Humble Musings

Salt of the Earth

2010-11-03T22:14:00.000-07:00

I used to read about him. A lot. Studied photos in Surfing Magazine. Dreamed about duck diving... wave riding. Only rode them starry ondas a handful of times, if that, but loved it just the same. You shall be celebrated and remembered, laughed with and thought of, you who have returned to the salt of the Earth.

Downieville

2010-07-09T19:14:00.000-07:00

Right now I am sitting on a wooden bench that swings, along a river that runs, runs straight through the towering Sierra Buttes of Downieville. It is effing amazing, to say the least, and there will be a full story to follow once I return from this earthy gem of a place. Be well, all.

Slow and Steady

2010-06-22T08:59:00.000-07:00

While down in Ashland for the first time (Spring Thaw XC) a few weeks back, I ended up working/riding (pulling and drafting, actually... although these verbs infer 'roadie' written all over them, I assure you this, indeed, was a 'mountain bike race,' complete with a 12 mile stretch of false flat fire road proceeding an hour long fire road climb. You see, drafting and pulling was of the utmost necessity). That aside, I ended up working back and forth with a gentleman whom I later found out was the organizer of Oregon's very own Test of Endurance 50 mile mountain bike race. Crossing the finish line we got to talking; throw in an exchange of words, a few pinches of laughter, and a solid handshake and I had been invited to The Test of Endurance at half price entry fee, a sort of 'welcome to Oregon, I like your style of riding' gift from Mudslinger Events coordinator, Mike Ripley. Needless to say, I was stoked.

Fast forward a few weeks and I am just as stoked at having been able to make the drive out to Blodgett for the TOE 50 miler, race it, and have a darn good time suffering up and down its blatant offering of 8,000 feet of climbing. Flashbacks of the Shenandoah 100 pulsed the pupil of my mind's eye and I was quickly reminded of the importance of mantras, of which mine became 'slow and steady wins the race.'

Apparently the mantra works; although I was far from 'winning' the race, I was able to maintain, suffer, enjoy, laugh, cry, squeal, and make it through in 5 hours 39 minutes and 52 seconds. Thanks to a verbal commitment I had made with a friend prior to the race (that every time I felt tired I would click up a few gears, get out of the saddle, and grind it out... something which I adhered to 8 times out of 10) and an NPR radio lab about so-called 'limits" shown to me by another friend, things worked out slightly better than projected. A few rabbits which had darted off in the beginning, taunting me to chase and tire, were reeled in and passed with about 45 minutes to go. Sure my legs were on fire and I wanted to puke, but so did everyone else, so I smiled, stood up, and rocked out a climbing pass. Sure I was torn and whimpering inside, but so was everyone else, and mind games, inevitably, work advantageous wonders given the appropriate scenario (racing, not relationships. that shit's just not cool). Let them look at you and wonder why and how you have fresh legs. I've looked at others and wondered the very same thing; but, it is in these instances when we realize exactly how powerful the mind is.

Thanks for the sketchy singletrack mud and endless fire road climbs laid over miles of pine and creeping mist; thanks for the opportunity... couldn't have been any better. Props to Lizzy for crashing (around the same precarious water bar section I also crashed on), flatting, and still whooping me. Props to Pia on her first 50 mile mountain bike race... her and Nuby are gems. Also, thanks to Lizzy and Adam for the clothing, chocolate, water, and laughs; those kids sure know how to handle a natural disaster.

Pia and me post-race. Borrowed clothing has a different kind of comfort to it, especially when it is clean and you are cold and dirty.

Supah Dee

2010-06-15T12:15:00.000-07:00

Ashland, where this past weekend's 12 mile super-d was held, once again (we were there to race the Spring Thaw XC a few weeks prior) fell nothing short of Arcadia. Emigrant Lake Campground, where we camped out for three star-strewn nights, had us perched, evidently, above Emigrant Lake. At dusk we consumed fire and tinfoil meals, with the extending gold and purple valley as our guest of honor; come darkness, we found ourselves in sleep by losing our thoughts in the murmur of frogs; and at dawn, we awoke to the sun caught in the lake where muted frogs now scavenged for food. One more day, and we swore we would have awoken to unicorns and fair maidens prancing around the tent.

Despite having gone off course for a few seconds (which is A LOT of time considering the race weighs in at a sub-45 minute duration), I otherwise turned myself inside out and was satisfied with my riding... that's not to say I don't already have a list of points to improve on, one of them which falls under the category of fire road descents at warp speed. Yeah, I need to find my comfort with such gravely situations; oh, and stay on course. All in all, it was an honor to race with the big kids... check out the results posted below (due to a huge scramble with start times, they have my name posted twice. I assure you my time was sub-45 and NOT sub-3h). Woot, woot, ladies.

A few shots from an epic weekend chock full of sweet riding, good folks, and beautiful terrain.

Rainbows en route to Ashland. Can you say... magic?

Wookie eating the magic.

Mornin' view at the campsite.

Despite their ability to poop air frequently, wookies make excellent race mechanics and killer breakfasts.

The opening fire road descent. Yes, there is still snow, and yes, we were FLYING.

First "climb", which took about 5 minutes, but still fulfilled its duty in making you feel as though you were going to ralph.

Pre-riding in the land of pine. Woot. Woot.

Anthem (yeah Ayn Rand, I feel ya), which rode superbly, watches a sun go to sleep across the valley.

Raw Rev kept me fed ALL WEEKEND LONG... much appreciated.

Wookie, some racers, and a fuzzy Mount Shasta in the background. Yes, that is California.

Props to the New Kids on the Block

2010-06-10T11:17:00.000-07:00

While the team kit is still in preparation mode, I wanted to give mad props to a few of my new sponsors for XC season 2010. Raw Revolution, who also sponsors Jane Pearson (ya'll know that funny Brit who rides really fast from back east), just sent me boxes upon boxes of delicious and nutritious bars... I am psyched. SoyuRide, another east coast company specializing in all natural, soy-based chamois butter (also a supporter of JORBA), is in the process of sending me a case of tins for my coolie... sweet. As well, the main scrilla sponsor for the season is a brewing company based out of Eugene, Oregon called Ninkasi, which means free quality local brews for all parties interested... plus, the guys at Ninkasi seem pretty darn cool; needless to say, I am looking forward to partnering with them.

More props to sponsors later, though. Tonight we leave for Ashland and Saturday we will be rallying downhill as fast as we can for the Ashland 12 Mile Super-D... fortunately the shop I work at two days a week, Hutch's, was kind enough to lend me an Giant Anthem X2, a full suspension el sicko whip for the race! Woot. Woot. No matter the weather, should be a grand ol' time.

Make that Engine Purrr

2010-06-07T23:20:00.001-07:00

I figured now is as good a time as any to start up the old blog engines; we'll do things the right way, step by step, starting real slow-like... until she's purring.

Smith Rock. Climbed all over those faces this winter.

First trip out to McKenzie River Trail. I went alone and we fell in love. We have seen each other twice more, and despite my having found other singletrack lovers since then, the feeling remains strong. Can you say "A-Mazing"?

My friend, Matt (who also happens to hail from Jersey, and with whom I share a mutual friend in Ecuador... insert cliche statement about the minuscule size of the world now), and I blending in with the forest at Sahalie Falls.

We have only just begun...

Miss You Kids...

2010-03-02T17:48:00.001-08:00

Some quick photos. Much has been a-brewing...

P.S. I'm in Bend

2010-01-25T00:18:00.001-08:00

Sick moves, Kwan.

Steamboat Springs solo ice ride.

Steamboat Springs winter riding down Elk River Road.

Steamboat Springs morning. Hello.

After a day of shredding with bro and Steph: Brighton, Utah.

Entering Utah, rocks turn red and the mesas grow.

Watching as the topography and geography of the land morph with each kilometer traveled... entering Utah.

Taina... Steamboat Springs, CO.

Emigration Canyon summit, take one.

Emigration Canyon summit, take two.

Emigration Canyon summit, take three.

Emigration Canyon: SLC, Utah.

Somewhere in Idaho...? The fact the town is named 'Snowville' is what is important.

Mi casita.

Habian dos parejas de tres caballos cada una... que bella.

Sunday snow ride.

Which hippies once dwelled in here, and to where did they travel?

Land of the False Flats ride, outside of Bend.

Right Now

2010-01-07T17:06:00.000-08:00

Night number one in Higginsville, Missouri... after the car took a siesta in the middle of a snowstorm on route 70. One ride in a tow truck with Ralph, two nights in a by-the-hour hotel no tell with minimal heat, 600$, and many random Missouri incidences later my brother and I are in Kansas City. Tomorrow? Denver or bust.

As we rolled out of town today two state troopers were parked at our classy motel, with one more pulling in. Drug bust. Definite drug bust.

Thanks to the kind folks at Dye's in Higginsville for the automotive assistance, and thanks to my bro (i.o.u.). More words to come...

PDX Cross

2009-12-22T20:49:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-22T17:51:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-22T19:47:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-22T18:37:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-02T07:06:00.000-08:00

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

2009-10-20T22:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-10-05T18:00:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-23T21:15:00.000-07:00

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

Nittany Lion and Charm City Cross

2009-09-21T09:50:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-20T20:42:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-09-17T08:05:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-09T15:52:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-07T21:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-09-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-09-03T19:59:00.001-07:00

The Kingdom Trails: Zermont's Royal Family

2009-08-26T14:59:00.000-07:00

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.

II.

2009-08-16T19:50:00.000-07:00

These days it seems to be just photos. Perhaps we can point an accusatory finger at the disappearance of time for any lack of words around here, but the blame game gets us nowhere in life, and I fancy photos just the same. Fingers aside, a picture can be worth a thousand words, no? Let's make it a thousand and seven, for old time's sake, and equate the past two entries to a loosely woven novella, severed mid-tale by a week long hiatus--how else would I get you to stick around? I want you on the edge of that seat.

Words to follow at some unforeseen point in the starry future.

Sitting on plastic bags in cold rivers works wonders for the legs, and the spirit.

Super excited to race!

I loved this short, steep climb. Just power up it real fast and then be on your merry little way. Oh, and if you get a chance, rip some other girl's legs off in the process.

From one generation to the next, nothing tells a story like experience.

Woot. Woot. Where's Janey Girl?

Campmor photo shoot. Thanks, Patty.

In white hot pursuit. We stayed together the entirety of this glorious run, with York, finishing seconds ahead. What a blast!

A-W-K-W-A-R-D.

Woot, woot to Willy.

And E. Either she is lost in the trance of some music in a shady disco joint somewhere, or she just pulled in for a win.

After xc and sd we really just needed to race that pig somewhere and call it a day.

So, we signed Adam Craig's birthday card. I think I left something silly on there, like my phone number, who knows these days. Anything is possible.

Al reuniting with a bud, Ethan, from her training camp in Switzerland.

Easy E revving the Super D at Windham. Photo courtesy of Cyclingnews.

Off to race the SICK BIRD Super D course at Windham.
No, Ellen did not biff. We had to start the race by laying down, hopping up, and then executing a somersault at some point before reaching our bikes. Nice tuck-n-roll, E.

Remnants from Mt. Snow. Thanks, Art.

E needs glasses and a headlamp to read the toll charge card on the thruway. That's ok.

How far are you willing to go for a green card?

That far?

Dinner glam shot number two: "The Bomb Scare"

Laundry time/leg soak spot=psychedelic suds=drug week commencement activities.

Need I say anything more...

Dar and E reminiscing.

The Name of the Game

2009-08-12T20:07:00.001-07:00

Wendi sent me this. Check it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vn29DvMITu4

That's what I thought.

Mount Snow

2009-08-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

For now, here are some photos from the weekend. I have a bit of writing to do, as I have had two trips to Mount Snow, a friend fly in from Ecuador, and a grab bag assortment of other "life things" occur since my fingers last pressed some solid thought into these keys. Until I get a chance to settle the hummingbird in my chest and actually sort ideas into letters into words, gnaw on some gnarly eye candy.

Alexandra y yo.

Willy (Wheelie), yo, y Al.

A mightily pensive Big-E.

Woot. Woot. Pre-Super.D Practice. Man, was I slow.

Alexandra at Mount Snow.

Lift ladies.

Rasta twins.

Wiley. I could make a word rhyme with his name, appropriately so, but that would just be redundantly annoying.

Work. It.

Al y yo.

A family of beached whales.

La fuerza de la flor.

Carl Decker sneakering his way to to a super.d start.

My sis, Marianne.

Post-Mt. Snow, back home and at Skyline.

Que rabo grande, no?

Tan lines are a beautiful thing.

Al so did not want to jump. I made her.

I wanted to get all of us kids to do a different dinner pose every night. This is dinner glam shot number one.

Al, yo, y Bruce (the man behind that booming voice announcing every Kenda Cup East race this year).

Vaya! Sin agua!

Such a great breakfast, which I enjoyed on a morning porch alongside a Sunday coffee steaming into sun rays and dew-laced air. Cool mountain mornings that lay out a blanket for your contemplations are certainly something to write home about.

Sunday short track start.

Don't sell yourself, Marianne. Don't do it. Ask her if she takes personal checks, though, I ran out of Butterscotch Suckers.

Spiderman stickin' to his stealth mode swagger.

Wiley y Al. Special...ized.

Kids Say the Strangest Things

2009-07-27T17:10:00.000-07:00

This morning I was in the kitchen and took a brief moment to gaze through the screen door and into the backyard. As I was doing so, a plastic peanut butter jar fell from the huddling of trees to the left. If I had not known any better I would say it had been flung from the sky, but upon closer inspection I could see the litterer perched high above in the branches. Within seconds of his fumble, the squirrel was down with his head in the jar, desperately trying to salvage any remnants of spreadable goodness.

Breaking Bread

2009-07-23T21:07:00.000-07:00

With...

Question: Am I, along with everyone else, allergic to gluten?

Independent Variable: Gluten measured in any way shape or form.

Dependent Variable: The reaction of my body, in particular the functioning of its intestinal tract.

Now I am no scientist, and perhaps I mixed up my labeling of dependent and independent variables, but after two solid weeks of self-testing, evidential conclusions have thus far yielded a big, fat, YES.

Before discovering this allergy, though, I took some snapshots of the whole wheat and flax seed pitas I had started to make on a weekly basis for consumption. I also took some glam shots of my latest loaf of gluten-free bread. Compare and contrast if you must, but the latter is surprisingly delicious and nutritious, which is a plus for the dependent variable of this solitary case study.

And without.

Ketchup

2009-07-12T20:44:00.000-07:00

Today's NJSC/AMBC race at Kittatinny delivered itself in several assorted packages. With the bad came the good, and with the good came something better. In package numero uno we had something good, and that thing was strength: mental, physical, you name it and either way I felt pretty darn good. In package number two there was something not so good (ok, it was bad), and that thing was a flat tire. Package tres, whose contents can and will be more appreciated over time and through reflection, encased the specific events which occurred as a result of opening package number two (although I still would have rather not had to untie that twine, obviously). Package three was the bearer of a bigger picture--something better.

After two laps my tire began to froth Stan's from the mouth, and so a 29er tube was squished between my 26er rim and tire (don't ask) and I was on my way to play catchup for the last two laps. Prior to this point I had been zipping along in a solid second place, but alas the nature of life cares not for comfort and so I found myself in a challenging game of carrot on a stick. Three cat one women had passed as I was fumbling with my back wheel. The game?--Oh, it was on.

Now it was my aim to take back what was rightfully mine. Who would have thought you could "take back time," but the world of bike racing is peculiar like that. In the end result of this scenario, time had been lost and found, my shoulder was sore from exceeding the so-called limits of my tires, and two places were eventually reclaimed. Although I had wanted to regain just a small pocketful more of time, I did receive the satisfaction of being introduced to some of the contents inside package number three: Joe Manga (sorry if I biffed up your name, we were in race concentration when you said it).

In full predator mode and on a hunt for the elusive second place (nice hustle, Bischoff), the sound of my own respiration paused just long enough to hear "By the way, I'm a fan," spoken from the male racer I had just passed. I thought out loud, "Of... what?" Apparently this pleasant fellow was a fan of my blog. Yeah, the thing you are reading at this very moment, he seems to dig it. His name was Joe and he briefly related to me how last year, when he was laid up in a sling, that it was Dirt Rag and my blogging chronicles that kept him going. I think he also mentioned how he got his daughter into riding (for the record she is into writing) as a result, although I could be mistaken, as I was focused on pumping away for my prey. WOW. If you are reading this right now, Joe, THANK YOU. I write this stuff, and always have written it, first and foremost for me. For my own recollection. When I was informed that I had not only reached, but also perhaps helped to keep another spirit afloat, I felt honored. I was still bummed about the flat tire, but in retrospect Joe's words made me appreciate everything that had gone right instead of focusing on the one thing that had gone wrong.

Predator.

The contents of package number three were turning out to be alright, as I also was given the opportunity to support my teammate, Marianne. I knew she had a fairly decent sized gap on Serruto, and so upon reaching her I reinforced the fact that if she held her steady pace, she could pull in for her first H2H win in the cat one 40+, which she did. She is a talented individual and a strong rider. Props to Marianne for her hard work. Woot. Woot. After pulling away to continue my hunt I hoped that my words had at least held some sort of boost for my teammate, just as Joe's did for me. Sometimes it's a few small words that keep us going.

After all is said and done, opening each of the packages life throws at us and then adapting to or working with the contents inside seems to always be the better choice. Today I got to play predator instead of prey; I learned some things about myself and some things about others; I exchanged smiles, along with a few homemade cookies, cried a little (not really, ok maybe a few tears) and had a damn good time riding my bike.

Prey.

(Thanks also to Bruce for his positive attitude and much needed assistance. Thanks to GTLuke for the photos as well.)

One Geared LM

2009-07-10T18:07:00.000-07:00

F-A-S-T=this past Sunday's race at LM.

Rain.

2009-07-01T10:31:00.000-07:00

It's been raining. A lot. Most races, save for the last two or three, have felt like early season, extended duration cyclocross battles. Nice.

Radical Honesty

2009-06-08T18:42:00.000-07:00

Southern trucking slogans.

Jane and Alex were swindled while Spooky kid's travel funds reached an all-time high. Intentions were good.

One to one. That's the ratio between how often I have remained motionless, sprawled under a tussle of morning covers, convinced that I could somehow compress an hour of preparation into the 3 minutes before my carpool's ETA, and how often I have actually accomplished such a proposed hurdle of time. Despite previous attempts at superhuman speed preparation, this Saturday morning was no exception to the resultant trend. Knowing very well that Jane and Alex (plus one, Kenny) were going to arrive in Oakland at 7am, my body seemed to remain in space cadet mode until I heard the actual, physical, halt of car tires outside my house. For the record, the caravan actually arrived at 6:55, thus ruling out the fact that I just might have made and eaten breakfast, stretched, brushed my teeth, and gathered various last minute articles, all in less than five minutes. The Gordian Kot remains yet to be untied.

Our trip down to Virgina consisted of A.) Jane and I passed out in the back seat; B.) Frequent pee breaks, some rain, and a peppering of references to my sleeping habits; C.) Dollar store, retina-burning, mod sunglasses; D.) An incessant search for Starbucks to appease Jane's addiction (hey-o, Perry Farrell), something she admits to, which is the first step to recovery; and E.) Radical Honesty and Alex's Alaskan glory days. In other words, we laughed a lot and it was a damn good time.

Arriving at the Massanutten venue sometime after noon, we changed into spandex, rationed water, and relieved our bladders in the purple and yellow Port-O-Jons lining the start/finish area (at first step inside my mind drew a parallel to what, perhaps, the inside of a dinosaur egg might be like: humid, glowing, and dank with a mixture of excreted smells; a steamy violet terrarium). The proposed chill, one hour pre-ride turned into a 2.5 hour investment involving sweat, mud, dehydration, flat tires, and much beating sun. The course was, however, gorgeous--agreeably, collectively, and undeniably stellar. For sure a new favorite. To start, a respectable climb writhed through a thick, pre-summer forest, ascending the Blue Ridge Mountains like neatly laid twine. Occasional shelves of engineered stonework sliced across the trail, eventually melting into a rock gardened ridgeline overlooking the expanse of hazed valley below. The downhill was just as enjoyable as the climb, with bermed turns that culled hoots and hollers of pure joy from within as I tested the limits of my Nevegals on each arching trajectory--The curved motion is maintained so long as the net force provides the centripetal force requisite to the motion. My point exactly.

After the longer than desired pre-ride, we packed up the car and shuttled off to the hotel located "just across the street"Right. Within a half hour we arrived at the building allotted for the congregation of boring timeshare tours and lodging check-in. From there it was a circuitous route of three or so miles to our actual place of rest: a standard, cleanly, condo-looking string of housing units, each with their own welcome packets containing soap, toothpaste, Pepto Bismol tablets, and obscure murder mystery novels.

Heading into town in search of grains, at my request, and Taco Bell, at Kenny's request, we settled upon an eatery holding neither grains nor processed taco meat--a bustling brew pub adjacent to the local bike shop. Apparently Alex is still not accustomed to driving on the right-hand side of the road, as he drove clear over the sidewalk in order to park in a metered lot. That's the Brits for you.

After fueling for the next day's race we set out on a quest to find the missing link in Jane's Sidi shoes: Duct tape. While on line at the self-checkout we observed a young lad diligently and determinately weighing a plastic bag of meticulously chosen, toasted marshmallow Jelly Bellys over and over again. Dubbing in witty dialogue as the cashier on duty searched his three-ringed binder of laminated PLU codes, a brow of bewilderment inhabiting his forehead, there was no holding back the laughter. Originally created to simplify the experience of the average supermarket shopper, self-checkout has since proved itself not only to be a source of counter-productivity, but also one of great amusement. Despite the queue of self-checkout-ers growing behind him, the earnest young man held his own, pressing buttons, lifting his goods, waiting, pushing more buttons, and then re-weighing his counted beans beyond any Northeasterner's point of patience. Clearly, he was from the South. As we exited the store with Duct tape in hand, we were left to ponder the fate of our enduring young friend, his girlfriend in support at his side, and whether or not he would at last receive the satisfaction of his toasted marshmallow treat. It's a jungle out there; but as we witnessed one clear summer night in Harrisonburg, persistence, precise placement of weighable goods, and a variation of PLU codes just might be the clincher against the ineptitude of technological advancements plaguing our contemporary world today--Go for it.

Turns out persistence and determination, more often than not, also work well in other situations, such as mountain bike racing. After three hours of hard pedaling, the following day saw Jane take third in the Pro class and myself secure second overall for Cat 1 ladies. Way to get our bag of beans.

Rewind to the start line. It was not until the gaggle of racers took off, and my friend Janice and I were left scrambling to get on our bikes, that we found out the Massanutten Hoo Ha would be a mass start. Oh well. The first 45 minutes or so were fairly clogged, unless of course you were at the front of such a rushing movement of gears and cleats and sweating, heaving bodies. I was not; but after some time Janel and I settled into the climb, with one girl ahead and the rest at our heels. The course consisted of two 12.2-ish mile loops, with my total time lasting about 3.5 hours. Lap one felt ok, even with the heat, and I simply made it a point to keep Demeter within earshot while fending off the others and keeping fluids flowing in. Atop the ridgeline, despite starting to feel the affects of the 90+ degree day, I managed to scoot around Demeter and settle in for some sweet descending. And sweet it was. Recall to mind those bermed turns of perfect trajectory mentioned earlier? Yup, the good ones. Well, I could not help from yipping all the way down, a trail of two Roanoke racers (as we exchanged places of origin in between breaths) getting all riled up as a result of my unquestionable enthusiasm, which in turn made me push the opposition of those centripetal and centrifugal forces even more. Energy feeding energy, feeding energy. We live for it.

After some time I did manage to take a good biff, over the bars, although it happened so fast I cannot quite recall how. Regardless, I lost one spot in that spill, but knowing the start/finish area was close at hand, I hauled it towards the purple and yellow dinosaur eggs, and twenty minutes before entering lap number two, took back the spot I had momentarily lost. The climb for lap number two was S-L-O-W, as my body flipped between the urge to throw up and the sensation of chills. Dehydration at its best. Not enough fluids could be held down and so the first long climb of the second lap I entered survival mode. My goal was to keep a pace, even if walking, that would be equivalent to riding in, say, granny. My aim was also to disallow the girl behind me, whom I think I could hear the voice of, from seeing my slowness. A lot of racing is mental, and if she could see my sloth-like state, she might feel as though she could catch me, which was just not acceptable.

With about a half hour to go I caught up to Felicia, a sweet girl and solid racer whom I met last year at Mount Snow. She recently upgraded to Pro and had done a 24 hour solo race, and won, the weekend before and so was also in survival mode. It was really nice to see her, really nice, and so I waited the extra few minutes after finishing in order to spin the legs out in her company.

In the end, Jane picked up some cash flow, I picked up a Surly chain tensioner (images of poison ivy, zip ties, and malfunctioning singulators resurfaced from last weekend's Single-Speed-a-Palooza), and we all picked up a collectible series of memories and experience, minus the player trading cards.

Cramping back into the car we set out on our journey northward, searching along the way for a descent roadside eatery that was not also selling Realtree camo and rifles. After passing up several viable options, mine and Jane's hands streaking the inside of the car's windows as possibilities grew smaller with distance, we knew that Alex was holding out for something good. Sure enough he found a gem, the fine dining establishment he had been waiting for, Shoney's Buffet. I will not say much, only the understatement that roadside buffets are never a good idea for the satiation of hunger. For some reason or another one is almost always certain to overhear conversations concerning death, illness, or hospitalization when eating at a roadside buffet such as the one we landed, which may or may not be a drawback for paying customers. I will say thank you to Jane, though, for footing the bill with her day's winnings. And Alex, I am just busting on you, as your treating us to dinner at the pub in Harrisonburg was more than appreciated.

ByeKyle.com

2009-06-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

A ways back I submitted some scribblings to the art department of Dirt Rag Magazine and, lo and behold, they were published in sidebar on one of their many glossed pages. From this publishing I was contacted by Kyle (of ByeKyle.com) who was in the fledgling stages of launching his own product, Simple Straps, which are used for cyclists to hold various objects (tubes, CO2, tire levers, gu flasks, and so on) to the seat posts, top tubes, and frames of their bicycles. Neat-o. Kyle asked if I would create some pieces for his site, and so after two months in Ecuador I returned and began to do exactly that. Since my old computer has since bit the dust, I do not currently have the software to upload any new creations to my website (humblecoalition.com) and so I have decided to share them here, in this bump-on-a-pixelated-log blogging world. Until software has been obtained and installed, I shall be sharing my scribblings right... here. Interesting how our lives are a series of seemingly unrelated yet highly interconnected (and very related) series of events. Enjoy.

P.S. Look forward to an August show at Jersey City's LITM (litm.com), as well as some collaborations with artist, climber, and debuting deejay extraordinaire, TKNY (timkeenan.net).

Leaves of Three, Let it Be

2009-06-03T14:00:00.000-07:00

I swear I was racing. (Photo courtesy of GTLuke)

Easy E. I swear she was racing, too. (Photo courtesy of GTLuke)

This past weekend's first ever Singlespeed-a-Palooza (Sponsored by Darkhorse Cycles) started off with the following: one gear, one chain tensioner, two Gu packs, and one bottle of water. The same race was finished with one gear, one chain tensioner fastened to the frame with one black ziptie, no Gu packs, no water, and far too much urushiol. The consistent variable?--one gear.

Exiting the fireroad descent and entering the first section of singletrack I tucked in behind powerhouse Linscott. She had slightly taller gearing and so it was on the first climb that I managed to squeeze by on her left and settle in for some mano y mano singletrack time. Now one would think that using less gears translates to less mechanicals, right? Wrong, truth is there are no favorites here, and after some alone time with the trails, I lost the only gear I had. Bummer. Turns out the chain tensioner did not want to stay in place, and so neither did the chain. After repositioning the chain tensioner, and thus reinstating the chain, not but two minutes down the road did they decide to set themselves free again, and again, and, hmmm, then again. Persistent little contrabands, eh?

Standing along the flanks of Stewart's beautiful singletrack trails, watching riders whir past, one by one, I wondered how I could rig something that would put me back in the good stuff. Let me rephrase that--I stood, bathing in a pile of poison ivy, watching people whiz by in contentment, while trying to figure out how I could finish the race. Miraculously, I stood gaping as one of the last female racers slowed down to meet me and my patience--what was she up to? Turns out she was a downhiller, just out for a change in pace; also turns out her chain tensioner was a stubborn little rebel as well, and that she had the key component to help make my race: a sleek, black, riveted zip tie. Yes, please.

No outside help in a race, I know, but desparate times call for desperate measures, and I knew I was no longer in the running for placement. I simply wanted to enjoy the remaining twists, whoops, and berms, play some high speed catchup, and finish the can of worms I had opened up. Thanks to Allie, a regular ol' MacGyver/Velo Bella downhiller, I was able to just that.

Although I would have like to have had a working singlespeed (la culpa mia, entirely), it was satisfying to watch my teammate, Ellen, zip by at a good clip and pull out a solid third place finish. The first annual Singlespeed-a-Palooza was a day of lessons, some of which I am still scratching at the surface of (literally, each day since has been a test of willpower against the spreading urushiol across the inside of my left arm). Apparently, singlespeed does not necessarily translate to more simple, as Wendi also found out when her pedal came off (still attached to her foot) and Jocelyn saw when someone ran into her from behind and burped any chance of finishing out of her tire. Good thing we know how to roll with the punches, and when to punch back. Thanks to Hawaiian Mike and the whole crew up at Darkhorse for a great course and new annual event for singlespeeding.

Logic

2009-06-02T12:38:00.000-07:00

Several weekends ago I participated in the Saturday morning group road ride out of Park Ridge; I also participated in not using logic. The results are as follows.

Being out of the house and on your bike by seven am--thin strips of rubber peeling from pavement to sky and then back again in fractions of a second, the early sun yawning across an undulating and car-less land--provides a rather distinct sense of satisfaction, something almost inexplicable. If you have ever been the recipient of such an early morning ride experience, you know exactly what I mean.

Gliding into the center of Park Ridge, I encountered a simmering congregation of cyclists on the brink of turning into a rolling boil of departure. My intentions had been to get in a good three+ hour ride (including the return trip home), which did indeed occur, despite failing the day's test in logic and reasoning.

Although I did not know the route we were set to take, one piece of information I did know was that wherever we ended (back in Park Ridge) there would be a sprint finish, something which I had been looking forward to (having lost by one second in a sprint down at Greenbrier, it has been on my list of things to improve). Evidently, like searching for town borders to sprint across, the finish was at the forefront of my mind and thus impeded any and all possible use of common sense.

On a long downhill the group splintered, leaving me alone, with a pack off the front and a pack off the back. I could hear the breath of a man bridging to me and so I decided to turn on the pistons for my own good, and push it out on the proceeding section of flat. I did not want to miss out on the sprint. After trading a few pulls back and forth, still feeling strong, I motored away in search of the rest of the peleton.

And there they were, on the other side of the road, facing the opposite direction, lining up for a final sprint finish. So, I came to a full stop, changed direction, and joined the idling peleton. As we started to roll I could see several blurs pumping past my peripheral vision, moving steadily in the direction I had previously been headed. Logically, one would question why a group ride would stop momentum, pull a u-turn, and wait on the other side of the road--which initially I did wonder, but then decided to ignore. Word of obvious advice: always go with your first instinct, it is usually correct. Slowly, feeling as though I was going against the grain of a giant force, I began to comprehend and eventually accept the illogicality of my decision. The jerseys surrounding me began to come into focus and, of course, I did not recognize any of them; followed by the riders wearing those jerseys, none of which I recognized either. As blindly as I had entered my tunneled vision did I exit it, and within a matter of seconds the dam witholding my lake of pooling logic finally broke, sending a flood of comprehensive reasoning and flowing thought process into the rivers of my veins and, at last, into the cerebral cortex of my brain.

An exclamation of strung choice words, followed by two sets of fingers each pulling back sharply on two sets of brake levers, ejected themselves from my mouth and my bike was once again changing direction. In order to catch up with the group I had commenced with, imagine that, I started up the pistons again, struggling to catch a glimpse of anyone pedaling into the horizon. Fortunately, two Park Ridge riders, bewildered by my sudden turnaround and accompaniment of an entirely different group, had waited for me at the subsequent turn. Oh how I felt the hue of my hair show itself with gleaming pride. Apparently, blondes do have more fun, or get made fun of more, whichever way you look at it the word fun is involved.

Often we learn more by backpedaling through the steps of an illogical decision than from actually making the most obviously logical decision in the first place; such situations are what add flavor to the fruition of one's intentions, provide grounds for personal revelation and strengthening of vital decision making skills, and most importantly offer a platform from which to laugh at one's self. After all was said and done, I did get my sprint finish, albeit alone, and after losing and un-losing myself during the return ride home, ended up with around three hours of ciruitously solid riding. Another good day made all the more interesting by the absence, or moreso momentary blockage of skills in logic--I'll take it.

Tymor... knots, or your shoe might come off

2009-05-17T18:03:00.000-07:00

...Or don't tie any knots, because the point is that there is no secret formula to doing things "the right way," a simple notion strongly reinforced during my recent travels to Ecuador. More times than not you fill yourself through trial and error, try your hardest, and just see what type of shit comes out the other end; in great part, that's the beauty of life, that sometimes you simply don't know, but that you do anyway, I mean really do--and the chips, well, they fall wherever they want to.

........

When today's lunchbox tipped over and its contents were spilled onto the pavement of Tymor's parking lot, there was an assortment of wondrous goodies revealed: a thermos of soupy, peanut-colored mud; a sprinkling of rain wrapped in reused tin foil; a salad of moistened coffee grind soil, verdant fern, and carrot-peeled roots; a medium-sized Tupperware full of laughter; and an unopened race. Savoring the scent of pine needles drying, while carefully consuming each and every morsel, to the last crumb, there was a complete and honest sense of inner-satisfaction that seemed to be reached. There was a certain fulfillment found through the process of digesting life's little pieces. Life, at least one vein of it, is about how well we digest things--the food is all there, sometimes we choose and sometimes things are chosen for us, but for the most part, it is about how we digest each, individual meal and about which nutrients we extract from the whole feast.
This afternoon I dined, and I dined well. I was one fluid movement with the contents of today's lunchbox, and although I may not have known what the outcome was going to be, I consumed anyway, knowing that I was capable of digesting the raw food of an experience, and that the chips would fall, one way or another.

........

Also bringing a little Latin flavor to today's lunchbox was a Saran wrapped sandwich of the Campeonato Nacional del Ecuador, Ecuador's National XC Championships. I hope digestion went well for my friends racing in Loja this afternoon. As we were most likely on course around the same time, only worlds apart, you were all in my thoughts as we suffered, pushed, and pedaled together.

Paraíso Night Race

2009-04-21T08:02:00.000-07:00

I love riding at night.

Ghetto-rigged light system for the race, which faded within the first fifteen minutes off of the start line. It was interesting, not to mention beneficial in several ways, to have to race by memory. Each lap I had to recall what turn was where, which rocks were next, and honestly trust myself and the terrain around me. More words to come on the subject of trust...

People Pieces

2009-04-21T07:59:00.000-07:00

Words and stories to follow.

Cayambe!!!

2009-04-21T07:32:00.001-07:00

Below is a smorgasbord of photos from my first big mountain summit, Cayambe, which is around 5790 meters (I'll do the multiplication for you, that's 17,370 feet). For sure this was one of the hardest "things" I have ever done, and more words on this will erupt (no pun intended, being that Cayambe is one of Ecuador's many volcanoes) in the future, but for now just enjoy the eye candy.
Anisa and me, after much time in the back of a pickup en route to Cayambe, enjoying some locally produced ice cream known throughout Ecuador for its one-of-a-kind flavor.

The first night at Felipe's farmhouse we dined over a pot of melted chocolate, dipping into its rich mess with grapes, apples, bananas, and whatever else we could find. Anisa and Marga gave the meal a huge thumbs up.

The shutters in my room rocked.

A film would perhaps do this drive better justice in terms of accurately exlpaining just how insane it was. On one side was a sheer drop, on the other was the view of treacherous switchbacks we were to ascend, and in the middle--a "road" littered with massive boulders, holes, flowing waterfalls, and parked cars that could move forward no further. It was a war zone, beautifully exhausted and yet vibrating with energy at the same moment. Our old white Isuzu Panzer made it to the top, at which point it shook its fists in victory at either side of its triumphant head and came to rest aside the first refuge of Cayambe.

Jumar, el oso.

Galo in the gap.
I tried to maintain a very slow pace, along with conscious breathing, hoping that it would curb any grips of altitude sickness that might be lurking just over the top of the next climb.

The first day's short hike to where we would set up camp for the night.

The ice formations are unbelievable, in color and size, in the depth of the fissures they create. And the feeling they emit is that of old wisdom and informidable strength, perhaps because they have been there for thousands of years, steady, confident, and all-knowing. Sadly, though, each year the ice retreats a little more due to the warming of our globe, which supposedly is an occurrence that either a. does not exist, or b. we should not be concerned about.

Karl brought his apron in order to be able to cook us a proper meal of pasta and chili with a side of soup.

The crew, or at least most of us.

Karl and Galo discussing pre-summit route tactics.

Chicititas!

Needless to say, we have a good time when we get together: Marga, me, and Anisa.

Anisa, yo, and the the ice of Cayambe.

This is what I am talking about... the energy of this ancient ice is a steady stream of confidence and unwavering strength.

Karlcito.

Marga's pants, with Galo wearing them.

Night slowly but surely laying its hand over the body of Cayambe.

It was emotional, it was peace, it was like nothing else and so many things at once: The Summit.

From the inside looking out: Felipe's farmhouse.

Cayambe in the distance, from the backyard of the farmhouse.

Segunda Valida Nacional: Ibarra

2009-04-21T07:17:00.000-07:00

At the second national race, which I attended the day after climbing Cayambe, spectators could enjoy a view of the entire course as it laid itself out over the hills of Ibarra. Although I was beat from Cayambe, I had to borrow a bike (Orbea Alma, full carbon hardtail named Bacha, sweet!), and I began my race 10 minutes behind the other girls because that was when Bacha arrived (nothing like adjusting to a new bike with an Ecuadorian national race); despite my not feeling prepared, hydrated, or well rested at all, after three sweaty, bermed, flowing and steep laps, I was content that Anisa nearly forced me to follow through and race. More words to follow, tired right now, just enjoy the photos.

Ruben about to enter the off camber switchbacks.

Ruben and the Columbian, sweatin' it out while trading first place back and forth like it was the last Linkin Log remaining between two juvenile architects: they each wanted it badly.

Damas elite: Alexandra, Cristina, y su hermana. Represent.

Las tres amigas. It was always us three, and we always finished the same, and it was always a good time.

Karl, Ruben, and the Columbian.

Afterwards, a night time dip in the natural hot springs.

Roger, Karl, Anisa y su lengua, siempre.

Ruben, driving fast.

Mi Cuenca.

Mijos en las Escalinatas

2009-04-17T17:10:00.000-07:00

For Bagre´s birthday I made a specific trip, other than the usual, into Cajas in order to find a stone. Once I encountered that stone I visited the hippies that dwell on the Escalinatas during day hours. There Alba was, on a windy afternoon, braiding and twisting twine as her daughter and son meandered the steps. I asked her to make a bracelet using the stone I had collected, and after about an hour I had in my posession Bagre´s bracelet handmade, as well as the friendship of an affectionate four-year-old. I am not certain if he wears the gift, but I made it for my own reasons, and he is free to do whatever he pleases with it; either way, I spent almost two hours dissintegrating the barriers of language and age, building a memory with a little girl who, frankly, just wanted somebody to laugh with, long hair to braid, and perhaps a pair of warm arms to hold her on a windy day. Grácias a tí, Alba, la pulsera está hermosa.

La Cuerda Floja

2009-04-15T09:01:00.000-07:00

A good friend of mine, Andy, and I used to study, lunch it, and slackline while living at Rutgers. Slacklining here has brought back memories of the laughter, stories, and balancing we shared. The company is different, and the rope is now set up in Parque de La Madre in Ecuador, as opposed to Cook Campus in Dirty Jersey, but the sentiment is quite the same. Hope you are doing well, Andy.

Chimborazo: Las Rayas

2009-03-31T10:34:00.000-07:00

I figured I´d better write about Chimborazo before we head to Cayambe, tomorrow afternoon, and there is a whole other story to tell.

Driving the Pan-American Highway, six hours to the first refuge at Chimborazo, is quite the experience. As noted in previous entries, highways here are different than in the States, especially the Pan-American. Cows, dogs, and people litter the flanks of this major road, just as much as crater-sized potholes splatter its dusty earth surface. A few hours into the drive, the major delay was the aftermath of a massive mudslide. The road, perhaps several small animals, and the front entrance to a roadside tienda were enveloped by an onslaught of rushing mud, trees, and boulders.

The accumulation of cars had been waiting more than two hours, so we decided to take matters into our own hands and make a simple request, that the largest boulders be removed first in order to make a pathway for the motorists. The thigh deep mud could be slushed around after traffic passed through. The request was acknowledged and we were once again on our way through the verdent and seemless patchwork that is the Andes.

Galo, Anisa, Drew, and I (with Jumar in the bed of the truck) bumped along until we reached just outside of Chimborazo and stopped for a 1.25$ lunch fit enough to feed a king: a full glass of melon and avena juice to wash down a bountiful serving of chicken, sweet bananas, potatoes, and rice. By the time our stomachs had finished digesting we were at the first refuge of Chimborazo, located in a moon-like atmosphere at around 4,800 meters. It was snowing tiny, consistent flakes, and the consecutive sound of thunder followed by streaks of rayas (lightening) alerted us to the fact that a storm, indeed, was right upon us. The plan had been to hike 2 hours up the left side of Chimbo to an area called El Castillo, attempt to sleep at such an altitude, and then depart at midnight for the cumbre (summit). After changing into our snow gear and securing crampons, pick axes, and harnesses for later use we began our trek. Not even five minutes into the hike (we were still within earshot of the first refuge) Drew mentioned that something was biting him, concluding that for some strange reason there were ants in his jacket. As Drew began to squirm, swiftly remove his pack, and unzip his jacket Ana began to feel the prick of these stinging ants. At first I had to laugh, wondering where the ants had come from in such an environment; honestly, it was rather amusing to see the two of them flailing around while removing packs and jackets. Then it hit me, near my sacrum, then on my hip, then my other hip; I had the ants, too, and they delivered uncomfortable little stings. Galo, a few steps ahead with Jumar, watched with a question written across his face as the three of us danced, yelped, and removed articles of clothing. With the storm still upon us, we began to realize that these stings of pain were not from any infestation of ants, but rather from an electricity building up in our bodies from the rayas. We were being shocked as the energy was building up for a strike, and having metal crampons and pickaxes strapped to our backs only aided in the process of this natural phenomenon. Galo directed us to return immediately to the refuge, as he could hear the static electricity moving amongst the three of our squirming bodies. At last, when we saw a jump of electricity travel down the jacketed arm of Anisa, we booked our stinging selves back to the refuge to wait out the storm.

Ñato, a guide from Baños, and his Canadian tourists occupied the refuge along with our convoy, waiting out the storm in order to ascend. After about an hour we slowly hiked to the second refuge, less than a half hour away, where Anisa wisely decided to dorm for the night. Drew, Galo, Jumar, and I decided to haul our packs up about twenty minutes further in order to set up camp in a snowfield held under the shadow of Chimborazo´s magnificent presence. I arrived with a slight headache, but the beauty of Chimbo pulled my concentration elsewhere.

For lack of time, the following sums up my overnight at Chimbo: Food, nausea; let´s try to sleep, respiration as if I just ran a mile, cannot catch one´s breath; heartbeat thumping in my ears, headache only worsening, heartbeat in my eyes, tears in my eyes; no sleep, nausea; shivers in sub-temps; ears, eyes, head pounding; breath cannot be caught, overwhelming stench of Drew´s farts seals the deal; sometime past midnight Anisa´s voice is heard calling us to ascend. You sound like death Laura. Jumar and I descend to the second refuge in a stumbling haze of fog and cold with a dim headlamp and pounding nausea. After stomping his wet paws across my face and chest for what seemed like hours, Jumar at last settles in and I slip into sleep with the aid of some advil (I had to). The others trek as far as weather would permit them; dangerous crevasses and less than negotiable weather conditions soon cause the demise of their ascent. Around 4am I am awoken by Anisa. I feel significantly better and she needs to sleep, so Jumar and I head out into the cold once again and watch as tiny headlamps descend the sleeping body of Chimborazo, stars slowly trading posts with morning. By 6am I am up at the campsite with Jumar, Galo and Drew just returning from their night´s adventure. I secure my crampons and hike up for about an hour or so, breathing in the beauty, appreciating and adapting. I lay down on the snow and hear nothing and everything all in the same moment. The energies of the earth and of Chimborazo, specifically, interchange with my own. It is a mutual understanding between the two of us. The sound of nothing sounds like everything, a white noise of peace. I give my thanks and my respect, and descend in contentment to stir the others for some breakfast. I will return.

Potpourri for Five Hundred

2009-03-26T06:50:00.000-07:00

Below are a mix of photos from Cuenca and our second trip to Montañitas. Enjoy.

One of my favorite poets, Pablo Neruda, is painted on the wall outside of the library in Cuenca´s center. After taking this photo I decided to enter the library and explore. From what I could see, there were absolutely no books, just a bunch of people on computers who looked up at me as though I had three heads. Feeling uneasy about my two new cerebral growths, I exited the library, dissappointed with my findings. Later on I was told that you must ask for the book you want at the front desk, at which point they will retrieve it for you from some hidden lair. I don´t know what book I want, I just want to explore, isn´t that half the fun of going to a library, crossing paths with texts you would have otherwise not encountered if you had not been browsing? Yes, I used the words ¨fun¨ and ¨library¨ in the same sentence.

Sunset at Samai (Tia Tania and Tio Ed´s place in San Jose, just outside of Montañitas).

I was unable to get my camera out more quickly, but this man with the goats just finished giving a cup of goats´ milk, for a nominal fee, to a young lad. Downtown Cuenca holds all sorts of surprises; traffic can be held up for a number of reasons, two of them being dog´s defecating in intersections and men milking goats in the right hand lane.

More sunset at Samai.

Sunset at Montañitas brought high tides and good surf, which meant the waters were full with talented surfers from around the globe. The energy of a day unwinding emanated a still serenity that could be breathed in, taken for what is was worth, and then exhaled back into the onset of night.

Monstro took some photos of the living barnacles attached to driftwood and scattered along the beach. He also took a candid shot of me through a bicycle wheel.

I had no idea this photo was being taken, and neither did anyone else, which is why I like the results. I can recall what we were all thinking and discussing that the moment, and what Santi was taking a shot of.

Monstro took this shot, capturing the motion of Capoeira very nicely.

After a sweaty ride along the coast.

Me and Mostro loving that we were able to bring our bikes.

Coco Pushcarts

2009-03-24T18:29:00.000-07:00

For my recovery ride on Monday I took a spin into the center of Cuenca, which is only two minutes by bike, to do some people watching. There was a man who was abosrbed in nothing else than what he was consuming at the moment, a muffin just the size of his fist. Before the batteries died I managed to capture a few shots of his focus on the comestible in his posession
.

Se venden trigo y granos.

I particularly enjoy the 25cent bags of freshly cut coconut or mango available from any number of pushcarts roaming the streets of Cuenca.

El Contrereloj de Paute

2009-03-24T11:03:00.000-07:00

This past Sunday Sula and I participated in our first road race. There were about fifty plus roadies and less than ten mountain bikers who gathered at 8am in front of Christen´s bike shop. While other Cuencanians paraded in finely pressed clothes as they scuttled off to perform rituals and repent, we gathered to pray and give thanks in our own way, donning nothing less than our Sunday´s best.

The journey would take us out to Paute (I did not bring my camera with me, but for visual reference there are photos of a climbing bout at Paute in an earlier post), a beautiful trek with a quaint destination. Cradled by the massive forearms of the Andes on either side of us, we rode at a so-called ¨duro¨ pace, which translates roughly to a ¨consistently tough ride.¨ Around 40k out we reached Paute, ate some dried fruit and sandwiches, slugged some water, and then headed back towards Cuenca. With 12k left before the finish, everyone regrouped for the contrereloj. Being the only female mountain biker (there were two other ladies, but they were both roadies) I was first up, with a minute in between each person to follow. I clipped into both pedals as my bike was held upright from behind, and with a Spanish countdown we were off. The results: I felt strong, pushed hard, and surprisingly did not get passed by anyone. Twenty three minutes and thirty seconds after the first pedal stroke I was crossing the finish line content with the morning´s suffering. Acknowledging and appreciating opportunities, and then testing the limits of what I have been given--this is my religion, the flow of my spirituality; this is how I demonstrate I am thankful to be here on earth, this is, in many ways, how I pray.

As for the dynamics of the race itself, and I wish I had a photo to accompany, I must comment: about 1 hour out of the 3 in total was spent riding along the highway, yes, the same as we know them in the states, the highway. By now I have become quite accustomed to riding my bike on the autopista (mom, don´t read this), but to hold a TT on the highway, with an official finish line stretching from the curb to a parked motorcycle in the middle of a three lane highway, was quite the sight to see. There are not as many cars on the highway here as there are in the states, for several reasons, but the traffic is much faster; the scene perhaps parallels that of an early morning 287, to reference one of Jersey´s own autopistas. Although this is only my first road race, besides New Brunswick Alley Cats, I am fairly certain that race officials do not customarily warn riders about the dangers of traffic before sending them off on a TT. Not only must you race against time, but also hold your breath as fuming buses grumble past, and simultaneously keep one eye on traffic as it generally has little respect for you. To say the least, it´s a whirlwind run through an exhaust filled gauntlet; not only do you want to do your best in the race, but you also want to live. Regardless, cheers to racing in Ecuador, as the experience was superior.

Climbing Comp in Cuenca

2009-03-23T12:28:00.000-07:00

Daniel, Ana´s brother, and the rest of the Azuay climbing team had nationals this past weekend at their hometown wall. Teams from Pichincha, Azuay, and a few other Ecuadorian provinces came together for a weekend of climbing. Saturday showcased the technical aspect, with several lead routes ready to be challenged; Sunday occurred at a much faster rate, as velocity climbing was the day´s main event and required climbers to ascend with speed. After riding Saturday morning and racing on Sunday, I headed over to the the wall in order to witness displays of strength and technique, support the kids whom I climb with in Cuenca, and absorb yet another experience in another country. With chalk dust drifting upwards like a constant mist lifting, I sat among those I have come to know and like, watching and appreciating as our lives continued to unfold.

Daniel and Bagre before the finals.

Daniel, inside his head, before the last climb. I have known Daniel as long as I have known Ana, although not as well, but I have seen him grow over the years as a climber and I can feel and see how much he loves climbing. Right now, he is the Pan-American Champion, and then some. He has strength physically and mentally, and is smart about his climbing. This kid has technique and sees problems very logically and clearly; I know he absolutely loves climbing, that it is his life, and for these reasons I know it will take him to where and who he is meant to be. Nice job, Sappito.

All climbers are allowed a certain amount of time to look at the problems, might be six minutes, before being taken back to the other side of the wall (so as not to see other climbers ascend) until it is their turn. Props to Marga for winning, both days; I wish I had a photo, although it would not do her justice, as she is smooth, strong, and does not give up.

Un Otro Mundo

2009-03-20T12:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I took a little trip with the climbing team here in Ecuador. We visited a spot that was only discovered about two years ago as a potentia mecca for bouldering in these parts. To reach (I have to find out the name) the boulders the road is long, winding, and has been known to have piles of earth just mounded as unintentional road blocks. We are in a third world country here, and the towns surrounding Cuenca stand as colorful and eye-opening illustrations that attest to such a classification. The climbing spot was beyond beautiful, and being able to set the very first routes up and across these massive rock formations was an energizing and humbling experience in the same vein. Cows roamed the background while kids climbed rocks. The handful of families that dwelled at these heights could be heard convesing as fires were lit for nightfall.

The ride home was spent in the back of a pickup with five other kids; laughter, tickling, jokes, and more laughter huddled together for any available strands of warmth against a cool night air. The feeling was that of innocence and freedom, of right-here-right-now and nothing else. Stars whipped past; just born sheep, barking dogs, and clucking roosters became a blur; sounds left mouths only to be stolen by the wind as we snaked down rutted dirt roads. The journey back was as much a memory as the one there, with an unmatchable experience of untouched boulders sandwiched in between.

For many of these kids, climbing is their life; they are SO strong.

A little shot of what lunch time looks like, with unbelievable soups, choclo, and avocado appearing most every day.

Me and Ma, Anisa´s abuelita. She makes me laugh.

Montañitas: La Segunda Vez

2009-03-19T18:57:00.000-07:00

Zipping through Cajas on the way back from our second trip to Montañitas, the fog had thickened and soon enough we found ourselves with a flat tire. Those ¨beware of falling rocks¨ signs are no joke in these parts. Often times entire lanes are blocked by mud slides, massive boulders, or gushing water after rain. After leaving behind 90 degree weather at the ocean, a fine mist and 40 degrees greeted us as we piled out of the truck to change a tire; shorts and flip flops would have to suffice. For about 45 minutes absolutely no one stopped to help (we were missing an important tool for removing the busted tire), but somewhere around 1am a trucker en route to Manta (a 12 hour drive) graciously stopped, flagged down cars with us, and then proceeded to change our tire in the rain. I held an umbrella over his head, grateful for his kindness. Ana´s father was also on his way to help, an hour drive for him, and I know we ran into him during the descent through Cajas. After the tire was changed and we were on our way, everything was a blur of bumpy sleep. I recall hearing voices, slipping out of the car, grabbing a soaked backpack, consuming pan y queso, and at some point falling asleep in a small child´s bed (I have been given Ivanna´s room for my duration in Ecuador; each morning I awake to walls plastered with teen idol posters claiming that ¨Zac loves you¨, Barbie legs dangling above my head, and curtains laden with sparkling fairies. I find the image of my sleeping body, a bit too big for her pint-sized bed, amidst a room of magic and make-believe to be quite amusing).

This sign ws about 15 feet from where we hit a small boulder and received a flat.

Flats in the rain and in Cajas.

On the wy back from Montañitas.

Anisa de belleza.

I have a hunch the cow was pregnant, but I am not certain.

This was the first funeral procession through which we passed; another one would be on the way to a new climbing spot. It is kind of nice how an entire town stops what they are doing and attends the death of an individual in their extended family. The entire town goes on a sort of pilgrimage, for how long or for how far I do not know, but there is definitely something to respect about such customs.

Sunset over the ocean at Samai in San Jose.

Our Bungalow at Samai: Twenty bucks a night, which includes breakfast (cafe con leche, pan, batidos, huevos, ensalada de frutas, and all fresh from the surrounding grounds), and plenty of scurrying cucarachas. I am not one for coffee, specifically because of the caffeine, but I felt it almost a shame not to try some at breakfast. The coffee beans were picked from right outside our window and, even for a non-coffee drinker, it was beyond stellar.

Ed, Ana´s uncle and the owner of Samai, is a practicing Shaman. He is actually from the New England area of the states, but after spending years in the Amazonian jungles with indigenous Shamans, he was taught their ways, brought into their family, and is now a respected Shaman. The energy he emits is an intense aura of positivity and connectedness; I hope to return to Samai at some point, as he offered a Shaman ¨limpia,¨ or healing, which I would be honored to experience.

Toschi and a dead fish at Las Friles.

On the Rock and By the River

2009-03-17T13:01:00.001-07:00

Pedro´s dog, Hascho.

Caballo on the way up to the entrance into Parque Nacional Cajas. 2.5 hours of beautiful climbing just to the first gate.

This is the first gate, and also the point of return for today. It costs 10 bucks to get into Parque Nacional Cajas, even on a bike. There is a plan in the works, which includes staple foods, more water, and perhaps a friend or two, to pay the ten bones and make a day of it.

A sweet 45 plus minute descent back from Cajas into Cuenca

All three of these horses stood up as I passed; I could not pass up the opportunity to capture their presence.

Pedro booting up for some lead routes next to the river.

Bagre filming Suco´s trad setting.

Suco.

Bagre.

I love shadows and silhouettes. These are a series of Bagre silhouette shots.

Pedro.

Suco.

Suco and Bagre.

Bagre.

Canyoneering en el Rio Amarillo

2009-03-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

Upon sceaming ¨bicho, bicho, bicho¨ was I informed that the scarab would not sting, bite, or spit venom in my eyes; he thus became my friend and remained on my pack for the remainder of the hike in.

Toschi posing for the camera while my butt blocks most of the water from entering into the next pool.

Sucked over the edge swiftly.

And this awaits on the other side of that edge. What an amazing feeling having this immense pressure of water pouring over you. It´s a rather cleansing experience.

Bagre awaiting the rest of us.

Bagre and Suco.

I just wanted to stay right there.

Suco filming.

Break for cafecito.

Me and Mostro.

The hue of green is unbelievable.

Bagre.

More repelling.

Me and Mostro.

Popin behind the reel.

Suco shooting my face first slip and slide.

And climbing back up to do it again.

And again.

Mi rabo and Bagre.

Getting ready in the am.

Bicho buddy, again.

The hike in.

The smells, sights, and sounds were amazing.

In the thick of it.

Suco shooting.

The long way down.

Suco, again, preparing to shoot.

The first slide. It was SO cold, but SO refreshing.

Getting into our suits.

Lewis hiking in.

The gang on our way in.

A sweet dog we came across, they are everywhere here, who seemed quite scared of our presence.

The bulk of yesterday was spent with my body inside a wetsuit, with a harness and carabiners stop that wetsuit, and that wetsuit and body within the Rio Amarillo, which takes its powerful journey through the thick ¨jungle¨ on the outskirts of Ceunca. Bagre, Mostro, Suco, Popin, Pedro, Lewis (another gringo from Maine), Toschi, and I (just so I can remember the names) made our way through some of the most beautiful earth formations by means of sliding and jumping down waterfalls, or, for the bigger ones, repelling over an edifice that dumped water at an unbelievable rate. The scent of fresh water and green growing greener, the sight of towering rock formations, with sunlight streaming into steps of pooling water, the sensation of letting yourself go over a rushing precipice without second thought and into the depths of rock and water below, the laughter of individuals dissolving into wet rock and moss: the experience was like none other. I hope to be able to see the footage soon, as Suco and Popin own an outdoors film company called Afuera (outdside) and they joined us in order to film for one of their upcoming projects.

Sweet Sufferfest at Caballo Compana: Primera Valida Nacional

2009-03-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

Caballo Campana: below are the photos, and here are some words about the experience... one word to describe the 2 hours of 4 laps is ¨sufrimento,¨ or suffering. It was not until the third lap that I reminded myself to look up and over to my right at the top of a set of switchbacks. There was an amazing view of towering green mountains speckled with cottages and farms, with the Hosteria Caballo Campana littered with ants of people below. The scent of surrounding Eucalyptus was a constant reminder of the beauty that I was fortunate enough to be existing and riding in. I feel, at least right now, that I cannot explain in words the test that this race posed; it was a mental and spiritual test more than anything, as many races can be. I knew the physical would follow that endurance of the mental and the spiritual, I knew the body would continue if the mind and heart told it to. And so they went, my mind, soul, and body, up steeps, around swtichbacks, over bridges and cobblestone, and down butt-way-over-the-back descents. On several levels, the race, indefinitely, was hard. I am glad to have done it. It was about the climb (Ana and I heard this cheesey Mily Sirus song twice on the radio the day before the comp, and it fit perfectly, talking about the journey and the climb, how there are always going to be bigger mountains to go up; Miley Sirus, I know, and on the radio nonetheless, but it was what I needed to hear) and I am stronger because of it.

Christina, Alexandra, and me after the race, of course.

Anisa placing the medal around my neck. Thanks, Ana.

Anisa sporting my jeans and a stylin´ Campmor jacket. She just got a mountain bike, perhaps she can join the team.

Los chicos guapos. All these dudes, much like our team back home, are so supportive. Just a real warm and welcoming crew that reminds me of my bike family back in the states. Mountain bikers are, on a whole, pretty awesome people anywhere you go.

Anisa and her prima, Daniella; they make a great cheering section and took most of the photos you will find in this post. Every lap they were hiding in a different spot, waiting to cheer and snap some candids. Thanks, bonitas.

Post-race combination of sock tan and dirt line.

Post-race stretching.

Post-race chocolate milk (Cola Cao), so good.

Yolanda and Galo Tamayo, Galo´s parents. They are life-savers, hand-feeding you grapes, banana pieces, and cups of water with each lap. They invited me out to lunch after the comp. They ended up not going, but I went with their Galo, their son, and a group of others for, hands down, the best and cheapest Indian food I have ever had. Yogurt de Mora (Mulberry), for a drink, was heaven.

I am not sure which climb this was, as they never seemed to end.

Descendiing into more dusty switchbacks.

Ok, so here is one of those occasions where Ana and Daniella were waiting on a corner, hidden in the woods; I wanted to skid the turn for them, which I did, and yelled ¨skid¨ as I did. This photo is the result of the occurence of those events. There were so many steep corners to skid into and then pop out, I could not seem to get enough of them.

This is THE climb, the one that I wanted to push through and ride at least once in the race. Well, it did not happen, and although I did not want to show a photo of me walking, it is what happened (each lap) and I would like to show all of the truth, not just what looks good. Yes, there were people who rode it, and yes, they rode it quickly.

Making my way up the long, steep climb... before getting off the bike. Makes me cringe. I even tried to run, but that just made me feel as though I were moving backwards.

Still on one of the major climbs, and still on the bike.

More climbing. I love it.

Sick! Just like at the USGP this year, minus the mud, they had a sweet flyover. This one had a ramp on both sides and was constructed out of Eucalyptus logs and chicken wire, as opposed to plywood and fake grass. Both were a good time.

This is Christina, the one who always gets second here. She is 18 and has been riding since she was 14; she is also a sweet girl who actually talks to me. At the two races I have gone to there have been only 3 or 4 of us, and she takes the time to talk to me and tell me about her sister, who also races. Christina will be headed to Costa Rica for the Pan-American Championships this month, I wish her well.

A nice, short but steep, climb to warm up on.