By Appointment and Chance

This morning I made my way through a misted and icy Harriman State Park, across a fogged Bear Mountain Bridge, and into a winter-ish Peekskill in order to help my brother and his girlfriend move into their new apartment. I could only stay for a few hours and in that time I started to rekindle, or moreso re-open, my love for taking photographs. It has been quite a while since I have had sufficient "time" to simply take photographs, and although I cannot wait to return to using a manual SLR, a borrowed digital SLR sufficed fairly well. Today became a focus in pattern, texture, and design; the results lie below.

Happy Day of Birth...

In case you (whoever 'you' are) did not get a chance to go out in the snow this weekend, excellent skills in cinematography were made use of in order to bring you the following.

Front stoop lights and snow.


Golden Slush.

Te Amo, Nieve: finding peace

Over the past week or so more and more of the northeast's typical winter weather has been surfacing; it's about time. Wednesday's ride home from work brought me back to snowstorms in the back country: hiking out and strapping in, chest deep snow, silence and serenity--heaven, expcept that I was on a road bike with skinny, balding tires. If I recall correctly I did not stop smiling once on my blurry midweek ride home. of course not, for the white stuff was dumping.

Friday's forecast stated 100% chance of more snow, upwards of an inch an hour. An evening phone call from my brother held the flint for a Friday venture up to Hunter for the a day on snow. I struck his statement against my insides and instantly a light began to glow. I decided to call work in the morning and inform them of my mature decision. Bags were packed and my truck and I headed northbound for a sleep-shower-eat-stop in Oakland, followed by a morning ride over the Bear Mountain Bridge to my brother's place.

Although we got a late start, due to my personal incapacity in navigational skills, it was for the better. Snow just began to fall as we came within 20 minutes of Hunter. Much to our delight, the snow simply did not cease as we made our first blessed turns of the year. With Sigur Ros as my soundtrack we bounced, spun, carved and yipped our way through a constant renewal of white. The feeling of sliding sideways on snow is always an experience beyond comparison. One is often brought to a point of lost words, that even if they were to be recovered, would not do any justice. The feeling is an electricity, a certain confluence of energies.

With ten minutes until close my brother decided to head back to the car while I went up for a solo run. No audible words were exchanged between myself and the white squall that encompassed my moving body and the mountain it moved on; there was no need. The conversation was an internal, constant presence, an instinctual call-and-response. We had missed one another, and like two individuals who need not words in order to remain understood and respected in one another's eyes, the snow and I embraced a silent reminiscence, at peace to be together once again.

Sweet Soweto

Most likely he valeted for the restaurant, perhaps he did not; nevertheless, he guided our car into a space reserved for Casa Vasca Restaurant and received a modest tip in return. After an authentic, simple, and absolutely exquisite Basque country meal, my mother and I headed over to NJPAC in order to get settled for the Soweto Gospel Choir performance. Seeing as how we get the opportunity to attend a show perhaps once a year, we try to make it count, and Soweto delivered enough to make it count for years to come.

Lights in the theatre dimmed to a soft, grey, dust of dark as more than a dozen individuals clothed in vibrant South African garb filed across the stage. The first notes caused a smile to spread across my insides, and like burgundy wine on a white carpet the feeling only seeped throughout the rest of my consciousness with each song. In the strength of their voices, in their unique sound and guttural expression of deep history, I felt the social construct of race and color dissipate until the audience was one.

Whether we acknowledge and embrace its presence or not, it is in us all, the rhythmic beat of palms on the stretched skin of an animal, the ancient calls and mixture of South African languages, the song and the dance; it is within us all. Traditional songs from Soweto led into variations of "This Little Light of Mine," "Go Tell it on a Mountain," and "Amazing Grace." Because of the truth and strength found within their natural movements and deep, solid voices, a salt of emotion slid from the corner of my eye, streaking my cheek for the time being and a standing ovation ensued.

An unexpected encore followed the fading flutter of hands clapping, as the choir broke into a series of Christmas selections, including "Silent Night," "Little Drummer Boy," and "O Come All Ye Faithful." The last notes of the night saw a sea of human beings, out of their seats and dancing, keeping beat and singing; each person feeling and living in their own reality, while the audience as a whole shared the reality of a truth presented them by the Soweto Gospel Choir. Glancing over to my mother, beaming in the moment, I acknowledged in her the gifts she had passed into me at birth, those of a free spirit and an appreciation for life.

Walking out into the soft silence of snow falling, now an audience of common ground, we became strangers once again, creating divergent paths in a thin layer of white. Each individual car ride home, each family's walk around the block and every couple's train stop brought us further apart. Perhaps, though, strands of the night's performance would hold steadfast, tied with string to the thick of our hearts, and preserve the common bond between us all.

Night Rider

When temperatures begin to drop and certain hours of daylight have been tucked away until spring, when the wind pierces through layers and stings skin, when the energy of impending snow permeates the air and lakes grow thick with ice--the notion of commuting to work becomes somewhat of a mental challenge to overcome.  No, not because I dread the dash from warm house to cold car, and not because I can't stand a frigid walk to the corner bus stop; but, rather because the thought of facing that piercing chill with but a few thin layers of spandex is less than inviting. It is not until the first few minutes of pedaling have passed, when the heat generated by a body in motion gives life to fingers and toes, that I come face-to-face with the mental game of cycling in sub-freezing temperatures.  At such a point, I seem to arrive at the same conclusion as always: I would not have it any other way.

One might suppose that as a cyclist commuting to work by bicycle, the arrival of winter would necessitate the use of a vehicle, one with heat and windshield wipers and headlights.  On the contrary, I will tell you that the onset of winter signifies one thing: warmer clothing.  Rolling out of the driveway, these days I find most mornings glazed over in a delicate frost, with fog slowly lifting from schoolyards and stretching across the silence of lawns. The air smells of winter and firewood, its frigid presence made known with each deep inhalation.  Peeking rays of sun, which only a month ago transformed trees into gold, illuminate the earth's mantle like finely crushed glass.  Each car that buzzes by creates a visible plume of exhaust, while my own combusted fuel exits my body in the form of heat and perspiration.  To travel distances , to do most anything via one's own manpower, yields an unmatched feeling of satisfaction.

When night falls and time arrives to make the six-mile spin back, helmet-mounted lights, winter riding boots, gloves, and a second skin of spandex and neoprene come to serve a purpose all their own.  It is as if I am inside a muted cocoon.  At times I feel as though, walking to my chained bike, I am either an astronaut or a scuba diver; the outside world muffles slightly through the filter of my earflaps and I can hear the Darth Vader rasp of my breath as it synchs with the cadence of pedaling legs. 

With the holidays at hand, the glow of electric decorations becomes a beacon for my night ride home.  The sensation while gliding through darkness, lights flickering before they streak into the peripheral of my vision, the recognition of coldness in the sight of one's breath; it all remains beyond description, bringing me back to the point of contentment in being able to ride my bike to work, and not wanting it any other way.

Just Call Me Spot

FYI. I have been wondering why, for the past three months (the day of return from the Shenandoah 100, to be exact, where a shower meant shivering under a cold garden hose and scrubbing with some soap scraps found lying on the ground), the skin on my face has been hurting in areas; swollen, spotted areas. Turns out I have a staph infection partying hard on my face, and although I am not too keen on antibiotics or traditional western medicine of any sort, I am even less keen on staph infection parties at the host's expense. How rude, go rent a hall or something. Until then, I plan on becoming informer and calling the fuzz about the inconsiderate debauchery taking place on my property. For now, though, just call me spot.

Blustery Augusta: Un et Deux

Words will come later. Right now I feel like reading someone else's, like Ayn Rand's. Tomorrow is the H2H awards dinner with some good folks. Last weekend and today were cyclocross at Augusta, with states being today. Ellen and Art came out, Art to cheer and Ellen to chase zebras with me in her first cross racing experience. I must say, she was quite cute attempting to remount the cheetah. Perhaps I planted a bit of confusion telling her to count in French and think of peanut butter, all while envisioning one smoothe plain (you know, the geometry kind). The day was cold and fast and suffering. I could not have asked for anything else. More on such points later...

p.s. I usually am not too keen on putting up podium photos of myself, but I am psyched about the one of Ellen and I, plus I did not want to miss the opportunity to make fun of myself in a reservoir tip smurf hat. Yes, it was a choice of personal fashion preference.

38:15

USGP CX Mercer Cup: two days of viscous mud, stinging winter winds, benumbing rain, and intermittent sun rays--a sublime experience in most every way. 38:15 was the gearing on the sturdy single-speed machine I borrowed in order to race both blustery days. Although the ratio was a little steep, the effect was priceless, as it pushed me to grind through sections where, given the option, I might have shifted. Interesting how a single-geared mind functions, speaking in several contexts, of course.

Day one did not feel quite as good as day numero dos, physically and mentally speaking. My body did not seem to want to suffer much on Saturday and what felt like the perceived mental effort of a running sprint with a shouldered bike was, in actuality, my body going backwards. Fortunately, due to such thick conditions, if I was off and "running" due to the steep gear factor, so were the others; they simply seemed to be running faster. Throughout the three or so laps, I recall my body and my brain having a conversation about the next day's race, during which they unanimously decided to not partake. I also recall, immediately after finishing, an instant rush of serotonin accompanied by the strong desire to race again on Sunday. The human body works in amazing ways and mine wanted another go at suffering.

Saturday night consisted of scrubbing my rig, washing my rig, inhaling leftovers (thanks to my friend, Nick, I not only had a comfy couch to crash on, but beef stroganoff with noodles, ice cream, and an inescapable chess contender), putting my legs up, and passing the eff out.

Day two, Sunday, brought much colder temperatures, a little more wind, and even more ankle-deep course conditions due to the prior night's onslaught of rain. Excellent. I figured, if anything, it would be interesting to see how my body had recovered, or not, from Saturday's bout.

From the gun I was with the pack on the uphill sprint and was able to squeeze ahead of most the bulk and into the first slick turn. The course was shortened, although it would take us the same amount of time due to conditions, and so today we exited the first straightaway with a right-hand turn, instead of a left, into a bottleneck of brownie batter. Spotting the second turn, before the sand pits, I could see corner carnage and hear the screams of several tangled females. Fortunately, I was able to maneuver around the chaos and start a slow grind through the sand and into the ensuing paste. I was loving the technical aspect, and managed to do most of my passing in the dicier of sections.

Today, day two, my body was loving all over the course, as was my mind. Despite there being even more mud than the previous day, I felt as though I rode more and was able to keep a fairly steady pace. The flyover--steps leading to a ramp covered in fake grass which met the ground in a pool of mud, much like an overused slip-n-slide--was one of the obstacles I fancied the most, as it flung unsuspecting victims into the sea of challenge below. My bike and I met the ground, in all its squishy goodness, after swerving to avoid sideline tape and pitching forward as a result. Even so, I looked forward to the flyover with each lap.

Sunday's race brought placement from 20th to 8th, and so not only was I jazzed about my performance and how the body had recovered, I moved up a little as well, which is always a welcomed occasion. For some reason, even though I did a post-race check, the official results have me as DNF. So not true. Perhaps I will get to the bottom of the glitch through some emailing and various other investigative tactics.

Parte deux... I guess my last remarks shall be the following: the USGP weekend was an adventure in which I have learned much and gained plenty; also, watching hundreds of shaved man-legs warm-up prior to the elite start is a much reccommended form of post-race relaxation. Give it a whirl.

Long Arm of the Law

Plans for this weekend were to drive the 2.5 hours down to Bridgeton on Friday night, sleep in my car-bed, attempt the Beacon CX this morning (the fact that I wrote "this" means I am writing in the present tense, which translates to: "a change of plans occurred at some point along the way"), and then head up to Jamesburg and sleep once more in my car-bed in order to attend the HPCX event on Sunday, meaning tomorrow.

Here is how certain events unfolded and then crumpled back up again over the last twenty-four hours or so.

Singing with great vigor (mostly to the Pixies, and Nightwish, among select others) all the way, car-bed and I made it down to Bridgetown by half past midnight. From what I had researched on the internet prior to departure, B-town seemed as though it would pan out to be a quaint hamlet with a free local zoo and a nice main street to grab some post-race eats. Turns out the internet is a a deceitful s.o.b. and B-town was sketch-city. I think I hit the prime witching hour of Bridgeton by arriving after midnight; apparently, the same individuals who seemed to be having a hard time walking straight lines and accomplishing the task of standing, had decided it might be in their best interest to give things a go behind the wheel. Brilliant. (Note: I am editing this a week after Beacon and a day after USGP, where I ran into Wade Hess, the organizer for Bridgeton, and had a friendly chat. I told Wade of how I slept in my car despite much apprehension and he informed me of the crime rate of Bridgeton, how it is home to subsidiaries of the Mexican Mafia, as well as infamous for its residence of Bloods and Crips; which would explain the monochrome, red or blue, choice of dress for a majority of the people I witnessed parading the streets. Lesson learned from first instincts.)

Upon entering the park I saw to my right what I thought might be the "free zoo" I had read about, and the following day's light proved my predictions to be correct. Ok, so the internet was right about the zoo, which is far less reassuring than it's being wrong about the safenicity of the town itself. I might have had to sleep with one eye open, but at least there would be several caged woodland creatures to stare at when I awoke the next morning.

In the last parking lot, alongside Sunset Lake, I could see the criss-crossing red and yellow tape set up for the morning's race, poignant in the darkness. I excitedly got out of the car in order to catch a glimpse of two descents and a stair-set, release processed fluids from my body, and smell the wet November air.

The events of the night would be in god's hands, and after about an hour--with a rather large, borrowed camping knife tucked under the blanketing--I fell asleep.

About three hours later I was stirred by a flood of bright light. The long arm of the law was abruptly taking me from slumber. I remember thinking that if I just pretended as though I were still asleep when the po-po came a knockin' on the window that they would quietly decide not to disturb the peace. Within three minutes I was staring at an officer, not a small woodland creature, motioning for me to open the front door. The woman was accompanied by another male officer, and after running my license and conversing with the sheriff, they informed me that I could remain where I was and they would kindly patrol the area closely for the remainder of the night. Thank you, officers.

Overnight, the skies transformed and puked rain all over the day of Satur, and consequently all over the race course. Nice. I am pretty certain I know who the very few people are that read this blog every once in a while and, therefore, "you" probably already know how excited I was for it to be raining. I will transcribe it anyhow--rain equals mud, equals dirty, equals technical level (up), equals hella-wicked fun, equals more energy than "usual" (if this is even possible), equals heaven.

I was set to race at 1:30pm, in the Elite women's field, though I am not quite sure why. My first CX race was ridden on my mountain bike, Sula, and I ended up seventh among a field of fifteen women in an open cat 1-2-3-4 class. Highly unexpected, but I'll take it. When I spoke to the race promoter, Wade, prior to Saturday's race he informed me that the women's "B" race would be mostly beginners, and hold a very similar field to the beginner/sport XC category. I told him that I race expert XC, but also that I did not have a cross bike. No problem, you will be the only one on a mountain bike was what he said, but no problem. He was very nice about it, and from his description I figured the race would be somewhat similar to the last one.

Wrong. As time neared closer to 1:30 and I warmed up between various other races, I realized I would be racing against (it was not even against, it was more like behind) Dee Dee Winfield and Laura Van Gilder among other legends of the discipline. So I changed up the mental game to include the following: do not get lapped, and do not come in last. End result: mission accomplished. Although I definitely had no place racing among these women (one of them helpfully re-pinned my upside down and backwards number, thank you, at which point I did not feel entirely out of place), the experience was worth it. These women were Fast with a capital eff, and in turn I think I went faster, not quite with capitalization, but faster. I was halfway through my last lap when I heard the winning sprint announced over the pee-a, ok push harder. The experience not only brought humility, but also fuel for the fire, both graciously accepted.

At least two post-race events almost brought me to tears, but with each of them I told myself that crying would not only be useless but also momentarily counter-productive. I could let it all out on the long car ride home. The first emotionally catalytic event occurred immediately after I rolled across the finish line. An official pulled me aside and, although he was nice about it, I somehow felt like a little kid being pulled aside by the principal. He prefaced his statement by saying that he hated to be the bearer of bad news, but I could not race Jamesburg on Sunday. No disc brakes and no mountain bikes in UCI CX. I felt like an idiot, to say the least, but awkward situations are excellent opportunities for personal growth; I nodded with dignity and went on my way. They almost decided not to let me race today, but since the promoter had okayed things beforehand, they had let it go. Two officials told me the same thing, twice, and I succeeded at not crying...twice. However bummed I was at being prohibited from racing the following morning, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that I was meant to follow a different path for Sunday (Skyline mountain biking followed by Gunks bouldering)--more fuel to the fire.

The second event took place in a dim stall in the women's bathroom, and I chuckle now just thinking about what it must have looked like. If only these walls had eyes. Wet, cold, and with a second skin of sand-mud mixture layering my body, I wanted to wash off and get into some warm and dry clothing. Simple enough. My plans were temporarily thwarted, though, as it took about 30 minutes to pry free from my shoes. I have Specialized Motodivas, which have been excellent thus far, but apparently the side ratcheting system does not react well to sand. At approximately minute seventeen I was half-naked with one shoe off, battling the remaining brogan with a tire lever and frequent blows against the bathroom wall. After much struggle I succeeded at its removal, and at not crying.

In retrospect, the weekend was yet another momentous occasion of great learning, as is most anything if one remains open and conscious to the ever-present opportunity for growth found within the fleeting hours of one's lifetime. Another notch in the belt, some more wind in the sail, and, whether you're stuck in your shoes or not, the journey continues.

Rock, Headlamps, and Sifting Chalk Dust: A Return to Roots

It certainly has been a while, to say the least, and I hope to be able to backtrack over the next few posts in order to cover any and all adventures of the past month or so.  I will start with this past Monday's trek out to Sourland Mountain Reservation for some nocturnal bouldering.  

I used to boulder and climb.  A whole lot.  And although I would not currently label (labels are overrated anyhow) myself a "climber", it is in my heart, nonetheless.  During my hiatus from hanging on rock, it always seemed to remain with me.  Cruising by slopers, crimps, and pseudo-crack climbs on any number of mountain bike excursions in the Northeast, I knew I would return when the time was right.  The time is now and it feels just right.  It is inherent that I appreciate these rocks on more than one level: for their natural beauty and unparalleled solidarity, their ancient presence and unmoved confidence; for their ability to provide an indisputable surface to grip with either two churning tires or two aching hands.  Rock is--one of many gifts.   

About two weeks ago I made my way back over to NJRG for the first time in way too long a time. The network of friends associated with carabiners and chalk, crash pads and tight shoes seemed to rush back as quickly as the technique, one as familiar and embracing as the other.  The strength, on the other hand, I am aware will take some time, but another facet of learning and growth has been tapped into, this time on a different plateau. 

So much to absorb in this short life, so much to live and love.

Although my focus still remains on riding and bonding with my exquisite Sula as much as possible, I feel settled knowing that I have come full circle and reopened the temporarily dormant vein of climbing on rock.  I can feel the blood flowing and joining my already content stream of life. Thank you, g.

P.S. Heading back to NJRG also brought the serendipitous occasion of encountering a good friend from college, Nicholas Salerno, with whom I have not spoken to in about two years.  It is interesting how paths diverge and then re-converge at just the time they are meant to. Individuals enter in and out of our lives for a reason (brief encounters with strangers and long relationships with lovers), although we do not always understand the reason nor accept it; and still, it happens regardless of whether we desire it to or not.  When we are open enough we take a certain truth from each individual, and the same thing hopefully happens in simultaneously in their world.  It's an exchange of truth, of self, of world, of the good and the bad.  I suppose what I am trying to say, on a more subjective level, is that Nick and I ran into one another for a reason, part of which I already see in the nature of our spirits.  The rest I will witness the unfolding of if I remain constantly and consciously aware--The amazing thing?  The same goes for everyone else, all of those whom we have met and all of those whom we have yet to meet.

Keep yourself open and embrace the knowledge of being aware.

Operation Fall Magic

Recently I have not taken, nor have I had, the time to express myself through the scribbling ink of a pen, drawing or writing, and so it felt good to pour something of my insides onto a blank page of white. This image emerged as a result of the people and the experience, however interchangeable, of this past week in the Adirondacks. Thanks, g.


Pace-tron and Tim hard at work.


Wind, water, vertical bushwhacking--all to get to the top of Snowy Mountain. Black-eye-Bri and Wild Winberry atop a blustery fire tower.



Snowy Mountain slab, where we harnessed up, clipped into two bolts, made our way across a grassy ledge and then decided it was in our best interest not to attempt the climb. Bolts were definitely missing, hence the shuffle back across the ledge and hatching of a superb idea: hit up the Gunks en route to home, sunset style.


Paul (aka. Justin's twin), the EMS camping kid; Pace, Tim's assistant and camera-handling guru; and Michelle, the awesome Creative Director from EMS.


Tim Kemple making the most of Operation Fall Magic.


Tim Keenan looking exquisitely French.


Snowy Mountain in the cloudy distance.


Nice shot, mate.

Indian Lake from the eye of a Peregrine Falcon.

Looking out the window of Pete's cabin, some of the crew motors off into the fog of an Indian Lake morning.


Venturing down to the water's edge to search for the lost parts of my self.


Instead I discover a kayak awaiting its morning voyage.


Morning sun conquers night's frost.


The taxidermy projects inside the cabin were to die for. Ah, yes, antlers.

Un, deux, trois: barrier attempts

So, the past two days I ventured out to some local soccer fields in order to attempt a few hours of mounting, dismounting (that's what she said), and running over my newly fashioned PVC cyclocross barriers. Both days were a splendid combination of warm sun, rustling breeze, and blue sky. I ran around for about an hour each day, and spent the rest of the time reading and working diligently on my fading spandex tan. It was so simple; no talking, only the inner monologue of my mind mixing mantras and visualizations in order to achieve desired results.

Throughout today's session there was little boy, no older than 7, who must have circled the field on his two-wheeler at least twenty-three times in the last half hour I was there. We exchanged word-less smiles as he whizzed along the paved path. With his blithe disposition, it made me chuckle to see him stop abruptly (ah, yes, foot breaks always bring back fond memories) and chase a squirrel up a tree with the commands of his tiny voice.

While rolling around on my road bike in the open fields, I recalled the last time I had been there: high school soccer practice. We played non-stop. Practice was everyday, even indoor in the winter, and I never ceased loving it. There was traveling and rec, varsity and extra training sessions with Bobby and David (phenomenal foreign soccer players, as well as fine individuals). The family we built around soccer was an invaluable blessing, one which I still feel the residual from today. Soccer, and the people it included, helped shape me into who I am, and that is something I will forever be grateful for. It is partly the reason I am once again rolling around in the same fields with autumn approaching (this was always the time of year that heavier practices started back up, a transition from summer camps and training into the season's games, and an overall peak time of year for fitness). I still have the same obsession, the same love and appreciation, except now I have a bike, and there is an entirely new world to explore and push the limits of. Although I miss those days when it felt as though I coud run forever under the September night's lights, when fall leaves crunched under cleats with every corner kick; although I miss the laughter and comraderie of the girls, and the intense focus of defending, stealing, and dribble-pass-dribble-shoot of each play--I know I have another family now, not a replacement so much, but rather one that runs on a parallel. I have Sula and a loving family of riders, all of which I am more than grateful for. I believe my years of soccer opened me up to numerous other worlds--inside and outside of myself--with mountain biking being one of the most eminent. Perhaps the family is not so much new as it is an extension of the former.

Leaving thin tire tracks through the grass today, I could almost hear a ref's faint whistle; I smiled inside, swinging my leg back over the seat, and knew this was exactly where I wanted to be.

Below is some video analysis footage, which should be interesting only to me. Nevertheless, enjoy.

Mt. Snow Retrospective

Wednesday July 16, 2008

10:02 AM

Bathing suit and pillow, jerseys and sports bras (multiple colors, of course), sunglasses and hair-ties, spandex and socks (the snowmen ones for race day), gloves and supplements, bottles, chocolate milk, Arnica gel, and shampoo; most importantly, though—the bike, the shoes, and the helmet. All else is negligible, either borrow or go naked, so long as you can ride your bike. We have all experienced the looming mental checklist that appears while accelerating further away from what we should have packed. It’s inevitable, and as the miles piled between us and New Jersey, a truck full of personalized and unfinished checklists slowly began to dissipate; replaced instead by individual hopes, expectations, apprehensions and curiosities about the weekend to come. The 2008 Mt. Snow National Mountain Bike Championships lie directly ahead of us, like a sleeping giant among the hills of Vermont, patiently awaiting our arrival.

2:37 PM

Upon arriving we made a beeline for registration in order to pick up our race plates and packets from the familiar lemon-shirted officials hovering about. Without much delay, our convoy sped over to the silence of a mountainside condo desperately in need of dwellers, and proceeded to inhabit it with brimming backpacks, bulging duffle bags, and enough food to occupy at least two fridges. As things began to settle and beds and floor-spaces were claimed, the fact that two males would be residing amongst a pack of six females for the next five days became a definite reality. Unlike the usual mountain bike escapade with “the guys” and you, the one girl tough enough to hang, this would prove to be an interesting experience in the dynamics of female interaction on multiple levels: as friends, as teammates, and as family. The potential was endless and the results would prove to be more than we could have asked for.

3:36 PM

At last, an opportunity to get out on our beautiful two-wheeled devices, the pre-ride! One minute we are wishing farewell to New Jersey, the next bustling about in an attempt to nest our condo into a temporary abode; and in an instant we were black and white and red uniforms marching up the belly of a sleeping giant. One lap brought the climbing aspect of Saturday’s XC race into somewhat of a perspective, and it was unanimously decided there would be quite a bit in the ascending department. The descents stood sturdy, rooted, semi-technical, tight, and fantastic; not atypical of classic Northeast terrain. All they needed to be complete was for the gods to open up a brief monsoon over their twists and turns, get things greased up a little, and consequently level the playing field—such things one can only pray for.

5:12 PM

As the others headed back to showers and dinner-prep, I decided to head out for another go on the course. I wanted to become more familiar with the water bars that stood in confidence on any number of the high-speed fire road sections. Without proper preparation and execution these seemingly small bumps, when taken at high speeds, could muster the strength to buck you from your carefree world, an event I did not care to experience. Later on I would make my way over to the Dual Slalom course in order to observe and synthesize the riders and their approach to dirt rollers; something which I learned a great deal from, watching a certain fluid beauty in their lifting the front wheel, while wheelying the back.

6:08 PM

The second lap ended up taking about two hours, for I unexpectedly encountered a nine-year-old boy named Robbie, his father ran the Kenda booth, donning a pair of flip-flops and attempting to make his way through the course on a bike that was rather big for him. At first I passed, but when my conscience kept at me, I looped back to check out the situation. Turns out that he “got scared sometimes, but not all the time” when he rode alone, and that “if I wanted to stay and ride with him he would not mind.” The flip-flops perplexed me, but I let it go and we shared a slow ride through the woods. I like to think we crossed paths for different personal reasons unbeknownst to us at the time; he needed the acknowledgment and companionship, and I needed to slow down, take some photos, and appreciate the experience at hand.

7:36 PM

My family of eight back at the homestead was a little worried that dark was closing in and I had not yet returned, but I related the story of a little boy, a big bike, and a pair of flip-flops, and they were relieved; how nice to have people around who care for you. After a communal dinner, followed by some very necessary Ben and Jerry’s, our female pack proceeded to form a stretching circle on the living room carpet, giving and taking different yoga poses and techniques, and initiating a bond over the day’s pre-ride. The positive aura of our dynamic was already beginning to take form, not just among the women, but among the two lone men and the rest of us ladies. From the beginning it was natural, nothing seemed to have to be said; we simply shared responsibilities and space, food and conversation; we worked together without having to work, like a good relationship should, and never once did we take each other for granted. The camaraderie was unmistakably genuine, a truly symbiotic relationship between a group of disparate individuals all with similar goals.

10:05 PM

A blanket, two pillows, teammate Marianne, and the shared space of a living room floor—the house had settled into that fuzzy charcoal hue of night, all was silent, and sleep was upon us. At the feet of a sleeping giant, one still awaiting our efforts to awaken him from slumber, we took to our own dreams, watching them on the backs of our eyelids, and drifted away.

Thursday July 17, 2008

6:59 AM

Homemade waffles, fresh almond butter, and plump blueberries—what more could one ask for in their breakfast wishes? The house smelled sweetly of batter slowly congealing, brewed coffee, and crushed almonds. Amid muffled morning-talk and sleep gradually exiting newly opened eyes we found ourselves once again seated, akin to The Last Supper, a family gathered at dawn. Another stretching session found its way in after breakfast and then a period of relaxation and reading, light conversation and naps before preparing for the initial Super-D course inspection—it was only in the week prior, at Windham Mountain, that several of us made our debut onto the Super-D scene, thus anticipation was on par with curiosity, and everyone was eager to experience the unknown.

2:11 PM

Lunch was consumed and spandex was slipped into, sunscreen applied, and water bottles filled. Five of six women in the house loaded onto their full-suspensions with slightly longer travel and headed towards the lifts. We are XC riders who have dabbled in downhill, and so a lift-ride to the top of the mountain (unheard of) is still somewhat of a novelty. With the astonished yet positive reactions from the local lift attendants and fellow riders, I suppose our girl-herd was also still somewhat of a novelty. Sometimes it slips my mind that a pack of confident and accomplished female riders can be seen as somewhat of an anomaly in the world of mountain biking.

Our crew got in three runs within the time allotted for Super-D practice, and I would be a liar if I did not say that those runs were sheer bliss. On a scale of one to amazing, they were pretty much amazing. The course commenced with a descent, rightfully so, into an open grassy area which held several hidden rock faces, steep enough to necessitate a move of your rear out over the back wheel. An off-camber right onto a neck’s-width skinny placed you atop the face of a rock and then dipped into various sections of highly satisfying singletrack. The course certainly demanded one’s attention, which made it that much more enjoyable; with medium-sized drops, scattered roots, fast fire roads, sprintable ascents, and double track interspersed with a notorious species of elusive water bar. As a result of the three runs, our group came away plastered with grins, chatting our way back home and already reminiscing lines and sharing personal technique. Riding and positive people, good food and sleep—the imperative staples of life were all present, and another day at Mt. Snow had come and gone.

Friday July 18, 2008

6:07 AM

Friday Morning brought the first, and second, of our XC races: semi-pro at nine and sport at twelve. As my own race neared (Saturday) and pre-race nerves began to eat away at the lining of my stomach and intestinal tract, consuming breakfast became more and more of a challenge, while holding it down remained an effort in and of itself. Not for everyone, but alas for a select few, as race day gets closer to becoming a reality, the volatility of a nervous stomach can become a fragile matter of balance and moderation. Anything and everything related to food becomes a means for the onset of nausea.

7:29 AM

Willie, one of the two males in our household, and I packed up sandwiches among juice boxes, a few beers and plenty of water, and soon enough we made our way by foot (I with bike in hand for another post-drumming pre-ride) to the designated drumming circle at the side of a long fire road climb. Art, the other male in our condo and the man behind Mt. Snow’s famed and beloved drummers, was to race semi-pro; and teammates, Marianne and Jennifer were to race sport shortly after.

It was a long day of maracas, cheese graters, bongos, and beating drums; but the extra motivation we gave to suffering riders as they chugged away, the rhythm for cadence we provided, and the appreciative smiles we received all combined to feed our ambition to keep on sending out a beat. We knew there would be times in our race tomorrow in which the drumming would become our lifeline.

3:01 PM

I headed out with teammates Aaron and Tom to cruise the second half of the course, check out the newly altered position of both my shifting and break levers, and get the legs going a little bit more than they had been hitting the foot pedal on a base drum. The pace was pleasant and we stopped to work several turns, attempting to decipher which lines would provide for minimum loss of momentum and maximum experience of enjoyment. After riding it was about due time to give several sets of legs a rest and cool-down in the pool. The moderately cold water became a sort of therapeutic weightlessness in which we could sink and rise, stretch, kick, hold breath, and glide. It felt as though we were at summer camp, and one knows that at summer camp abbreviated dips in the pool (or river) must be followed up by several intense matches of foosball and Ping-Pong (table tennis for the mature). After being shut out in both games of skill, I tucked my tail between my legs and headed off for a family meal of homemade lasagna and fresh salad, followed of course by ice cream—fulfilling enough to make me forget about my lack of table tennis skills.

I prepared clothing and bottles, laid out gels, CO2, and a multi-tool, and followed up with a once-over on the bike before practicing bottle feeds and drops with Aaron. It was a good night, indeed, and I was off to bed. To my surprise, though, just after midnight our room was awoken by the thunder and wind of a storm that seemed to have opened up directly over our sleeping giant. The intensity of the rain was akin to that of a waterfall, and with this I smiled to myself, feeling the energy of the elements and knowing what such a deluge would translate to on the next morning’s course. I imagined the giant chuckling a little to himself, his belly moving ever so slightly in his laughter.

Saturday July 19, 2008

5:27 AM

Fumbling fingers turn the grooved nobs of tableside lamps; eyes squint in confusion and disbelief as a new glow instantly fills rooms of slumber. Pairs of bare feet shuffle into bathrooms, make their way into a kitchen, and patter onto a living room carpet where white sheets outline the rise and fall of two semi-dormant bodies. The sound and smell of percolating addiction crawls into every corner of the morning and soon shuffling feet have legs and torsos, arms and fingers, minds, sinew and voice; we are almost awake. I am spreading sweet almond butter atop Aaron’s handmade bread, then pushing full berries of blue into the tawny paste, then drizzling honey and watching it slide slowly like lava into the spaces between. A refilled water bottle, hardboiled egg, and vitamins complete the picture and I am sitting in order to commence consumption. With two hours until race time the temperamental disposition of a nervous stomach is just about reaching its culmination in terms of intensity; breakfast is a forced operation, my teeth and tongue masticating but when it comes time for my esophagus to follow through with peristalsis, it is failing miserably and I am feeling the food creep down inside, only far enough to be out of sight. Eyes closed, I am inhaling the remains, allowing a vitamin and some water to float downstream. I am leaving the others to finish their pre-race meals, moving away from the table in order to finish getting ready.

6:03 AM

I am at the sink scrubbing a toothbrush and mint green gel over the white of my teeth. I am nauseous. I am refunding the morning’s bread, blueberries, egg, and honeyed almonds—six times over. An undigested vitamin is popping out among the mess; undigested everything is ejecting itself from my body. Although now I am worrying about not having enough nutrition and fluids to endure the race, I am feeling significantly better. I am praying that I have eaten enough at last night’s dinner, and hydrated enough over the past few days, to not be depleted for the upcoming hours.

6:55 AM

I am dressing in my Saturday’s best, smearing sunscreen, filling my back pouches, adopting two water bottles from the fridge, and heading out for a warm-up with the ladies. The morning is dew-laden and peaceful as we are making our way over to the base area. We are raising the rates of our hearts, getting into zones, and then letting them recede; we are sipping liquids, spinning lactic acid from shaved legs; we are nerves and concentration, hidden smiles and grumbling innards; we are preparing for the worst yet visualizing the greatest.

7:50 AM

After sufficient warm-up and multiple trips to the bathroom, we are lining up for staging purposes in the start/finish area. Officials are cracking jokes and scrawling fat black numbers across our calves. 36. Words of encouragement are coming from Marianne and are passing through my ears while I am absorbing the details of a moment in time. She is snapping a shot with her digital camera and the moment is being transfixed in pixels. The closer we get to the line, the more silent people are becoming. Thirty seconds. I am taking several deep breaths to open up the things that need opening. Fifteen seconds. I am in a tunnel, concentrated and determined to feel that light at the end. Go.

10:12 AM

I feel as though new barriers have been broken, personal ones, as I am letting tears of contentment make their way down my mud-splattered cheeks. Something clicked. Something within me had clicked and my inner mantras, combined with the drumming, took over to carry me through. Aaron’s words, “who wants to suffer more, you or them?” were one of my mantras, as was a Joss Stone tune, followed by the occasional repetition of the name Mary McConneloug. Who knows how certain mantras come about while racing, but if they keep you going then keep ‘em coming.

10:23 AM

I have never pushed that hard in my life, and when the three laps came to an end, I knew I had left everything out there. I knew I was undeniably satisfied with my riding and my effort, which was what I had hoped for, not to give up on myself. By the close of the race, I was fully aware that I had reached higher grounds on a personal level, and could ask for nothing more. The climbs were grueling. They seemed to scoff at you, daring you to cease your cadence. The giant egged us on and I egged on the giant. The descents were an amalgam of slick coffee grinds, off-camber root systems, and precarious, sweating rocks—it was heaven.

11:04 AM

Post-race nutrition most usually has to come in a liquid form, otherwise my stomach does not seem to take too well. Chocolate milk is usually the beverage of choice; and so, sipping on a box of cold cow’s milk I found pleasure in the realization that I would have the opportunity to race again tomorrow in the Super-D. I was grateful to be done, but excited about the idea of another race, one that would take about ten minutes as opposed to two hours. The notion was as refreshing as my post-race beverage of choice.

12:07 PM

After showering with all of my muddied clothing still on, including my shoes, it was back over to the tent for awards. Not only was I overwhelmed with my personal performance, but making my way to the podium for top three allowed me to fulfill one of several goals for the year. It was a blessing and I knew I had worked hard all winter for it—mentally, spiritually, and physically. Although it was rather unexpected, I knew I had it in me somewhere, and I was just thankful to have found it.

1:57 PM

My entire family from the condo, male and female alike, headed back up the mountain to drum for the last two races: pro women followed by pro men. Our teammate, Aaron Oakes, would most likely appreciate the support amidst the sear of a mid-day sun and a menacing pro field. Rhythms and chants sifted about in the humidity as riders seemed to find enough energy to give gratitude through grins, fist-pumps, and saddle-top dances. The energy was conjoint electricity, perhaps something that emerged from a shared suffering and a common goal.

4:45 PM

Back at the condo a few of us donned bathing suits and headed to the pool for some much needed weightless relaxation. The ensuing night’s activities consisted of attending the annual Naked Crit and staying up until half past four in the morning to talk and wrestle and simply be a kid again.

Sunday July 20, 2008

4:27 AM

I fall into a blissful state of sleep.

6:30 AM

Breakfast was had, though not much due to the previous morning’s purging escapade. This I do not care to repeat. My eyes barely care to remain open, but the Super-D course beckoned as we reached the end of a lengthy lift line for a pre-run. I was not quite awake, but after airing slightly off of a water bar at a reasonable speed and having my left foot unclip, I became quite alert. Superman slides along loose fire roads do way more for your senses than a cup of Folgers any day. With fresh blood painting my legs and a new sense of heightened awareness, I headed back up the lift with the team, five women deep, in order to line up for the le mains start. It was a sprint, with bike in hand, up a steep grass incline, to a mount at the red line atop the hill. Waiting around for too long of a time up top was reason enough for all of us ladies to need to empty our bladders several times over. At the line, hearing go, I reminded myself that I have been trail running on my off days and mustered first up the climb. Two girls ran by while I was attempting to clip in and hopped into the lead, and the race would finish the same—I am now aware that I must practice my uphill mount, or at least remember to wait until the ground is level before hopping on. An eleven minute adrenaline rush and then it was over, yet I was still high and wanting to do it again. Quick fixes are fleeting and ephemeral, but this one seemed to last a good two hours after. Awards were attended and my teammates in the women’s 40 plus open category took a podium sweep with first, second, third, and fifth. Once again, I unexpectedly yet contentedly slotted third in my open women 19-29 category. Without a moment’s rest, it was back to the condo to quickly pack and clean, shower and scarf down some food. Keys were returned and as soon as we had arrived we were gone.

Now.

For my family and my team, for my experiences and the people I meet along the way; for the races, for the effort, for the love, the perseverance, the pain, the blessings; for the support, for the challenge, for the opportunity to show I am grateful by living my passions—I am thankful. I am content in the present, yet I look forward to that which has yet to come. I am thankful.