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.
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.
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...
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.
While the 
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.
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.
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...
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.
