which I love.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
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.
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.
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.
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