which I love.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
PDX Cross
I just read a friend's blog, which prompted me to visit here http://www.pdxcross.com/ which is where I found this
which I love.
which I love.
Bend and Stretch
It has been awhile since I last wrote anything for the vast floating void that is the interweb. I have been writing more in my non-blog, which is to say I have been using an ultra fine point Sharpie to scrawl messy script across line-less white pages... actual pages you can comb through with the lick of a thumb; not eyesight-extinguishing, one dimensional, flickering pages constructed from abstruse HTML code. Real paper pages.
Several times my fingers began to type, but any logical progression of thought seemed to peter out before something substantial could be formed. Hopefully this post will make it. I have hunch it will, as the bulk of it already exists, physically, on those gleaming, white, paper pages I spoke of a few sentences earlier. Plus, the subject under discussion addresses events I have been wanting to share with some people I care about.
In light of my imminent journey westward (as of right now, all signs point to Bend, Oregon as a 'final destination'), however historically cliche such a statement might sound, I would like to mention a few words concerning the recent travels to Bend for my first Cyclocross National Championship and first race with the Elite Women (aka: 'the big kids'). The following is an excerpt (written the morning of nationals) taken from a real, un-lined, scribbled-on page. Ahhh, I can smell the dry, black ink as I lean in to unravel the twisted lines of my disheveled handwriting...
"I am in a house by myself and I am drinking coffee. The grinds came from a can with a gingerbread man on it. I think the finished product is supposed to taste like small baked men, though I have yet to determine the validity of this assumption. Tara left yesterday to catch a plane back to Philadelphia, but the loneliness was with me long before her departure. My phone glows eight thirty-nine a.m., which tells me that three hours from now I will be on my bike, racing in circles, with one hundred and six other women. At such a point in time, I hope to be on the verge of puking. If this is not the case, it means I will not be trying hard enough. I want to try hard enough. I am three thousand miles from home, in a house that belongs to people I do not know, in a town where I know no one.
The mental aspect of being here is slightly more challenging than projected, but so are most of the paths I tend to make for myself. Something is changing, though, as I sit in this wicker chair and sip liquid gingerbread men. I had awoken with an unsettling desire not to race, perhaps fueled by fear; but as I focus on discerning some form of appreciation for all that I have done, am doing, and will do--an energy rolls in and fills me. Stored audiovisual clips from every race leading up to now consume my doubt and diffuse any perceived sense of isolation. Recognizable laughter snags a hold of caffeine, and the two do a waltz through my veins. I hear cowbells and whispered inside jokes. I see the flap of yellow tape. I feel the energy of those whose minds I am walking through back home. I feel the honor of representing my state, my family, my team, and most of all my Self. I am here and they are there, three thousand miles east and living their own lives, yet I have entered their hearts and minds enough for them to respond, and for me to feel it.
I am in a house by myself. I am drinking coffee--but I am not alone. I can recognize the voices and it makes me want to go faster. I can feel their presence in the form of a boundless, unbridled, and resolute energy. It reminds me I am fortunate to line my bike up next to one hundred and six other women and race in cold, muddy circles for forty minutes. It makes me want to represent, and represent well. It makes me want to be on the verge of puking, hearing their voices and feeling it all."
Thank you to all who sent their energies. I felt them. The experience of CX Nationals was paramount. From starting dead last, to finishing without getting lapped--to the droves of people who formed bell rattling, heckling, cheering tunnels; the intense and infectious beat of a high school marching band; the keep-you-on-your-toes conditions and job-well-done course--from the near puking feeling to the post-race shudders of adrenalin, hours after. Three thousand miles for forty minutes... I would say it was worth it.
A couple of studs (uh, yeah) at the base of Mount Bachelor. High fives for mountains and snow.
It was about six degrees outside when we took refuge in Strictly Organic, a local Bend coffee shop. They actually had from-scratch, gluten-free baked goods, the first I have come across outside of my own home. Thanks for the complimentary green tea, guys.
Judging by the amount of women, and in such close proximity, I am guessing this is lap number one of six. Woot. Woot. Jersey pride skinsuit and Campmor arm warmers. Represent.
Several times my fingers began to type, but any logical progression of thought seemed to peter out before something substantial could be formed. Hopefully this post will make it. I have hunch it will, as the bulk of it already exists, physically, on those gleaming, white, paper pages I spoke of a few sentences earlier. Plus, the subject under discussion addresses events I have been wanting to share with some people I care about.
In light of my imminent journey westward (as of right now, all signs point to Bend, Oregon as a 'final destination'), however historically cliche such a statement might sound, I would like to mention a few words concerning the recent travels to Bend for my first Cyclocross National Championship and first race with the Elite Women (aka: 'the big kids'). The following is an excerpt (written the morning of nationals) taken from a real, un-lined, scribbled-on page. Ahhh, I can smell the dry, black ink as I lean in to unravel the twisted lines of my disheveled handwriting...
"I am in a house by myself and I am drinking coffee. The grinds came from a can with a gingerbread man on it. I think the finished product is supposed to taste like small baked men, though I have yet to determine the validity of this assumption. Tara left yesterday to catch a plane back to Philadelphia, but the loneliness was with me long before her departure. My phone glows eight thirty-nine a.m., which tells me that three hours from now I will be on my bike, racing in circles, with one hundred and six other women. At such a point in time, I hope to be on the verge of puking. If this is not the case, it means I will not be trying hard enough. I want to try hard enough. I am three thousand miles from home, in a house that belongs to people I do not know, in a town where I know no one.
The mental aspect of being here is slightly more challenging than projected, but so are most of the paths I tend to make for myself. Something is changing, though, as I sit in this wicker chair and sip liquid gingerbread men. I had awoken with an unsettling desire not to race, perhaps fueled by fear; but as I focus on discerning some form of appreciation for all that I have done, am doing, and will do--an energy rolls in and fills me. Stored audiovisual clips from every race leading up to now consume my doubt and diffuse any perceived sense of isolation. Recognizable laughter snags a hold of caffeine, and the two do a waltz through my veins. I hear cowbells and whispered inside jokes. I see the flap of yellow tape. I feel the energy of those whose minds I am walking through back home. I feel the honor of representing my state, my family, my team, and most of all my Self. I am here and they are there, three thousand miles east and living their own lives, yet I have entered their hearts and minds enough for them to respond, and for me to feel it.
I am in a house by myself. I am drinking coffee--but I am not alone. I can recognize the voices and it makes me want to go faster. I can feel their presence in the form of a boundless, unbridled, and resolute energy. It reminds me I am fortunate to line my bike up next to one hundred and six other women and race in cold, muddy circles for forty minutes. It makes me want to represent, and represent well. It makes me want to be on the verge of puking, hearing their voices and feeling it all."
Thank you to all who sent their energies. I felt them. The experience of CX Nationals was paramount. From starting dead last, to finishing without getting lapped--to the droves of people who formed bell rattling, heckling, cheering tunnels; the intense and infectious beat of a high school marching band; the keep-you-on-your-toes conditions and job-well-done course--from the near puking feeling to the post-race shudders of adrenalin, hours after. Three thousand miles for forty minutes... I would say it was worth it.
A couple of studs (uh, yeah) at the base of Mount Bachelor. High fives for mountains and snow.
It was about six degrees outside when we took refuge in Strictly Organic, a local Bend coffee shop. They actually had from-scratch, gluten-free baked goods, the first I have come across outside of my own home. Thanks for the complimentary green tea, guys.
Judging by the amount of women, and in such close proximity, I am guessing this is lap number one of six. Woot. Woot. Jersey pride skinsuit and Campmor arm warmers. Represent.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
USGP CX, Mercer Cup
Nick le Boy and I post-race, mid pit-bitch, overtired and wondering what number of individuals would inform us of the obvious.
Grass patches was like gold this weekend, few and far between but highly sought after.
More mud-caked shots to follow. Mostly ones I did not take, but have seen... words to follow, as well.
A Roll of the Dice
Always be aware of the location of the finish line. Non-awareness can cost you two hard-earned spots, an unnecessary scolding from a UCI official, and a head full of over analysis. However, depending on your ability to introspect, the overall situation of non-awareness molted into awareness can earn you skills in learning how to roll with the punches. Your own self-inflicted ones, that is. Above is the finish line from Beacon. Concealed in its fading white paint scrawl is a lesson learned.
Things have been pretty muddy these days. Yesss. Jamesburg Cross and some blue suede shoes.
Fambly photo.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Fur Cut
So, after much debate, although I knew I had wanted it done, the hair atop my head was alas cut. Reasons were as follows: less water usage during shower time; less shower time and more other time; some kid with no hair gets a wig made out of mine; and, of course, no more swinging pendulum braid during races (I knew it was time when one announcer actually made a comment). The short hair thing is, well, awesome. Now, I would like for it to be even shorter.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Cross is Boss
This past weekend was Granogue and Wissahickon. Granogue took place on the rolling grounds of the DuPont Estate, which turned out to be a most excellent venue for a cross race. Tara and I knew very well what we were in for when we had to throw Panser (my trusty old jeep) into AWD and navigate through a lane of thick mud JUST to park. Tara was not amused. I was ecstatic, times three point one four. Either way, we laughed and we shivered and ground our brake pads to nothing. The run-up was indeed something to run up, although I am not sure if you can call the action I made while moving up it actual "running". I like to think so.
Cold but dry, diehard spectators stood by and watched through the cinched peepholes of their primary-colored rain slickers. In similar colors, but not quite as dry, we piloted through the muddy grass rivers of Delaware's sopping DuPont plot. I would not have changed places for anything.
Awaiting post-race podium pictures, a nice gentleman doused my eyes with Saline solution (at my request) and hot air blew around inside the white tent, lacquering mud to my arms and legs. That night, after an Indian dinner with a friend, Tara and I made real tea that came from real India (she just got back from Delhi) and drank it inside her real Philadelphia apartment. It was Diwali Day, which is an official holiday in India and Guyana known as the Festival of Lights, so we were celebrating the best we could. The package of tea, when held in hands with eyes closed, gave off a glowing energy, something very light. I drank it in apprecaition and peace. The night was important conversation with Tara, sleepful relaxation, and reading. All the while rain poured on outside, from above, and all around us. I drifted into dream, comforted by the sound.
Wissahickon was faster and the mud sucked you into the ground, which is where I landed several times more than I would have liked to. There was a little blood, a lot of mud, and just the right amount of cowbell. I lost a few spaces as compared to yesterday, but that is the name of the game, and I was content with the morning's romp around in wind, cold, and horse poop. Plus, during warmup I ventured down an unpaved road and encountered old barns made of stone and wood, and a few roaming peacocks. The emerald green of the males' coat was enchanting and for some reason reminded me to relax and just take in the experience as it comes and as I make it. Thanks, birds.
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.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Dee Enn Eff
Second DNF in four years, and oh do I shudder as the acronym taps onto the screen. Not much to say about it. I felt fine. Actually, I felt great. The weather was impeccable, with cool azure and white October sun, and the breeze in between their hands held tight. So I got a little excited, what with friends like family surrounding me in my home away from home. And I caught a little too much wind down a flirtatious fireroad, didn't scrub enough pre-turn speed, but it felt so good. So it happens, though not very often. Which is fine by me.
It happened rather quickly, yet I knew when and why and how, as if the motion had been slowed to a Loris' pace. Calculated, deliberate, and beautifully succinct.
Down for the count, numbers one through four and a half perhaps, then the bellow of a scream releasing hot pain, and a mount back on the bike and back in the game. Well, almost back in the game, more so wanting to be back in. But also wanting to have a cross season and crinkly fall rides that smell like only this time of year can smell. Bittersweet, I know; but I savored the sweet, all the folks who love it in their own way, all the family I have found, and just cheered them on from the other side.
Sorry, Ringwood, my love, I'll see you in a few days, when the leaves are changing more than they are now. Maybe then it will be just you and me, like we used to hang. Not a soul in sight. Just ours. Thanks for being the best kind of friend there is, the one that constantly challenges and teaches, that makes certain I live for myself and never accept anything less, the kind that shows no mercy in that tough love sort of way. Thanks, Ringwood. I'll be seeing you around.
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.
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