ProPam's Knitting Circle

Win or Go Home

2011-05-22T21:00:00.003-05:00

I watched Tyler Hamilton’s interview on 60 Minutes. I did not enjoy it because I hate to see people suffering. And the interview was obviously a painful experience for Tyler. I did not have the perception that I was watching an attention-whore or a self-promoter. Rather, I saw a tortured soul recounting events he would rather forget.

Do I think he was telling the truth? Probably, but I really don’t know. None of us do. What I do know is that each of us interprets what we see and hear through our self—our own experience, our dreams (realized or not), and our past. So, for me, watching Tyler’s interview was unpleasant, not only because he appeared so conflicted and tormented by it all, but because I could relate.

I’ve never used performance-enhancing drugs, but I, to some extent at least, understand his motivation. I understand the singular focus that comes from desperately wanting to be on the “A team”—wanting to the point of being willing to sacrifice relationships, other interests, the future, health. I wanted to be one of “them.” I wanted to be fast. I wanted to contribute to the team’s success. I wanted to win. I wanted to race in Europe. So, I did exactly what Tyler et al. apparently did. I did what it took. And, walking as close to the precipice as possible, did not seem at all strange because I was immersed in that culture. I thought, dreamed, ate, and slept being fast, as we all did. When you’re so close to the goal that has consumed you for years, the choice does not always feel like an exercise of free will--it feel more like something that happens to you.

Please don’t misunderstand. I am not making excuses for the bad choices I’ve made or those that Tyler and other cyclists might have made. I am simply saying that what might seem illogical and indefensible makes sense, if you are willing to acknowledge (like it or not) that sport is a religion that preaches “winning isn’t everything, it’s the only thing.”

Another Moment of Grace

2011-05-20T18:37:00.008-05:00

Earlier this year, I wrote a post about a world champion speedskater who called me out of desparation. She had questions about her iron status, but what she really needed was someone to offer hope--to say, "I understand. I have been there, but no matter how impossible it seems: YOU CAN. "

Today I got a card in the mail. It was from this woman. I am not ashamed to publicly admit that the tears were flowing while I read it:

Thank you so much for taking the time to speak with me.... Overall, I'm feeling a lot better now than I was when we spoke--and with that, comes the ability to renew hope for my future, also.... Thank you for your candidness in speaking about your struggles. We only have one chance at this life... and life, for me, it starts with being healthy. Thank you for being part of this journey. I don't know if I'll ever go to grad school, but if I do, I sure hope I find an advisor like you.

Wow, did this hit me hard. It made me realize the power of empathy. Empathy that can only come from painful experiences that seem, at the time, to have no redeeming value. The ability to laugh with your friends when they laugh, and to cry when they cry is the best gift we can give the people we care about.

I was also struck with the importance of saying thank you to the people who have given me this gift and those who have offered me help when I needed it. There are many people who I wish I'd thanked--too many to even count--but, a couple stand out. More than 20 years ago, someone gave me a piece of paper that said, "You CAN do it" with a smiley face. I don't have the note anymore, but each day I have is because of the hope those words inspired. Several years ago, a friend said to me, "I'm pretty sure that you can do anything you make up your mind to do." I doubt this person knows the positive effect those words had on me.

From now on, I am going to make an effort to express my gratitude. I'm pretty sure that anyone who reads this blog has positively affected me in one way or another. Thank you.

Best "Core" Workout Ever!

2011-04-18T20:20:00.005-05:00

For "extra helpings," try these modifications:

Deflate the tire.

Put on the brake.

Make sure the mulch is wet, i.e., water-logged.

Any combination of the above.

Big Mouth

2011-03-19T18:52:00.007-05:00

Recently, it has been brought to my attention that, in the past (near and distant), I have yelled at people on group training rides. That I have a reputation as a “hater” has disturbed me for several reasons. First, it is highly inconsistent with my self-concept. I really do care about other people and their feelings. And, I want the sport of cycling to grow—the last thing I want to do is to run people off. What is also troubling is that I have yelled at people of whom I have no recollection whatsoever. Maybe I have finally lost my mind, or, maybe, the post-concussion syndrome has morphed into full-on dementia. Who knows?

I do know that I have no tolerance for stupidity. I am not talking about the puerile behavior of the boys on the group rides: “monkeyshines,” “weeds in the wheel,” “drop a junior,” etc. Nor, am I talking about the dick-swinging that shatters the group—the only harm there is wounded egos. I am referring to the stupidity and apparently thoughtless behavior that endangers the safety of the group. So, if you ride in the wrong lane around a blind corner, split riders while bombing a descent at 40+ mph, make sudden and unexpected lateral moves, force someone across the centerline, or think it's just fine to leave the new guy behind in the middle of nowhere, chances are, I will yell at you. If I were strong enough, I’d just attack instead of yelling, and attempt to make my point that way. Although, the connection between the stupid behavior and my “reaction” might be missed....

Maybe my concern for my friends’ safety is just a manifestation of my hyper-awareness of others’ needs or, perhaps, it is buried maternal instinct. Maybe I should adopt a Darwinian perspective—survival of the fittest and all that (i.e., if you crash because your training buddy is a dumbass, too bad for you.) Sorry people, but I am too old to undergo such a fundamental change in who I am.

I would like to point out that an individual’s “mouthiness” is not always a good indicator of their true nature. Based on reputation, the guys who have without fail waited for me, pulled me back to the group, given me their food, water, and gloves, are the ones who should have left me for dead. Clichés exist because they are true: “actions speak louder than words.”

A Rare Compliment

2011-03-14T19:35:00.008-05:00

I have a self-imposed rule that forbids me from writing about work on this blog, which has probably saved me a lot of grief. But rules are made to be broken, right?

Academia is a weird environment. Even when dealing with faculty, who, are typically goal-oriented, driven perfectionists, those in charge seem morally opposed to giving unqualified positive feedback. It's as if department chairs, deans, etc. believe that the best way to motivate people is to (subtly) leave the impression that they are not quite satisfied with your performance. Do department chairs really think that faculty would stop trying to get grants and to publish their work if they said, "good job" and just left it at that?

All of this is to preface that my department chair complimented me today, "Pam, you are far from being a puppet of the administration. That's not who you are." Whether my chair sees this attribute as positive or not, I can't be certain. I'm assuming he views my failure to be intimidated as a strength. I do.

A Moment of Grace

2011-02-21T21:40:00.002-06:00

To understand someone, you have to see yourself—some part of you in them.
~Steinbeck, East of Eden

I had an experience today that gave me pause. Thinking about it now, I wonder, “Did that really happen?”

I got a phone call at work. The woman on the other end of the line said she was calling from Canada and that she had some questions about iron deficiency in athletes. She introduced herself as a “high-performance athlete” and someone who works with elite athletes. “Do you have a few minutes?” she wanted to know. I am really glad that I took the time to talk to her. She started off by asking about the results of some recent blood work testing her iron status. She wanted to know what the numbers meant and how much she needed to improve before she could resume training. She called me because I am an “expert” in iron deficiency in athletes. But as the details of her story emerged, it became apparent that she was really asking something different—something much more important. Fortunately for both of us, I had an answer to her question: Is there hope?

I’m sure most of us, by the time we’re middle-aged, look back on our past with some regret and wish we’d made different choices. There are times I wish I hadn’t let an apparent strength—the ability to suffer—take on a life of its own and become a paralyzing weakness. I feel guilty for the “wasted” time and for what I’ve done to my health. I cannot ignore the consequences. But, not all of those consequences are negative. Today, because of my experience, I was able to offer empathy and hope to another human being.

In bits and pieces this woman’s story came out. She’d been training for inline skating—doing structured workouts—from the age of 15. Everything had been written down by her coach on a piece of paper for her to follow. She has won numerous Canadian national titles. She is a world champion and world-record holder. People were jealous of her success—they wanted to be her.

But, as she put it to me today, “People have no idea.” She has been hospitalized for eating disorders. She has had too many concussions to count. Last year, after fracturing her skull, she decided it was time to retire at age 31. Her body was breaking down and she needed to get healthy. Today, she is unemployed and on the verge of becoming homeless. No doctor will take her as patient; her case is “too complex.” She’s terrified of no longer being a world-class athlete, even though she knows it was killing her. The idea of doing something for herself—making choices based on her long-term health and happiness is completely foreign and scary. It is something she has never done. I no longer live in that terror, but I remember. Most people will never understand how resting, eating, or simply being alive can take more discipline and determination than suffering through a hard workout or willing yourself into the “pain cave.” But, I do. And, I know that eventually what seems impossible for this woman now will become more possible, then doable, and maybe, someday, natural.

At one point in our conversation, she started to cry. This woman who has accomplished so much made a simple statement that was really a question, “I don’t know if I can do it.” My answer to her: “You can.” I told her that it will not be easy. To say otherwise would be a lie. The transition from “athlete” to “human being” is really hard. In some ways being a machine seems so much simpler. But, machines eventually break down beyond repair. Human beings are mortal, but we have the opportunity to make a difference by sharing a moment of grace.

Like it or not, each of us has a story. There are days I wish I’d followed a different storyline. Today was not one of those days.

Steinbeck on Ego

2011-01-28T20:47:00.002-06:00

From Journal of a Novel: the East of Eden Letters:

The two oldest and strongest children of ego are domination and possessiveness.
And the youngest and stupidest child is desire for immortality.
Another offspring is competitiveness, which is a desire to prove superiority.

I had an epiphany after reading this. Human behavior that left me perplexed now makes perfect sense. I also realize that it wouldn't be a bad thing for me to trade some ego for humility.

Snowy Gravel

2011-01-22T16:15:00.008-06:00

What's up with this winter weather? I might as well be in Wissssconsin. Gotta get out every chance I get to avoid catching cabin fever.

Aisle 5

2011-01-16T18:40:00.002-06:00

Pre-post disclaimer: This post is in the spirit of Susan B. Anthony, so if you’re a misogynist, you might want to stop reading now.

Until I joined the Rolling Sitcom several years ago, I’d never been part of a group that was so male dominated. I’m familiar with the group dynamics of women: I grew up in a family of girls and my track, and cross-country teams in high school and college were segregated by gender, so all girls. I was definitely in the minority in my college chemistry, math, and physics classes, but there were rules governing the behavior of the male students.

In some aspects, the BOCOMO peloton is a sociology experiment on the behavior of “packs” of boys, in which I am a “participant observer.” Admittedly, much of the behavior I’ve observed is foreign to me. I’d never think that friendship could be quantified by insults. But evidently, that is the norm among boys—they show affection through insults and threats to drop each other. Over the years I’ve been around, the language of the insult, which at times borders on unintelligible, has evolved, including references to hair brushes, slippers of salvation, shoe laces, candy bars, sand where it doesn’t belong, “whine and cheese,” meltdowns and calling mom. However, the default insult employed among men (not just in the Rolling Sitcom, but all of society) is emasculation (e.g., quit crying like a girl).

The latest incarnation of the “girl” insult in our little group is “aisle 5” (the grocery store aisle that is home to the feminine hygiene products). Frankly, I don’t follow the logic with this one; I guess it’s just an indirect way of accusing someone of being a female of reproductive age. Of course, I am the only one who can see the irony in this. We may be the “weaker sex,” but I am pretty sure we have a higher pain tolerance and a greater capacity for suffering. Maybe someday “you ride like a girl” will be a compliment and not a criticism—no matter the gender of the recipient. I can only hope.

Post-post disclaimer: None of the above is intended to cast judgment or offend—it’s just the observations of the one Rolling Sitcom member who has ovaries instead of testicles. (And, no need to leave tampons on my front step—I buy my own.)

Texas Reclamation

2011-01-09T13:54:00.012-06:00

I spent the past two weeks in Texas, doing absolutely nothing but ride my bike (alot), read, overdose on college football, eat, and sleep, yet I have the sense I accomplished something important.

I'm back in BOCOMO just in time for cold-forging with the few who are "man" enough to brave the cold.

Mess with the bull and you'll get the horns!

2010-12-29T19:11:00.006-06:00

I couldn’t help but think of that colloquialism on my ride today. I guess it’s permanently filed away in my brain from having heard it one too many times.
There are all kinds of animals to be seen in the Texas Hill Country—both domesticated on the ranches and wild on the game farms. Most of the land is open range, so navigating around the sheep, goats or cattle that have congregated on the road is frequently required.

About half-way through my ride today, I came across these longhorns plus two of their friends who are not in the picture. They look pretty harmless in this photo, although a couple of them started sparring after I put my camera away. Unfortunately, when I was making the return trip on my loop, I came across them again. In a couple of hours, they'd somehow escaped their fence and had meandered down the road. Three were standing on one side of the road and two on the other. They all stood motionless, staring at me, no matter what I did. I yelled, waved my arms—they didn’t even flinch, much less move out of my way. I was too scared to try to ride past them, imagining being charged and tossed in the air or impaled. The horns are the black one were wider than I am tall and as big around as my leg! He must have been the ringleader because he kept stamping his back foot, like he was giving some kind of signal to the others. Anyway, I opted not to mess with the bull, and had to backtrack, which made my ride about an hour longer. I really can't complain though--it was 65 and sunny!

Merry Christmas from Texas!

2010-12-25T15:21:00.007-06:00

I know Christmas is supposed to be all about giving to others, but I am being completely selfish this year. I am spending the holidays in one of my favorite places on earth, riding my bike. I "celebrated" the birth of Christ by doing a 5-hr ride. I guess that makes about as a much sense as celebrating the arrival of the Messiah by buying people a bunch of stuff!

Catcher in the Rye

2010-10-16T20:49:00.009-05:00

I just finished reading Catcher in the Rye. Again. Some books I can read over and over, and that's one of them. I guess I've been in a Holden Caufield frame of mind lately:

People are always ruining things for you.

It's enough to make me want to run away.

Cross Out Cancer

2010-10-10T19:18:00.004-05:00

At three races into this year’s CX season, I’ve already equaled my race total for 2007, 2008 and 2009 combined. It’s a step in the right direction if I am going to be ready for Masters’ Worlds in Louisville in 2012.

Today’s Cross Out Cancer event was exceptional; there was music, food, massage, and lots of pagentry. They were raffling off hundreds of dollars in merchandise—autographed footballs (Marcus Allen!), Garmin’s, sound systems, and cell phones (thank god I didn’t win one!!!!!).

One of the great things about cross is that no two courses are the same, so there’s always the element of surprise. I really should learn to ignore the course descriptions on the race fliers, however. This one was advertised as being “fast.” To me, “fast” means there will be sections longer than 50 meters where you can actually pedal your bike. What I am about to say might sound like a mountain biker complaining about there being too many rocks and roots in the singletrack, but today’s course had more tight corners than I would’ve liked (yes, I am a roadie). And, it was super bumpy. I still have a headache from my brain rattling around in my skull for 80+ minutes.

Nevertheless, it was a good time. I did the women’s open followed immediately by the men’s 35+ Cat 4, so I got in LOTS of barrier practice, which I desperately need. The best thing about the races was that all of the proceeds go to support cancer research. Well done.

Under My Skin

2010-10-08T19:35:00.002-05:00

I never had allergies until I moved to Missouri. Now, I seem to be having some sort of allergic reaction year round, and the symptoms have gotten progressively worse over time. I went to the doctor to be tested for common allergens, so I can start allergy shots.

I was reminded how amazing the immune system is and how well-regulated it needs to be to fight off pathogens and destroy cancerous cells without reacting to harmless (but foreign) substances in the environment (i.e., allergy) or attacking “self.” Once exposed to a foreign protein, we make “memory” cells that are unique to that particular allergen. If we’re ever exposed to that foreign substance again, we get a large and rapid response, which can be good or bad, depending on whether the response is warranted.

The allergy test works by injecting small amounts of suspected antigens under the skin and looking for a hypersensitivity reaction (swelling, redness, itching) that is evident within minutes after the injections. So, the nurse injected me with 30 suspected allergens—I felt (and looked) like a frickin’ pin cushion by the time she was done.

It turns out I am allergic to a bunch of stuff: ragweed, pigweed, lamb’s quarter, bermuda grass, johnson grass, coaches (especially Svengali types), pine, cedar, maple, birch, ash, assholes, mold, yeast, mites, cats, dogs, self-described “hustlers,” cockroaches, mice, and houseflies. I wasn’t exactly skin-tested for all of these, but I am pretty sure the list is accurate, regardless.

You can't always get what you want

2010-10-03T20:28:00.005-05:00

All last week, I’d been planning on racing Boss Cross 1 in Riverside today. I’d (finally) gotten my cyclocross downgrade and was looking forward to racing the women’s open in the morning, the men’s 40+ cat4 in the afternoon, and then watching the drama unfold in the big boys’ race. I’d cleaned my bike, put on the race wheels, packed my bag and loaded up the car for an early Sunday morning departure.

But, it wasn’t meant to be. I woke up at 2 am from a bad dream—that I hadn’t finished the grant I’m working on in time, and had missed the deadline. At that point, it was all over. All I could think about was how much I had left to do and how little time I’ll actually have this week to finish everything by the deadline. Of course, the odds that I’ll actually get the grant are not that good. The National Institute of Health is only going to fund 3-5 proposals. But, like everything else in life (including the damn cross race), you can’t win unless you throw your hat in the ring. And, in the case of the grant, it would take the pressure off funding-wise—5 years at $250,000 direct costs per year. Given what was at stake, I just couldn’t justify spending 12 hours of the day going to the races.

So I spent the morning working on the grant. After I finished up the research plan and budget justification, I decided it was time to go for a bike ride. By then, the conditions were perfect—clear skies, cool breeze, but warm sunshine. Once I was out on my bike, it turned into one of those days where I want to ride until the sun goes down. I set out on a south Gravel Grumble loop, but that turned into a Claysville once I hit Hartsburg. The only downside to an otherwise perfect ride was that every major climb was covered with either “fresh oil and loose gravel” or deep gravelly dust. In fact, it took some focus to stay upright on the 397 climb. I was slowly crawling up the hill, spinning out with every pedal stroke, when some dude in a pick-up truck pulled up behind me. “Are you going to make it to the top?” (I was just starting the steepest section). “I hope so,” I responded. But, I was thinking, “Will you just pass me already?” I guess the odds of me making it didn’t look so good, “Do you want a ride?” he offered. I declined, of course. I was very happy that the descent on the other side was perfectly smooth. I would not have enjoyed riding down the hill in that deep, loose dirt and gravel.

It’s amazing how much thinking you can do on a long ride, how things just seem to fall into place. I realized a couple of significant improvements I could make to the grant, just about the time I passed through Englewood. By the time I got home, however, I was semi-delirious, but that was quickly remedied by some sugar in the form of ICE CREAM (of course). So, all in all, it wasn’t a bad day, even though it wasn’t what I’d hoped for.

By the way, the topic of the grant is, “novel mechanisms of aging-related bone loss: the interactions between aging, bone mass regulation, insulin resistance and metabolism.” Just in case, anyone was wondering.

A Perfect Day

2010-09-26T21:47:00.001-05:00

Today was the perfect day. I could have scripted it any better. I started the day with an early morning ride to Cooper’s Landing, watching the full moon disappear and the sun come up. Next up was breakfast at Nate and Meg’s prior to loading up Mike’s FJ Cruiser and hitting the road to KC for Manion’s Cross. Of course, we were treated to Green Bean’s famous ‘cakes and coffee. The drive over to KC was uneventful except for being dropped by Butthead and Ethan, and then boxed in on all sides no matter what lane we tried. But, it was all good, and we made it to the race in plenty of time. The course was set up on a side of a hill with virtually zero level terrain—if you weren’t going down, you were climbing. No one but me seemed to care much for the course. Maybe I didn’t mind it so much because I haven’t raced cross in so long, I’ve forgotten what a “real” cross course is supposed to be. I missed 2007 with post-concussion syndrome, 2008 was out because of someone else’s broken back and neck, and 2009 was the year of the swine flu. I am happy to be back.

I signed up for the 40+ men’s race because doing the women’s event would’ve required a much earlier departure, which I didn’t want to impose on my traveling companions. I lined up at the back of all of the masters racers. Although they were staging us by age category, I had no desire to be caught up in the chaotic start through the barn and around the first off-camber corner with a bunch of guys. During the roll call, the official asked me if I wanted to be scored with the 60+ men. I’d forgotten about the rule that permits women to race 20 years above their actual age. I guess my smaller heart and lungs, narrower airways, lower blood volume and hematocrit, proportionally more fat and less muscle add up to a 20-yr handicap—at least according to the USA cycling rulebook.

Green Beans created quite a stir when he rode up to the starting line wearing Butthead’s aero helmet and a jumpsuit. But, the race itself was relatively uneventful. I got lapped by Ethan and Green Beans, but I am used to being dropped by them. In turn, I lapped a few dudes and caught some others. After a couple of laps, I began to realize that the guys in front of me were not necessarily taking the best lines. I am always hesitant to pass a guy because he typically fights to keep me from going around or has to pass me back at the first opportunity. Nevertheless, I was faster when I was picking my own lines. Happily, I managed to finish without crashing. And, thanks to USA Cycling’s rules, I “stole” the first place merchandise prize (pasta, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar) from an old man.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on the top of the hill, sitting in the bright fall sunshine, drinking beer, eating grilled curried chicken and veggies, and watching the BOCOMO contingent (Butthead, Shot, Best, Fish, and Lt. Dan) dominate the big boy race. I also got to catch up with some friends and former teammates I hadn’t seen in a long time.

To top it all off, we stopped at Arthur Bryant’s on the way home—it would’ve been a sin not to.

Ma Nouvelle Bicyclette

2010-09-17T16:38:00.005-05:00

Always a Badger

2010-09-11T16:36:00.011-05:00

Okay, I finally have the time to fill in the details on this post (and give it an appropriate title). Last weekend, I went up to MadCity for a reunion of the University of Wisconsin women's track and cross-country teams. I'll admit to being a bit apprehensive about going. Although I accomplished some significant athletic goals during that time, those achievements came with a price. In fact, my career as a Wisconsin Badger didn't exactly have a happy ending. I wasn't sure how I'd react to being back in that environment. For various reasons, I came very close to skipping out on the reunion. But, because I am sick of letting other people's shit make me lose focus on what's important, I went.

And, I am so glad I did. It's amazing how certain experiences, often painful or difficult, forge bonds that endure over time. I spent the entire game with my former teammates, catching up on each others' lives. Except for the brief time we were on the field with a highlight video running on the jumbotron and the announcer going on about the 218 All-Americans and the nationals titles and records, there was no mention of past "wins." It was a great reminder to me that I want to be remembered, not for my athletic or professional achievements, but for the kind of person I am and the friend I am to others.

It also reminded me that my past, with its good and bad, perceived success and failure, sadness and joy, rejection and acceptance, is nothing to be ashamed of--it's just what it is. My story.

Then.

Now.

Getting by with help from my friends

2010-09-05T17:01:00.006-05:00

To my peeps (you know who you are):
Thanks for everything. I am very grateful that you were there when I needed you. You are some of the good ones. I hope I can come through for you like you have for me.

Dog Days of Summer

2010-08-29T20:27:00.002-05:00

Because cyclo-cross season is just around the corner and in honor of Ethan’s new cross bike, we opted for gravel today rather than pavement. Riding the shaded gravel and trail turned out to be a good thing, because summer was back for an encore. We headed out for an abbreviated Gravel Grumble loop, leaving in the two steep climbs and a favorite stretch of road that runs through the valley along Hart Creek. As expected, the boys rode away from me on the climbs, but they waited (mostly) for me to catch back on for several rounds of gravel/katy trail motor pacing. I kept hoping the ice cream truck would magically appear in the middle of nowhere like it did on a ride last week. But no such luck. The cold sodas and cool breeze at Cooper’s more than sufficed.

The last time we did that loop is memorable for two reasons: there was snow on the ground, which made the climbs even more fun; and, someone saw Elvis, Jesus and Santa. Today’s ride also left an impression on me, but for different reasons. I am really lucky to have friends who know me well enough to keep me in line. Thanks for that.

"You're losing!!!!"

2010-08-21T19:46:00.012-05:00

"You're losing!!!!" That's what the woman working the cash register at the grocery store in Harrisburg said to me with a chuckle. At least she didn't call me "a loser." That would've hurt. We, the Rolling Sitcom, had stopped to get something to drink in Harrisburg. The plan was to do a 4-hour ride condensed into 3 and, thanks to the swinging of Ethan, Butthead, Ozenberger, and Huffy's junior protege, Austin, we were pretty much on track when we pulled into Harrisburg. As we set our gatorades and Cokes on the counter to pay, the cashier said, "The other team is ahead of you."

"Yeah, we saw them."
"Is it a race?" she asked.
"No, not officially."

She looks at the boys, then at me, and smiles. YOU are losing!!!!

I laugh. She has no idea. No one does, really. I have no chance of "winning." Ever. Not on the hills, not on the flats, not into a headwind, not with a tailwind. I can't even "win" a single climb or city limit sprint. I've had to redefine what it means to "win," or else I'd resign from the cast of the Rolling Sitcom (I wonder if they'd find someone else to play the character of ProPam....) "Winning" now means coming back for more pain--extra helpings of suffering dished out by the boys. It's a "moral victory," I suppose, but what else is there?

Reminds me of a Vonnegut quote, "But, I am still here."

Wet Weekend Woes

2010-04-25T22:29:00.005-05:00

I headed south Friday afternoon to Harrison, Arkansas for the 58-mile Tour de Hills road race. Actually, “Tour de Hills” is an understatement; everyone except the race organizers refers to the course as the “Jasper Disaster.” As you can see from the course profile, the climbs are such that you are guaranteed to learn something about yourself.

It rained on my drive down, which I now view as ominous foreshadowing of what was to come. However, as I pulled into Harrison, the storm clouds moved on, leaving blue skies, white puffy clouds and a double rainbow. Now, according to the Bible, the rainbow is sign, a reminder if you will, of God’s promise, “Never again will the water become a flood to destroy all life.” After this weekend, I pretty sure that something got lost in the translation of Genesis. Or, perhaps, there was an exception clause for bike racers. After all, God does not take kindly to those who worship other deities, and it is common knowledge bike racing is a false religion, offering hope of redemption through athletic glory. But, I am going off on tangent, which, if you know my Harrison-based host for the weekend, makes perfect sense.

Anyway, I woke up race-day morning to thunder and the sound of sideways-blowing rain hitting the windows. At that point, I was pretty sure that the race would be cancelled. But the storm blew through pretty quickly, and by the time we drove to the start, the sun was shining. As it got closer to start time, the clouds began to roll in and the wind picked up. The skies let loose with a downpour, thunder and lightning, just as the women rolled off the line. I was freezing from being soaked to the skin and the wind and decided to pick up the pace just to stay warm, which left me with just one other woman. It absolutely poured the first ten miles or so, and then started to let up. I was still cold and my legs felt awful—so bad that I didn’t want to go up the first climb with anyone else. So, I attacked and was on my own. I was pedaling with my head down, eyes almost shut trying to see the road when I heard air escaping my tire. Thankfully, the wheel truck had decided to follow me, so I got a pretty quick wheel change and was off again.

That’s when Mother Nature decided to stop messing around and busted out the monsoon, complete with hail. It’s a good thing I’d ridden the descent into Jasper several times before so I sort of remembered where the road was supposed to be, as it had vanished under all of the running water. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, the storm was gone. It passed just as I was topping Mt. Sherman. As the sun came out, the skies turned blue, and the pavement started to dry, the misery of the first 25 miles started to seem like a fading bad dream. Thankfully, I had the luxury of creeping down the switchbacks into Ponca at my own pace, but sadly, my climb up the other side of the valley was just as pathetic. I am very fortunate I didn’t have to try to stay with anyone. It wouldn’t have happened. A few other people were suffering too. I passed a handful of guys doing the zig-zag up the climb. I finally got to the top and turned back east towards Harrison with 22 miles to go. I was elated that the weather forecast had at least gotten the wind direction right—I was gifted a huge tailwind out of the west.

I was so hell-bent on ending my misery as soon as possible that I got in my drops and pedaled as hard as I could. Strangely, I passed guys who had dropped me on the climbs. However, because I was so focused on finishing and on thoughts of dry clothes and shoes, I didn’t realize that another huge storm was rapidly overtaking me from behind. The suddenness with which the sky turned from blue to black, the crosswinds that tried to blow me off the road, and the icy rain brought me back to reality. The reality of the next 10 miles or so was hell. Even worse than the cold rain was the terror that I might be blown off the road or off my bike by a huge gust of wind. And, then, at the top of Mt. Gaither, the last descent into Harrison about 5 miles from the finish, the sun came out. Bizarre.

I have never been so miserable in a bike race. If I had known how bad it was going to be, I would’ve stayed in the van. Of course, once the suffering was done, the experience became “epic,” which is really just code for something I never want to go through again. Mother Nature or God or whoever had thrown some punches, but I was still standing...

.. until I got home and discovered that Someone intended to have the last laugh. Evidently, my basement had flooded over the weekend—to a depth of approximately two feet. I discovered water in the most unexpected places—in the dryer, in the crisper drawers of the refrigerator, in my bike box, in the filing cabinet. Of course, the pilot light on the hot water heater had been drowned out; too bad it can’t be relit with water in the gas line. Oh well. After this weekend, I am used to cold showers.

At this point, I would really like this joke to be over. It’s gone far enough.

Seeing It Through

2010-01-31T18:21:00.001-06:00

Today’s ride to “Fayettenam” has officially been labeled “epic,” by those with the authority to make such proclamations. We were given fair warning: the pace “WILL be INTENSE.” As we rolled away from Cycle Extreme, prophesies of doom and destruction were uttered, “This will be like riding into the mouth of bazooka....”

In some kind of sick irony, the punches started flying at the crossroads of Hinton—right after Bolton and I (who suffered the most and longest on this ride) got done pulling. After that, it was pain, blood and guts, pain, spit and snot, pain, tunnel vision and burning quads, and more pain. I can’t even remember how many times I got dropped. And dropped hard. On more occasions than I can remember, the entire group disappeared out of sight, all except one who always seemed to be just within reach. Of course, the boys always waited for me. I’d roll up red-faced, legs burning and they’d be standing around, giving each other shit, like they were having a roadside picnic, enjoying the end-of-January sunshine.

Anyway, all of this suffering triggered some serious soul-searching on my part. The logical, rational part of my brain was asking a very legitimate question—a cost/benefit analysis, really: what were the benefits of the suffering and were they worth the cost. Butthead reminded me that pain is “just weakness leaving the body”—if that’s true, I had a lot of weakness exorcised today! But, I couldn’t really come up with a good answer. All I could think in response to the question of “why?” is that I’ve had a lot of practice “hanging on.” In fact, my entire athletic career has been one of just hanging on. In both high school and college, I spent my first three years mostly getting “dropped”—ecstatic when I finished an interval or, oh my god, a race with the “leaders”. So, I have many years of experience looking at the backside of people much better than me, trying desperately to stay with them and then watching them slowly pull away.

Our group “rides” are pretty much the same thing. Maybe I endure the pain, not just because I hate being weak, but because I have had a lot of practice at drafting (yes, there’s drafting in track running) and hanging on has become an instinctual response. That seems like a reasonable answer to my rational brain until I realize that I have overlooked one HUGE difference between the droppage of my past and what I endured today. In running, the years of getting the shit kicked out of me eventually paid off and, for a moment, I had something to show for it (the glory of athletic success lasts about one day). But I have no chance on the group rides, where it’s mano a mano among men and the men are Category 1 (in reality or in ability) multi-time state and national champs, former members of the national team, etc. I am a realist, yet I persist in this apparent exercise in futility.

All that I am left with is a quote from one of my favorite books of all time:

"Courage is not a man with a gun in his hand. It's knowing you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- spoken by Atticus Finch, by Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

I guess the “benefit” of enduring an “epic ride” like today’s is in seeing it through. And, to be honest, maybe I am still hoping for a “rare win”—whatever that might be.

State CX Race

2009-12-06T19:15:00.013-06:00

I had my best CX Race ever, and I didn't even race. I got up before dawn to ride to Hermann. On my way, I passed several river towns--Mokane, Stedman, Portland--that brought back memories (some good, some not so good) of EPIC rides and chasing the Tour of Missouri.

The stretch of trail from Portland to McKittrick was especially pretty, as it overlooks the river. I passed the mysterious Standing Rock, which, despite its appearance, is not a giant boulder that fell from the bluff above, but a remnant of an ancient blufftop, the rest of which eroded. I wish now that I had ridden the extra mile to the scenic overlook at Bluffton, I bet it's quite a view.

After 5+hours on the Katy Trail into a headwind, I finally made it to Hermann. I found the rest of the BOCOMO sitcom camped out by the sandpit. Green Beans had hot chocolate and homemade (low-fat) coffeecake, not to mention the India Malta mystery beverage. Then, Dana showed up with the beer and I was perfectly content to hang out and join Riley in cheering on his dad and the rest of the boys who drop me every weekend. It's great to know that I'm dropped by the best in the state: Butthead and Waterboy went 1-2 and Best took 8th place in the 1,2's; Dan Miller won the 3's, with Larry earning all of the style points; and, Ethan took third in the masters' despite a flat and several mishaps. Not bad.

On the drive home, I was threatened with being "guilted" into getting a cell phone to carry on these long, solo rides--either that or I'm going to be tagged with a GPS-locating device. I don't know which would be worse....

A Long Ride

2009-11-01T18:37:00.003-06:00

After yesterday's non-ride of fits and starts, I needed my fix: a long gravel ride. It was a perfect day. Sunny, blue skies, a breeze out of the south east, which would give me a tailwind on the homestretch. It wasn't long before I had to stop and get rid of some clothing. Given the cold, wet weather that's plagued us lately, having to stuff arm warmers and vest in my already jammed pockets was not a bad problem to have. The ride could not have started better. Even the dogs that normally chase me preferred to continue napping, soaking up the sun.

Then, the flats started. The first was a pinch. I was going downhill, bouncing all over the deep, recently dumped gravel. No sooner did I think, I can't believe I haven't flatted, when PSSSSSSSSS. There goes the air and it's flat-changing time. Just as I am putting the wheel back on, a guy in a pick up drives up and stops, "Is it gonna work?" He appears to have a slight smirk on his face as he asks. "I hope so," I reply, and I really do. I also wonder what the odds are of having someone stop to help when you really need it.

I continue on. Not more than 5 miles further down the road, another flat. The front, this time. I fix it, but have used my last tube. I decide that the prudent thing to do at this point is to modify my route. I figure, that if I flat again, my odds of getting home are better if I stick to the MKT trail, rather than take a forsaken gravel road through National Forest.

I stop in Hartsburg to get water. There's a group of cyclists stopped, they're hauling stuff like they've been camping. I have hope that my luck has changed. I ask to buy a tube off one of them, and they're happy to oblige. Turns out the three Daves and Lee are from Springfield. One of the Dave's says he is happy to see me. He hasn't see any girls the two days he's been riding and camping on the trail. I respond by asking if they know any racers from Springfield. They look confused. "Certainly, you know Brad Huff?," I ask. Now, they understand my question. Turns out Doug, Cale, and Jim are mutual acquaintances.

I gratefully stuff the tube I bought off of Lee into my pocket and decide to stick to my original route. I mean, I've already had two flats. How many flats could one person have in one day? Two miles later, with the air leaking from my rear tire, I conclude that it's just not meant to be. Once again, I have no spare.

I head towards home, cautiously optimistic that if I can make it to Cooper's Landing, I will not have to spend the night walking home in the cold and dark. I start thinking of all the people I could call to beg to come rescue me. I try to remember their phone numbers.

That I make it home without having to walk my bike, borrow a tube from a stranger, or call for a ride, seems like a small miracle. Whatever I've done to deserve this bad luck, I am sorry!

All Hallows' Eve

2009-10-31T17:53:00.008-05:00

When people ask me for training advice, e.g., how should I train for Leadville?, I always tell them that they need to "practice" whatever it is they want to be good at. In other words, your training should be specific to the event.

Today, I came to appreciate that this principle can be generalized to a much wider range of activities than I previously realized. Rather than make the trip to Saint Louis to race Bubba In the Dark (and in the muck), which would get me home after midnight, I opted to do the "costume ride" with Larry and Dana, Jessica, and her sister, and Kristen. I knew that the event would test my limits--physically and mentally. To prepare for all of the non-pedaling and frequent stops, I got up early and did "openers" to Cooper's Landing and back. I changed into my costume, met the ladies, and we rode down to Flat Branch Park to meet Larry and Dana.

I must digress on my costume for a moment. I wore a dress from Gotcha that I've had for awhile--as you might imagine, having been chosen for me by Aaro, it was a leopard print. Fluorescent green with hot pink trim. Hideous. I put a jersey on underneath and stuffed my extra tube, etc. in my pockets. By doing so, I inadvertently transformed myself into a "hunch back hooker." At least, that's what I looked like to Larry. I just couldn't bring myself to carry all my stuff in a fanny pack. That would have made the outfit too realistic. If you don't know what I'm talking, just ask Green Beans.

After much ado, including photos and a couple of mimosas, we rolled out. We'd only gone a mile when the "intervals" started. I was "dropped" on the first one. Shortly thereafter, we met Butthead, who, after it occurred to him that he actually knows some the crazy costumed mob, shook his head in disgust.

It was all downhill from there--I couldn't keep up. It quickly became apparent that I was ill-prepared for this event. After a road race earlier this summer, I came to the realization that if I am going to race, I really should train--if for no other reason than to lessen the pain. Today, about half-way into the "event," I thought, "If I am going to participate in these non-race events, I need to train for them." I was out of my element coasting and I could not get used to stopping every couple of miles. I know my beer-consumption ability (or lack thereof) was an embarrassment to my "teammates" who are in much better "shape" than me.

As is the case on all group rides, I've learned to have perspective on getting dropped--to look for the silver lining. Today, it was the costumes. Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, who had alternative names, were pretty good. Although, that Snow White was a blow-up doll being hauled behind lying supine, was disturbing. My personal favorite was the couple who came as Contador and Armstrong. The best part was that "Contador" kept yelling things at Armstrong that the real Alberto must have only thought or said behind closed doors.

As is always the case, I dug deep and somehow made it home. Tomorrow, I am staying below "threshold." Bring on the gravel.

Gorilla in the Mist (Rain, actually)

2009-10-29T21:47:00.005-05:00

I got up extra early to try and sneak in a ride before the rain arrived. I'd tried this strategy earlier this week and it didn't work out all that well. I flatted on the darkest stretch of trail, jogged/pushed my bike to the trailhead at Scott Blvd. where there was light enough to see, fixed the flat and headed out. Within half a mile, I'd flatted again, and had to walk/jog home. But, like the rest of you, I'm tired of the rain keeping me off my bike. So, I set my alarm for 5:30 to beat the rain that was due to arrive sometime after 8.

It was pitch dark out when I left. As soon as I hit the trail, I came up on some army trainees running in camo and t-shirts with "ARMY" written in fluorescent letters on the back. They were carrying weaponry, which is always a little weird, even in the daylight. Then, I met an "army" of triathletes a mile long, running with head lamps. Just as I passed the last one, I saw some lights flashing about a foot off the ground. I tried to make out what it was--a bike with a trailer, laying on the trail. Just as I passed the bike, wondering what happened to the owner, out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. Something big and black was climbing up onto the trail from under a bridge. It was a gorilla. A talking gorilla. I heard it say, "Hi, there," in a deep man's voice. If I hadn't been half asleep, I probably would have screamed. But, it was all so surreal, I just kept pedaling, trying to convince myself that Halloween is still a few days off.

The rest of my ride was within the realm of the expected. I was treated to a spectacular lightning display, a beautiful sunrise, and then RAIN, RAIN, RAIN. That's one good thing about this crappy weather, I have the trail all to myself.

One of Those Days

2009-10-04T21:08:00.012-05:00

The day didn't get off to bad start. I got up when the alarm went off. Did a little stretching, and managed to go for a short shuffle jog around the block and lift weights without pulling a hamstring or throwing out my back.

The weirdness started when I rolled my dirt bike out of the garage and heard the rear brake rubbing. Then I noticed a broken spoke. How does this happen? It's not like I'm hard on the bike. Oh well. I swap dirt for single speed.

It's a chilly morning, so I've got the long-sleeved jersey on. But, it's unzipped just enough, that as I roll down Stewart, some crazy insect flies directly into my jersey, down my sports bra and stings me on the chest. I let out a burst of profanity (WTF????!!!!!), while trying to free whatever stung me from my clothing. Then, embarrassed, I notice two little kids waiting with their mom at the bus stop. It's obvious that they've witnessed the entire incident.

I stop at Uprise Bakery for some bread on my way to work. I tell a small lie as I
recruit the "hipster" to cyclocross practice.
Hipster behind the counter: Do you race? (I am wearing spandex)
Me: Yes, a little.
Hipster behind the counter: Only road? Or, cyclocross, too?
Me: Both.
Hipster behind the counter: It's cyclocross season isn't it?
Me: Yes. (I then proceed to tell him about our weekly practices)
Hipster behind the counter: Oh, I know the spot. Are they low-key?
Me: Yes. (I lie, and then hedge). But, it's a bunch of guys, so of course, they get competitive....
Hipster behind the counter: Says nothing, just smiles and then laughs.

I leave Uprise and go to work. I feel guilty for misleading the hipster.

I change out of my spandex into work clothes and check my email. Professor Green Beans is going to ride the Gravel Grumble at 4, leaving from Twin Lakes. I'm in.

Meetings. Coffee break, but Starbucks has no coffee ready (how can this be? all they do is coffee!). I am too impatient to wait for it to finish brewing.

More meetings. I am on track to leave in time to meet Green Beans. All I have to do is make sure I have the supplies I need for tomorrow's experiments. I go to the lab and start to go through my mental list. And, then, I am pissed. Someone has STOLEN my multi-channel pipette reagent reservoirs and pipette tips. You'd think that scientists would be above thievery.

By the time I make arrangements to borrow what went missing, it is 5 o'clock. Now, I am really irritated because my ride will be cut short. I decide to go directly, with backpack, and do a out-and-back to Cooper's Landing. I figure I've got enough daylight. And, I've got my emergency light, just in case.

I see Butthead doing trailer intervals with Riley on my way out. I smile and wave. I hope that I might run into Green Beans on his way back from Hartsburg. I need to vent. Just as I get to Cooper's, it's starts to sprinkle. I hope I do not get caught in a downpour. I check the time and figure that I'll make it back just before dark.

Then, as I am crossing the first bridge coming around the water-treatment ponds, standing up to avoid the bumps, I am suddenly having to catch myself to keep from going over the bars. When I recover, I realize I am pedaling, but my chain is not engaged. My initial thought is that the chain is broken (that would be a first), but I look down and see it's come off the back cog. How in the hell did that happen? I struggle to get the chain back on. I am thinking that it's going to be a long walk home.

After getting covered with black grease, I finally get the chain back on.

It is now raining.
It is now dark. The emergency light is worthless.
I have the song, "man of constant sorrow" running through my head, changing "man" to "woman"....

I pedal home rather tentatively so as not to lose my chain again. I make it without further incident.

I have a certified letter from the IRS in my mail. It is a "notice of deficieny." I owe $1797 plus interest that has been compounding since April 15, 2007. I now know that I am a "self-employed, independent contractor" not a "common law employee." Big difference. Someone's got to pay the Social Security and Medicare. That someone was supposed to be me.

I don't know whether to think I am cursed, or that my luck is about to change.... But, I do know that this picture sums it up pretty well.

Leader of the Pack

2009-07-10T22:29:00.006-05:00

A highly observant member of the BOCOMO peloton termed the little faction that I ride with “The Rolling Sitcom.” It’s not a bad analogy—a group of idiosyncratic characters thrown together for shits and grins and more than little drama. The other day, during the latest episode of the Rolling Sitcom—Tuesday Night Worlds, it occurred to me that the wolf pack would an equally appropriate analogy. Read what follows and I think you’ll agree. (DISCLAIMER: I did not make this up—it all came from reputable sources.)

The wolf pack is a tightly knit social group with a hierarchical structure to maintain pack organization for hunting and care of the pack. The hierarchy of a typical wolf pack is as follows: an Alpha male who is pack leader; a Beta male that supports the Alpha male; subordinates; and, the Omega wolf, typically a female, who bears the brunt of the pack's stress.

Alpha wolves are not dominant because they are the strongest, but because they are effective leaders. Thus, they lead the pack by organization and rallying, rather than forceful domination and strength. This is consistent with the very nature of the pack--it is not vital that the pack be as strong as can be, but as organized as possible, so that the hunt can be as successful as possible. The Alpha wolves tend to start and guide most pack activities. They lead the pack when travelling, decide when and where to hunt, are usually the first to attack strange wolves, and tend to attack the most vigorously when encountering a hostile wolf pack.

The Beta wolf usually does the 'enforcing' of the pack structure, showing support for the Alpha, and 'reminding' the other members of who is in charge.

The Omega wolf bears the stress of the pack by acting as a kind of a scapegoat. This is an essential role, as the pack must find a way to relieve stress if the hunt is not successful, or if a pack member is angered or stressed for any other reason. Surprisingly, the Omega wolf finds comfort in its position.

You can tell a wolf's rank in the pack simply by looking at how it holds its body. Alpha wolves stand more erect with their tails held higher, while lower-ranking ones slouch toward the ground. Submissive wolves even relieve themselves differently from alphas; an Omega wolf urinates in a squatting position.

Wolves communicate in many ways. Primary communication seems to be body language, gesture, and expression. Wolves do vocalize in the form of howling and other minor ways such as whines, whimpers, yips and sometimes even barks. “Mob greetings,” wherein a large number, if not all, of the pack member gather and lick and/or sniff each other, are commonplace.

It is important to remember that Alpha wolves are the most experienced members of a pack and it is generally to every member's advantage to do what they bid.

Christa

2009-06-10T21:21:00.008-05:00

Sometimes there are no words for the feelings.

There are no words for the sick feeling that I have from the unexpected bad news. Christa Voss was hit by a truck and killed yesterday while riding her bike outside of Tulsa.

Christa was a talented athlete--a runner and then a cyclist. She was a professor of biology at Tulsa Community College. She was my friend.

I will remember Christa for the kind of person that she was: sweet, kind, thoughtful, gentle, and optimistic. She walked in grace, always smiling. And, no one will ever fill her shoes (boots)....

I hate to say good bye so soon.

Going to class

2009-05-25T18:57:00.007-05:00

I overslept this morning and was almost late for class. I was scheduled for some long overdue remedial lab training. Thankfully, the Professor excused my tardiness and we proceeded with the practicum as planned. After several hours of hands-on practice from a patient teacher who provided explanations of "why"--my bike maintenance skills now range beyond cleaning the chain and changing a cassette. Although we covered such topics as replacement of head-set bearings and bottom bracket rebuilding, the real lesson was one of empowerment. Thanks, Professor Beans. I will never again be intimidated by a task just because it requires tools and a basic understanding of physics!

Emancipation Proclamation

2009-03-17T21:17:00.009-05:00

I led a "clinic," organized by the Columbia Multisport Club, for women interested in riding and maybe racing. As my own team's mission statement is, "Promoting the sport of Cycling in our Community," how could I say no? It was the perfect opportunity to spread The Gospel of Cycling, which is not one of salvation and eternal life, but Empancipation and Empowerment.

The value of the bike as a vehicle of social change was first recognized over one hundred years ago:

"I think the bicycle has done more to emancipate women than anything else in the world. It gives a woman a feeling of freedom and self-reliance. The moment she takes her seat she knows she can't get into harm unless she gets off her bicycle, and away she goes, the picture of free, untrammeled womanhood." ~Susan B. Anthony, 1896

"Riding the wheel, our powers are revealed to us...." ~Maria Ward, author of Bicycling for Ladies, written in 1896.

We anticipated that maybe 10 women would show up. There were 30. It was a sight to behold. I'm pretty sure that all the cars and other riders who passed us were wondering, what the .....???!!!

Livin' the Dream

2009-03-06T20:04:00.011-06:00

When I quit the cross-country team as a freshman in high school, I never thought that I'd someday dream of racing in Europe and eventually get there. How did that happen?

Pictures never tell the whole story. I am done chasing "The Dream." I am content with living.

Froze Toes--2009 Edition

2009-02-22T20:36:00.006-06:00

Froze Toes lived up to its name this year--it was COLD and WINDY. Regardless of the weather, Froze Toes is always a great opportunity to test the legs and lungs and to practice some team tactics.The Women's Open race had a decent sized field considering the weather and the state of women's racing in the midwest. We started with 12, but it was clear from the start it was going to be show-down between Team Revolution and Mercy. Frankly, we were a little intimidated by the fact that Team Rev's Carrie and Chris were fresh off some impressive racing at Valley of the Sun. Nevertheless, we started the race determined to put up a good fight, and we did. We were aggressive from the get go--attacking and counter-attacking. About half-way into the race, Michelle launched a perfectly timed counter and got a gap. Team Rev tried to chase in earnest, but just couldn't quite get there. After it seemed like Michelle had the win, Jen and I started planning how we could take the field sprint. I launched some attacks and attempted to give Jen a lead out. Jen pulled out an incredible sprint finish and took the field sprint for second, while I held on for fourth. It was great to see how effective teamwork can be, when everyone's committed to a team victory. Nice work, ladies!

Thanks to:

The Columbia Bike Club for putting on a well-organized and safe race.

All of the volunteers who braved the cold and wind.

The USAC officials for being reasonable and overturning a bad decision.

Green Beans for making us amateurs feel like pros.

Chris and Carrie of Team Rev and Molly of Mesa for making it RACE, not a Knitting Circle.

Happy New Year!

2009-01-01T19:23:00.004-06:00

What better way to start 2009 than with nearly five hours of cold forging? Well, maybe the Willow City Loop or Pecan Creek, but other than those routes, nothing beats a Fulton/Guthrie, especially when there's a stiff cross/head blowing all day long. We had a decent group, several of whom were showing off new equipment to start the new year--a powertap, a Garmin, even a brand new bike. I hadn't been on my road bike since August, so it felt like I was on a new bike.

But not even a new bike or gadgetry would've given me the legs I needed. I am grateful to those who let me sit in the sweet spot out of the wind and who pulled me back to the group going into Fulton. And, thanks to my new teammate who said "enough" after his third (or was it fourth?) interval.

Next up: secret training in the Ozark mountains.

The Price of Greatness

2008-11-23T16:06:00.005-06:00

Whether you can see it or not, most athletes who are successful at the "next level" pay a significant price for their 15 minutes of fame. It would be presumptuous of any of us to answer the question, "was it worth it," for someone else.

I came across this article that recently appeared in the sports section of a Madison newspaper. It's about Suzy Favor Hamilton, one of the best known American middle distance runners. Suzy and I are the same age; we were teammates at the University of Wisconsin. To understand the significance of her sharing her "secrets," you have to realize that Suzy seemed to be the rare athlete who was immune to the psychological issues that come with tremendous talent. Not only was she fast, she was attractive and out-going; she rarely lost. You can be sure that thousands of little girls wanted to grow up and be just like Suzy.

Olympic athlete Favor Hamilton tells her secret

By: Melanie Conklin
9/27/2008

Suzy Favor Hamilton watched the 2008 Summer Olympics from under the covers of her bed in her Nakoma home, a bag of Cheetos at her side.
Several years ago, the three-time Olympic runner was telling people that she might come back after having a baby to be on the track in Beijing this year.
She said it. But she didn't mean it.
"I was so glad I wasn't there," Favor Hamilton says. "Every day, at least once a day during the Olympics, I'd get people asking me about that. And I know from their reaction that they were disappointed when I said that I was glad I wasn't there. But I think if you know my story, you understand it was time to move on in life."
Moving on for Favor Hamilton, at age 40, has meant exploring passions beyond running, such as artwork, gardening, public speaking and, recently, even a new sport -- speed skating.
But moving forward was not possible until she made a confession.
"I think a lot of people have no idea about my story," she says, pauses and corrects herself. "Well, nobody knows, because there is part of my story that I haven't admitted until recently -- what really happened in my 2000 experience in the Olympics."
The fall
Leading up to the 2000 Olympics in Sydney, Australia, Favor Hamilton posted the fastest women's 1500-meter time in the world that year. The New York Times said she was running "with a new assertiveness and an appetite for distance training," and called her a "favorite for a gold medal."
Then in the home stretch of her 1,500-meter Olympic race, she mysteriously collapsed on the track, struggled to cross the finish line and place last before collapsing again.
There have been different speculations and explanations for why Favor Hamilton fell. The public list has included injuries, dehydration and a panic attack.
All of those were true to some extent, she confirms.
The whisper was that she fell intentionally after dropping from first place as she neared the end.
Favor Hamilton is now ready to talk about that.
"With 200 yards to go, I hit empty on my gas tank," she begins. "At that point I started to have a panic attack. In my mind, I knew winning was the option, only winning could be a success."
With the finish line in sight, another runner passed her and she thought, "OK, silver." Then two more women passed and with them her chance at a medal.
"In fourth place I decided fourth was not good enough and I somehow needed to vanish," she says. "But how do you vanish when the whole world is watching?"
She recalls the flurry of thoughts that followed. "I thought of my best friend who was dying of cancer and was watching the race. I thought of my family, and my brother had passed away a year before, and thought if I could win they would be happy. I was thinking about my husband and my coach. And people had told me, If you can win the gold just think about the impact that would have on the sport.' "
Then comes what she calls the toughest admission of her life: "I was thinking about everyone, how happy they would be. And at that moment I had let them all down, so falling was the option. And I fell."
Why she runs
Over the past eight years, Favor Hamilton has often been asked what happened.
"After that race, people asked, Why did you fall?' " she remembers. "And I said, Oh, I was injured. And I was dehydrated.' "
No one heard the real answer.
"I was really clear on what happened," Favor Hamilton says. "I knew what I did, but I didn't tell anybody. I felt I had to be perfect I was 32 years old and trying to please the world."
Growing up in Stevens Point, Favor started running in the fifth grade. Soon she ran every day. She remembers her mother Rachel Favor urging her to take a day off, worried that she might burn out.
"That was never an option in my mind to take a day off," Favor Hamilton says. "I remember if I was feeling sad, I'd go and run and my day would be perfect. That's how it has been for me my whole life."
Now, after analyzing the 2000 Olympics and her running career with a therapist, she understands what fed that drive.
"I know now that I had depression as a child," Favor Hamilton says. "Running was my drug that I found as a child -- and throughout my whole life. So I never wanted to stop running."
And she was great at it. Favor Hamilton won 11 state titles in high school and was named one of the top 100 high school athletes of the century by Scholastic Sports Magazine. In college at UW-Madison she won nine NCAA championships and was named Big Ten Athlete of the Decade for the 1990s. She graced such magazine covers as Fitness and Runner's World, was featured in Rolling Stone and Cosmopolitan and in ads for Nike, Reebok and Pert shampoo.
While attending UW-Madison, she met baseball player Mark Hamilton. Quiet, analytical and detailed, he was the antithesis to the gregarious and spirited Favor.
"It was a situation where opposites attract," he says. "We balance each other. I think I keep her grounded. But sometimes with Suzy you have to take a back seat and enjoy the ride."
He is not only the love of her life, she says, he is the person who has pushed her to face her imperfections and fears. When they first began dating, she had an eating disorder.
"When I met Mark, I loved him immediately so much and he wanted nothing to do with me if I wouldn't start eating and basically taking care of myself," Favor Hamilton recalls. "And for him to say that -- he was finally the one thing that was superior over my running. And so that was the trigger that really helped me."
Hamilton, also 40, says she first told him less than a month ago that she had intentionally fallen at the Olympics. He remembers her falling in other races -- always when there was a poisonous mix of pressure from being favored to win combined with something that rattled her confidence, like an injury. "Now so much makes sense," he says.
That moment marked the lowest point in her running career. But now that she can talk publicly about her collapse and the depression and pressure behind it, she chooses to view that tortuous event as something good -- the turning point in her life.
"I want to be positive. I want to have a fabulous life," she says. "I don't want a moment in my life to ruin my life. And it was starting to do that."
Dark times
Although Favor Hamilton was on the top of her competitive game in 2000, it was among her least happy times.
She had long watched her older brother, Dan Favor, struggle with bipolar disorder. And in 1999, one year before the Olympics, he stopped taking his medication, hating how it made him feel. Shortly afterward he took his own life, jumping from a building.
Around that same time, her former college roommate, fellow runner and best friend, Mary Hartzheim, was diagnosed with a rare and fatal form of bone cancer.
Hartzheim died shortly after Favor Hamilton gave birth in 2005, a point when injuries and motherhood had pushed Favor Hamilton into racing retirement.
Those deaths weighed heavily on her -- and she no longer had running as an antidote to her depression. Things became darker.
On Sept. 21, 2005, Favor Hamilton gave birth to Kylie -- who she now lovingly calls her "true gold medal."
It was the desire to be a strong, positive example for her daughter that forced independent, driven Favor Hamilton her to realize she needed help from a therapist for her depression.
"My worst moment I remember," Favor Hamilton says, "I was in my basement, curled up in a ball on the floor next to my treadmill, crying because I couldn't get on it."
Her good friend Shawn Smith, who is now her agent through XAM Sports, says when she's booked as a motivational speaker and describes weeping by her treadmill, the audience is jolted.
"You have Suzy, who you see as this strong, blond Olympian of perfection and then she lets it all out there honestly -- she has people in tears," Smith says.
When Favor Hamilton finally saw a psychiatrist, she was angry that she didn't come in sooner.
"Why did I wait?" she asks. "Why did I let a year of my life go by in that state? I thought I was going to get better, but it got worse."
Treatment and admitting she can't be perfect gave Favor Hamilton the ability to move forward.
Her husband agrees she's changed. "I think she seems more confident in her own skin," Hamilton says, "maybe even more happy than she's ever been."
The next phase
Don't be fooled by the image of Favor Hamilton lounging in her bed with Cheetos. Phase two of her life, as she calls it, is as kinetic as her champion running phase.
The main difference is that she is happier.
The Hamiltons' home in the Nakoma neighborhood is a testament to Suzy's varied passions. But not in the way people expect.
"A lot of people when they come in my house -- they think that my house is full of running trophies or running things," Favor Hamilton says. "It's not. You wouldn't know that I'm a runner."
The walls are filled with artwork, painting and mosaics made by Favor Hamilton and her daughter.
And she gets dirty in her backyard, where their pugs Dee Dee and Cee Cee romp, working to turn it into an English garden.
In their work life, the Hamiltons capitalize on their differing personalities and skills by teaming up as First Weber real estate agents. Despite the slumping economy they've managed to have their best year ever. And Favor Hamilton donates time to many non-profit causes, with special attention to Capital Candlelighters, which serves families of children diagnosed with cancer and last year named its October run after her.
She's also working with Nike to start a running club, beginning here in Madison. She hopes to find 100 people who will sign up together to run such local charity races.
And she's experimenting with new forms of exercise. Years of recurring dreams about ice skating led her to try speed skating at the McFarland Community Ice Arena several weeks ago. She picked it up so fast that she may compete as early as October. But she has no plans to stop running.
"I'm running probably twice a week right now," Favor Hamilton says. "Injuries are something I always have to think about because I was injured so badly as a runner. If I could run every day, I would. But I also want to keep running forever. I want to run until I'm 80."
Instead of traveling for track meets, Favor Hamilton now tours the country for her side job as a motivational speaker.
Occasionally, she imagines how great it might feel if she could pass around a gold medal at those talks. Instead, she now plays the video of her 2000 Olympic race -- something she couldn't bear to watch herself not long ago.
"If you're going to feel sorry for me -- don't," she tells her audience. "I realize that this is the moment that my life changed. And this moment has actually been able to make an impact on people. And if it makes you feel like it's OK to screw up, then that's awesome."
Then she encourages audience members to share their own stories.
"Just because my moment was an Olympic moment, people have the same feelings about things at a high-school level, a college level, a work moment they can't get over. It's not right for anybody to have to feel that way."
Find this article at: http://www.badgerbeat.com/news/article/id/306841

Sisters of Mercy 2009

2008-11-18T20:55:00.008-06:00

We've added two more "sisters" for next season--Sydney and Lyndsey (not pictured). So, with Michelle, Jen and I, we'll have five. We should have the numbers and horsepower to challenge Team Revolution whose mission is take over women's racing (they're doing a great job of it!).

Last night, we endured a 2-hour conference call to discuss our philosophy on racing, goals for the upcoming season, schedule, etc. (I really hate talking on the phone--sorry, ladies.) Each of us answered the question: what do we want to get out of racing with teammates?

1. Fun playing the game

2. Girl friends

3. BEER

4. A COUNTER ATTACK

5. All of the above

How can you go wrong with that combination? Plus, we're keeping the PINK kits.

Mmmmm.....Bacon

2008-11-07T14:28:00.002-06:00

Chocolate covered pig fat.

(Sorry, Huffy, not even Askinosie would make this edible. The brownies were YUMMY, by the way).

Leadville 100 Redux

2008-08-15T10:02:00.002-05:00

I did it.
I finished Leadville.
Within the time limit. (I promise to never wear the buckle.)
Thanks to those who believed in me and those who had their doubts--I couldn't have done it without your support.
No, I did not die.
I did not get hurt.
I did not crash.
I did not freak out.
I did not have a frustration-induced meltdown.

I may ride like a girl, but I am not as fragile as I look.

I have a lot of respect for everyone who lines up for the unique 100 miles of pain and natural beauty that is Leadville. Had I known how deep into the "pain cave" I'd have to go, or how long I'd have to stay there, I may have spent my registration fee elsewhere. $240 buys a lot of ice cream or beer or blonde highlights....

My advice to anyone considering joining the "Leadville family": You had better love suffering. The pain comes in many forms: lung-busting climbs with very little oxygen; brain-jarring descents; inclines, covered with rocks, dirt, or sand, so steep everyone must walk; drastic changes in temperature; ice-cold rain, hail, and wind; testosterone-crazed riders crashing/blowing up in front of you, bringing the single-file crawl up the mountain to a dead halt, moral dilemmas--like whether to pee your pants (NO!); and, eating nothing but "Power Gel" all day.

So what's the pay-off? Why do people come back year after year? Why has the race nearly doubled in size in the past 5 years? Is it the allure of the silver belt buckle? Or, if you're really fast, and a little bit lucky, the gold version? Maybe for some. Although, I am pretty sure you could buy one on ebay in a pinch.

The reward, at least for me, is the opportunity to learn something about myself that comes only when the possibility of "failure" is high and the suffering is real.

Pre-race Words of Wisdom

2008-08-08T13:27:00.003-05:00

I went to the mandatory meeting for the racers this morning--the testosterone in the auditorium was oppressive and somewhat intimidating. Out of 1000+ entrants, only 10% are women. The race organizer, who was sporting a gargantuan, gold "Leadville 100" belt buckle and a studded belt, welcomed us to the "Leadville family", gave us instructions on the start, and warned that we'd be given a "dirty-look trophy" for crashing out of the race. The medical director described the hazards of partcipation: testosterone toxicity (thinking you are better than you are), dehydration, overhydration, bonking, altitude sickness, asthma, etc.

Then, came the moment all of us amateurs had been hoping for--ushered in the backdoor, Lance and Wiens to impart their wisdom to the masses.

From the seven-time winner of the Tour de France:
Leadville 100. It's a mystical race. I don't really know what to expect. I rode up Columbine the other day. It's hard. It's really hard. They told me when I started running marathons, and I didn't believe them at first, that mile 20 would feel like the half-way point. In this race, mile 70 will feel like half-way.

From the six-time winner of Leadville 100:
There's the race up front, yes, but there will be many, many races going on tomorrow (waving at the rest of us). This is a race of THE PEOPLE.

I anticipate that it will be a lot like running marathon--not really a contest with the other competitors, but an exercise in suffering and perseverance.

Heaven on Earth

2008-08-06T16:30:00.006-05:00

Miles of fire road and single track, thousands of feet of climbing, and no cars. What more could you ask for?

Something New Everyday

2008-08-02T18:47:00.003-05:00

I learned something new about myself courtesy of one Brady Beckham:

Did you know you're a drug?
apparently you're good for anxiety problems.....

Brady, when are you going to come visit your old, fat, less-than-cool "mom"?

Old McDonald Has A Farm

2008-07-22T15:20:00.026-05:00

Yes, it's true. Old McDonald has a farm near the Ozark Mountains surrounding the Buffalo River. It's the perfect place for floating and road riding (if you like seemingly endless climbs). I also got in some Leadville training on the miles of steep gravel roads.

Eureka Springs, which is just up the road, hosts the Fat Tire Festival each July. I partook in the festivities for the first time ever--the short track race was a blast and I survived the XC ride.

Independence Day

2008-07-04T16:47:00.002-05:00

The Fourth of July used to mean BBQ, beer, and fireworks, now the main event of the day is THE CENTURY RIDE. I’ve only done the ride three times prior to this year. The first year, it was my first experience riding in a group and I found it somewhat unnerving. The second year, we showed up late and I inadvertently hurt somebody’s feelings. The third year, it rained and only a handful of people showed up. This year’s version of the century ride did not disappoint and, in some ways, it was an amalgamation of the previous July 4 100-milers that I’ve done.

The event is called “a ride,” but some people ride it like a race: conserve, conserve, conserve. Of course, when something as important as your place in the hierarchy of the BOCOMO peloton (i.e., the rolling sitcom) is at stake, it makes sense to “save it up” for the display of greatness at the end of the ride. I guess it’s easy for me to be cavalier about the “dick swinging” because, for me, the stakes are not as high. I have a built-in excuse: I am a girl, so I can never be “the man.” And, although I have been told that I ride like a little boy, I actually do ride like a girl.

There are several highlights from today’s ride that are worth mentioning.
After so many years of seeing him at races, it was great to finally ride with Ryan Hermsmeyer. Having the legendary John Rhines show up was also notable.
The mid-ride stop at McDonald’s was a first. I don’t know how people can ride when their blood is no longer flowing to their legs, but to their gastrointestinal tract, as they digest an overload of partially hydrogenated oil and protein.
Being asked to two-step, while drinking Gatorade at BreakTime, was also a first. The awkward silences, while catching glimpses of a smirking Butthead out of the corner of my eye, are memorable.
Being told, “we’re not going that hard,” when I am spun out in my 50/11 and on the rivet was mildly irritating, until I heard “the noise” and realized that we were, in fact, going hard.
I’d like to forget the mention of sheep and cow costumes, which conjured up images that are just wrong.
The post-ride beer at Jihad’s (formerly known affectionately as, “F1”) was the perfect recovery drink. The ride home while mildly intoxicated, listening to Ethan recount a drunken ride up and down the aisles of Schnucks, is hard to beat.

I learned something today that I hope to remember in the future. Actually, I learned a couple of things. It’s okay to call someone out, but I shouldn’t do it because I am on the verge of imploding. And, reminiscent of the ubiquitous, “it is what it is,” people are who they are. It’s foolish to expect anything more or less out of them.

Free Coaching Advice

2008-07-03T14:17:00.004-05:00

Lots of bike racers who I know have a coach. They're willing to pay for a training plan, a sympathetic ear after a bad race, and place to lay the responsibility for their performance. The idea of having a coach has never appealed to me. After years of structured track workouts where every interval was run at a certain pace and the recovery periods timed, training by heart rate or power or whatever else would take all of the fun out of cycling. Plus, I don't really like being told what to do. And, I'm certainly not going to pay someone to structure my free time for me.

Well, today was my lucky day. I was the fortunate recipient of some unsolicited training tips. On my ride into work, I stopped at the local coffee shop. As I got off my bike and was going into the shop, I encountered "coach" Guy who had the following advice:

I should train for the Olympics (nevermind that I'm 40 years old).
I need to do squats, lunges, and leg press to build up my leg muscles.
The key is to eat natural foods--honey instead of sugar.
No more fast food--my diet should consist of soup, beans, and raw spinach salad.
I should work harder. Ride more.
But, if I'm to have any chance of making it, I must GET MY MIND RIGHT.

Like I haven't heard that before!

Where have all the good people gone?

2008-06-18T21:58:00.009-05:00

I've been asking myself that question way too often lately. It's made me extra cranky and earned me more than one admonishment to "be nice." It seems as though I'm constantly dealing with people who are just taking up space and killing time. They're not BAD people, just oblivious, I guess.

Today, however, I was reminded that not all of the good ones have disappeared. One of the good people, who may be accused of being TOO nice at times, gave up a beautiful afternoon to help me out. Thanks for laughing with me, not at me, and for restoring my faith in humankind--at least for today. And, Happy Birthday, Hippy. I hope the fried chicken was extra crispy.

Knitting at Winghaven

2008-06-10T14:09:00.001-05:00

I decided to race Winghaven, as the payout is the best we’ll see in the mid-west for women. Because I race to win money, it was an easy decision to make the short drive east to “Pleasantville” in search of cash. Seriously, I raced because it was likely the only chance I’ll have to knit with my teammates (all two of them) this year. We went into the race with a goal: get Michelle onto the Nature Valley composite team. The finer points of this competition within the race provided considerably more drama than the race itself. In fact, I thought some punches might be thrown, but the jabs were verbal, not physical. The race, too, was more like a boxing match than a Knitting Circle. There’d be a flurry of blows, then a lull in the action, when the fighters catch their breath and test each other. Team Revolution out-numbered the rest of the teams by about 3-to-1, so I was expecting them to deliver the knock-out blow, but it never came. I guess I’ve got the heat and wind to thank for that. Nevertheless, with decent teamwork and careful reading of the legalese, we knitted Michelle an all-expense paid trip to race at Nature Valley.
It never ceases to amaze me how racing brings out the best and worst in people. I saw several girls racing over their heads to work for their teams. I witnessed others screaming and yelling at their teammates over nothing more egregious than blowing their chances in a bike race. Another phenomenon I don’t understand is the idea of racing your bike without having to pedal. Why would you spend hours training, only to refuse to do any work, even take one lame-ass pull, once you got into a race? I learned early on that it’s not kosher to sit in and then attack the group or go for the sprint, even on a training ride. Call it “smart” if you want. From my perspective, it’s either pathetic or an act of desperation.
The post-race analysis is always interesting, too. Some people blame someone else (often their teammates), others have an “excuse randomizer” with limitless options (the wife, the kid, the dog, the yard work, etc.), and others beat themselves up. After Sunday’s race, people seemed especially hard on themselves. I heard multiple people claiming that they “suck.” One guy even insisted that he’s the most mentally weak person on the face of the planet. Truth be told, I think most people, delirious from the heat and dehydration, were not thinking clearly or rationally. It was, after all, just a bike race.
I don’t know if I’ll knit much else this season, but I’m satisfied with what we “won” at Winghaven. Good luck at Nature Valley, Michelle.

Research Volunteers Wanted

2008-06-06T12:31:00.015-05:00

We're recruiting participants for a follow-up to our first study (English version.)that found cyclists were at high risk for low bone density (i.e., weak spine)

As expected, it's a challenge to recruit people to commit to a year-long study--even if what you're asking them to do will likely improve their bone strength and they'll get paid to do it.

Of course, the time commitment is a barrier to participation, as is the inconvenience of having to pass through sorority-land to get to the Ex Phys Lab on campus. But, what we're asking of our subjects is not nearly as noxious, sadistic, or tortuous as other reseach studies involving intramuscular injections of saline, pain induction with specially designed instruments, muscle biopsies and prolonged use of these torture machines.

It's not surprising that recruiting subjects is always a challenge: everyone wants the answer, but no one wants to be part of the solution....

BABY USA!!!!!

2008-05-08T22:49:00.001-05:00

Baby USA owned the TT at Joe Martin.

Knitting is FUN!

2008-04-23T22:54:00.003-05:00

I am genuinely concerned that the day I retire from bike racing will mark the beginning of the end of the Knitting Circle. I am not worried that our weekly Knitting Circle Rides will stop any time soon. But, I do fear that the art of knitting while racing may be lost forever. During my hiatus from the local racing scene, my fellow knitters have forgotten their calling. My experience at the Hermann Road Race made me acutely aware of the imminent demise of the Knitting Circle.

For better or worse, it was Molly and I versus 3 Team Revolution powerhouses. Their superwoman, Bri, posted a 23:36 in the TT the day before, which, by the way, would've been good enough for 16th place in the Men's Pro 1, 2. She was equally strong on the climbs and I got the feeling she likes to make people suffer. Needless to say, the first 15 miles were quite painful, chasing attacks or jumping on attempts to bridge. At one point, I asked, "What happened to the Knitting Circle?" No one thought it was funny.

Molly finally got away with the Revolution superwoman, at which point Carrie, Chris and I began knitting. Oh, they'd throw in a little fake attack now and then, but nothing that made me put down my knitting needles. At the start of the third lap, we learned that Molly was only 3 minutes up. The two Revolution women decided to try and catch her. But, I could tell that they were getting tired--knitting can be exhausting if you're out of practice. I knew I'd have to attack them well before the last KOM to have any chance of staying away, as they could easily catch me on the long descent into Hermann. So, I drifted back behind them and was waiting for the perfect moment to jump, when I heard, "What's this? What are we knitting today?" It was Butthead of course--with another racer in tow. As they cruised on by, Carrie expressed her displeasure with Butthead's disparaging remark. I, on the other hand, thought it was funny, but pretended to be pissed. By the time Butthead and the other guy were about 200 meters up the road, I said, "Yeah, can you believe he said that? I am going to go catch him." Carrie, not taking me seriously, said, "Go for it." So I did. As I left them, I heard her say, "No, not really." I kept going, "Yes, really." It hurt, but I got to Butthead and, when I did, I asked, "So, what are we knitting today?" He looked somewhat surprised to see me and the guy with him, frankly, looked shocked. From there on, I put my head down and pedaled as hard as I could, fearing Carried would catch me at any moment. But, she didn't.

Knitting is fun!

Giving Back

2008-04-08T21:25:00.003-05:00

Lest anyone be misled by the previous post and think that the Knitting Circle exists only to make fun of its members, full disclosure is required. You often hear athletes talk about "giving back" to the community, usually in the context of visiting a children's hospital or serving Thanksgiving dinner to the less fortunate. The Knitting Circle's contribution to society is picking up trash. It works out pretty well, actually. We ride our bikes to our Litter Control Spot and pick up the garbage--mostly beer bottles and cans with the rare exception of devices such as this:

Then, we just throw the bags in the city dumpster and ride off.

First one to find this sign wins a prize from the Knitting Circle.

Be Careful What You Wish For

2008-03-22T17:50:00.003-05:00

PREFACE
Oscar Wilde once said, "There is only one thing in the world worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about."

And, George Bernard Shaw is given credit for this observation, "There is no satisfaction in hanging a man who does not object to it."

Two somebodies just HAD to have nicknames. It goes against the laws of nature to give yourself a nickname or to amend one that you've been given. Well, these two got the nicknames they'd been longing for. One name was forgotten (sort of) and, apparently, the other was not good enough, as it was not preceded by "THE." Well, these wrongs were set right today. Meet, THE JESSICA (on the left) and THE BENJI (on the right.) (I know that seems backwards, but it is not.) In honor of their faithful participation in the Knitting Circle and as reparation for past grievances, the Knitting Circle Ride will now be known as THE BJ Ride.

POSTSCRIPT

I am on my way to Texas to ride over Spring Break. I stopped to see Jimmiez at the old homestead. He's got a barn, pasture, and some livestock. He's even got a pet rooster who's up crowing at the crack of dawn and keeps it up all day long.

Ol' McDonald named the rooster Butthead. Not THE Butthead, just Butthead.

Reality Check

2008-03-03T13:04:00.001-06:00

Human beings have an incredible capacity for denial—believing what we want to believe, despite mountains of evidence to the contrary. There are instances, however, when reality slaps us in the face and gets our attention, even if only for moment. This weekend, reality rudely interrupted my denial—yanking my head out of the sand, so to speak. Like it or not, I was forced to admit the following:

Some injuries take a long time to heal. No amount of wishful thinking or suffering through the pain will speed the recovery process. Dammit.

If you’re the weakest link in any otherwise very strong chain, it’s stupid to put yourself in a hole and expect not to break.

Old ways of dealing with things you can’t control die hard, even the less-than-productive ones. That’s disappointing.

Some people will never learn to share or play well with others. Unfortunately some of these people drive motorized vehicles on roads that, by law, are supposed to be shared. The reality is I am no match for a two-ton truck. The cyclist-hating chickenshit driving the pick-up could kick the crap out of me too, for that matter. I really need to get a cell phone.

The old adage about not doing business with friends or family exists because it’s true.

Whatever else reality tried to teach me, I've already forgotten.

Snap, Crackle, Pop

2008-02-10T00:11:00.000-06:00

A “Reactor Loop” was advertised, but we opted for a “Mokane” instead. And, most of us got our money’s worth. Brinker made sure to get a good deal by adding some “volitional, rotational” weight. We were told to leave the w(h)ine and cheese at home, but to bring lunch. We were also encouraged to bring our insurance cards, so that any needed ER visits would be covered—at least for those of us who might have our legs broken.

We went out with the wind at our backs and arrived at the turn south onto HH in no time. Lest the tailwind cause people to overestimate their capabilities, the pace picked up significantly after we turned and were faced with a stiff cross/head wind. Despite being warned several times that I should let go of my pride and not try and pull through in the paceline, I had to take one turn. Mistake. I soon found myself in no man’s land with Green Beans. We battled our way back to Zoum and Silent Jan, and, suffered the rest of the way into Fulton. In the process, we got a small taste of what we were going to be up against during the next several hours.

In Fulton, some people had sense enough to turn back towards Columbia. They were satisfied with 4+ hours in the saddle. The rest of us headed southeast towards the rivertown of Mokane via Hams Prairie. Descending off the ridge into Mokane, I muttered something to Beans about knowing the rest of the ride, climbing out of the river valley straight into a blistering headwind, was really going to hurt, but not appreciating just how bad the suffering would be. We fueled up at the little store where the old timer asked if we were riding the trail. That might not have been a bad option.

We took the first turn up out the river valley onto PP—a rough road with a fair amount of climbing. It was hard to find a spot out of the wind. About this time in the ride, I started longing for familiar territory. On known roads, I thought, I could slow down and ride below my “implode threshold.” But, as long as we were that far out, on roads we rarely ride, I knew the group wouldn’t go off and leave me to suffer alone. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one suffering. I knew Green Beans was having to dig deep because he’s not too proud to admit it. And, there was evidence that other people were starting to feel the 4 hours we’d already put in. Internal compasses went haywire and, despite the sun shining brightly in the sky, east and west became confused. Nevertheless, when PP intersected with BB, we turned due south. The road followed the crest of the ridge with some incredible views of the valleys below. Unfortunately, the scenery went unnoticed and unappreciated by those who were too busy bickering about whether we’d made a wrong turn. But, it was all good. We ended up at our next refueling point—Holts Summit.

We loaded up on more sugar and caffeine—a desperate attempt to revive tired legs. For the record, it’s only 10 miles from Holts Summit to the intersection of J and Y where a left-hand turn leads to Father Guthrie. The Cat 1s and member of the National Development Team played games up the climbs. I was in survival, not game-playing, mode. I was happy they waited for me at the turn. By then, the cold front had started to blow in and we were faced with a northwesterly cross wind the remaining 15 miles into Columbia.

Although I had my moments of doubt, we all made it back safe and sound. Some of us now believe in God, others vowed (yet again) to start riding during the week. Baby USA was just happy that he finally got to do a 6+ hour ride.

Gimme, gimme, gimme

2008-02-01T15:16:00.000-06:00

Okay, so I realize that I am still recovering from brain damage and, as the occupational therapist put it, I process data slowly—like an obsolete, overloaded computer hard drive. But, I have been pondering this puzzlement for several days now and it’s still not making sense. It seems that I’ve heard a lot of bitching and moaning from amateur bike racers—mostly women, I am sorry to say, about lack of team support. For the most part, they’re complaining about what they perceive as inadequate financial support, but they are also miffed about the lack of “organization.” What I am still trying to comprehend is why they feel entitled to free clothes, free entries, gas and lodging reimbursement. I mean, why should the local coffee shop or car dealership pay for our leisure activities? Seriously. Would you pay the car salesman’s membership at the country club? Oh, but we’re great advertising, riding around with sponsors’ logos covering our spandex—that’s the argument I hear. Would you pay the membership dues if the salesman had your name embroidered on his golf shirt? Besides, what potential clientele sees you, the living billboard, riding around in circles at the crit in Saint Louis and, as a result, patronizes the coffee shop in Columbia? Obviously, I am just not seeing the connection here.
Why would anyone sponsor a women’s team? What benefit would they get from it? When I asked my fellow Knitter those questions the other day, there was stunned silence. If you knew this Knitter, you would appreciate that my cynical questions had had a profound effect on her—a moment of silence occurs rarely, if ever, in her presence. We’d been talking about the idea of starting a women’s division of the local race team. What’s wrong with racing for the team as it is? When I raced for that team, we all paid our $50 to join and got a free jersey and entry fee to our own race waived. I guess these women who want to get their own sponsors and have a separate budget believe in “separate, but equal” without the equal. They will only be satisfied with MORE. Sorry, I just don’t get it.
I got so fed up with this attitude that I told my own teammates that if their motivation for being on the team is something other than having girls to race with, they should get off the team. Maybe I am just retarded, but wouldn’t you join a team to have teammates? If you want a free ride, marry a rich man. As bonus, you can race by yourself and keep all the prize money.
Did I mention that another symptom of brain injuries is a short-temper and inability to appropriately express emotion? So I apologize if I hurt any feelings, I just can’t help it. Seriously people, stop acting like you’re something special and race your bike. If you can’t pay your own entry into the Dollar Show, maybe you shouldn’t play the game.

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

2008-01-28T08:59:00.000-06:00

The Webster’s Definition of collateral damage is: injury inflicted on something other than an intended target; specifically : civilian casualties of a military operation.

But to truly understand the meaning of this war-related term, you must be experience the incidental destruction firsthand—you must BE collateral damage.

There was considerable collateral damage on this weekend’s “Everyone Must Be Dropped” rides. Saturday’s wind conditions set-up a reincarnation of the “Mexican Echelon.” Truth be told, the second edition wasn’t quite as good as the first, but it came close. The wind was ferocious from Fulton to Columbia—the last 2+ hours of a 4.5 hour ride. It’s so predictable, what starts with Ethan suggesting a “nice, easy paceline” quickly degenerates into what I call a “dick-swinging paceline.” But Saturday was more than an exhibition of machismo: a point was being made. I think it had something to do with Showpony’s new nickname, Negator. Or, maybe it had to do with the “race” into Fulton. Regardless, I have learned that whining or showing weakness, only makes the screws tighten. So, I tried to hide my suffering by taking my turn in the paceline. As I found out later, I wasn’t fooling anybody. I should’ve followed Professor Green Beans’ example and stopped pulling before it was too late. When I finally came to my senses and fell back out of the rotation, I let a tiny gap open, which quickly became a vast expanse of blacktop. But, I was in good company—The Rev, Mr. Sap, Green Beans, Silent Jan. I was fully prepared to ride the entire stretch of frontage road—straight into the headwind, I might add, by myself—as, I did the day of the first “Mexican Echelon.” But, the Cat 1s and Baby USA waited for us—the collateral damage—and we battled the wind together the rest of the way home.

Sunday’s ride started with a truce: No one would be dropped for the first hour. Guaranteed. The idea was to reduce the intimidation factor for those who haven’t learned that being shelled should not be taken personally. I was grateful for the promised reprieve, as I’d emptied my bank account Saturday. I’ll admit it, I was dreading what might happen 61 minutes into the ride, at which point it would be kosher for the gloves to come off. Thankfully, Showpony’s repeated threat that Ethan would be “in the frying pan” 3 hours into the ride never materialized. Except for the couple of times the elite amateur with the broken hand went to the front and stepped on the gas, the ride was manageable. Don’t get me wrong, I was crawling back into town and every little rise was painful, but I didn’t have to turn myself inside out.

Monday is the Knitting Circle Ride. No one gets dropped. No Mexican Echelons. No Establishing the Pecking Order. No Fun and Games. No Drama, except when I have to enforce The Rules. By the way, Rule #1, which must be followed at all times, is: No Collateral Damage.

I'm still here

2008-01-10T11:32:00.001-06:00

Well, it’s been a long time since my last post. Here’s a brief synopsis of what happened while I was MIA.

The sad news first. Charlie Pain-in-the-Ass McDonald is no longer on this earth. I miss the little guy.

I remodeled my kitchen. Tearing down the wall-paper so I could paint got out of hand. I enjoyed the demolition phase.

I wasn’t sure I’d get it put back together, but it’s functional again. In the process I discovered that 50-year old men who have never had kids are the bossiest group of people on the face of the earth.

I went to Cross Nationals in Kansas City. For once, I was glad to be on the DL. Trying not to crash is not really racing. It looked miserable, but made for great spectating.

My family came for Christmas. My youngest sister, Sarah, and I had a pull-up contest. Since, she can do a one-armed pull-up, she won. Of course.

I went to the Texas Hill Country to ride with Jimmiez. I discovered that the “SLICK SLAB” caution signs were posted in the middle of frickin’ nowhere for a reason. They could've made it perfectly clear by posting this instead:

For the record, it’s not the depth of the water that I fear, but the GREEN SLIME. My front wheel slid out and next thing I knew, my head was bouncing off the pavement. I scared myself, but I think I scared Jim even more.

We came across a winter coat for Ethan. Can’t you just see him bundled up in this nasty wool blanket complete with sheep innards?

The weekend DROP rides have started up again (not to be confused with the Noon NO-DROP rides). We took advantage of the spring-like weather and put in some long miles over the weekend. Most of the miles were at “base mile pace”-- except when someone tried to see if another someone was going to be good to his word.

I was at my limit, just trying to hang on. I survived somehow and got a high-five from Guppy—for my MENTAL TOUGHNESS, perhaps?

Later.

Retarded? And, Weak????!!!!

2007-10-25T14:15:00.000-05:00

Retarded and weak. Weak and retarded. A weak retard. A retarded weakling.

It’s never good to be labeled as being any of the above—especially when the people who made the “diagnosis” have evidence to back it up.

Although the MRI images of my brain showed no structural damage, which was a good thing, results of neurocognitive testing at Rusk were not as positive.

Based on the results, the experts at Rusk have determined that I am retarded. To add insult to injury, they also concluded that I am weak. Of course, being professionals, they had to use politically correct language. So, instead of “retarded and weak”, they used, “relative weaknesses in attention, cognitive processing speed and phonemic fluency” and “borderline grip strength bilaterally.” The doctor who supervised the testing went over the results with me. I was “average” or “low average” on just about everything: auditory, visual, and general memory; picture completion; coding; verbal paired associates; and language function.

These results were somewhat depressing. Scoring “superior” on arithmetic, matrix reasoning and logical memory made me feel a little bit better because, as Butthead put it, I am still smart enough to realize that I am retarded! And, smart enough to let my brain recover, so that my retardation won't become permanent (I hope).

The treatment recommendations weren’t very uplifting: develop coping skills and be patient. I have no patience. I guess it’s time to learn some. The doctor said that I should be asymptomatic before resuming my prior levels of activity. When I asked what that meant, she said, definitely no racing, but commuting and riding down the trail would be okay. This wasn't what I wanted to hear, but I knew it was coming. Sadly enough, I needed someone to confirm what my head has been telling me.

Being put back on the DL was starting to put me into a funk until I was enlightened by Fish and Green Beans. According to these two, the human race is going to self-destruct sooner rather than later. Bike racing will be irrelevant when the earth is decimated by climate change, disease, and/or overpopulation--not to mention nuclear war. Talk about depressing!

Until then, however, Butthead assures me that not racing will not get me excommunicated from the bike racing clan. As anyone who has had a slow-healing injury knows, missing out on the social aspect of sport can be as difficult as sitting out of competition. For now, I will be content to satisfy my competitive streak by dropping dudes on the trail or racing the professor-types on their morning commute. Losing the camaraderie associated with racing would leave a void that would be much harder to fill.

So, while I wait for my brain to heal, look for me--the retarded weakling--to be on the sideline, cheering or heckling, as the case may be.

Good Times At Cut Grass Farm

2007-10-21T22:40:00.000-05:00

I drove down to Springfield with Dr. Green Beans for the Ryan Pirtle Invitational Cyclocross Palooza. The trip to the epicenter of the Bible Belt went by quickly as Nate and I commiserated about “kids these days” and the evils of cells phones and television. Dr. Haricots Verts also enlightened me on the medicinal properties of pumpkin seeds of all things. Interesting stuff....

Thanks to Bud Hogan and family for hosting “The Best Cross Race” in Missouri. How can you beat a $15 entry fee, post-race barbeque, and good payout? The course was fun—a good mix of pavement, grass, and dirt. And, evidently, if you won, the course was smooth as butter.... I was far from winning anything today (unless you count the "Best Argument Award" that Bud gave me). I didn’t feel like getting mixed up in the sprint off the line for the first turn and barrier section—the male ego is an indomitable force—one that I didn’t want to get tangled up in today. I got lapped by “the heat” in the A race twice and Natalie once, but I got a small amount of satisfaction from NOT being passed by White Bread and from lapping a handful of dudes myself. When you can’t get in the money, moral victories have to do.

The highlight of the day, however, was seeing one of my favorite people in the bike-racing crowd. This person always goes out of their way to ask how I’m doing because they really do care. And, they read my blog, which I find somewhat flattering. So, thanks to you and the rest of the Springfield gang for making the drive worthwhile.

I'll be back next year for the (God help us) Butthead Smackdown Extravaganza of Cross or some such nonsense.

Get Busy Living

2007-10-12T09:19:00.000-05:00

I just heard from Jimmiez. He has to go to two funerals tomorrow. He sounded rather circumspect—who wouldn’t given the circumstances?

He went to school and played football with both guys. They were in his class. Both were big guys. One was big—even in high school. The other guy wasn’t so big, but he was the star of the football team. He made all-state at fullback and had a full-ride scholarship to OU, which he lost after he separated his shoulder their senior season. According to Jim, after his friend lost his scholarship, he was never really the same. (I am not going to go THERE.) He became a heavy smoker, and that’s no doubt what gave him a heart attack.

“And life goes on.” That’s what Jim said. And, yes, life does go on. But none of us knows for how long. It’s too bad that it takes a tragic early death to remind us to not take a single day for granted. Even a powerful reminder such as this is quickly forgotten. We piss away the time we have, often because we can’t get past what might have been. If only….

I don’t know where I’ve heard the phrase before, but these words come to mind, “get busy living.” And by living, I don’t mean adding to the list of things accomplished: making all-state, being named an All-America, having your name in the record books, earning your degree, graduating with honors, and so on. Of course these achievements are admirable and they all require discipline, perseverance, and hard work. But who will be missed simply because they won an Olympic medal, were a billionaire, or had a PhD? As Maya Angelou said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Amen.

A Long Weekend

2007-09-27T22:12:00.000-05:00

For those of you who'd rather look at pictures than read text, this post is for you.

I went down to the Mercy Classic this weekend to support these "Sisters of Mercy." The season is finally over. Training camp seems so long ago....

I took Thursday and Friday off work and stopped in Fayetteville to ride for a couple of days. Devil's Den really is a pretty and peaceful place, despite its name. Anybody recognize this spot?

What about this?

Have you ever wondered where the road leads if you don't make the right turn up the hill? I was curious and decided to find out. The first stretch of road--maybe 5-7 miles is dirt. It's dirt, but really more like cobbles because of all the big rocks. The road goes up or down. My hands hurt and my brake pads are worn out from braking so much. I was afraid of hitting a big rock or a hole and launching myself over the bars if I built up too much speed. The last time I did a face plant in this part of Arkansas, it wasn't pretty.

Soon after you cross the low water bridge at the creek, the road turns to pavement.

The surface changed, but the road continued to go either way up or way down with lots of switchbacks.

It's never comforting when the vultures start to circle at the top of a climb....

It's a good thing Nolan wasn't along. He would've been dropping me all day long. Plus, there was a dirt track with this jump next to Lee Creek. Nolan would've had to give it a try and we remember how that worked out last time.

The next day, I rode over to Winslow, up Mt. Gaylor to Mountainburg, and back via Devil's Den Road. I still had 10 hilly miles to go when this happened:

By the time I got back to campground I was exhausted, so I read a book and took a nap.

The "Sisters" put on a good show at the races, won some money and gender-specific primes--you know, things like candles, shampoo, and jewelry.

I should've worn a T-shirt that said, "No. I have brain damage" --I was asked a billion times if I was racing.

The highlight of the racing, however, was the compliment BigPerm paid Jimmiez, "That was an exquisite move you made in the last lap, Jim." Classic--on par with the time Checkers started a sentence with, "Moreover...".

Well, now that road season is officially over, it's time for cyclo-cross.

Dr. Butthead, Ph.D.

2007-08-15T23:55:00.000-05:00

I met up with Butthead and Greenbeans for a ride out of town on the gravel roads and back on the Katy Trail today. The shade on the trail was a lifesaver in this heat. Maybe we should’ve been discussing global warming, but the topic somehow turned to adolescent pregnancy. Butthead thought I was on crack when I said that one-third of adolescent girls in the U.S. get pregnant before 20. Or maybe he thought the heat was getting to me, or I was suffering concussion-induced memory loss, or I am just insane because all women are crazy. He kept trying to tell me that what I meant to say was that, of women who become pregnant, one-third are under the age of 20. I’ve been scrambling my words lately, but that was NOT what I meant. Butthead was adamant, where did this stat come from? Was it based on a nationally-representative sample? What was the sample size? After he’d grilled me for several miles, Dr. Means and I decided that Butthead had earned himself an honorary PhD. So, he’s now DR. BUTTHEAD, PhD. Well, I did my homework when I got home. I stayed up late to finish it, in fact.

This is the citation with the stat I quoted, from the journal, Pediatrics, the official publication of the American Academy of Pediatricians.

Each year, approximately 900000 teenagers become pregnant in the United States,1 and despite decreasing rates, more than 4 in 10 adolescent girls have been pregnant at least once before 20 years of age.1 Most of these pregnancies are among older teenagers (ie, those 18 or 19 years of age).1,24 Approximately 51% of adolescent pregnancies end in live births, 35% end in induced abortion, and 14% result in miscarriage or stillbirth.1,2,11,15,24

Knowing this would not satisfy Dr. Butthead, I searched long and hard until I uncovered how this number was calculated. The result is a cumulative risk, estimated from the pregnancy rates at different ages during adolescence, subtracting multiple pregnancies. National and state adolescent pregnancy rates are complied by the Guttmacher Institute. The rate of multiple pregnancies during adolescence is from the National Center for Health Statistics, based on 99.2% of all live births. This number should be accurate and reliable as most births occur in hospitals. The pregnancy rate is calculated for each adolescent age group as the number of pregnancies divided by the number of adolescents in that age group. The number of pregnancies is the sum of live births (from NCHS), miscarriages (estimated to be 20% plus 10% of abortions), and the number of abortions (complied by the Guttmacher Institute and the CDC). The number of adolescents in each age group is obtained from the US Census Bureau. So, there you have it. I am not full of shit.

References
U.S. Teenage Pregnancy Statistics: National and State Trends and Trends by Race and Ethnicity. Guttmacher Institute, New York, NY, September 2006.

Klein, J.D. and the Committee on Adolescence. Adolescent Pregnancy: Current Trends and Issues. Pediatrics 116:281-286, 2005.

Supplementary Reading
Hamilton, B.E. et al. Births: Preliminary Data for 2005. National Vital Statistics Reports Vol. 55, No. 11. Hyattsville, MD, National Center for Health Statistics, 2007.

The Prodigal Son

2007-07-20T10:27:00.001-05:00

Charles Pain-in-the-ass McDonald is back.

I heard the pathetic sound of a cat crying coming from the neighbor's garage yesterday evening. Evidently, Charlie ran in there when no one was looking and then got himself locked in. Why he waited so long to yell for help, is beyond me. He'd been less than 20 feet away from the back door the entire time.

I don't think it hurt him any. He didn't seem dehydrated or anything. In fact, I think it was good for his health. He's looking downright skinny after 6 days without food.

Moral of the story? Pick one.

1. Life sometimes has happy endings.
2. Cats are stupid.
3. Cats are smart.
4. Energy reserves may save your life. Keep the fat.

Lamentations

2007-07-19T12:43:00.000-05:00

Lamentations--I think that’s just a fancy word for songs about your troubles. I am going to break Rule #1 this once and whine when I should just shut the f*** up. When your choice is to laugh or cry, it’s better if you can choose laughter. So the past week or so has been a bit rough—when it rains, it pours.

Charlie decides to run off while I’m out on a ride. After all I put up with, how could he?

My new lawn mower, which has been used all of a dozen times—at most—starts leaking oil. Not just a little oil, but all of the oil, all at once. I’ve already had the thing repaired once for the same problem. Are there no competent people left in the world? Do I have to become omniscient so I can fix everything myself? What a drag. Now it will be 2 weeks before the authorized Troy-Bilt repair people can get it “fixed.” And, no, it hasn’t been “turned over.” I am not a complete idiot.

Well, maybe I am close to being a complete idiot. So, non-motorized tools can be dangerous—maybe not AS dangerous as the powered variety, nevertheless, attention should be paid at all times. Even when operating a garden shovel. I found that out when I snapped the wooden handle of my recently acquired garden spade in half and came very close to impaling myself on the broken end. Brute force has its downsides.

The manuscript we submitted to “Applied Physiology, Nutrition, and Metabolsim” was rejected. It’s a very important study with results that need to be published. Many readers of this blog participated in the study, “Non-weight bearing activity is associated with lower bone mineral density compared with weight bearing activity in men.” Sounds fascinating doesn’t it? It’s the title for a scientific journal article, not a newspaper headline. Note to all you who aspire to get “piled high and deep” and become academics, you better be able to handle rejection. Almost every paper and grant you submit will be flat out rejected the first time you submit it. Your peers (really your competitors) can be assholes. They write harsh, condescending comments to make themselves feel important. And, because they can.

My computer at work crashed. And I lost all of the changes I'd made to the above mentioned manuscript. Nothing like starting over after several hours of work.

I finally came to the realization that I am done racing for the season. Someone who knows me well reacted as though I’d lost my mind when I said I was going to do the state TT this weekend. “What are you thinking? You’re supposed to listen to your body, not just hear.” Okay, okay. I will finally take my head all the way out of the sand. It’s true that bike racing is just a game, a “Dollar Show,” a “Knitting Circle,” but it’s a game I like to play. When I told Mel and Pedro that they were going to have to take over for me during the second half of the season, this wasn’t really what I had in mind. Maybe the “fog” in my brain will lift in time for cyclo-cross.

Actually the decision to skip the TT was made less painful by the fact that I’ve been burning up with a fever the past two days. I’ve decided that the poison ivy, oak, sumac or whatever it was that I tangled with in the backyard may be to blame. I don’t know how I got it. I was out there in long sleeves and jeans when it was 90+ degrees outside--just so I wouldn’t get whatever it is that I’ve got. Thank god for Cortaid. I’m sure I’d test positive for cortisone right now, I am using so much of the stuff.

I’ve been spending a lot of time in my backyard, reclaiming “the jungle”—the entangled mass of vines, blackberries, and generic weeds. That’s how I got the poison ivy. Every evening when I am out there, I can hear woman saying, in a very high-pitched baby voice, “Do you have to go potty? Go potty? Do you have to go potty? Ohhhh! Good girl! Good girl!” This often is followed by “Get the ball! Get the red ball! NO! Come on, get the ball. Good girl! Good girl! You’re such a smart girl. You’re SO SMART!” My backyard labor is supposed to be therapeutic and I have to listen to this intelligent woman talk to her stupid dog.

Speaking of neighbors, a new bunch of them just moved into the rental house across the street. There’s too many too count. And they all have monstrous SUVs or pickups, except for one who’s got a Neon—I guess maybe he’s the one NOT living off of mommy and daddy. I swear all they do from the moment I get home until late at night is shuffle the cars—which is no small feat on my narrow little street. I keep telling myself that these guys are probably nice, responsible undergrads who will make fine neighbors—like Greg and Brady. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find out they’re my students.

So, I made my annual appearance at the MU Cross-Country camp to talk to the high school kids about nutrition. The coaches always mention my track and cross-country background when they introduce me to the kids, “Please welcome Pam, who is a member of the 4 x 1500m relay team that holds the American Record.” Well this year, they changed their intro, “Please welcome Pam, a former American Record holder.” Damn. Our record in an event that is rarely contested was broken. It was great while it lasted. The Glory Days are fading fast.

To top it all off, I still can’t find the goddam “off-switch.” Cox was supposed to figure this out for me, seeing as she’s the expert in how to conserve energy and such. I guess it was a bigger challenge than either of us bargained for.

That’s it. My list of trials and tribulations is at its end. Some people hate it when I use other people’s words, instead of my own. If you’re one of those people, stop reading NOW. There are times when somebody else’s words are better than any I can come up with. So, I will close with these lyrics from Nina Simone (who was not a very well-behaved woman):

Don’t let the problems of this world drive you slowly out of your mind. Just look at the problem, smile and say, “It be’s that way sometime.”

Missing Person

2007-07-15T20:44:00.000-05:00

Iknow, I know. Charlie is not a person, he's merely a cat. The past couple of months, this fat feline had been testing the limits of my patience. But, I really didn't want him to make a permanent exit. I last saw him when I left to go for a ride Saturday morning. He hasn't run away to the neighbors. He wasn't at the Animal Shelter, as of this morning. I hope he returns. I miss the little asshole.

Do Unto Others....

2007-07-04T22:15:00.000-05:00

So, did anyone else see this news item?

Police: Shoppers stepped over victim
By ROXANA HEGEMAN
Associated Press Writer
WICHITA, Kan. (AP) -- As stabbing victim LaShanda Calloway lay dying on the floor of a convenience store, five shoppers, including one who stopped to take a picture of her with a cell phone, stepped over the woman, police said.
The June 23 situation, captured on the store's surveillance video, got scant news coverage until a columnist for The Wichita Eagle disclosed the existence of the video and its contents Tuesday.
Police have refused to release the video, saying it is part of their investigation.
"It was tragic to watch," police spokesman Gordon Bassham said Tuesday. "The fact that people were more interested in taking a picture with a cell phone and shopping for snacks rather than helping this innocent young woman is, frankly, revolting."
The woman was stabbed during an altercation that was not part of a robbery, Bassham said. It took about two minutes for someone to call 911, he said.
Calloway, 27, died later at a hospital.
Two suspects have been arrested. A 19-year-old woman was charged with first-degree murder. Another suspect who turned himself in had not been charged as of Tuesday, the Sedgwick County prosecutor's office said.
The district attorney's office will have to decide whether any of the shoppers could be charged, Bassham said.
It was uncertain what law, if any, would be applicable. A state statute for failure to render aid refers only to victims of a car accident.
Eagle columnist Mark McCormick told The Associated Press he learned about the video when he called Wichita Police Chief Norman Williams to inquire about a phone call he had received from a reader complaining about a Police Department policy that requires emergency medical personnel to wait until police secure a crime scene before rendering aid. McCormick said Williams then unloaded on him about the shoppers in the stabbing case.
"This is just appalling," Williams told the newspaper. "I could continue shopping and not render aid and then take time out to take a picture? That's crazy. What happened to our respect for life?"

Apparently, this story hasn’t received the attention that one might expect. Maybe there’s a reason for that—it hits too close to home. Think you’d never behave as if you were devoid of conscience?

Well, I saw this type of behavior on the latest incarnation of the Tuesday Night Your Life Depends It World Championships. Since when do we go off and leave riders who’ve flatted or had a mechanical? As long as I can remember, when someone has a problem we stop, fix whatever is fixable, and then carry on. This is not what happened on the last training ride. Someone, who shall remain anonymous, had a mechanical right before a sprint for a city limit sign. Those who were riding at the front, apparently unaware that they were not in an actual race, but a GROUP TRAINING RIDE, continued to push the pace. When I finally realized that they had no intention of waiting for the guy who’d gone MIA, I went to the front and asked if they realized we were missing someone. Of course, as the guilty always do, they plead ignorance. I am sure that some people, maybe most, thought I was behaving like the angry woman that I am. Butthead was on vacation—someone had to step up. I really didn’t care what they thought of me. I still don’t.

The cavalier among us, will say, "Too bad for him. He'll figure it out." Yes, we all should be self-sufficient when we go for a ride. But, shit happens. Who can’t recall at least one instance when the group waited for you? I know they’ve waited for me and I was very grateful that they did.

Maybe the situation got under my skin because I’m female and do not believe in “survival of the fittest” (or lucky, as the case may be). Or, maybe it bugged the hell out of me because, in my formative years, I had the parable of the Good Samaritan drilled into me and along with it—the Golden Rule. Which, if you ask me, is not a bad rule to live by: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Headcase

2007-07-01T00:17:00.000-05:00

It’s hard to believe that after a year of writing blog posts, I had not written a “headcase” post until now.

If you know me very well, you know that the surest way to get me fired up and spitting mad is to call me a headcase. I guess I shouldn’t get so pissed about being called a name when I don’t even really know what it means. I haven’t checked the dictionary, but based on the context in which the word is most often used, it means being deficient in one or all of the following: mental toughness, heart, desire, or the killer instinct. In other words, my “natural ability” is going to waste because I am mentally weak. But, I am starting to digress….

Back to the point, if you were to call me a headcase today, you would be correct, and I would have no grounds to want to kick your ass. At the urging of an insightful friend, I finally suspended my state of self-denial long enough to go to the doctor. I have “post-concussion syndrome,” which explains the recurring headaches, need to stop and puke on the way home from Webster Groves, my apparent senility, extra short fuse and bizarre word choices. The other day I heard myself saying, “That’s no fine.” I guess I couldn’t decide between, “that’s fine” and “no problem”. Huh? For the past month I’ve been trying to ignore that I wasn’t acting or feeling my self, but needless to say, it wasn’t working very well.

Apparently, post-concussion syndrome is a well-studied phenomenon in both humans and experimental animals. I wonder how PETA feels about all the rats that are concussed for the sake of research. From the animals studies and high-tech brain imaging of athletes with concussions, quite a bit is known about concussions and what causes loss of consciousness. For the first few days after a concussion there are huge biochemical changes in the brain, known as the neurochemical cascade. Besides, neurotransmitters being spilled out of neurons, the metabolism of the brain is changed. Anaerobic metabolism of glucose goes up because the mitochondria shut down, the energy requirement of the brain increases, and oxygen delivery to the brain is decreased secondary to inhibited blood flow. Lactate accumulates damaging neurons. Potassium flows out of cells, calcium floods into the mitochondria, triggering programmed cell death in some neurons. These metabolic changes may explain the increased likelihood of a second concussion until the symptoms of the first have resolved.

Treatment for post-concussion syndrome is patience—with time the symptoms almost always resolve. Although, recovery may be prolonged if return to exercise or competition are rushed. I’d rather that the doctor had told me to suck it up and suffer through it. But, he didn’t, he said, “pay attention to your body.” So, I am staying home from Old Lady Nats this year. As my friend Moriah said, “the bottom line is: its just bike racing.” Or as Jimmiez put it, “One thing is certain--your brain is your meal ticket, everything else is simply for shits and grins.”

So, until my brain recovers, no shits and grins for me. And, if you feel like calling me a headcase, now would be a good time to do it.

If I See It, I Will Scream Like A Girl

2007-06-26T20:57:00.000-05:00

What do all of these seemingly harmless things that are in my garage bring to mind?

No, I haven't completely lost my mind (yet). I found this disgusting thing in my garage the other day.

Anybody want to help me look for the snake who decided to shed its skin in my garage? Not knowing if it's still there makes all those everyday things look very sepentine. I am quite sure that Butthead and Pedro are going to pass. Anybody else?

Role Model or Jackass?

2007-06-23T17:06:00.000-05:00

There’s a poll on the columbiacommuters yahoo group: am I a role model or a jackass?
Actually, the author of the original post was asking about himself, but the lone respondent cast his vote for me as a Jackass. (Isn't the term "jackass" for males only, anyway?)

I find it funny, but somewhat disconcerting, how quickly people form opinions of people they don't know and then voice them in a public forum.

For the record, I think it’s great that you, Mr. Law-abiding Commuter, stop at every stop sign, unclip, and put your foot down. After all, you are obeying the law—to the letter--how could I object to that?

Also for the record, I do not ride my bike for the purpose of "blowing stop signs." I ride my bike so I can be part of "The Dollar Show" or "Knitting Circle" or whatever you want to call amateur bike racing.

From the columbiacommuters message board:
Last night at Stewart/Providence a CBC biker chick pulled up beside me. I see her all the time so she must ride thousands of miles per year. She is probably late 30's or early 40's if I had to guess and rides a road bike. Anyway, light turns green so I go. I pull away from her up the hill and stop at both stopsigns (unclipped and foot down) on the way up the hill. I make a right handturn and stop at that stop sign then turn left, stop again and make a right. She went further up the street and turned by the law school. As I was going down rollins I saw her round the corner ahead of me while running the stopsign at about 15 mph. I was riding hard yesterday so I passed her in no time and then stopped at the stop sign. I heard her come up behind me and start saying something under her breath. I had obviously robbed her of her chance to blow the stopsign. : ) Then on up the street we go and I stopped at the red light at college and maybe1 minute later she comes up behind me again still grumbling. She was obviously pissed off and could not understand why I was stopping at the stop signs. So she thinks I am a jackass who probably had something to prove by riding so fast and then stopping all the time. That is just how I ride, I stop at all stop signs and sometimes I ride hard between them just trying to get the heart rate up.

Early 40s????!!!! I guess my age is catching up with me.

POWER!

2007-06-16T20:39:00.000-05:00

Over the course of the past month, I’ve bought myself a lot of power. No, I didn’t get a coach or buy SRM cranks or start taking a “power-boosting” supplement. I am not talking watts or even watts per stitch, but real, functional power—the kind that gets things done. I have recently acquired a plethora of power tools: lawn mower, hedge trimmer, weed eater, and cordless drill. But, alas, there’s one toy lacking and I desperately need it so that I can use my new drill to fix the fence in my backyard.

On the group ride today, Show Pony asked me if I’d ever watched Sling Blade. This brought to mind the one power tool missing from my arsenal. Butthead and Show Pony cringed when I said it, “When this ride’s over, I am going to go buy a CHAINSAW. Electric.” There’s a stump where the fence should be and I need to cut it to ground level. Understandably, the boys are afraid that I’m going to hurt myself in the process. I guess that’s a reasonable concern given that I cannot safely operate a non-motorized machine without seriously injuring myself. Show Pony suggested that I dig the stump out instead. Not happening. I already tried and it won’t work—way too many roots. Butthead had to ask, “Not to be sexist or anything, but do you know what you’re doing?” I think it was a rhetorical question. No, frankly, I have no idea what I’m doing. But, I can read and these things should come with instructions.

Shortly after having this conversation, whether I should get a chainsaw or not nearly became a moot point. On the rollers leaving Fayette I almost had a meltdown. It was hot and humid and Butthead had killed it going into Fayette. I knew we weren’t going THAT hard, if hard at all, but I was on the verge of exploding. Because I am a member of the weaker sex, they had pity on me and eased up. Every couple of miles, Show Pony assured me that we were almost home and I was going to make it.

I did make it. And, I am the proud owner of a new chainsaw. Electric. I read some of the owner’s manual. Point #2 under “Before Operating Saw”: Watch what you are doing. Use common sense. Do not operate saw when you are tired. Only well-instructed adults should operate chain saw.

I am tired. The stump is spared and the fence will have to wait until another day.

Down, But Not Out II

2007-06-05T09:56:00.000-05:00

For a short period of time, before I was "ProPam," I was "Crash." I suppose it was well-deserved. On my first group training ride with Butthead, Show Pony, and The Dude (who is now MIA), I somehow got the worst of an intoxicated driver's bad judgment. I ended up unconscious in the ditch. That was the first of what has turned out to be several ambulance rides to the ER throughout my short bike racing career. I seem to average one serious crash per year. I always land on my head, which earns me a trip to the hospital.

Sunday, I took my annual ambulance ride to the ER. But, it was a great sacrifice to make for the team. Mercy Cycling got lots of attention and all it cost me was a headache, extremely sore muscles, some skin off my face and a busted helmet. They stopped the race until they were sure I was okay. When the race was restarted, the other women let my teammate, Michelle, lead the first lap.

I know that with my track record, it appears I am prone to "pilot error." I prefer to think I have a knack for bad timing. I also have an uncanny ability to land on my face. At least it saves my collar bones.

I really don't know what happened to cause the wreck. I heard my tire explode (although I didn't realize that's what it was) and then I lost control of my bike. One of the corner marshals said that somebody hit me. Or perhaps, I dug a pedal. I remember thinking, "Great! I made it through the corner" and then, BAM!

I wasn't the only one to go down in that corner. Veterans like Ms. Walberg and Mr. Schmatz also hit the pavement. Although with less flair.

Thanks to everyone who has expressed concern for my health. I am fine. Some may think that I need my head examined, but other than that, I am okay.

Higher Education

2007-05-05T19:25:00.000-05:00

The legendary BOCOMO Noon Rides can be highly educational. I never fail to learn something new and every now and then I do a little instructing. Today's lessons included:

1. Defining "muffin top" for Ethan. How he can work on campus and not know the definiton for this unsightly phenomenon was incomprehensible. I expect it to become part of his lexicon which with he "stirs the pot."

2. This tidbit of knowledge goes in the category of, "we knew this was true all along." Tracy (aka Showpony) made the declaration that he is the most hetero homosexual male ever. We're glad that he could finally admit it.

3. Fulton has a ghetto. When riding through it, heed the advice that Butthead gave to Nolan, "This is a good place to shut it."

4. This lesson is reinforced on every group ride where there is at least one individual whose testosterone is >500 ng/dL: The pecking order is sacred. Any hint that the hierarchy is in danger and the alpha males will assert themselves. Of course, only the women and elderly suffer the consequences. We don't mind too much: they can't help it, it's the hormones.

5. Watch out for Silent Jan. He's so quiet, it's easy to forget that he's riding next to you and can hear everything you say. I let a few choice words fly and then remembered, when he laughed, that he was still there.

6. Even the wisdom of those who are no longer with us, except in spirit, is repeated so that it is not forgotten: Just attack them until you get away. Always wear the Chuck Taylor's. Attack and the break will come to you.... ad infinitum.

7. Anne learned that protesting the dick-swinging only makes it worse. They smell blood and have to go in for the kill.

8. Of all the things I learned today, this was the most helpful to me, personally. My frickin' cat, which I adopted out of the goodness of my heart, has been totally out of sorts for the past month. He's taken to relieving himself in undesirable locations--like inside the house. His behavior is inexplicable, incurable, and making me crazy. Butthead explained why Charlie has been acting up. It makes perfect sense to me now. I am going to kill him with love and kindness. It worked before, I can't see why it won't work this time around.

Cry Me A River

2007-04-22T20:29:00.000-05:00

We went to the Bob Herbert Memorial Stage Race this past weekend. Many tears were shed….

You missed OUR shower?
Cry Me A River

You’re lactose intolerant?
Cry Me A River

You missed your TT start?
Cry Me A River

The officials screwed up your TT result?
Cry Me A River

Your race was shortened/extended by one lap?
Cry Me A River

You forgot to bring the sunscreen?
Cry Me A River

The portajohn was out of toilet paper?
Cry Me A River

Your feelings were hurt when we laughed at the spilled water?
Cry Me A River

You couldn’t feel your toes halfway through the first margarita?
Cry Me A River

The tequila that you drank last night was still flowing through your veins at the start line?
Cry Me A River

You forgot that there is no “I” in “TEAM”?
Cry Me A River

You missed out on the Bojangles biscuits?
Cry Me A River

You had to carry the gas hose that should have remained attached to the pump into the gas station?
Cry Me A River

Butthead had the remote and the TV was stuck on NASCAR?
Cry Me A River

You don’t like our kiss-throwing, butt-slapping, fist-pumping style of knitting?
Cry Me A River

In Memoriam: A Pillar of Salt

2007-04-13T10:03:00.000-05:00

Kurt Vonnegut departed this world yesterday. He’s one of my favorite authors, writing about the absurdity of being human and the futility of trying to make sense of it all. It’s liberating to accept that we are all nothing more, or less, than pillars of salt.

From Slaughter House Five:
I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.So it goes.Those were vile people in both cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.So she was turned into a pillar of salt. So it goes.People aren't supposed to look back. I'm certainly not going to do it anymore.I've finished my war book now. The next one I write is going to be fun.This one is a failure, and had to be, since it was written by a pillar of salt.

From Breakfast of Champions
What is the purpose of life? ------ To be the eyes, and ears, and conscience of the creator of the universe; you fool.

Turn It Off

2007-04-09T11:22:00.000-05:00

Can someone, anyone, please tell me where to find the "off" switch? I know the location of the dimmer switch. And, it's useful--to a degree. But, even with the dial turned to the "dimmest" position, energy still is being wasted. There are times it would highly advantageous to completely shut down. I'd just pull the plug, but I can't find that either. Any advice would be greatly appreciated. I'll be sure and pass it along to the others who are sick of the power drain.

Spring Break

2007-03-27T17:41:00.000-05:00

After suffering through Dogwood, and a day of recovery in Springfield, I drove down to Fayette-nam, Arkansas for Spring Break. I am camping at Devil’s Den, which is the perfect location for riding the Joe Martin road race courses. I was hoping to spend the week away from people, so I was disappointed to find that the campground was almost full. This is even more surprising given the unfortunate fact that the showers and bathrooms are not open. Every bathroom in the park has a sign on it promising that the bathrooms at some other campground at the park and at the visitors’ center are open. But, they lie. Last night, after the visitors’ center closed, there were no bathrooms open at all. At about 9:00, for some inexplicable reason, the park rangers came and unlocked the bathroom at my campground. They promised to come back at midnight and lock it back up, which they did. What does that do to the “riparian environment?” Melissa????

It kinda sucks that the showers aren’t working. I got pretty dirty from road grime when it rained today. The rain didn’t last long, but it rained HARD. It’s warm, though, so it wasn’t too bad.

Riding down here is quite nice, actually. It’s not the Hill Country, which is heaven for bike riding, but the drivers are friendly, the roads are empty, and there aren’t too many dogs to deal with. There is weirdness, though. Like today, I saw a man laying in the grass over the embankment of the road. At first, I thought that I was seeing a corpse, but the dude was just sleeping. (At least, I think he was asleep—I didn’t get close enough to be 100% certain.) I saw other strange things today that defy description—just weird collections of junk in people’s front yards and animals that may have been domesticated or wild, it was impossible to tell.
Maybe tomorrow will bring sunshine and functional showers. I am keeping my fingers crossed.

Knitting is Fun

2007-03-16T08:56:00.000-05:00

Everyone is knitting these days. It seems to be the latest trend among the beautiful people and knitting circles are being confused for support groups, according to NPR ( http://marketplace.publicradio.org/shows/2007/03/15/PM200703157.html). But, for members of my Knitting Circle, our craft is not a fad. We knit because it is our passion and because it is fun. Last weekend, Michelle and I knitted a bunch of cool stuff: candles--lots of candles--a decorative plate and cake platter, and an "I ♥ TULSA" T-shirt. Then we crossed the line holding hands. It was FUN! Poor boys, maybe if they knew how to knit, the promoters would offer them these awesome primes. Sunday, the Knitting Circle had dwindled down to three because of the god-awful weather—lightning, thunderstorms, and torrential downpours. The combination of rain, missing chunks of pavement, large puddles and paint stripes in the fast, downhill corners made for some rather tense knitting. But, it's all good. Thankfully, I was running the carbon needles—less chance of being hit by a lightning strike. The plastic rain jacket and booties also came in handy. This weekend the Sisters of Mercy are off to Hell’s Kitchen for another round of knitting. It will be fun!

Thank You for Coming

2007-03-05T17:02:00.000-06:00

We opened the 2007 racing season at the The Primavera road races in Lago Vista, Texas this past weekend. A few words of gratitude are in order. First of all, thanks to my teammates Whistle Britches and Whistle Biscuit, for making the long drive down. I am extra grateful that you did not scare the shit out of me when you busted into the hotel room at an ungodly hour of the night. Limited rose fluttering was also appreciated. The Sisters of Mercy who raced at Lago Vista (I am speaking for my teammates without their permission) are grateful to all the other women who showed up to race. We had 35-40 women both days, which is a huge field for a regional women’s race. It made the long drive down to Tejas worth it. There were some heavy hitters there, too, including Jen MacRae and the rest of her CONEX teammates. Austin Joy Riders also had a strong presence; they seemed to make up half the field. We would like to thank the women, not only for showing up, but also for bringing their Knitting Needles. Some needles were significantly sharper than others. Speaking for myself, my own needles were not as sharp as I’d hoped they would be. Global Climate Change gets the thanks for that. Although some of the Knitting Needle warfare was painful and effective, the only loss of blood was self-inflicted. Someone, who shall remain nameless, had a severe case of pre-race jitters that caused a momentary loss of balance and brush with the pavement. From now on, Whistle Biscuit, is going to incorporate tipping over at the start line into her pre-race ritual. She had a PHENOMENAL first race with the big girls. Thanks are due the race promoter and volunteers for putting on a well-supported event on a great circuit. It was worth the trip.

Sisters of Mercy

2007-02-28T11:54:00.000-06:00

We are bonafide, world-class knitters.

Watts Per Stitch

2007-02-12T17:20:00.000-06:00

Disclaimer: I am not going to take all of the blame for the contents of this post. Annie is a co-conspirator. Stay tuned. She’s threatening to start her own blog.

When ProPam’s Knitting Circle was established in the summer of 2005, I had no idea that I (inspired by Butthead and Salad Bar, AKA JV) was joining a larger political movement. Apparently, knitting is the newest form of political protest. According to articles in reputable publications, such as BITCH magazine, “Radical knitters prove that the power of knitting can be harnessed in the service of political change.” Knitting, as a means of social change, was featured in last week’s New York Times: “A New Wave Now Knits for the Rebellion of It.” Knitting Circles across the country are protesting hyper-consumerism, sweatshop labor, war, Bush, and domestic violence. The abundance of Knitting-related websites attest to the growth of this movement: GetCrafty, KnitHappens, Craftster, ChurchofCraft and Knitty

As knitting has become the latest incarnation of feminism, it only seems appropriate that we come up with a new gender-specific predictor of athletic performance. As every bike racer on the planet knows, training with power is the key to winning--hence, the concept of “Watts Per Stitch.” To put it simply, a high watts to stitch ratio is desirable. This past weekend, at our team camp, we field tested the watts per stitch ratio. Based on the data we collected, there are multiple ways to increase your watts per stitch ratio (bolded items count double):

Riding gadget free
Coming up with such slanderous terms as “Me, Myself and I”
Sporting unshaven legs during the winter
Ordering a second round of sandwiches at Schlotzky’s because you’re still hungry
Drinking beer(s) before bed
Messing with the newbies, i.e., Mel is my SO. They believed it.
Establishing the pecking order
Enforcing the pecking order
Ponking, belching, etc.
Remembering to bring the essentials (this one’s for Salad Bar)
Keeping your food down. Always.
Being born in a log cabin and delivered by the neighbors – badass
Ignoring the fashion police
Not quitting
Avoiding collateral damage on a group ride
Not taking your teammate out at city limit sprint
Owning and being proud of your muscles
Bringing the average age of the group below 35
Representing something greater than bike racing
Being a Sister of Mercy
Thinking 40 degrees is warm
Acknowledging the volunteers who support you
Saying what needs to be said
Not racing like a sundial
Having a Team Manager who gets it
Pulling strings when they need to be pulled
Being dropped
Being part of the problem, not the solution
Getting clogged up and talking about it
Not riding in the angry flamer van
Surviving for 10 days without electricity after an ice storm
Driving 1000 miles to camp to ride for one day
Racing while raising kids
Knowing the definition of “riparian environment”

On the other hand, we now have conclusive evidence that the following will bring your watts per stitch ratio down—way down (again, bolded items count double):

Whining
Crying
Being a bitch in the ditch
Singing Abracadabra while riding
Hair and make up for breakfast
Half wheeling
Complaining about how cold you are—as if you’re the only one
Violating Rule #1
Checking the weather forecast after you’ve driven to camp. Hello, you’re here already.
Asking, does this jersey/shorts/tights/etc. look too big on me?
MH’ing
Sporting goosebumps and headlights in the team photo
Knowing the meaning of knit 1, pearl 2
Not drinking beer
Living up to your promise to obey
Sprinting for stop signs
Discussing power
Discussing weight
Having helmets for breasts
Having breasts for helmets
Being proud that you’re a clothes hanger for your jersey
Surging/braking in the paceline
Arguing with your superiors
Thinking you can turn pro when you’re peri-menopausal
Taking bridesmaids pictures on steps
Answering “Yes” to THE question
Playing the game too seriously
Taking offense at any of the above

We would be remiss if we failed to mention the most newsworthy event of the past week—the passing of Anna Nicole Smith. She was a pseudo spokesperson for PETA, but her protest did not take the form of modern feminism. She did not spend her nights at home knitting socks; we heard it on Larry King Live.

Breaking News in Exercise Science Research

2007-02-08T18:11:00.000-06:00

You read it here first. The latest secret on how to improve cycling performance was just revealed in an article published in Medical Hypotheses, a scientific journal: “Metabolic clues regarding the enhanced performance of elite endurance athletes from orchiectomy-induced hormonal changes.” Drs. Atwood and Bowen explain how Lance Armstrong experienced “an amazing 18% improvement in steady-state power per kilogram body weight when cycling at a given VO2” from pre- to post-cancer. Because none of the standard physiologic predictors of performance, e.g., VO2max, resting heart rate, steady-state power, heart rate at lactate threshold, were increased after his cancer treatment, the scientists attribute Lance’s transformation from “1-day cyclist into the Tour legend” to having a unilateral orchiectomy.

If you haven’t figured it out the meaning of “orchiectomy” yet, and unilateral doesn’t give it away: “-ectomy” means to surgically remove; the Greeks named a native plant resembling testicles, “orchis.” I am not kidding, the authors of this paper explain how having one testicle removed upsets the hormonal balance, resulting in (surprise) enhanced endurance. Testosterone levels remain normal, but other hormones of the reproductive (hypothalamic/pituitary/gonadal) axis are elevated.

The increased levels of leutinizing hormone, follicle stimulating hormone, and prolactin alter metabolism during exercise: fat use is increased and carbohydrate oxidation decreased, sparing glycogen and delaying fatigue. In addition, these hormonal changes promote loss of muscle mass, but not strength and increase hemoglobin and hematocrit. Drs. Atwood and Bowen summarize their explanation of the performance-enhancing effects of unilateral orchiectomy as follows: “Lance Armstrong’s high gonadotropin to sex steroid ratio will (1) increase serum free fayy acid/ketone bodies and the utilization of free fatty acids/ketone bodies by muscles, sparing glycogen reserves, (2) increase muscle repair and (3) increase haematocrit and hemoglobin concentrations, all of which will promote increased endurance and recovery.”

Despite the emphatic disclaimer at the end of the paper, “We do not recommend unilateral orchiectomy or endogenous sources of these hormones as performance enhancing modalities,” imagine the consequences of this informed, yet unproven, speculation. Self-proclaimed experts will author books touting the benefits of screwed up reproductive hormones. Pharmaceutcial companies will develop blood tests that will allow athletes to monitor their gonadotropin to sex steroid ratio. There will be new software to plot your hormone levels over time and to calculate meaningless ratios. Some poor athlete who believes that “more is better” will opt for the bilateral orchiectomy and end up a eunuch.

Stay tuned for further updates on the cutting edge of exercise science research. Next time we’ll discuss the latest in maximizing training with power: the critical number is not watts per kg, but, read carefully, “watts per stitch.” Butthead can explain.

Go Badgers!

2007-01-25T12:58:00.000-06:00

UW Wins 16th In A Row; Beats Michigan
MADISON, Wis.-
Brian Butch and Alando Tucker scored 16 points each to help No. 2 Wisconsin (20-1, 6-0 Big Ten) extend the nation’s longest winning streak to 16 games. The Badgers topped the Wolverines of Michigan, 71-58, Wednesday night at the Kohl Center to remain all alone in first place in the Big Ten.

Wisconsin is 6-0 to start the Big Ten season for the first time in 93 years. It’s 20-1 record equals the best start in school history.

Yes, I'm a fan(atic). But, it's okay because I was a Badger once.

Global Warming? NOT!

2007-01-19T17:52:00.000-06:00

What's up with this winter weather? It's like being back in the land of the Frozen Tundra, inhabited by Cheeseheads. Aren't we supposed to have wild fluctuations of, like, at least 50 degrees of every two to three days?
Today was balmy at 33 degrees. Anne and I got out for a little cold forging. Annie was enjoying the sunshine.

Riding in this weather has its hazards, however. I saw a woman driving the other day with her entire windshield covered with a solid sheet of ice and snow except for one small sliver right in front of her face. Unbelievable. Of course, she's talking on the phone as she driving with her face pressed up against the glass. She should have her vehicle taken away from her until the snow melts. We were riding on Z a couple of days ago when a pickup truck passed us. Just as they passed, the mass of ice and snow that had been frozen to the front hood became airborne. It flew up, way up, and went hurtling over the pickup. It shattered on the pavement right in front of us. It was a little too close for my liking.

If the forecast for the weekend is correct, we're going to have more of the white stuff to deal with for quite awhile. That's okay suffering builds character, right?

Leave No Man (or Woman) Behind

2007-01-15T14:01:00.000-06:00

No man (or woman) left behind. That seemed to be the theme of the day yesterday. The “wintry mix” that started Friday afternoon left the roads covered with ice and frozen slush Saturday morning. Any cold forging for the weekend would have to take place somewhere other than the usual “Noon Ride.” Butthead, Ethan, Nolan, Anne, Wes and I ventured down the Katy Trail with every intention of going to Rocheport and back. The trail itself wasn’t too bad. Ice covered with snow covered with another layer of ice made for a smooth surface with minimal slipping and sliding. The bridges, however, were another matter. Just like on the highway (you know the caution signs, “bridge may ice before road”), the bridges were a little more challenging. Poor Butthead, he must of gotten tired from telling me to “stay on the gas” at every bridge we had to cross. I had to do some running, cyclocross style. I told the guys to go on without me, but they insisted, “We leave no man behind.” Once we got out of Columbia, it was smooth sailing to Rocheport for Butthead, Ethan, and I. Butthead had to ratchet up the pace a couple of times to “see how fast we could go.”

On the return trip, we saw a mysterious message written in the snow, “DOOK.” Ummmm, I’m not sure if someone was trying to call one of us “DORK”? It started to rain on the way back. How is that liquid water can fall from the sky when it’s 20 degrees out? I don’t get it.

After the ride, I went in to work to get caught up on some stuff before the start of the semester. When I left my office at about 8:30 my car was completely covered with a thick layer of ice. Lovely. Even more annoying was that the latch on the gate to my house was iced over. I managed to knock it free only to find that the ice on the ground was so thick that the gate wouldn’t budge.

Thankfully, Charlie the Cat has his own entrance to the house, which is always open. I managed to crawl in through the window that's always cracked open for Charlie.

As if cold forging on the bike isn’t enough, I’ve been doing some secret cold forging at home. If the “throw the carton of eggs against the wall and keep the ones that don’t break” style of training was good enough for the East Germans, it’s good enough for me. Ethan heard me mention my extra cold forging and took me pity on me. I discovered a load of firewood on my front porch.

I was grateful that I have friends who believe that no man (or woman) should be left behind. Thanks guys.

Place Your Order Now!

2007-01-10T12:37:00.000-06:00

If Butthead is wondering what the Knitting Circle will produce this year, I'm positive that the rest of you are dying to know as well.

A charter member of the St. Louis Chapter of the Knitting Circle came up with the idea to knit skinsuits, "A knitted 'skin suit' (complete with hood) for Butthead :-). He can be sleek and warm! Ha, ha!"

When placing your order, please indicate your size: XS, S, M, L, XL, etc. We can knit these in narrow, regular or wide to accomodate all body types--even Salad Bar.
Matching knitted booties are extra. But not a bad deal at $10 a pair.

Bad-itude

2007-01-08T07:51:00.000-06:00

The credit for this title of this blog entry goes to Junior Varsity. I’ve got to give the guy some props just so he knows that he’s loved. We were laying into him pretty hard, trying to find which new nickname would stick better: Extra Helpings or Salad Bar. I wouldn’t be too concerned about the extra poundage, if I were JV. He goes downhill faster now. I mean he’s got to coast in the paceline for me to get around him. And, he still goes uphill at an accelerating pace.
JV gets credit for the title, but he’s not the sole inspiration for the “Bad-itude” that Annie and I were sporting yesterday. No, Butthead and Show Pony are also responsible for igniting some righteous indignation. We were rolling out of Fulton when the topic of conversation turned to women’s racing. In the minds of these males, “women’s racing” is an oxymoron. Apparently, the Knitting Circle failed to impress. In fact, they equated watching a women’s race with watching time pass on a sundial. The boys did reveal that they don’t mind watching women who are barefoot (not pregnant) and naked. That’s a big surprise. When Annie and I announced that we are going to unleash a little “killer instinct” on the Knitting Circle this year, JV laughed and said, “Oh, a one-two punch?” Our glares inspired the declaration, “You guys are sporting a Bad-itude.” Hopefully, we can live up our new ‘tude. Annie showed that she’s not all bluster and bravado today. On her first Fayette into a ferocious (but ever diminishing, according to Butthead) headwind, she took every pull. Also of note, after some turned back at Harrisburg, there were as many women and the ride as men. (If you don’t count Brady, that is.) Baby steps.

Priceless

2006-10-30T10:52:00.000-06:00

We all like to get a good deal. I certainly got my money’s worth of racing this weekend.

Waking up to a forecast of a high temp of 72 degrees, sunny skies and no wind, plus an extra hour of sleep...
Getting to the race venue with time to register, pin the number on my jersey, hit the porta-john, and ride one lap of the course for warm-up...
Paying $35 to race 90 (almost) continuous minutes of cross... (Ouch!)
Getting my ass handed to me in the 35+ race by guys like Ethan...
Thinking, “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” and “you can’t pay for training like this” (except, of course, I had paid for it) while suffering through the races...
Holding two winning lottery tickets for post-race schwag. In my case, it really did pay to do a second race: a 6-pack of pint glasses and a case of Boulevard beer...
Arthur Bryant’s catering to the yuppie white folk and offering BBQ by the Speedway and mall...
The invention of the self-service power wash...
Finding that the cinder block that I stand on to reach the latch on the gate to let me in the backyard had gone missing...

Priceless.

Movie Critic for a Day

2006-10-09T07:58:00.000-05:00

Both of the movies in this review are about the journeys of people to better their lives—they take great risks to reach the “Promised Land” because the status quo can’t get much worse. Or, My Treasure is about a young Israeli woman, Or, and her mother. In This World is the saga is of Jamal and his uncle, both Afghani refugees. In the beginning, both Or and Jamal are full of hope; by the end of their journeys, each suffers what could be a devastating loss. You’re left wondering if the reality of life will prove to have been too much.

Or, My Treasure

This is an excellent movie, if you like films that move you. It’s the story of a woman and her daughter, Or, struggling to survive, but sadly, destroying themselves in the process. The setting is Israel, but could be anywhere. Or is the stronger of the two. Her resolve to better her mother’s life is so strong that you start to think the story is going to have a happy ending. That Or’s seemingly indestructible optimism might be enough to give her mom hope. But when circumstances become increasingly desperate, Or cracks, and follows the only example she has ever known, heading full bore down the path to self-destruction that has entangled her mother. The movie reminded me a lot of Hoop Dreams, the documentary about two star high school basketball players whose only way up and out of the ghetto is to earn an athletic scholarship in college on their way to the NBA. You find yourself hoping that the protagonists, William Gates and Arthur Agee in Hoop Dreams, like Or and her mom, are going to beat the odds and escape their circumstances. But as the saying goes, you can take the man out of the ghetto, but you can’t take the ghetto out of the man. It is difficult to leave the familiar, no matter how self-defeating. Especially when you’re up against a society that benefits from the desperation of its second class, yet despises the less fortunate for their circumstances and refuses to offer a helping hand. I am reminded of a quote I read somewhere, “Where are the checks and balances to prevent gangsterism and its ugly twin, piousness?” How anyone could watch, “Or, My Treasure” and think that people choose prostitution as a way of life is beyond me. People choose to be prostitutes like they choose to be homeless or on welfare. No one should have to trade their self-respect to make ends meet.

In This World
This also is a movie worth watching, but I wouldn’t recommend it if you’re feeling down about the state of mankind. It will quickly make you a cynic if you aren’t one already. Jamal and his uncle are Afghan refugees living in a refugee camp in Pakistan. Their families scrape together enough cash to buy their way to London. The horrors that the two experience are almost beyond belief: endless hours in open truck beds across the desert, hidden underneath loads of cargo, walking on foot through snow, betrayal by those who profit from human trafficking, interrogation by border guards. But as incredible are the numerous scenes of refugee children playing soccer—the winners throwing the arms in the air in celebration. Also is Jamal’s sense of humor. He tells his teenage type jokes until the very end even after the horrific separation from his uncle. The larger story is one that leaves me feeling hopeless. Wars, in the name of freedom and democracy, have left hundreds of thousands of people without homes, surviving, but not really living. If that doesn’t make you sick, the people, who prey on the refugees who try to leave their hopeless circumstances, will. The film ends with Jamal in a mosque in London. He is praying, surrounded by men bowed in prayer; yet, he’s alone. It’s not hard to see why people turn to religion. Human beings need hope. Allahu Akbar.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly

2006-10-03T11:38:00.000-05:00

Okay, so this post about the past two weekends of racing is going to be a matching quiz. Here’s out is works, in case it’s been so long that you can’t remember how to complete this type of test question. First, read each statement or study each picture. Carefully. Then, MATCH each statement or picture with the appropriate category:
a. The Good
B. The Bad
C. The Ugly

The correct answers will be provided at the end of the quiz. But, don’t feel bad if you get some of the answers wrong. LEARNING from your mistakes is what counts, after all.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7. On sign outside a church in VanBuren, Arkansas:
Plan ahead. It wasn't raining when Noah built the Ark.

8. Lonnie Kennedy

9. The Mercy Classic

10.

ANSWERS:

1. All of the above are correct. The Good: I won the prime. The Bad: gender specific primes. Maybe I shouldn’t have been insulted, but how about something, that I, being a bike racer, could USE. We all want to come in the front door. Isn’t that right, Lonnie?

(For the record, Jen McRae has no use for purses either. She doesn’t even carry a diaper bag.)

2. None of the above is correct. Okay, here’s the story. I won the lamp as a prime at the Mercy Classic. Actually, I traded primes with Jen McRae. (Yyes, the wife of Chan McRae and podium finisher at Crit Nationals.) She wanted the plastic cosmetic bag with a little poodle photo on it for the lamp. Jen’s a mom and her little her girls would “love” the bag. My lamp got a few snickers out of the HealthNet boys as I carried it to the van.

3. A is correct. Unfortunately, this photo doesn’t do its subject justice. The SALAD was the work of the other half of Mrs. Johnson. Believe it or not, Butthead, despite all of his bravado about subsisting on nothing but fatty, greasy foods, and sheet cake, actually knows how to cook something with redeeming nutritional value.

4. C is correct. I still can’t run through the barriers to save my life.

5. All of the above are correct. The Bad: the mud was very bad for those of us without spikes in our shoes. Lesson learned: be prepared. The Ugly: the mess. My poor car was totally trashed out after 2 days of racing the slop. The Good: the guy who was kind enough to clean my car for me--inside and out. It looks like new again.

6. A and B are correct. The Good is a match because at this point Butthead had relieved the pressure that had built up to intolerable levels in his bladder. The Bad also is correct because he lost a few places during his pit stop.

7. B is correct. Teaching little kids in Sunday School that if they follow rules, are good enough, and try hard enough, disaster and disappointment can be avoided.

8. A and B are correct. Mr. Kennedy is a good guy. He’ll divulge his training secrets (some of them anyway) if he thinks you’ll become a faithful believer. However, Lonnie is a bad man when it comes to racing. Listen to him recount what happens to opponents who piss him off. You don’t want to be the object of this man’s wrath--especially when he’s so angry he could cry. No sir.

9. The Mercy Classic. The Good: perfect training for cyclocross. The Bad: how unprepared I was. The Ugly: my performance. They killed me and they almost ate me.

10. All of the above are correct. The legendary Jimmy Mc. A picture is worth 1000 words.

Gracious in Defeat

2006-09-16T19:12:00.000-05:00

I hate losing. I know, who doesn't? But, some people take a good ass-whuppin' better than others. My sister, Sarah, detests losing--especially if it's to me. Whatever the contest, she usually beats me. Unless it's test of endurance. Then I have a chance, simply because I can outlast her. On the rare occasion that I do beat her, we will have to continue the game until she wins. That's okay by me. She's the baby of the family and is used to getting her way.

It doesn't bother me if Sarah beats me, but the rest of time it really pisses me off. The photo is hard evidence of how much I loathe losing. I broke my arm, a couple of years ago, because I didn't want to admit defeat.

I'd agreed to an arm wrestling contest with one of my friends. I wouldn't have taken the challenge unless I thought I had a chance of beating him. I should have known better. Rather than quit, admitting defeat, I held on to this very small hope: he might eventually get tired of bending my arm backwards and I would take the victory. Unfortunately, the torque on my arm was too much and it snapped. Audibly. I had not yet learned the truth to the saying, "A good woman knows her limitations."

I was recently reminded that there's a kind of loss that's much more painful than losing at arm wrestling or breaking a bone. Last weekend, we went to Arkansas to do a couple of races. While we were down there, we stopped to visit some of Jimmy's family. We made sure to spend some time with his Aunt Sherry and Uncle Dan because Sherry has inoperable cancer. Her prognosis is poor, but her spirits are not. She's a tiny women, but a spitfire; she's fighting for her life with everything she's got. It's obvious that Sherry's illness has sucker punched Dan, too. He seems to be taking it harder than Sherry. This is understandable because the battle is not his. He has a stake in the outcome allright, but all he can do is watch. Sherry is the one who endures the chemo and radiation, who follows the doctors' orders to eat to keep her strength up. Dan can only hope for the best; all control over his loss has been taken from him.

And that is the most painful kind of defeat that exists. Losing a game or a bike race may cost you a wounded ego or some physical aches and pains, but you can always do something about it: train harder, eat right, lose weight, buy better equipment. Something.

There's nothing you can do to ease the pain of losing someone that you love, you can only hope to be gracious in defeat.

Still I Rise

2006-09-08T07:07:00.000-05:00

I have a friend who, for whatever reason, has taken to calling me, “Pamelalala.” This one’s for you, girl.

Still I Rise
Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see my broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Get up off of that trash heap. You don’t belong there.

My New Ride

2006-09-01T11:28:00.000-05:00

It is faster than it looks.....

To the Bright Side of the Road

2006-08-29T22:24:00.000-05:00

Have you ever noticed that when you hit a rough stretch in the road, you find support from unexpected quarters? Out of the blue, good friends you haven’t heard from in ages call or write. “You’ve been on my mind, lately,” they inevitably say. It’s weird that when you’ve expected to feel alone, you’re suddenly surrounded by a “great cloud of witnesses.” Or, maybe it’s just that in the hard times you’re perspective is changed. You’re able to see what you can’t when you’re just cruising along: the kindness and concern of others.

I am going to borrow the words of Maya Angelou to say, “thank you” to those who deserve it.
Thanks to a few of the Good Guys
You to laugh with.
You to cry to.
I can just about make it over.

THANKS TO:

My Yankee friends, for being with me even though you’re far away in the land of the Frozen Tundra.

Jeanie, who’s like a big sister to me, for the unsolicited advice. She WOULD know.

Carla, for giving me a nickname that I hope to live up to—it’s NOT ProPam.

Greg, for the awesome song.

The other Dude, for offering to help me with the house.

My colleagues who acknowledged me in class even though it embarrassed the hell out of me.

Andy, who put an end to my arm wrestling career, for calling to tell me the good news. Sorry I can’t be there.

My fellow princess racer for laughing with me. There’s no crying in bike racing, so you might as well laugh.

Ms. Cox, a dear and empathetic acquaintance, for telling it like it is. Always. Even when the truth is painful.

Guppy, like a dog with bone, is hell-bent on me watching all the movies that he has seen and I have not. This is going to take awhile. Maybe a lifetime.

Ethan, who, reminds me when I need it, of the philosophy of "THE DROP."

The members of my Knitting Circle, for your insight and encouragement.

Dr. Martin, for saying nice things about me. Behind my back.

Butthead, for chasing me down at Tuesday Night Worlds. The biggest compliment anyone’s ever paid me.

Jimmy, for having my back when I need someone to lean on.

All of my people. Because you let me call you, “my people.” You know who you are.

Exile

2006-08-20T20:54:00.000-05:00

Exile. That’s where I put myself this past weekend. Rather than make the trek to the Village of Downer’s Grove, I removed myself far from the racing scene. Oh, I wanted to go. But not to race, I wanted to watch Huffy make a run at the Pro Championship. Yes, I have a Cat 2 license, which allows me in the Elite Women’s Race, but I am a realist. Except for an act of God, I would not have been in any position to contest the sprint at the end. You’ve got to want to go to battle to sign up for a race like that. Otherwise, you’ve lost before you roll off the line. My competitive juices have dried up. Only temporarily, I know. I could blame it on my face plant at Nationals or on my job or myriad other things. Regardless, I need to light the fire again. But, as Jimmy put it to me the other day, “You’re out of matches.” I hope I find some again soon. I can distract myself from the stresses of life by bike racing, to a point. But, even the little world of competitive cycling is not enough to prevent the aches and pains of life from taking their toll. So, when I wasn’t busy getting ready for the start of the semester, I spent the weekend immersing myself in the household chores that go with being a new homeowner. In the grand scheme of things, all of my pruning, weed-pulling, and flower-planting are worth about as much as finishing a bike race. There is no eternal reward for having an immaculate yard or for finishing, even winning, a bike race. Yet, both are satisfying because of the sense of accomplishment they bring. This weekend, battling weeds was preferable to fighting for position in the crits. By next weekend, I intend to have found some matches and to return from my self-imposed exile. Not that I’ll need any matches to find some heat, we’re going to Hotter ‘N Hell.

N.B. Butthead gets credit for the theme for this post.

My Day In Court

2006-08-07T21:52:00.000-05:00

Today at 3:00pm I had to appear in Municipal Court for the City of Columbia for my arraignment on charges of violating a city ordinance. Because my offense was “riding bicycle on sidewalk within business district,” I had no choice but to go kitted up. I debated between Dizzy Chicks and Velo Girls. The hot pink won out. Yes, I was trying to make a statement. It worked. I was standing in the hallway with a few other people who arrived early for their date with City Hall. A respectable looking couple was there waiting, too. The man looks at me and says, “Ahhh, a bike racer. Bike racing is getting a lot of press lately.” “Not much of it is good,” I say. “No, but any media coverage is better than no coverage. Hopefully, things will turn around for Floyd,” he says. “We are rooting for him.”

A couple of my fellow accused also had chosen some interesting attire for their day in front of The Judge. I doubt that either of them were trying to make a statement. One little girl had on short shorts that said, “bitchin’ hot ass” across the butt. Another young kid was sporting a t-shirt that said SKIN with the silhouettes of big bosomed women stenciled in. Nice. I wondered what ordinance he was accused of violating.

You’d think that such an official proceeding with the potential to result in jail time would start promptly, but it didn’t. At check in with the bailiff we were handed a pamphlet entitled, “Columbia Municipal Court: Your Rights and Duties.” We were then allowed to go into the courtroom where we neatly segregated ourselves by race. Po’ black folk on one side of the aisle, white trash with a few white collars and me on the other. Maybe the time we spent waiting in the courtroom for The Judge was for us to read about arraignments, the consequences of pleading guilty or not guilty, and our right to a jury trial, as described in the handout. Before The Judge made his appearance the Bailiff gave us instructions on how to behave:
Turn off all cell phones and pagers. If they go off in court, they will be confiscated.
Do not touch the paintings on the wall.
Do not put your feet on the furniture.
Do not talk. Keep your children quiet.
Take off your hat in court.

On cue, we all stood up and The Judge made his entrance. He was obligated, he told us, to be sure that we understood our rights, our options and the consequences of pleading guilty. All of the information was included in the pamphlet we’d been given. The Judge checked to be sure that all of us could read and understand the information. No one raised their hand indicating they didn’t have clue what was going on, but he proceeded to explain everything to us anyway. Pleading “Not Guilty” gets you two rights: the presumption of innocence and the right to remain silent. It also gets you a trial date. A “Guilty” plea guarantees that The Judge will issue one of three punishments: time in the Boone County Jail (one day to one year), a fine ($10.00-$1,000, plus court costs), or court supervision. Pleading guilty, he also informed us, is admission of guilt in front of a room full of witnesses. By law and his own conscience, anyone who pleads guilty and then goes on to explain that it was all an accident and no violation actually occurred, has their plea changed to “Not Guilty.” Our options now crystal clear, we were called one by one to stand before The Judge. Repeat arraignees got to go first. We had a noise violation, failure to wear a seat belt, several charges for possession of less than 35 grams of marijuana, turning left on a green light instead of with the green arrow, and failure to exhibit proof of auto insurance. Guess which one warranted the most severe penalty? The noise violation was worth $127 compared to $10 for the missing seat belt, $82 for causing a car wreck, and court supervision for the pot. The girl who had cranked her stereo at 4 am could have been fined $1,000.

Then it was my turn. I plead, “Guilty.” Because I am a first time offender, I did not hit anyone and because I will not violate the ordinance again (at least not when anyone’s looking), I received the lowest possible fine of $22.00 plus court costs for a total of $45.00.

An expensive civics lesson and a pricey reminder that no one is above The Law.

The Grasshopper and The Ant

2006-08-07T14:23:00.000-05:00

I got off of work late last Friday, but it was such a beautiful evening that I had to get out on my bike. I opted to ride down the trail, so that I could just enjoy the night without having to worry about traffic. On the way back, I ran into a friend, a bike racer from back in the day. In the course of our conversation, he reminded me of one of Aesop’s fables. The Grasshopper spends his summer singing and dancing, while the Ant works hard, storing up food for winter. When the weather turns, the Grasshopper is desperate for food and shelter. He goes to the Ant and begs for mercy. The Ant, being a hard-ass, tells the Grasshopper, “tough cookies,” and leaves him to die of hunger and exposure. My friend’s point was that if someone’s a Grasshopper at heart, nobody or nothing will transform them into an Ant. Sad, but probably true. My friend also passed on some advice that had been given to them. The words have stayed with me, “You can’t lose what really belongs to you.” I am not sure exactly what that means, but there’s truth, and comfort, in the thought.

Bil of Rights

2006-08-04T11:05:00.000-05:00

BILL OF RIGHTS

Amendment IV
The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized.
Amendment V
No person shall be held to answer for a capital, or otherwise infamous crime, unless on a presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury, except in cases arising in the land or naval forces, or in the Militia, when in actual service in time of War or public danger; nor shall any person be subject for the same offence to be twice put in jeopardy of life or limb; nor shall be compelled in any criminal case to be a witness against himself, nor be deprived of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor shall private property be taken for public use, without just compensation.
Amendment VI
In all criminal prosecutions, the accused shall enjoy the right to a speedy and public trial, by an impartial jury of the State and district wherein the crime shall have been committed, which district shall have been previously ascertained by law, and to be informed of the nature and cause of the accusation; to be confronted with the witnesses against him; to have compulsory process for obtaining witnesses in his favor, and to have the Assistance of Counsel for his defence.

In the United States of America, we believe that all Men are endowed, by their Creator, with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. We also believe in the presumption of innocence until proven guilty, the right to a fair trial, protection from unreasonable search and seizure of people and their property. Unfortunately, we also have, on occasion, overly zealous law enforcement officials and district attorneys who, out of their obligation to “protect and serve” the citizenry, prematurely accuse the innocent of crimes they did not commit. In the good ole US of A, we also believe in the First Amendment, which journalists claim gives them the right to spread these false accusations, effectively trying people in the court of public opinion. Rarely, the truth comes out, and the wrongly accused are vindicated. More often, reputations, families, careers, and lives are destroyed. Steven Hatfill, a physician and bioterrorism expert, who was labeled a "person of interest" in the 2001 anthrax killings, said it well, “This (freedom of speech) does not, however, give them the right to smear me and gratuitously make a wasteland of my life.”

Interestingly, the World Anti-Doping Agency also has a Code of Ethics that should protect athletes whose doping control tests produce “adverse analytical findings” from being tried in the media circus.

WADA
The World Anti-Doping Program
International Standard for Laboratories version 4.0
August 2004
Annex B-Laboratory Code of Ethics
1. Confidentiality
The heads of Laboratories, their delegates and Laboratory staff shall not discuss or comment to the media on individual results prior to the completion of any adjudication without consent of the organization that supplied sample to the Laboratory and the organization that is asserting the Adverse Analytical Finding in adjudication.

What I do not understand is how this Code of Ethics, protecting confidentiality of athletes’ test results, can be violated without consequence. Repeatedly. If I were to breach confidentiality in my research, the penalty would be severe. My lab would be shut down and then be on probation for a significant period of time. If the NCAA were overseeing WADA-accredited labs, they would bust the Laboratory in Chatenay-Malabry for “lack of institutional control.” If the UCI is responsible for the premature release of test results, they are only accelerating the demise of professional cycling. Incomprehensible.

In the court of public opinion, Landis has not been found guilty of a capital offense. Yet. Since the results of the “A” sample were leaked, Landis’ adverse analytical finding has been the topic of conversation everywhere I go: the guys stocking the produce section at Gerbes; the dietitians at work; the two professors at the coffee shop; the 70-year old air conditioner repair man; the students working in the lab; the mortgage officer as we were closing on the house. The conversations took place in different places between very different people, but they were virtually identical. No one believes Floyd is guilty. Everyone wants him to be vindicated.

The Laughing Group

2006-07-26T15:27:00.000-05:00

You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter the defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.
Maya Angelou

The dropping starts when life begins. I had that realization last night as we rode back into town from Tuesday Night Worlds. Fish flexed his arm and shook his fist at his son, Guppy, “Look at this, boy. The droppage begins.” At that moment it hit me. Life is just one big drop fest. It starts the moment you pop out of the womb into the world and ends when they lower you into the grave or scatter you into the wind.

You could argue that some are born severely dropped; the gap is so monumental that they can never close it. Poverty, lack of education, homelessness, missing parents. Obstacles most of us, despite our cocky self-assurance, probably would not overcome.

All of us, regardless of gender, race, wealth, intellect, or talent will get dropped. Repeatedly. Parents divorce, grandparents have a stroke or get Alzheimer’s disease, the beloved family pet dies, you find out you’re not the fastest kid on the block, your best friend moves away, you get sick right before the state championship, the coach sits you on the bench, you get drafted into the armed forces, the boss fires you, you can’t find a job, your spouse leaves you, your kid ends up in jail, a fire or tornado destroys your home and worldly possessions, time takes your health and maybe your mind. You can only hope that your genes and your upbringing predispose you to persistence and hope that the pace will slow and you’ll catch back on. Others are not so lucky; they’re inclined to cope by escaping in one self-destructive behavior or another. Their chances of getting back in the race are slim to none.

In that moment of droppage, when the race is going up the road, and the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, there is an opportunity to learn something about oneself. Sometimes the dropping is public and you face humiliation and disgrace. Other times, it is private, and the struggle is no longer about saving face, but about searching the soul.

I know a few guys who are obviously physically gifted with big motors and penchant for training. Yet, they don’t race. They’ll throw down in our little pond group rides and training races, but that’s as far as they go. I can only think that their fear of getting dropped from a race is what keeps them from ever pinning on a number. You can avoid the dropping that really is of no consequence, but the there’s no escaping getting gapped off when life throws down a huge attack.

When I’m out there, pedaling by my lonesome, and I can no longer even catch a glimpse of the group, these words invariably run through my mind, “They can kill you, but they can’t eat you.”

Crash Twins

2006-07-17T10:58:00.000-05:00

My friend Moriah sent me this post-wreck picture this morning. She crashed at BC Superweek last night. We have alot in common. In fact, I am thinking about riding for her team, The Dizzy Chicks.