10.19.2012 | 10:26 am
I have ridden a’plenty this year
And I have become fast
I have stood atop podia
(sometimes rightly, sometimes not)
And in short
This has been
A fast year
Explain to me then
I say to myself
Staring at my legs
Furiously
What the hell has happened
In the past couple weeks?
How is it possible
I continue
Aghast and befuddled
To have gone from fit and fast
To fat and slow
And frankly unmotivated
Overnight?
I blame the weather!
I blame exhaustion!
I blame all and sundry
But I do not blame myself.
Thank you.
Comments (25)
10.17.2012 | 3:19 pm
A Note from Fatty: This is part of my race report for the the 2012 Breck Epic. My writeups for all parts of this story can be found here:
Thank you for your attention to this matter.
If I had known it was going to be a day like this, I’d have stayed in bed.
In fact, I nearly did anyway. My knee felt ok — I could walk with only a slight limp — but it sure didn’t feel great.
We checked the weather: 40% chance of rain, pretty much through the day. That was actually good news, for two reasons:
- 40% was lower than the 60% the forecast showed when we went to bed the night before.
- 40% is better odds than a coin toss.
So we started getting ready. We put food and rain clothes in each of our two drop bags, figuring it was best to be safe. We made breakfast burritos, again, hoping they would be easier to eat that day.
They were not.
The profile and distance for the day weren’t too dissimilar from the first day of the race.
42.4 miles of singletrack, with 6322 feet of climbing.
We got to the starting line, which today was in the heart of Breckenridge.
We stared at the sky, which was dark and grey. In my mind, I increased the odds of rain sometime during the day to 100%. The only question was when. And how much. So I guess that’s actually two questions.
The starting time arrived. And then it passed (the only day the race started late). We continued to look at the sky, worried.
It began to rain. Big, slow drops. The kind of rain where you don’t get hit often, but when you do you can feel it.
The Hammer and I decided we’d better get the windbreakers (because we each have two rain jackets, which were in our drop bags) we had with us out and put them on.
As we did so, the race started.
And so we got to have the peculiar experience of standing at a starting line, struggling into jackets, while watching every single other racer ride away from us.
To Aid Station 1
The first few miles of riding in the rain are always wonderful, because they allow you to picture yourself being hardy and steely-eyed.
The Hammer and I found ourselves in a good-sized group of people, all laughing about how muddy and wet we all were already, as well as how grity our drivetrains already sounded.
None of us were thinking — at least out loud — about what the day would be like if this rain continued. And especially, none of us were talking about what it would be like if it got worse.
And why would we? After all, the rain was letting up a little bit, to the point that The Hammer and I took off our semi-soggy windbreakers and ride in short sleeves. We were wet, sure. But we were climbing, so we weren’t cold.
As for my knee, well, it was doing OK. I wasn’t riding fast, but I was riding. Plus, I had loaded up on Advil, and had more in my jersey pocket. Which I would take later in the day, kidneys be damned.
Then, shortly before we got to the first aid station, the rain picked up. So we arrived at the first aid station completely soaked. We swapped out to our full-on rain jackets. Unfortunately, because we thought that rain would become a worse problem later in the day, we had put our best rain gear in our second drop bags.
For example, the gloves I had put in this drop bag were $10 semi-winter gloves I had bought at Kohls a couple years ago. And the jacket was something I had bought at a tourist trap during a hiking trip about ten years ago.
To Aid Station 2
We headed out of the first aid station . . . and into hell. A very, very wet hell.
The rain went from “hard” to “torrential.” People’s faces were completely black from mud. Several times I was especially glad that I had two eyes, because a gob of mud would fly into one eye; I could blink blindly with that eye until vision cleared, while I used the other eye to continue riding.
Because we never stopped. We just didn’t ever want to stop.
Somehow, we knew that if we stopped, we’d become even colder. That the shakes would hit us even harder. That the rain would feel even fiercer.
So we kept going, actually passing a lot of people that day. I noted to myself — more than once — “that person looks even more miserable than I feel.”
Now that I think about it, though, I expect other people were thinking the same thing about me.
My knee began hurting. The rain came down, harder. The climbing remained steep, and technical singletrack became running streams.
And I confess: I began to complain. But only in my mind. See, I would have complained out loud, but The Hammer was still smiling and being positive and riding along like this was some kind of exciting adventure. Even though she was just as wet and muddy as I was.
And she was quite a bit colder than I was, judging from her shaking and chattering teeth.
Yet, The Hammer abided, riding strong and staying positive.
So I kept my trap shut. Most of the time.
Survival Mode
We made it to the second aid station. The Hammer quickly switched into her better, warmer, drier rain jacket.
I did not.
Nor did I change into my water-resistant gloves.
I have no reasonable explanation for this, other than to try to describe what I was thinking, which kind of went like this:
- I’m really cold. And wet
- I wish I had my better jacket and gloves on.
- But in order to put my better clothes on, I’ll first have to take the (completely soaked and basically useless) coat and gloves I’m currently wearing off.
- If I take my jacket and gloves off, I’ll be even colder than I am.
- I don’t want to be colder than I am. Not even for a second.
- So I’m not going to change clothes.
Yeah, it’s possible I wasn’t thinking at my very very best at that moment.
As The Hammer changed and I stood around constructing addle-brained syllogisms, other cyclists arrived, some looking even colder and wetter and worse than I felt.
A volunteer got on the radio and made a call to Mike McCormack, the race director.
“Racers are starting to look kinda sketchy as they come in,” the volunteer said.
Mike replied, “Give them the option of pulling out of the race. If the weather keeps getting worse, we’ll make it compulsory.”
The part of my brain that still processed language noted how awesome it was that Mike had just used the word “compulsory.”
I looked at The Hammer to see if she had heard what was going on. She had.
“We’d stand around waiting and shivering and freezing longer if we stopped here waiting for a ride back to town than if we just finished the race,” The Hammer said, pragmatically.
So we kept going, hoping that the last big climb of the day — which was coming right up — would help us warm up. And it worked. We both felt warmer, although we had to slow way down because my knee was such a mess.
And then we hit the singletrack, which was now a fast-flowing river. The Hammer took a fall in this, splashing hard and smacking her hip into a rock.
Meanwhile, I could no longer use my left leg to pedal at all.
Then came the downhill to the finish line, chilling us both to the bone. But we made it. We got to the finish line.
The problem was, we then had to ride — downhill — another three miles to get to our condo.
It was the worst, slowest, three miles of my life. I could barely turn the cranks; The Hammer kept distancing me.
I began to wonder if I would make it back to the condo at all.
But we did. Somehow, we did.
Back at the Condo
So we parked our bikes in the underground parking, not even bothering to lock them up. Hoping, maybe a little, that someone would steal the bikes and let us off the hook.
We went up the hall to our condo, got out the little plastic keycard, and swiped.
Nothing.
I swiped again.
Nothing still.
I swiped and swiped.
More nothing.
The Hammer got out her keycard and swiped.
Nothing continued to happen some more.
We began to fret. If our keys didn’t work, we’d have to bike to the center of town to get replacement keys. And we did not want to leave the house.
I started machine-gunning the card in and out and in and out and in and out of the key slot.
Nada.
Finally, I looked at the card, which was wet and slightly muddy. Maybe if I wiped it off? Dried it?
But we had nothing to dry it on. We sere altogether soaked.
So I peeled up my bike shorts and rubbed the card on my relatively clean thigh, then waved the card around madly in the air for a minute.
I swiped the card, and it worked.
Never have two people laughed with more sincere relief.
We stepped into our condo. I planned to immediately strip down — get out of these freezing soaking clothes as quickly as possible.
“Wait, there’s the camera,” said The Hammer. “Let’s get pictures real quick.”
And I am so glad we did. Here they are. All of them.
What I love about all these photos is that The Hammer’s got her teeth clenched exactly the same in every single shot. Like her moth is frozen in that position.
Afterward
We left our clothes and shoes and helmets on the kitchen floor, in a soggy muddy mess. Later, we’d take them to the carwash, where we’d hose them off, along with our bikes. And then we’d wash them (we had been smart enough to rent a condo with a washer and dryer). Twice.
For now, though, we just wanted to get warmed up, via approximately an hour in the shower. Thank goodness for a hotel-sized water heater.
Even so, we continued to shake violently through two episodes of Judge Judy. I refused to ice my knee, saying I would go near nothing cold until I stopped shaking.
We didn’t go out to eat, opting instead to stay inside and make spaghetti — which we both agreed was the best thing we ate that week.
“If it’s raining tomorrow,” I said, between mouthfuls, “I quit. I will not get on my bike.”
The Hammer did not argue.
PS: At the award ceremony that evening, I talked with CyclingDirt. Here’s the interview:
PPS: Did you catch my lie in the interview? Did I sound convincing?
Comments (40)
10.15.2012 | 1:03 pm
Waaaaay back in May of this year, I launched a contest to raise money for LiveStrong: An Ibis bike of your choice, outfitted with awesome Shimano components, and then a trip out to Utah, where SLC Bicycle Company would professionally fit the winner for that new bike. And then we’d head out for a weekend of riding.
On June 23, I did the drawing for this contest, which I won. Sadly, I was not eligible, so I had to do another drawing. Ed Perrey of Austin, TX won, and then waited — oh-so-patiently — while I tried to find a weekend where I was both home and available to go riding.
Last weekend was — finally! — that weekend.
Where to Ride?
When we talked about where we ought to go riding, Ed had initially wanted to go to Moab. Then he saw my recent videos of rides I’ve been doing right at home. “Let’s just ride your local trails,” he said. “The singletrack you’re riding is like nothing I ever get to ride in Austin.”
An excellent choice, if I say so myself. Not to mention one that made my life considerably easier. And, as it turns out, cheaper, since we just had Ed stay in our guest room. In my defense, it’s a really nice guest room, with a bed and electricity and everything.
Oh, and free wifi, too.
Getting Fitted
I picked Ed up at the airport and we went straight to SLC Bike, where Ed’s bike was all built up and sitting on a trainer, ready for him to be fitted on.
Ed and I took a moment to just stare at it, giggling. The Ibis Mojo SL is a beauty, especially up-close and in real life.
I got a picture of Ed with his new bike before the fitting got going:
If you look closely at my reflection in the mirror, you can see that I was wearing my Ibis t-shirt (which is 18 years old, for reals), special for the occasion.
Then I took a couple minutes to get some close-up shots:
The current Mojo frame design has been around for about seven years. I’d say it’s aged pretty darned well. It’s just gorgeous.
Mmmmmm. XTR.
Mmmmm. More XTR.
And then the pro bike fitting — expertly done by John McCool — began. Ed talked with Joe about what kind of riding he did:
And got measured:
And got his cleat position tweaked:
Then John made adjustments to the bike, got Ed comfortable on it, and told him he was ready to ride.
As a testament to what a great fitting John had done, Ed was instantly more comfortable on his new Mojo than he had ever been on his previous mountain bike, and remarked as he was riding that he was easily cleaning things he would have had trouble with before.
So was it the fitting or the new bike that was responsible?
I’m going to go with the obvious (and probably correct) answer: both.
Bad News
My original plan had been for Ed and me to go from the bike shop straight to Corner Canyon and get a ride in right away.
But as we started driving south toward the trailhead, the rain began. And by the time we got to where the exit would be, it was raining hard. Riding would have been bad for the trail, and I’m a fair-weather rider anyway.
“Let’s put the first ride off for a bit,” I said, and we headed to my house to wait out the storm.
Bad News Becomes Good News
I was scared. Scared because I had brought this guy out for a weekend of riding, just in time to be here for the firs serious rainstorm in 60 days or more. Would the rain let up in time for a ride his first day here?
Would the rain let up at all?
And even if it did, what kind of condition would the trails be in?
I tried to calm myself the best way I knew how: with food. “While we wait for the rain to stop,” I said, “Let’s get started on boiling some brats in beer. We’ll grill them for dinner tonight.”
I dumped bratwurst and chopped onions into a pot, while Ed poured in can after can of PBR.
By the time the brats were done boiling, the rain had stopped.
“I think Lambert Park might be OK for riding,” I suggested. “It’s sandy soil and drains fast,” I continued, exuding a confidence I didn’t feel.
We headed out. I was stressed out about the possibility of mud bogs that would swallow bikes and passengers whole; Ed was just stoked to be riding his new bike.
As it turned out, I had nothing to worry about. The rain had served to turn the previously dusty trails into perfect, tacky, grippy trails. And to cause most of the leaves on the trees to fall, creating an unbelievably beautiful carpet for us to ride on.
Looks like The Hammer was enjoying the ride too.
We got in ninety minutes of riding before it started getting dark. Time enough for us to ride most of the good trails in Lambert Park, time enough for Ed to absolutely totally fall in love with his new bike, and time enough for me to consider how lucky I had been in my random selection. Not only is Ed a strong rider who could appreciate a good bike and a good trail, he’s also an incredibly easy-going guy who was stoked to get in as much riding as was humanly possible during the weekend.
After finishing the ride, we ate bratwurst. Lots and lots of bratwurst.
I then forced him to join my family as we watched the second half of the second movie in The Lord of The Rings.
Sadly, Ed fell asleep. Which was probably a good thing, since — weather permitting — we had a big ride ahead of us the next day.
Day 2: The Big Ride
I woke up at 1:30am, to the sound of rain. I knew that American Fork Canyon was simply out of the question. We wouldn’t be riding there.
But — but — Corner Canyon was still a possibility. At least I sure hoped it was, because the thought of having someone fly all the way out to Utah to then go riding nowhere but in Lambert Park seemed a trifle . . . underwhelming.
I figured the trick would be to stall a little bit. Give the trail a little time to dry out.
So we went to Kneaders for breakfast and got their famous Cinnamon Bread French Toast, which — on Saturdays — is an all-you-can-eat proposition.
“I had kind of thought maybe I’d lose a little bit of weight during this trip, what with all the riding,” said Ed.
I snorted in reply. “Nobody loses weight when they hang out with me.”
We put Ed’s Mojo — no longer looking like a brand-new bike — on the Bikemobile’s rack (I have fork mounts for only two bikes in the truck bed).
It was overcast and cold, even though the forecast had promised us no rain for the rest of the day.
We got started on the trail, with me staring suspiciously at the trail, which was wet, but not muddy.
And that’s the way it stayed, getting better and better as the hours went by. Up Anne’s Trail, which is unfortunately very ugly right now, due to the fall colors:
And then Rush, followed by Canyon Hollow and Ghost, finishing up with Creek View:
Oh, and while I had the camera out, I took a self-portrait, too:
I like this picture mostly because I look very handsome in it. And also because it looks like my helmet is the exact same color as the sky.
In the end, we did 3800 feet of climbing in one big ride. Not at all a bad day for a flatlander / sea-level-dweller.
But that wasn’t enough for Ed.
After we got home, I grilled burgers, after which Ed suggested we head back out to Lambert park for a quick ride before it got dark.
I believe that Ed may like that new bike of his.
I’m happy to report, however, that after we got back from that second ride of the day, I countered any calories burned with The Best Cake in The World, topped with homemade ice cream.
We then watched the first half of the third movie in The Lord of The Rings, during which Ed fell asleep.
Last Day
Ed had a flight to catch in the early afternoon, but we still had time for a quick ride in Corner Canyon. We rode up Clark’s — the only trail Ed hadn’t been up the previous day — with the intent to continue on up Jacob’s Ladder, then down Ghost and back to the parking lot.
To my delight and relief, when we got to the top of Clark’s, Ed reported he’d had enough climbing. He was tired out.
Which was pretty much exactly the measure of success I was looking for.
We bombed down Rush one last time, Ed catching all kinds of air on the hundreds of whoop-de-doos on the way down.
We returned Ed to the airport on time and uninjured.
I’ll ship his bike to him once I’m finished riding it myself for a couple months.
Comments (49)
10.12.2012 | 7:38 am
A Note from Fatty: Free Verse Friday is taking a break today, because I want to write this instead.
From time to time, I get an email that hits home. Here’s one I got yesterday:
I wanted to ask if it would be okay to use “Crying is for Climbing” as one of my class materials for a didactic I’ll be teaching to new chaplains on Spiritual Care of the Caregivers that I’ll be teaching next week.
I’m a board certified chaplain, and while my specialty is trauma and disaster response, Crying is for Climbing is really quite universal. I will be spending some time talking about the role of physical activity in self-care of the caregivers, and understanding how certain people (many people?) process emotion through physical activity.
I’ve found “Crying is for Climbing” to be a great short piece that describes this effect in the most clear and concise way I know. I also like that it’s not overtly spiritual, so it’s highly applicable in the multi-faith chaplain world that I need to teach in.
In other news, I’ve also often found “Like Dandelion Seeds” to be incredibly useful in my line of work. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been with families the day they get the “yeah, you’re not going to beat this” talk- they know it’s going to be a sh*tstorm, and I can’t tell you how many people feel better being able to read Dandelion Seeds and know that someone else has put words to the storm.
They appreciate that you did not sugarcoat it, and that you know it gets bad. It’s been a great piece to have in my toolbox when people ask me the “what do I do next” question. I hope you get to realize at some point that, even though you wrote that at some of the worst moments of your own life, it’s been incredibly helpful to plenty of other folks, and continues to be helpful.
Please do let me know if it would be okay to use “Crying is for Climbing” in a class for new chaplains. Good luck on the next race!
Thanks much-
Betsy Tesi
Assistant Rector, St. Mary’s Episcopal Church
Eugene, OR
First, this email made me grateful: grateful that someone is finding Susan’s battle helpful to others. That’s her legacy. Or at least one of them.
Second, this email reminded me that it’s been months since I’ve written anything for the Fight Like Susan book. I’ve had a fun summer racing, but I need to get back to work.
Thanks for that reminder, Betsy.
Comments (33)
10.11.2012 | 10:59 am
By all rights, today I should be writing about stage 2 of the Breck Epic. And I was really excited to write about it, too. Because it was immediately after stage 2 that The Hammer took this picture of me:
And I was not hamming it up for this photo, either. That look — the “I have been through hell” look — is absolutely genuine.
But I’m not going to get to talk about it ’til Monday (because tomorrow is Free Verse Friday), nor am I going to get to post the even better equivalent picture I have of The Hammer ’til then. Which is unfortunate for you, because I’m looking at it right now for the millionth time and it is still cracking me up.
And now that I think about it, I might not get to it ’til Tuesday, because Monday I’ll want to talk about Ed Perrey’s awesome new Ibis Mojo and the weekend we will have had mountain biking my local trails.
Instead, today I’m going to subject you to my in-progress reasoning on USADA’s Reasoned Decision on Lance Armstrong.
I apologize in advance.
You Should Know Me By Now
I’ve been writing this blog longer than some of you have been alive (assuming some of you are younger than eight years old). Which means that — thanks to the twin miracles of a big ol’ archive and a search box in the top-right corner of my blog — if you take the time to look, you can see that this is not the first time I have been witness to the drama of a top American cyclist being implicated in a doping scandal.
Nosirree.
You might find it instructive to go back and read what I said about Tyler 1.0. Or Floyd 1.0. (For what it’s worth, I believe Tyler is currently in version 3.0, while Floyd is still having a rough time getting 2.0 into beta).
Just in case you couldn’t be bothered — and I wouldn’t blame you, though my feelings might be a little bit hurt — to read those two posts (and, for bonus credit, the posts that came before), there’s something similar about them.
I presume innocence until proven guilty.
This isn’t just me parroting the US justice system. This is a personal philosophy, and I work hard to apply it in every aspect of my life. I even extend it, and presume good intentions until bad intentions are proven (not just suspected).
It’s a philosophy that works for me. I like it, and I’m keeping it.
The thing is, if you know me at all (i.e., read my blog, as opposed to just parachuting in to chide me from time to time for hiding my head in the sand), you had to know that I would apply this philosophy to Lance Armstrong as well.
Reports from single-source “reporters” who clearly have an axe to grind? Pfff. Allegations? Well, they’re called “allegations” for a reason.
But when Armstrong didn’t contest those allegations, thereby hastening judgment and — now — the reasoning behind that judgment, that’s a finish line that’s been crossed.
To me, the (uncontested, nor seriously disputed) evidence is compelling. In the absence of any compelling counterargument, the threshold of proof has been crossed, and I can’t presume innocence.
I hate writing “Lance doped,” but to continue presuming innocence now flies in the face of my personal philosophy every bit as much as presuming guilt prematurely does.
So. What does this mean to me?
The Penalties
I’ll start with the easy one first. Based on what I’ve read, it’s impossible to reassign who won what, or which records were set during a big swath of time for pro cycling. Should Lance keep his seven yellow jerseys?
I dunno.
Should George Hincapie be allowed to claim he has raced in more Tours than anyone else?
I dunno (although USADA seems to have decided he should, since it backdated suspensions to begin after his retirement).
Should anyone get to claim anything from that period, seeing as how it’s vastly improbable that everyone who was doping during that period has confessed?
I dunno.
But I’m being facetious when I say, “I dunno;” I really mean, “It doesn’t matter.” Because no matter what is done officially, some people will regard that change (or lack thereof) as illegitimate.
And frankly, I don’t care very much about this part. It’s too messy to argue. It’s impossible to resolve.
But how about the suspensions and bans (not just for Armstrong, but for the numerous people named as witnesses)? Are they too harsh? Too weak? That’s hard to say, because it requires you to assess what is a fair punishment for varying amounts of cheating. No matter the conclusion, it never sits right.
LiveStrong
The part of Lance’s life that I really care about, however, remains unaffected by USADA’s reasoned decision: LiveStrong.
Lance — supported by an incredible cast of talented and hard-working people — created a foundation that does an immense amount of good. I’ve experienced that good firsthand. So did Susan. So have my twins. So have a large number of people I’ve referred to LiveStrong, to get the support and help they need.
Lance cares more deeply about the fight against cancer than people know. Lance has worked — and continues to work — incredibly hard at making LiveStrong fulfill its mission. It’s what drives him.
And he’s gone out of his way to help me in my efforts to support LiveStrong. He’s been a friend to me and my family in hard times, and I value that friendship.
I expect that LiveStrong will be hit hard by this decision, but that doesn’t even remotely affect my intention to continue supporting it. The fact is, the closer-up I see LiveStrong, the better it looks.
Do Something Good, Redux
Of course, I don’t expect everyone to agree with me on that, and honestly I’m not particularly interested in battling it out with anyone.
So how about this:
If you can’t / don’t / won’t support LiveStrong, how about supporting Young Survival Coalition?
Yep, you don’t get off the “help the fight against cancer” hook so easily as that. In fact, today is the last day in a contest where you can win a Giant TCR Advanced SL, set up with a Shimano Dura-Ace 9000 group. Or a GoPro camera. Or Dura-Ace pedals. Or other things. So click here for details, and then click here to donate.
Whether you align yourself with LiveStrong, YSC, World Bicycle Relief, or anything else (or everything else) is up to you.
What I really care about is that you do something good.
That will never change.
Comments (123)
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