So it happens, though not very often. Which is fine by me.

It happened rather quickly, yet I knew when and why and how, as if the motion had been slowed to a Loris' pace. Calculated, deliberate, and beautifully succinct.

Down for the count, numbers one through four and a half perhaps, then the bellow of a scream releasing hot pain, and a mount back on the bike and back in the game. Well, almost back in the game, more so wanting to be back in. But also wanting to have a cross season and crinkly fall rides that smell like only this time of year can smell. Bittersweet, I know; but I savored the sweet, all the folks who love it in their own way, all the family I have found, and just cheered them on from the other side.

Sorry, Ringwood, my love, I'll see you in a few days, when the leaves are changing more than they are now. Maybe then it will be just you and me, like we used to hang. Not a soul in sight. Just ours. Thanks for being the best kind of friend there is, the one that constantly challenges and teaches, that makes certain I live for myself and never accept anything less, the kind that shows no mercy in that tough love sort of way. Thanks, Ringwood. I'll be seeing you around.

Reasons to Invest in Skinsuits and/or Bib Shorts

Below I have outlined two valid reasons for investing in a skinsuit.

Nittany Lion and Charm City Cross

First off, props to Bam. He performed above and beyond. Sliding onto my right shoulder with ease, hoofing up steps, snaking through taped turns and attacking up climbs. Who would have thought? I would have and I did. Hup. Hup.

Nittany Lion... capital F-A-S-T.

Insert photos here.

Charm City... capital S-I-C-K. These over-sized barriers with a power climb lead-up and a shuck-and-jive around a tree were superb.


Charm City sand. Yeah, we need to work on that.

What a beautiful weekend to start off the cross season.

Did I mention Tara and I drove to Baltimore together, from her place in Philly? Oh, well, we did. We also got a little lost and then a little un-lost, and then finally finished up with a u-turn to snatch prime parking, because, as we told the man who said he was about to park there, "we saw it first."
T and Jett hoofing it through the sand.

We Saw It First.

Not a cloud in the sky and a fading blue from horizon to upper atmosphere. Panama rocks out over a fuzzy PA system and the familiar flap-and-glint of yellow caution tape catches my eye. I like how the tape shakes in the breeze. Its energy is the breath of a moving peleton. I am sitting, perched on a man-placed slab of rock. The sun is changing the color of the right side of my body. My right thigh, my right arm, my right cheek and earlobe. My legs are slightly elevated, resting on a green and gray striped messenger bag. To the left of my legs, in the shade of my head, there sits some crinkled tinfoil holding half of a tuna fish, yogurt, and raisin sandwich. The other half is in my stomach. I watch racers on an inclined, right hand turn. Some of them keep it upright and some of them do not. Either way they are directly in front of me and the sun and a man-placed slab of rock.

When I think of cross I think of cowbells and mud, sandy shoe ratchets, a low-set sun, and adult beverages. Certain people come to mind, too. When I think of cross I think of painted roots and wooden steps, things stinging and stinging things, screaming brakes, shaped-shaved legs, and arm warmers tarnished with snot. When I think of cross I think of blurred sidelines, sore right shoulders, and the unconventional. I think of shivering yellow caution tape and the dispersal of a breathing peleton. I think of warm autumn afternoons molting into solid winter days. I think of frozen toes, frozen earth, and thawing light. When I think of cross it is in distinct and unmistakable snippets, just like certain retained memories we can't explain, yet stick with us anyway. I suppose cross is a lot of different things to a lot of different people, and that's ok, so long as it is always something important to someone who cares more than a little. Because perhaps that is how certain things keep on living, or at least how they are resurected, like looked-over people or long forgotten youth.

Maybe now when I think of cross, purposely placed slabs of rock and the warm feel of a mid-September sun will be there. Maybe the sound of not keeping it upright on an uphill turn will be there, or the taste of tuna fish and raisins. And of course, in the same pocket as these pieces, will rest the infinite glint of shivering yellow tape and the unstoppable movement of a people in motion.

Over Here.

I am not here to brag about any mad skills I might have sitting in the bottom of my pockets, or any social media savvy there may be floating around in my infinite bag of tricks. I am not here to sell you something you do not need. I am not here to beg, fluff, boast, exaggerate, swindle, or talk big. In fact, I am not here to tell you anything at all, because chances are you're the type who grasps things best when given the reigns, a real kinesthetic learner. But then again, who knows?

In any case, I am here to present the uncut version of me, not for a limited time only or as seen on television, but rather raw and open to interpretation. I was never one for the hype anyhow. Just give it to me straight. In the same vein, why speak about my writing, my photography, and my riding when they speak consciously and confidently for themselves? Open an eye and an ear to every blog entry since I started this thing two years back. They'll tell you.

Whether you feel me or not, the point is that I am still going to be here, experiencing life two wheels at a time, loving every minute. Just doing my thing the best I know how.

Shenandoah: The Other Side

It's strange here, being on the other side of the fence. A quiet calm has replaced the constant buzz of energy. The feeling was here last night, in our sleep, and then in the morning, yet in seconds it has left us. Not gone, but shifted to elsewhere. I can sense it moving through the mountains and roads and earth that rise and fall around our sea of tents. I've heard that energy can neither be destroyed nor created, that it simply moves from one thing to another, which is what it is doing at this very moment. I suppose this movement is all part of the why and how we are here.
She is fiddling with a camp stove and I am staring at the effect of sunrise on limbs of trees. I am also writing in an unlined, black notebook. I never use the journals with lines in them, they're too confining. I like to have free reign. It is nice to hear the sound of metal clinking and paper, of crickets hushing from a night of chatter. I guess this is what it's like from the other side. I can't say I'll do it often, but I'll give it my best all the same. The energy I sensed earlier, it is roaming about out there, suffering. I'd rather be doing the same. Here, the buzz has been replaced with the voices of women conversing, an electric pump re-inflating what a mattress lost during slumber. Now is the sound of the left behind, fiddling and writing, and finding their place. The others are out to hunt. By day's end the energy will have filtered back in, but at that point it will be different. It will be settled, perhaps. Girlfriends and wives will act like they understand, when in reality they don't because they can't. And men will be tired so things will be excused. But that will be then and this is now. Now water boils, waiting to become someone's breakfast tea. Now things are rummaged through, like cars and thoughts and plastic bags. Now we sort out the day, and assume time will stand still as we do so.
I think about each of them out there, each humming world I can enter, because I have been there and I know. I am not a wife tending to children, nor am I a girlfriend pretending to understand. I have been there and I know. I know my experience, at least. There will be a range of emotions. The body will change, the mind will change; certain things will remain the same.
I walk to the port-o-potties wearing sandals and a black sweatshirt, the one a friend gave me from Ecuador. The early morning sun touches my tanned legs and I remember how nice they are. Someone did a good job making them because they work real well. I can ride my bike for hours. I am that same energy, out there and roaming through the mountains. All the stalls are vacant. The green signs on the doors tell me so. Inside the plastic cartons it reeks of anxious stomachs and nerves. Everything around me is quiet and muffled. The tents are an emptied array of colors and shapes. Everyone has hatched and is out flying.
Underneath the black sweatshirt from Ecuador I wear the t-shirt Alex gave me, the one with the giant tree on it. I like it because I love trees and when I wear it I think about the person who gave it to me. I try to do this with most things I wear, especially jewelery. I think about the people I love who have given me the inanimate things I wear, and somehow those people are with me. Perhaps it's because of the whole energy thing and how we can't destroy it. Maybe it's what they call being "sentimental." I'm not saying you have to agree with me, though. I'm saying that sometimes just the way a person feels about something is enough. Sometimes it's all someone has. Other times it's all they need. Either way, I think more times than not it's a good idea to let the simple, more intuitive things be just enough.

Ella Se Fue

Alexandra left. Some time about one and a half weeks ago I dropped her off at JFK airport so that she could take a long flight to Australia and join the big kids at XC MTB Worlds. Good for her. I already know how things went, because this blog post takes place in the future. What I mean is that it is about an event in the past. I am proud of her and I miss her already. It was kind of nice to have a training buddy who lived with me. We cooked, danced, and sang together; shared laundry duty, one washing and one folding, and expenses; shared friends, families, and immense amounts of laughter; cried (well, maybe just I cried) and listened; swam in lakes and walked barefoot with the ocean; trained together, did our own thing, then trained together again; raced and rode (a lot) and then rode some more; worked bottle feeds and gel handoffs, encouraged and supported; talked and translated; taught and learned; loved and communicated--we respected and let ourselves be exactly who we are. We were awesome. I learned a lot from that tiny Ecuadorian, and perhaps she learned a little something from me. Looking back, I imagine this is somewhat what it will be like when I find my future best friend (aka my "husband"). Cheers to that.

Bam.

Tara was in India, sweating a lot and showering very little. Now she's back, which means two of many glorious things: we can once again hear the reverberating sound of her stupendous laughter, as experienced yesterday at a gal meeting in Allaire; I now have a cross bike, and her name is Bambi. Bam for short. I cannot begin to relate how enthused I am about the two of these things, only because they behold so much more than meets the eye. They translate into a lot more than I could possibly reveal here, on the interweb. For starters, Tara is psyched about cross season. I am psyched about cross season. Big E is also, how strange yet wonderful, inquisitively psyched about some possible cross races. The two of us, E and I that is, did the NJ State Championships together last year, her only cx race and she kicked it, and now she's talking all starry-eyed and crazy eights about getting a cross bike. And let's not forget, last year I raced the cx season with Sula, using borrowed skinny wheels; when I was "banned" from using her, a la USGP, I was fortunate enough to have been lent a ss cross bike (shouts to Keith and Johan). Now I have one that I own, which I could not be more thankful for. Well because healthy relationships tend to arise from a mutual understanding and sharing of, and respect for, love and life, I cannot really call what we have an "ownership." We're better than that.

In a new quest to build our fated alliance, Bam and I (plus Tara and E) embarked on our maiden voyage, through the twisting sands and dirt-red roots of Allaire, coiling through an endless underbrush of sun and autumn air. Looking back, it was infinite.

Bees, Boulders, and Almost Full Moons

The Kingdom Trails: Zermont's Royal Family

So, Ellen turned one year older than fifty, which is pretty cool considering she continues to kick things raw on a mountain bike. Here, Ellen's long arms help to form a give-peace-a-chance type "Y." Alan constitutes a dashing letter "I," and Marianne delivers a beautifully backwards "D." Willy comes through with a sweeping, tondue-esque "R," also backwards. Alex holds it together with a solid football sidelines "A," and Patty kept the spirit of cheer alive with her give-me-a-T style "T." Laura keeps her balance with the letter "B," and Art, or course, appears as though he has to go to the bathroom but is raising his hand patiently in a stunning letter "H." Put us all together and what do we spell? Good times. No, great times. Thanks, gang.


Kingdom Trails + 8 superb individuals + 3 days + one birthday =

Laughter. Undiluted eruptions of uncontrollably infantile, inexhaustibly side-splitting, unequivocal, absolute, soul-injected laughter. Bliss. Sheer, unadulterated, divinely primordial bliss.



Yes. No these were not washed.



Marriane throwing down her gang sign in salute to Howie.

Trees. And trees that used to be trees.




White men (literal in so many ways) can jump.








It's all about the sequence of events.