Goodbye and Hello.

It's that day of the year when it's pretty much requisite to write if you're a blogger. New Year's Eve, the day of which I'd always like a double dose, because I'm terrified of commitment, but somehow can't let go of what happened on the last 364 days. It was all so good, and sweet like sugar. And while I know the coming year holds more of that sweetness, bidding adieu to the last year is always bittersweet.

It has been a good year, though, this two thousand and fifteen. My kiddo is growing. I'm finally in this place in my life where really, I'm pretty happy doing what I'm doing, lovingly caring for my sweet little family, ensuring our lives are simple and open for the adventures that make us tick.

I challenged myself this year, stretching the limits of what I could do. I rode with faster people and alternately made myself ride slower some, too. I made myself go to the dentist (ugh). I blogged more, and forced myself to come up with new, creative content (Now if I could just do that with more regularity...). I raced my bike, made new friends, and joined a team. I worked hard to be centered and gentle, even when I didn't really feel like it, because I know people afford me that kind of kindness. I tried to cut back on whining (though some of you may be skeptical). And I learned to accept failure not as a moment to break, but as a way to learn.

Wait, you want to know how my 2015 resolutions turned out, don't you? No, I didn't ride 5,000 miles. I was close, but I had a year full of breakthrough rides and experiences I wouldn't trade. Did I read a book each month? Yes. Did I follow my blogging guidelines? Most of the time.

Oh, and my 2016 resolutions?
Do a better job with recycling... we suck at this.
Read a book a month.
Do more yoga.
Spend more time in the hammock.
Be happy.

That's it. Simple goals, that will be good for me and those around me. Because why overthink things, when everything is so great?

Wishing all you wonderful readers out there a happy, warm, healthy, sweet 2016. Do something awesome with your free time tomorrow... if you Instagram a moment, hashtag it #lifeonthebigchainring so I can see what cool stuff my friends find along the way. Go out and conquer!

Friends, a Butchered Interpretation of Multiverse Theory, and a little bit of a book report.

I'm not really a believer in romantic love at first sight. I am, however, a believer in platonic love between friends at first sight. I think you can look at someone (I can anyway) and know almost instantly who my people are. I think back over the past couple years of my life, in which I've made amazing adult friends, and nearly all the situations are the same. I saw them, and some deeply seated tribal instinct was aware that we would be friends. There are exceptions to this rule, of course, but the more intimately I know those exceptions, I can't believe I didn't pick up on our shared vibes. The people for whom I care the most, the ones with whom I connect the best, it's like my heart and mind handpicked them for me as I walked along my path, like trees in the forest that I bump into when I'm mountain biking. Except my friends don't rough me up. They believe in me, believe the best things about me, even though they see me at my worst. I believe the best things about them, and believe in them unfalteringly, and really don't even remember when I've seen them at their worst.

Our friends' interpretations of our character, physical and metaphysical, and our own... they're like some sort of cataclysm, two worlds colliding in our heads. What if we saw ourselves how others see us? Especially those who care for us, encourage us, and see within us our great potential?

A small takeaway from multiverse theory is that there are infinite versions of ourselves playing out across other universes, in good ways, in bad ways, any way you can imagine or can't imagine. Endless us. Built from stardust, doing whatever it is we do in other ways. The theory also posits that if, due to uneven expansion of universes, the two branes of the parallel universes brush together, we could meet our other selves.

Here's where I butcher the theory for my use. What if we could snap the branes together and become our better, more confident selves, under our control, smashing the two worlds together. What if we're living in two or three closely threaded parallel universes? What if what is inside our head is our own, and the greatness our friends see is yet another? And sometimes, through pictures, our friends' words, or raw data on our computer screen, we see through our own pathway through the universal fabric to the next universe?

When Scrooge meets with the Ghost of Christmas Future, he struggles as he discovers his own grave site. He sees his name on the headstone, and begins to fall apart at the seams, on seeing through to the other universe that could be.

"'Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,' said Scrooge. 'But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me.'" A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens

How explosively great could we be if we let down the sheets that block us in, like Scrooge's broken coldness locked out the good, and kept in his old personal self perceptions? Our faltering perceptions of our own abilities are often the very things that hold us back from our goals. Break through, and soak in the wonderful things other believe about you. I'm tired of wishing I could see what others see in me.

My resolution this year is to actively pursue belief in myself and what others have to say well about me. Accept compliments. Absorb encouragement. Drink it like it's the best tea I've ever tasted. Say goodbye to the doubts and replace the why nots with "Why the hell not?!". Our lives are too short and cosmically special to continue to not be the best us, and believe in the best us.

Snap through that space time continuum. Abuse scientific theory (not really, but I had to include this...). Be your best damn self. Take chances, accept invitations to rides where you know you're way outside your ability level, read something new and challenging, learn to make something new, learn to do something exciting and strange. Because you can. Your friends, your window to the other you, already know you can. Just listen to them.  

Hops and Handlebars, November Edition

This month, I had the pleasure of sitting down at local craft brew taproom Ole Shed with my friend and mentor, George Powell. This guy encourages me on bad days, cheers me on on my best days, and has helped me learn to safely navigate even the sketchiest of paceline and race situations. He's one of those people I always hope to be able to someday really keep up with. So it seemed fitting to sit down and chat with him about life in general and his experiences on the bike.

 

Life on the Big Chainring: Would you say that riding has changed your outlook on life?

 

George Powell: I think riding has certainly changed my outlook on life in the fact that we tend to get caught in the "loop" where you go to work, come home, fix dinner, laundry, kids, beds, shower, shave, wash, rinse, repeat... and you forget that you are a being of this earth; a blue marble in the blackness of infinity, and you only have a short time to appreciate it. I love the fact that I see all four seasons up closely and intimately, ride in the cold, grey, warm, breezy and see all this cool stuff! Bobcats, deer, hawks, turkey, snakes, and everything in between! We can actually revel in the beautiful world we live and become a part of it, not just a user of it. 

 

LBC: How has your life outlook informed your time on the bike? Training methodology, etc....

 

GP: I am rather results oriented and I tend to not believe my genetic shortcomings :) I have a fair bit of attention to details and this has helped my life on two wheels immensely.

 

LBC: What is your most epic ride to date? How did it help you grow as a rider?

 

GP: My most epic ride was one way back in 2003, when I rode the six gap century. it was my first "super" century and I suffered like a dog :) It helped me grow as a rider because I saw what true grit looked like. I saw older, heaver, slower riders finish ahead of me and It reminded me that perseverance is a mental strength that needs to be strengthened just like leg muscles. 

 

LBC: How long have you been riding?

 

GP: I've been riding nearly 18 years! 

 

LBC: What's your favorite bike snack?

 

GP: I really like stinger waffles! 

 

LBC: What is your favorite beer?

 

GP: My favorite beer is New Belgium "sunshine" 

 

LBC: Who is a local rider you admire?

 

GP: The local rider that I most admire is Seyed Emadian. For those who know him he doesn't go into things halfway! I have such an appreciation for his attitude in adversity. Cramps, tired, hard route, faster cyclists, cars, dogs, etc.. nothing fazes him. he always remains upbeat and determined. 

 

LBC: How about a professional rider? Why?

 

GP: The professional rider I most admire is also a local guy, Matthew Russell. I admire him for his work ethic and his humility. I watch him win big races and ride with unbelievable power and yet kindly slow down and ride with me at my pace. Just a real class act!

Adventure, Hincapie, and Disney References

We make strange choices as a pair, me and my husband. We choose to skip over normal vacations, like the beach, for other more adventurous explorations that leave me hungry for more, yet somehow sated and happy. Much like Disney's incarnation of Belle, "I want adventure in the great wide somewhere, I want it more than I can tell." I am constantly hungry for mountains, beauty, exploration, and the bountiful growth these things bring.

This year we decided to do something fun with our bikes to celebrate our fifth anniversary. I was bucking for a tour from Paris to Amsterdam, just the two of us with no guide. I figured we could combine our powers (my minor in French and Paul's decent orienteering skills) to make our way across the countryside on bikes, camping and sleeping in little inns along the way. Paul was a hard sale on this idea, though, so we let that rest aside for another year.

Then the Hincapie Gran Fondo entered onto our radar screens. Eighty miles, with more climbing than either of us had ever endeavored, through the mountains of North and South Carolina: all these things were enough to stoke our interest. This was how we would celebrate what I came to hashtag as #fiveyearsaschwer. It would follow our first years of bike racing, with full summers plentiful with rides. A weekend of riding, with friends, and a quiet celebration our life together with scenery and suffering.

The route is curated by the Hincapie brothers, George and Rich, as evidenced by the beautifully challenging nature of the course. It's a beauty and a beast. It starts out quick and rolling, and continues onto a lakeside roller coaster ride that is as pretty as it is chaotic. Skyuka Mountain and Green River Cove are some of the most amazing climbs I've ever done. They're stunning, full of switchbacks, and relatively untraveled. They're also much longer and more technical than any climbs I can easily access around here. If you had told me that morning as I stood shivering in the start corral, that I'd have a breakthrough moment on Skyuka Mountain, I probably would have laughed at you. But I did... I've never been much of a climber, as most of my regular readers know. But that morning, as I ascended into the fog, I was able to stay in charge of my heart rate and exertion level, and have fun. I took it easy, because I knew what the rest of the day held in store for me, and rolled up, all smiles. I had fun climbing. For the first time ever, I started to feel the hill repeats and afternoons riding up and down Alto begin to pay off.

After descending Skyuka, you ride through rolling scenery before hitting the next climb, the unassuming but beastly Howard's Gap. The grade is nonstop, with little-to-no-chance to recover until the very top. My legs still felt like toast, and all around me riders were paperboying (zigzagging) or walking up the incline. But ride up this, with no shenanigans. A no-nonsense approach up this climb, with a commitment to just stay on board, is the best possible method.

Following Howard's Gap, things got whiny in my head and heart. We passed a gas station where we stopped with Hobbes earlier in the year - he tossed his cookies on a long road trip - and I knew there was beer there, and food, and part of me wanted to stop there and not get back on. Thankfully, we found a group of our friends at the next rest stop, and we started sharing time at the front, and my day instantly improved.

Misery loves company. And it's just nice to see friendly faces of people you trust in a paceline when you're at a ride like this. It's cozy, like sitting around the camp fire. And while I don't see these people all the time, I feel like I know and trust them like family. That's the beauty of being out on a ride with people. They're the ones who see you at our best and worst, and generally embrace who you are.

We made our way to the final climb of the day, Green River Cove, which clocks in seventeen switchbacks, with a startlingly beautiful roll through a river gorge to lead into the lowest turn into the climb. There are signs in each switchback, counting down from seventeen, which is a fun game of memory with an oxygen deprived brain, a mechanism to distract myself from the increasingly searing pain in my legs, back and lungs. I triumphantly reached the top, met Paul, and we went on to the rest stop to wait for our friends.

After regrouping, we approached the descent from Saluda, back towards the finish at Hotel Domestique in Traveler's Rest, which makes the last few miles fly by. At this point in the ride, I was grateful for the break, and felt refreshed when we hit the final rollers into the finish and was happy to be climbing the short hills.

I told my friends it was the hardest ride I had ever done, and the metrics of the ride agree with that statement. It was a beastly amount of climbing. But it was also exciting and fun, and the route is really quite lovely, especially once the riders begin to spread out following the early rush from the start. It probably isn't the way most people would choose to celebrate their anniversary, but it was just right for us.

Growth

Those moments, when nothing works out like you expected. You're typing and the words don't come like the usual raging torrent because your mind is all awhir with thoughts that don't have lexicon. Or you're spinning your legs, but once again can't hang on. Or all you want to do is take a day break from adulthood, because sometimes it sucks, and sit in a hotel pool and drink champagne all day. Days like that, they can make or break you, in the short and long term, and its all in how you approach them, I suppose.

I have rides lately where my fitness isn't what I expect it to be. I'm realizing, though, that occasionally I have to look beyond the day-to-day assessment of my fitness level to look at the trend of where I am globally. Am I stronger than last year? Probably... athletic metrics feel fuzzy to me sometimes when I try to examine the data.

But maybe there are other areas of growth that will contribute to my future success. Forging through on the days when the words feel all wrong as they flow from my fingertips to the keyboard to the screen to the world, like I find myself doing today. (My post-ride beer could be to blame.) My thoughts seemed eloquent earlier today; here I am now, shuffling through this.

Those low-fitness-feeling days have felt like that. Shuffling through, not hanging onto wheels. On the other side of these rides where I've been disappointed with my performance, though, I'm seeing through a different viewfinder. One that shows me that while I'm not as fast as I was a few weeks ago -- I have been sick -- I'm growing as an athlete in other ways, other than the explosive growth I experienced toward the end of the summer. I no longer need the husband or a friend to constantly hang on with me. When I find myself alone, with people to chase, I keep seeing myself mentally buckle down, and tell myself things like, "This is where I'm the strongest." I hope someday this growth will benefit me, when I'm strong enough to be the girl off the front in the breakaway. Because I know that day is coming, because I'm working hard for it. And when that day comes, I'll know I'm strong all by myself.

Posts when I forge through, they prepare me for days when maybe, if I work hard, this thing gets bigger. These things I want, these goals, they're within my reach.

My last thought, because I somehow can't weave it in elsewhere:
        I get nowhere good by beating myself up if I have a bad day. Positivity, and the belief that I can handle the rough days, that's a driving force for good. The trying times are doors that open to a wider world, with bigger experiences, as long as I handle them as obstacles through which I can grow, instead of brick walls against which to bang my head. This works for all facets of my life: writing, riding, relationships. I want to learn to appreciate the experience of growth more. I think I am.

September Book Report

No one likes a book report on a half-consumed book.

But that's what you guys are getting.

Much like I can't quite finish a foot long sub, but the half size is too short, Terry Orlick's In Pursuit of Excellence was more than I could chew in one month. The book isn't terribly long. It is, however, laden with volumes of useful information that sometimes require serious consideration for digestion. Wait, is this a sandwich or a book?

I picked up In Pursuit after searching around the interwebs for a highly recommended sports psychology tome. Orlick's work repeatedly emerged from the searches, so I decided it might be a good choice. I often feel I defeat myself mentally on the bike, as a parent, and in life in general, so a little positive pop psych couldn't hurt me any.

Sometimes I feel like I'm weeding through a jungle, thick with sights to see, as I read In Pursuit. The pages and words occasionally present as slightly text bookish. This is not to deter you, just to warn you. Still, find a copy and read this book. I can't say it has magically made me faster. Orlick has encouraged me to examine my psychological approach to all walks of my life, though, and I can say I feel better about most facets of my athletic performance, parenting skillset, wife life, and even authorship.

I happen upon concepts in the book that sometimes feel a little hokey. Like snake oil. I figure I may as well drink the kool-aid, though, and am even trying his self-hypnosis methods. (Really just intensified focused meditation...) His ideas go past simple positive psychology, and encourage the reader to remember we are in control of our minds, and our body will follow where the mind leads. Seek positive thoughts about who you are and what you do, and your actions will follow. Which, even my constantly skeptical husband agrees, is a good place to start.

Would I recommend this book to a friend?
Yes. If you are a person who breathes and lives, you should read this book. With an open mind.

Any warnings?
Enter into this reading with an open mind. No language warnings for this one. My grandmother would be proud.

Physical or E-book?
I am reading In Pursuit of Excellence on my Kindle. I suggest finding a physical copy, for easier reading and reference.

Hops and Handlebars, September Edition

A few months ago, I began brewing an idea to marry my love of bikes and beer, to sit down once a month with another cyclist over a pint glass and chat about his or her experiences on two wheels. For my inaugural edition of Hops and Handlebars, Paul and I had the pleasure to sit down with our Local Lord of the Gravel, Whitney Stanbrough. Most of you probably know Whitney as one of the men behind the counter at MOAB, working tirelessly to make sure our bikes are all in tip-top shape when they come back into our stables from a trip to the shop. We chatted with Whitney about his life on two wheels, and his recent successful attempt at Everesting.

Yes, he climbed the elevation of Everest in a single sitting.

A couple of IPAs and a sour ale later, and this is what I have for you...

Life on the Big Chainring: How long have you been riding?
Whitney: Around 14 years. I raced as a junior all over Texas. I would finish my football game on a Friday night, and hop in the car to travel from my home in southwestern Louisiana overnight to a race. My parents have always ridden, both mountain bike and road. Bikes are important. They can be anything to anyone. It's important to our society.

LBC: It's flat in that area, right?
Whitney: Super flat. It's mentally challenging in that aspect.
LBC: I can imagine. I always feel like flat routes are the hardest, because you never get a break.

After we continued to chat about Whitney's experiences on the bike in college and thereafter, the conversation invariably turned to his two Everesting attempts, the history of the challenge, and the glorious afterburn of such an epic ride.

LBC: How did Everesting get started? What are its foundations?
Whitney: It was started by a group of riders in Australia who call themselves the Hells 500. They pride themselves on doing epic rides. Before they began the challenge (initially shrouded in secrecy), a mountain climber (Mallory's grandson, George, in preparation for his expedition to trace his grandfather's footsteps) used cycling as his crosstraining preparation for climbing Everest. He would do repeats up and down the mountain, eventually up to the elevation of Everest. A rider can only Everest on a segment that has already been claimed. The collection of riders who have Everested is growing quickly, so it is important to get out and do it.

LBC: Is this challenge facilitated by Strava?
Whitney: No, it isn't on Strava yet. Veloviewer is the medium Hells 500 uses.

LBC: So, your first attempt... tell us about it.
Whitney: It all started sitting in the basement with my roommates, Logan and Ryan, early in the year. We planned to attempt it on the Fourth of July, since we would have an extra day off from work. We would do the ride together, and prepare together. Inevitably, things fall apart, and things don't work out like we plan. Logan got injured, so it ended up being me and Ryan out there on the Fourth. I was too amped up to sleep, so I started the attempt with no rest. The weather was terrible. The rain was the hardest on the third trip up; I remember riding behind Ryan and watching his wheel cut a wake in the water on the road. I got to my parents' car, and my mom tried to get me to change kits so I would be warmer. I just waved her off, because I couldn't even think about it. Eventually, I climbed into a car to warm up, and broke down and said I couldn't do it.

LBC: But you didn't give up.
Whitney: I knew the next possible date for an attempt was Labor Day. I started doing sleep deprivation rides. I would find fun things to do during rides, to keep myself going. A burrito and margarita were my drive through one ride. Set a goal, go get a drink, make it fun. Train, train, and train. And use the haters for my motivation. But quitting on my Everesting attempt stung more than any race I ever quit. It's tough because you can't just fail at Everesting and go attempt it next week.

LBC: What was the hardest portion of your most recent attempt:
Whitney: The time from 2:00-3:00 AM was the worst. You can't sleep, and I started hearing things, like people snoring in the woods. I had amazing support from friends, but this was the toughest time. No one else was out there, it was just me and my bike.

LBC: Why this particular climb?
Whitney: I thought it wasn't a bad climb, I think the grade is around 5% average. I also used to ride that road a lot in college, and really like it, so it's a special road. The ride ended up being a lot longer than I expected, though, as the laps added up and the elevation change was shorter than I had calculated. It was 90 miles longer than I had planned, and was my longest ride ever.

LBC: Tell us about your support.
Whitney: I had friends streaming in to ride with me often. Kurt and his daughter showed up and painted the road, Dave brought me donuts and told me I needed to eat them. Tony rode with me, then checked in on me via text in the dark hours, because his wife was worried about me. He asked me if I needed anything, and I told him a towel and warm coffee. It was so chilly and damp out that I was shivering. When he brought me those things, he rode 83 miles with me. Later, Bill came in his truck, and then I summitted with Mark, Sam, and Corey. With only six laps to go, I started feeling crazy, and my body wasn't regulating my temperature. I couldn't eat and drink on the final laps. That last lap was mentally the worst place I've ever been. It's a legit ride or die effort. You're never going to be in that place again.
Mark took good care of me afterwards at his house.

LBC: How have you recovered?
Whitney: I was eager to get back on the bike and mentally test myself after Everesting.  My pinkies and a couple of toes are still numb.

Just so you guys know, when Whitney says he's eager to get back on the bike, he doesn't mean a twenty mile recovery ride. He means a century. After a few days of rest, he not only completed a century, but also just finished his 52nd century of the year. He just keeps going.

So, what are the take-aways for the rest of us? Keep your riding and training interesting. When you're in the moment, and things feel tough, stay focused. A missed attempt can be a stepping stone to your greatest performance.

Go, friends. Ride your bikes, drink some beer, and be happy.

The Book Report: August

The path to my book of the month recommendation was curving. I spent some time on the trainer this summer, doing intervals on days when I knew I wouldn't otherwise be able to ride because of scheduling conflicts. It isn't elegant, or sexy in cyclist terms, but trainer time gets the job done, and in a controlled environment no less. Most days I would flip on a documentary to appease the nerd within, but one day I scrolled through Netflix while I warmed up and saw Silver Linings Playbook.

I had been skeptical, mostly because I try to avoid movies and books that are over-hyped. Silver Linings Playbook fell into that catagory, however Jennifer Lawrence costars, and I think she's pretty great. My only point of reference is shameful: The Hunger Games movies. I digress.

A couple of clicks, and I was watching the story play out. I remembered reading someplace that the movie was based on a book, and felt intrigue rising as I slaughtered myself over and over in zone 5a. I finished the workout part of the way into the movie, and stopped it immediately. I grabbed my Kindle, downloaded a copy of the book, and vowed not to watch the rest until I was finished reading.

My two cents: I think this may be a good way to approach book-into-movie titles. Watch the first in the series, or watch the first twenty minutes of the movie, so you have the outlines of characters painted in your mind. Actually, that's a terrible idea. Always read the book first. But if you find yourself gatewayed into something like this, it's not all bad, to have J-Law and the fellow from the movie acting out the roles in your mind.

The book is excellent. I am also generally wary of modern pop fiction, but found the mild suspense of the main character's condition enticing, the interaction of characters realistic and believable, and the subject matter important. Mental health problems are not shameful, no more so than a broken leg should be an embarassment. We have to address this socially, and normalization through pop fiction is fine by me.

The movie, after reading the book, pales by comparison. The performances are great, but the script feels lacking when held up against the original piece, and that is hard to deal with.

My advice:
Watch the first half hour of the movie... until the first time the main characters argue in the diner.
Read the book.
Skip the rest of the movie.

Would I recommend this book to a friend: Undoubtedly.
Warnings: If you're not into f-bombs, maybe skip this. But I think it's an effing awesome read.

I broke my resolution, and gained perspective

I didn't hold up my resolution last month. There would be no two July blog posts. No book report.

I was in a funk. I think I'm just coming out of it. I felt like I was battering myself in training and getting not-so-far. Everything felt hard for a while, on the bike and off. I'm not sure why. We all go through days like that, weeks, months, years of effort stacking up and leaving us feeling weak emotionally and physically. The flip side, neglect, also adds up, haunts us, and finally jumps out of the closet and leaves us laying on the bed in the dark, wishing for a free pass to the past, or a sweet one hour reprieve from the grief. But I wouldn't change my past, since it has made me who I am now: a strong girl, a funny-fun-tough mom, and a sweet wife. The hard things I've dealt with have made me tender, on the other side. Some of those hard things I seized on by choice. Some of them fell into my lap. Training = choice. Oral surgery = not really something I raised my hand and requested. More like a "please teacher, don't pick me," sort of question.

In the midst of my fog, I somehow forgot that I write for me. I want for the things I compose, these pourings out of my heart, to be something people enjoy, thoughts with which they can find a place of identity and stronghold in the good times and bad. Sometimes I want this to be lighthearted, to not be just about bikes, or somedays to only write about two wheels. In the in-betweens, there are beers, little feet playing footsie at the breakfast table in a beam of broken morning sunlight streaming through the window, break-down days, words consumed like food, words not consumed like food because no one wants to read a book they don't love, dinners dished, millions of pedal strokes turned, some fast and some slow, all of life wrapped up in this one long run-on sentence of sweet, crazy, beautiful moments. Occasionally the dark, shitty, and confusing make an appearance, as storm clouds looming on the horizon in my periodless life, but that's all part of the run-on sentence, too.

I neglected to remember that this forum for my thoughts isn't performance art, built to impress the outside. It isn't a novel for sale, or even an autobiography really. It isn't auto-tuned and perfected. Life on the Big Chainring is art at its grittiest, my train of thought coupled together and sent down the rails, clanking along to its destination. I can be who I am here. It is my baby, whom I'd like to see grow, but love to keep small. Writing, words... they're such a part of me. I feel better when I'm spilling them out, keystroke by keystroke, penstroke by penstroke, instead of holding them in. I can't neglect this craft and get better. But my goal shouldn't be improvement, not here; this is my story. I want to tell it. It's the only way to simultaneously extinguish the fire inside and keep it alive, to sustain the burn.

Through The Yellow Lens

I said something to a friend this morning... I explained that I felt if Nibali had, in fact, intentionally gone off when Froome had a mechanical, knowingly dropping the yellow jersey, that he did it because of the chances Froome is, in fact, doping.

In this post-heavy-doping era, it's hard to look at strong performances without looking through a different lens. In Le Tour, it's the yellow lens. The downfall of the supposed heroes of the sport left us all maybe a little jaded, dosed with a handful of skepticism. I'm a fairly new spectator... I've only been interested in cycling for the past few years, well after the Armstrong era had ended. My love developed in the midst of professional cycling's darkest moments, as the titans fell, one by one.

Froome is an unassuming fellow, but I learn every time I race that I can't read people on the bike like an open book. Unlikely riders tend to produce wattage I can't match. His gangly arms (I can't say a damn thing about gangly arms, if you've ever seen mine...), odd form (Have you ever seen the blog "Chris Froome Looking At Stems"??), and lack of diplomatic air make him an easy target for us, the fickle fans of the greatest, hardest sport. A few short years ago, we rooted for him as a young domestique, whose amazing talent was constantly overshadowed by his leader, Sir Bradley Wiggins. Throw Wiggins to the wolves, we said. We want more of this Chris Froome fellow. His quiet confidence was a sweet balance to Sir Wiggo's four-letter-worded cries. Now, however, we are more than ready to eat him alive.

We are the wolves to whom we throw them. We, the fans, so many of us cyclists ourselves, we ask for more, then cannibalize what we've been given. When I sat down this morning and reviewed what he's done at this Tour, his performance isn't even stunning enough to show me he's doing anything any of his fellow GC contenders aren't doing. What was I saying? What was I thinking? I can't prove anything. I want to believe, really. I want to believe we've made a turn for the better in the sport, in spite of what my gut sometimes tells me.

So where do we go from here? Spectators are acting out at Froome and Team Sky. While I am complicit in the skepticism at the team's performance, we spectators can't let that govern our actions. There's something dehumanizing and dark at the edge of the crowd, and it makes me uncomfortable, just as much as doping culture. Don't hurt others. Unless it's with speed. Take others to the woodshed; that's the only acceptable pain we in cycling culture should inflict on anyone, ever. If examination of our sport through colored lenses encourages a hot mess of thrown urine and pissed off spectators spitting in the faces of athletes, then the lenses must be discarded. I will continue to watch with a healthy dose of skepticism, while avoiding the yellow lens. I won't eat another person alive because of his strength.

June Book Report: The Best Book I've Read All Year

Shall we start this off by stating the obvious?

I am a non-fiction, first person biography nerd. First hand accounts of the lives of people who inspire me, well... inspire me. Often make me laugh. It feels like making new friends for introverts.

A few books passed through my hands this month, but one in particular sticks with me, and really, leaves me wanting more. It isn't more from the story I long for, rather more story. Because it really is the best book I've read thus far this year.

Carrot Quinn's Thru Hiking Will Break Your Heart is her own account of her experience of thru hiking the Pacific Coast Trail. The book kept popping up on my recommended book list on Amazon (outdoorsy, biographical books are my thing, remember?) and was a free PrimeUnlimited option. I was searching for a book to read following my completion of Pro Cycling on $10 a Day. I had pinged my social media community and came back wanting. So, fine, read the book that is an easy choice, and not something I would normally choose, subject matter-wise. I ride bikes and backpack, but for some reason, thru hiking has always felt bigger than me. Probably because of my crazy feet.

As I read, though, I found Carrot (is this her real name? her hiker trash name? I think the latter... I dig it.) to be a relatable person, witty and interesting. She's open, about her faults and doubts, about the things she wants. As she traverses the country from south to north, she grows as a person, and you can see it and feel it. Her book, created from her daily blog posts while on the trail, is a chronicle of her life on the trail, in all its beauty, riddled with challenges and increased self awareness and self actualization.

Her writing is exquisite in its conveyance of the striking scenery of the trail, physical and mental. Her writing is exquisite, period. Stylistically, I couldn't ask for more from an author.

Would I recommend this book to my friends? Absolutely. It is inspiring, and makes me want to do something big and crazy. Maybe on the bike though.

Any warnings? To my more conservative readers, language and subject matter warning is suggested. But if you read my blog, you probably aren't too bothered by either of those things.

Anything else you need to know? Yes... you can follow Carrot on Instagram (I do!!) and check out her website.

Bonnaroo: Bikes, Bands, Brews. Part Three, Suds and Margaritas.

I was telling my friend this morning that series posts with a theme are tough for me. They break from my normal stream-of-conciousness, and require me to do work and think. Wait... what are those things?

The Bonnaroo hat trick finishes off with a libation discussion. It goes like-a-so.

There's a place in Bonnaroo known as the Broo'ers Festival.

Do not venture there.

It is a black hole that shamelessly drains the Schwer bank account, the second weekend of June, annually. They're trying to bankrupt us in there.

Or maybe I should just drink less beer. But whatever.

What was good in the beer tent this year?

From what I remember (the alcohol fuzz is strong with this one...):

Elysian Brewing Company's Super Fuzz: A zippy, fruity maxim of a Blood Orange Pale Ale that was just as amazing as you imagine. The perfect refreshment for a warm day. My Pale Ale tendencies were well-pleased with this one. Elysian's IPA was also exceedingly yummy.

As locals who tromp in every day, we also have the luxury of what we call walking beers. In the past, it was a chance to clean out the beer fridge, but now our amazing friend brings us a huge selection of canned walking beers in trade for staying at our house for the weekend. It's a good deal :) My favorite this year was Tinman Brewing Company's Rosenweiss. It's a German kristallweizen, which is a filtered hefe. As a hefe-lover, this turn to a kristallweizen was easy, and tasty :) Honorable mention walking beers: Terapin Hi-5 IPA and Maggie's Farmhouse. Drink these beers. Be cool.

But wait, there's more to drink in.

My brother-in-law and his girlfriend stayed with us, plus we always share a campsite. They mixed up some margaritas from a special recipe, and left one bottle in our fridge, and another in the cooler at the campsite.

These magic margaritas were a recipe for drunkeness at Bonnaroo. If you can, follow suit.

But mostly, drink beer, ride bikes, and listen to good music, friends.

Bonnaroo: Bikes, Bands, and Brews: Part 2

I know, I know. What you really want to hear about it the amazing shows I watched, right? Brace yourself, as the vin diagrams of my life meet up in stellar fashion.

When the line-up came out in the early spring (or late winter. whatever. we won't mince words here...), I was ecstatic to see two names in particular on that list: Catfish and the Bottlemen and Gregory Alan Isakov.

Both came to me via my omnipresent love for all things bikes. Yes, everything, all of it... it all leads back to the glorious bike.

Unfortunately, when I glanced at the schedule a week out, I realized the Bonnaroo gods were frowning upon me: Catfish and Gregory were scheduled to play in almost the same time slot. What's a girl to do? More research the Monday before Bonnaroo elicited some fruit. Gregory Alan Isakov was slated to have a small crowd performance at the Solar Stage. The planets realigned. All was well with the world.

Catfish and the Bottlemen, of Road Bike Party 2 Fame.

So we sauntered up to Catfish and the Bottlemen in time to get a good spot near the back of the tent, to the right of the sound stage. I wanted to stay until after I heard Cocoon, my favorite Catfish song. So we stayed through a large portion of their set, which was superb. They're really young kids, and referenced a Kings of Leon show from 2004, saying they watched it as kids (10 year olds?) and dreamed of playing at Bonnaroo someday. Kind of cool, watching them move up from the tiny, now defunct, Sonic Stage, to the world of the tents. They're doing something cool, energetic, and interesting with their sound, and I really hope they see even more success.

Gregory Alan Isakov, at the Solar Stage the following day

As soon as my favorite tune was over, we hightailed over to That Tent to catch the last of the Gregory Alan Isakov show. His songs are featured in Ride the Divide, a stunning documentary about the Continental Divide Race. I've been hooked ever since, by his jangly, echo-y, folksy acoustic sound. We walked up to his song, "This Empty Northern Hemisphere," one of his songs I was excited to hear live. After listening to a couple more songs, we walked back to our tent to eat a snack and drink some beer.

On Sunday morning, we enjoyed a second helping of Gregory Alan Isakov, this time up close and personal, while lounging in our hammock. In between his songs, he and his band answered various interview questions. He's a cool, personable, intriguing fellow, a farmer, and undoubtedly one of the best song writers around. We had the chance to greet him afterwards, as the instruments were put away. His small set, in such a perfect setting, made Bonnaroo perfect for me. Year made, with a good show, hammock, and good company.

Bonnaroo: Bikes, Bands, Brews, Part 1

I'm always unsure about how Bonnaroo will turn out.

As I get older, I think it's overrated. It's hot, dusty or muddy, and my feet don't always like the long hours of plodding and standing about.

This year, I feel like Paul and I mastered Bonnaroo.

We both got our long rides out of the way on Thursday, leaving the rest of the long weekend open to shorter, more social rides. Paul did a century, while I did fifty miles, on very little food so I could be at a low weight for my final weigh in for a weight loss competition. Thankfully, Paul was on his way home from town with a giant sandwich and half gallon of chocolate milk for us to enjoy.

Other keys to our better-than-normal Bonnaroo experience:

Crap bikes to ride as far as we could, then lock to the fence. I'm fairly certain this is part of what saved my feet. I will never argue with a chance to trade steps for pedal strokes. Plus there was less... harassment.

This is me vegging at Dawes before I started tossing my cookies because of the sulfurous water and cherries that went bad in the locker.

Then there was the brilliant idea to portage in our Eno Doublenest every day. Our show-watching preferences were largely built around our ability to perch in the hammock and see the band play. It was exquisite to lounge around while the rest of the world was standing or sitting in the blazing sun. One of the greatest luxuries.

This is not our locker. This is the Bad Luck Locker.

Also amazing was the locker our friends purchased and to which they gave us access. We were able to store all manner of things in there, from smuggled beers to frozen waters, and a change of clothes. Like Bonnaroo Base Camp 2 to our walk in camping Bonnaroo Base Camp 1.

Those things, as well as my newer Chacos with the cushier sole, made the weekend feel easy.

When Bonnaroo feels easy, in spite of feeling lousy following the water/cherry poisoning, getting in a good short ride is easier. EVERYTHING IS EASIER.

In my next post, learn about the amazing bands I saw :)

We Are Finite.

I've wanted to comment about Dean Potter's death for a few days now, but didn't really have the words. This morning I read a piece by Aaron Teasdale, in which he celebrates life-filled days, as opposed to a day-filled life. Potter's life and exploits are worth celebrating. His life is worth examination. Our loss of this adventurer should encourage us to examine our own lives.

The other night I had a dream in which Paul and I went back in time so we could be together longer. The finiteness of humanity seems staggering sometimes. I told one of my best friends so this morning. I feel often that our infinite love and care is stamped out too quickly, like there's never enough time. I fear loss more intensely every day I grow older. I fear finding myself without the ones I love, without ever having shown them all the love I have for them. I read a status yesterday from the marketing director of Facebook, who recently lost her husband. She told of the hollowness, the aching longing she felt and continues to feel. She also told of her efforts to continue to live.

I try to ignore it some days, this fear of loss. On others I try to fight it, throwing punches, yelling obscenities. I try to shove it down when my adventurous child wants to go to the edge of the cliff to see to the bottom, all curls and curiosity. There's nothing more I want than to encourage that nature in him. It has served me well, and is one of my favorite things about my husband.

Everything will end one day. I know that.

It would be easy to sit back and live in a climate controlled cage. But it isn't easy. I see the hollowness in others that comes from loss. Not loss of a loved one, but the loss of self to fear, in a quest for comfort and safety. It's an emptiness I see people try to fill in all manner of ways that are equally as threatening and devastating as the consequences of a life of adventure, without the glorious pay-off of adrenaline and endorphins. Like Aaron, Dean, and any other number of people I idolize, I like to take the path less traveled. The one with the danger flags. It's fun to surmount fear and do something exciting and dangerous, to feel alive.

I realize it is important to let those around us burst through the barrier of finiteness to feel explosively alive. If we place a shroud of perpetual safety and protection over our life and the lives of those around us, it may as well be a death shroud, covering a life half-lived. Live and love, explosively, adventurously, my friends. You only get one chance on this spinning orb. Make it excellent.

May Book Report: The Loyal Lieutenant

The Husband and I are planning to do the Hincapie Gran Fondo in the fall, so it's only partly serendipitous that I ended up devouring George's biography over the past few days. A friend gave me a copy last week, and much like most athlete biographies, I plowed through it.

I've read tons of endurance athlete biographies over the past five years or so, but this was one of the best. The book chronicles well George's life as a youngster, learning to ride and ride fast. He explains his steps into the world of professional cycling, and how life-encompassing a commitment like that is. (I'm not quite cut out for it, even if I was that fast...) His experiences clearly display a commitment to loyalty to family and friends, and present to the reader a person of integrity, in the peleton and within the rest of the world.

The real beauty of the book is the examination of doping in professional cycling, particularly during his era. Reasons, origins, ingrained social behaviors in the peleton, and efforts to clean up racing all surface in the ongoing conversation in ... Lietenant.

I've said to The Husband in the past that I always imagined these guys finding themselves in a situation where they're at races and realize what is going on with part of the peleton, and knowing what they have to do to keep up, to keep their jobs. Some dealt with it differently. Others responded to the pressure with frustration that eventually bubbled over, out of control. Regardless, it was part of racing... no one person amped up the arms race that was the renaissance of road racing.

The interviews and commentary throughout the book keep the reading interesting, sometimes comical, and break apart the chapters to provide insight and deeper understanding. I left the book feeling like George was a better guy than I had already thought, someone who believes in the sport of cycling wholeheartedly and is passionate about helping the world come to love it as much as him. He's a strikingly inspiring figure, and an amazing leader. A fun and inspiring read, and fairly quick and easy. I would recommend it as good summer reading, especially if you are interested in cycling or endurance sports in general.

April Book Report: Rerun of The Old Man and the Sea

April was a crazy, scatterbrained month. I initially planned to read Wade Davis' historical tome about Mallory's conquest of Everest and subsequent disappearance, Into the Silence. Unfortunately, I managed to lose the book after I took it hammocking at Old Stone Fort. I found it weeks later, and realized I didn't have enough time to read it before the end of the month. The need for a quick solution (a quick read...) presented itself, and I knew just where to look.

A trip to the library turned up one of my favorite books, The Old Man and the Sea. It was interesting to revisit this short Hemingway piece all these years later. The writing is quintessentially Hemingway, but there's more, an element I didn't see upon my first reading. Hemingway manages to adopt (appropriately) a sense of magical realism integral to the Latin American literature of the period.

Still evident to me were the devices Hemingway utilizes to capture the drifting nature of the story. Newly discovered was the nearly dreamy quality which proves openly reminiscent of Buendia's venture through the wilderness to find the place where he founds his town. The reader can't be sure what is, or isn't true. The old man admits a few times to feeling like he isn't even sure what is real. He depends on his pain to remember what is happening, to keep reality tenable.

Pain and its tie to palpable reality is a common thread of the book. The old man's poverty keeps him on his feet. His lack of luck feeds his hope. His physical pain in the fight with the fish keeps him awake and coherent in dark moments. As if to keep him from slipping off into dreams, fate deals him a cruel hand after he manages to catch the biggest fish he's ever seen.

His pain keeps him alive, keeps him hungry. His cross to bear makes him who he is. Sadness for his plight would be easy, both for his part and that of the reader. The boy, his only friend, is sad for him. But the old man, he takes his pain in, processes it, and absorbs it into his being, and in so doing, the tragedy becomes something beautiful, a tale of adventure gone wrong.

Live and Learn

Sometimes I decide I should do crazy things.

Last summer I decided I'd like to try racing crits. Everyone I spoke with told me I should try road racing first so I could get the hang of riding in a peleton. After about the fifth person told me this, I bought into the idea, and figured it couldn't hurt.

The problem is, the more I improve, the more I'm aware of my weaknesses, and how those points of weakness will fail me in racing. There's probably a technical name for this as an actual cognitive bias, but for my intensive purposes, I'll call it the Impostor Champion Bias.

In the past, I was overly sure of my abilities. Paul would go out with the faster folks on a Saturday, and I'd say, "Oh, hey, I think I can keep up with them." Because I had seen my speed hit 20 mph. On a false flat downhill. With the wind at my back.

Looking back, I cringe at my previous indiscretion in appraisal of my ability on the bike. Anymore, I feel like I am fairly aware of my strengths, and how they play into certain situations on the road, and where I struggle, and what that means to me as a rider. I work hard (kind of...) to improve where I need to. I try to ride up more hills, and to be mentally present when I'm on the bike.

I'm still growing and learning. I know that. I also know when I'm not ready for something, but should probably try it anyway.

Over the past few months, some folks close to me have encouraged me to try a road race.

Over the past few months, I've come up with a million reasons not to.

These include, but are no limited to:
*What if I get dropped?? Shame of the city!!!
*What if I wreck??
*What if I suck it up big time??

Only one of those actually happened when I tried racing last weekend. I got dropped by the group, but I wasn't the lone girl off, and that helped me feel a little less like a bum. I rode hard the rest of the way, and was actually pretty pleased with my performance, given that I'm still in base training mode. (I started late, in January, prepping for later summer races I thought I might try.)

When I got dropped it was as much my cluelessness about riding in a race group as it was the fault of my training that left me in the dust. I learned a lot that day. Get into position as you take off. Do not get stuck at the back, because the slinky effect I experience in a group ride pace line is magnified in a race group. Also, a slight surge up a hill is going to happen when you least expect it. Be ready, and pay attention.

What else did I learn? They're all really cool, really talented girls. They didn't eat me alive, and when I fell off, it's just what happened. It was neither good nor bad. I have a baseline now, and I know the points I need to work on the most (hills, just like always), and where I'm strong, and I have a little experience in hand to work from when I try to race again later on.

I'm not some wunderkint girl cyclist who goes out and kicks ass and takes names in her first race. That's okay. It was fun anyway, and I'll do it again.

A Change of Focus

What if you spent your entire life focused on merely one half of something.

A glass half full or empty. A half eaten Clif bar in your jersey pocket. Dirty dishes, but never the netity that follows. Noise or silence, obsessively. Happiness or sadness, only one worth experiencing.

There has to be dichotomy in our lives.

What's more, we have to look at the other side of the coin, the yin to the yang.

I've spent my life perpetually focusing on the inhale of my breath, and never noticing the importance of the exhale.

I think that's what the yogi and meditation instructor was working to teach us at Bonnaroo last year with his fire stoker breathing method, in which you create billows with your lungs by reaching your arms into the air.

All this time I've spent, my thirty-two years and some odd days, worried more about dragging in oxygen, than clearing out carbon dioxide. Rather than creating space for life-giving oxygen, I've been refusing to let go of the harmful chemicals.

I need to let go, to breathe out, to cleanse. To let go, to make space for the new. In breathing, in life. I need to expel to make space for life.

Growth and Fake Baobab Trees

I saw something strange on my bike ride on Sunday. And cognitive biases being what are, I'm seeing them all the time now. Strange, intentionally (maybe?) deformed Bradford Pears (who plants these allergen inducing suckers anymore???). Their long limbs have been chopped, leaving them with an over cropped appearance, like that guy I had a crush on once who always had a bad haircut. Unlike the fellow, though, they appear to be masquerading as my favorite tree, Adansonia, more commonly known as the Baobab.

Unfortunately, the resemblance is not very strong. Between the guy and the Baobabs and the local hyper-cropped pears and the Baobabs. The Baobabs also remind me of the prickly pears of the Galapogos... completely deformed from the typical form.

This is all to say, sometimes things grow funny. Environmental factors (prey, like on the Galapogos, or humans wielding sharp, pointy things), can change an organism. Whether it's purely a visual change, like the chopping of the limbs on ornamental trees used for landscaping, or the genetic change to create a new species of tree that is unlike its relatives, change has happened. Change is part of growth. Maybe the inverse is true, too.

On a ride a few weeks ago, I was talking to a ride companion whom I've never met before. We were riding along, talking about my mountain bike experience, and how I felt my handling improved because of it. She made a comment about how we all should keep growing.

I've recently come into contact with people whom I've known at different times in my life. I sometimes wonder if they could have guessed I would be who I am now. I couldn't. Ever. Ten years ago, I would have laughed in your face if you had told me I'd love anything and everything to do with a bicycle, or that I'd be increasingly passionate about math and science, or that I'd become such a flaming liberal. Five years ago, I would never have imagined I would actually want to stay home after the Hobbes-it goes to school, that I'd be through with triathlons entirely, or that I'd be willing to walk away from what I thought was my dream job. I've been trimmed like a bonsai, and maybe the encoding that made me who I was changed, too.

I'm cool with that. I like who I've become (more Lent reference here for you...), this little piece of life which I've carved away and made all my own. It's a life I share with those around me, proudly. To those who pruned me gently, and those who wore away at me hard, thank you. I continue to grow today, in strange and different ways, because of you.

Outside the Cocoon

I referred to my period of Lenten sacrifice as a cocoon. But that cocoon didn't produce a butterfly.

I'm not sure it even produced a more reverent me. A better me.

I am good as I am. Not perfect, but that's okay. I'm a good mom, who likes to bake, loves to be on a bike, to help others. I enjoy the time I spend with my family and friends. I love beer, wine, and merriment, and I have a lack of willpower when it comes to food. I'm sweet to almost everyone, to a fault. I curse too much, but I'm fine with that. I'm real, I'm legit.

What Lent produced in me is mindfulness and introspection. Those things I seek so much.

I learned I was missing out on moments with my child because my time suck of a phone was stealing preciousness. It's a lesson I can't stop learning.

I failed to flex my willpower with sugar this time. I had good weeks and bad ones, good days and bad days. That's life. I just know I can't sit around and blame the food because it was sitting there. I picked it up and ate it. It's my own fault. If I don't get to a decent race weight, it's my problem for making poor choices.

And you know, I didn't do yoga every day, or meditate every day. I got sick, had an ankle injury, and got sick again. I focused efforts on yoga when I was able, and when I wasn't I didn't self-flaggelate. Things were simply as they were... I let go of control, and pretended to be a little more like water.

Finally... my fowl mouth. I failed, on some level, if you quantify success by a perfect record. If success is quantified simply by a change in mindset and approach to self-expression, a willingness to work to improve appropriateness, while still preserving Who The Hell You Are, I'd say I won on this account. I cleaned up my language to a moderate degree. Sometimes the only good verbage is the spicier variety of verbal seasoning, but I suppose I should work to improve and be publicly presentable. I mean, if you piss me off, I can't guarantee things aren't going to be really (really, really effing) inappropriate.

What do you want? A complete turnaround? That would imply that I don't like who I am.

To quote The Madre Monster, "I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way..."

March Book Report: Of Life

I knew what I was getting myself into. I didn't cry until the very end.

I was in Paul's car one day. I found myself listening to an interview with the author of Tuck Everlasting. I had managed to make it through the entirety of my secondary and undergrad careers without even so much as a glance at the spine of this book. It was on my radar, of course but I had never touched it, or even thought to pick it up.

After the heavy drudgery-come-sob-fest of For Whom The Bell Tolls, I wanted to wait to read Tuck Everlasting. The author and interviewer discussed the subject matter, and I knew I couldn't bear for it to be my February read. I downloaded it to my Kindle for safe keeping, and told myself I'd read it later.

We made a trip to North Carolina to visit family the last weekend of February, and since I knew I couldn't possibly knit the entire drive, I resolved to begin reading Tuck... on our journey.

I haven't devoured a book like this in ages. In recent history, I've become much more of a piecemeal reader. I don't typically have time to devote to marathon reading sessions, but I'm grateful Tuck Everlasting found a captive audience in me that day. Its short length made for easy work, and it kept me hanging on until the last page.

I don't want to give away too much. But ask yourself, if you found a true fountain of life, would you drink from it? Would you want to be the only one caught in this in between world where you don't fully live, but also never die? It would remain your secret, because you realize the gravity of what you discovered? What if you drank from this spring unknowingly and thought you only drank normal water, only to find out later you were invincible? What if you thought you could love someone, only to find out the eternity you offered was too heavy a weight to bear?

If you haven't read Tuck Everlasting, do. My only complaint is that it left me hungry for more, when there was no more left to offer. Maybe that is like life, though, in that we are always hungry for more. More fullness of life, more life to share. Believe me, it is young material... that much is apparent. But its lessons apply to anyone who walks this earth.

February: Book report, book report... BOOK REPORT AT LUNCH!

The title of this post is appropriate, if you know the reference. In an episode of The Office, Kelly is excited to see Pam's new clothes she bought. The Office is pretty much the only show I've watched through each season. Cheesy, but I watched it during a rough patch in my life, and I feel like it's a sign of my triumph. It's also just hilarious.

After the crash and burn of For Whom the Bell Tolls, I felt like I needed something light and easy to read. No death and dying. A tome to incite laughter, not tears.

Cue Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me by Mindy Kaling. She's the girl above, being seriously funny. I was a bit sceptical at first, and didn't expect much. However, each turn of the page (errr... click of my Kindle button...) provided laughter, and a comical level of identification with Mindy. Not that I identify with her amazing sense of humor... just her personality and outlook on life.

I also had no clue she was quite so... brainy. She's a Dartmouth graduate, wrote a featured off-Broadway production (which she also produced and in which she also played one of the lead characters), and I can't tell you enough how funny this girl is.

What I think: If you're looking for easy, funny reading (I laughed so hard several times, Paul was intrigued), this book is probably a good choice.

If you're writing a real book report, say, for school, don't choose this book. See my post from last month.

If you're getting on an airplane, be aware you may be the awkward person laughing uncontrollably in seat A18.

Magic Man: A stream of thought synopsis.

Many of you are aware of my general disdain for Stevie Nicks. "Go Your Own Way" is pretty much the only Fleetwood Mac song I actually like, and while Lindsey Buckingham can bust out a tune on his guitar, Nick's voice is far to likened to nails on a chalkboard to ever be enjoyable.

**NEWSFLASH**

In my search for the lyrics to this song, I just discovered it is, in fact, a Heart song. But lets go ahead with my thoughts on the lyrics and general composition.

*First few chords strum across the radio*

Not this song again. I hear it every day I'm at the gym. He's a magic maaaaan. Shut up.

*Lyrics begin*

If it's cold and late, what are you doing out? Shouldn't you be:
A. At the bar, drinking?
B. At home, in bed?

Stop playing helpless, too. This, "Oh, I was so weak" thing is irritating... you have control of your feelings! Don't fall into the trap! But every single time, this dumb girl ends up with the Magic Maaaaaan.

And just for the record, if some skeezy man walks up to you on a cold, late night, be sure you have your mace. This one sounds like a real winner, asking you to come along and get high a while. This sounds straight out of some episode of Intervention.

*Next verse*

So her mom calls, begging her to reconsider her affinity for this creepy dude, who keeps telling her he's a Magic Man. Did he introduce himself to her mother that way? And if she's young enough to be hassled by her mom about these poor choices, it seems to me Mr. Man should possibly face conviction on charges of influencing a minor, and at the very least statutory rape. He sounds like a predatory psychopath.

Then, in the following verse, he as much as admits that he's been seducing a youngster, telling her he made a woman from a child with his "magical hands..."

Look, ladies. If a fellow ever approaches you and tells you he's a Magic Man, offers you drugs, and wants you to come home with him, I suggest you rethink that. This song is ingratiatingly irritating. It's not the apparent age difference of the lovers. I'm not victim blaming. But the tone of this song reads "helpless idiot" and sounds like the penner needs more help than just her mom calling her on the phone. This guy clearly displays tendencies toward victimization. The girl needs to give him a solid smack across the face.

The arrangement is also questionable, resembling music from a second rate haunted house from the 70s.

Please, radio stations. STOP PLAYING THIS TERRIBLE SONG.

Get comfortable.

Last weekend, I went to another one of the beer and yoga events at Tennessee Brew Works in Nashville, called Detox|Retox. I continue to leave the yoga classes at this event with new insight and inspiration. While the class was very different this time, as classes are when there's a different instructor, it was still good. Paul joined me this time, too, as well as a couple of our friends, Scot and Mari. There were a few less people in the class this time, which is nice in its own way.

If I could give you my take away insight in a single sentence, it would be this: Be comfortable being uncomfortable. Become acquainted with those feelings. Get to know them. Find them and understand them, and don't try to run from them. Don't work to push those feelings away, pulling them elsewhere in your mind or body. If you allow the fear or pain to overtake you, the discomfort to push you away, you're missing the point entirely. The instructor said it was necessary to work through some physical shit to be able to work through some mental shit. (This is a quote, of sorts, so forgive my failure to adhere to my Lenten guidelines.)

The howling emptiness of a life less full feels scary right now. My plans for Lent are tough. The diversions to which I normally turn are off limits for the most part. I can't eat my boredom away. Beer and wine are largely no-gos. I haven't been riding my bike since my ankle has been gimpy.

If someone had tried to warn me that the first week of Lent would be a boring snow-fest, I would have laughed in their face if they had questioned my ability to uphold my standards. I've found my guidelines harder to follow this year, insofar, simply because of the situational magnitude. I go to church a couple times a year (backslidden Baptist, I know.) and usually just to mass with friends or Paul's family. I enjoy the homilies of the local priest. He's interesting and insightful. Ash Wednesday mass brought my thinking full circle.

In the same way yoga creates space in the mind and body when you lean into the discomfort, my Lenten sacrifices (first world sacrifices, natch) are designed to create space in my spirit and soul. The removal of my aimless self indulgences are a source of discomfort. I suppose that isn't entirely bad. I find myself forced to re-engage in the life that surrounds me, to partake in moments of quietude that open my heart and mind to creativity and sensitivity. I'm doing more yoga, and mindfully meditating.

I'll emerge from the cocoon of the forty days a new woman, more comfortable in myself and in my world.

It's Lent. Again.

Last year, for the first time ever, I gave up something for Lent. For all of Lenten time, I gave up sugar, most bread products, beer, wine... with a few noted exceptions, including my birthday weekend.

I had planned to give up one or two things this year, to add something as well. My sailor-make-your-mom-blush-potty-mouth has gotten completely out of control. I am an admitted fan of the spicier verbal seasoning. While I think "fowl language" is a mere social construct, there are plenty more eloquent and interesting ways to express myself. So... I'm approaching this rule a little differently, knowing I will invariably fail. I also know it will be worth the effort I give to it, so full speed ahead with the cleanup on aisle one that is my mouth and mind.

What am I adding? Fifteen minutes of yoga at least five days a week. And a stronger focus on the meditation I said I was going to do daily and have successfully managed to neglect.

The thing I hadn't planned, but decided this morning: Once again, I'm getting rid of the sugar in my diet. I made this decision as I realized I was sitting down with my second paçzki this morning. Wait, you've never had paçzki before? I suggest you hitch up your sled to your snow doggies (or reindeer...) and head to Kroger to pick some up. Since it's an icy wonderland outside and all. Paul's grandfather introduced them to us last year... They're a Polish fat week pastry, dense donuts filled with custard and covered in royal icing. Delectable :)

Where was I? So, I found myself eating yet another pastry, and I thought to myself, "I'm out of control." At that moment, I decided to follow through with my dietary restrictions from the previous year, with similar exceptions: My birthday weekend. On the bike. In the half hour following bike rides. Dark chocolate in moderate quantities. One chair latte per week. Less beer and wine.

And here's the really tough one: No facebook on the telefono.

It's a time for me to be quiet. To recenter within my spiritual self through outward struggle.

Join me in Lenten sacrifice :)

Let it go. Let it be. Just be.

I'm a competitive girl. I like to do well, at whatever it is I'm doing. I like to bake cakes well, I like to ride fast, I enjoy winning at Bananagrams, finding myself well-read is wonderful, I dislike a lack of control, I want to be my ideal weight.

I am a perfectionist. I'm an obsessive competitor.

I think I'm more self-competitive than interpersonally competitive, but I suppose that has its downside as much as any other sort of competition.

One of my most recent posts talked about how effing hard mountain biking has felt as I've been learning. I've let up on myself a little since. My friend Vollie gave me some good advice: Don't be so jocky you miss the forest for the workout.

In my efforts to always be faster and better than I was the time before, maybe I do miss out on fun sometimes. I think seeing improvement is fun. I sometimes think the sadomasochistic side of what I do, when I take myself to the outer limits of my ability, is also fun. I wouldn't do any of this if it wasn't fun, if it didn't feel like a stunningly good time. In a way, it is part of what keeps me coming back for more, the shifting, enigmatic nature of my goals.

But sometimes, I suppose it would do me good to slow down and smell the flowers and not be so hard on myself by incessantly grinding away at my exterior with expectations. It's okay to struggle, and to fail, and to not feel 100% sometimes. It's alright to take a day off when I should be training if I'm not feeling quite right, if I have a little niggle in my ankle. It's fine to go slow sometimes. It's fine not to expect the best every day. It's acceptable to take a step backwards.

Those admissions... they're tough to process. They apply to the rest of my life, too. An article I read earlier by Elizabeth Gilbert discussed how we postmodern women are so abrasively hard on ourselves, in our comparison- and perfection-based society. We expect perfection of our very imperfect selves.

Gilbert implores us to fail. To suck. To make poor choices. To do so gloriously.

Today, I'll heed that advice. I'll miss my training. I'll leave the floors dirty. I'll rest some. I'll write. And knit. I won't think about the fact that even at the ripe old age of 31, burgeoning 32, I still have absolutely no clue what I'm doing with my life, and have no roadmap. If I do, I'll do my best not to care and enjoy where I am anyway.

Tomorrow, next week... they're new days to find success, to suck, to screw around and do nothing productive, to accomplish every task on your to do list. I'm a person, a human, and so are you. Enjoy your moments. Don't always compete. Let yourself BE. I think I'll take some time to see the forest.

Unplanned.

This is decidedly not how I planned for my beer-related posts to get their start.

Okay, wait. You need a little history.

I've been an avid lover of craft beer since The Husband and I began to frequent the Flying Saucer in Nashville many moons ago. Maybe five+ years? I've been to amazing craft breweries all around the country, where I am that oddball in the crowd who knows the answers to all the questions. (Dogfish Head tour guide, who openly accepted the woman nursing her baby in the baby carrier, who aced the pop quiz, I'm looking at you.) The Hobbesit knows all about the beer making process, and knows lots of correct answers too. I'm not certain if that makes me the best mom or the worst mom ever. It's not like he drinks it. I'm a bonafide beer lover, with a plate on the wall in the Nashville Saucer, and a second one in the works.

Flash forward, now I'm a craft beer drinking cyclist stay at home mom blogger activist. Last night, I didn't watch the Super Bowl, mostly because I don't really like football. But also mostly (wait, that doesn't make sense...) because I was busy drinking craft beer, and using a staple gun to upholster a new cornice for our bedroom so we can stop looking like poor college students and take the sheet down from our window.

So this morning, when my friend shared a Paste Magazine post dissecting a Budweiser commercial I hadn't seen, I was interested.

The irony of my failure to see this commercial has not been lost on me.

Budweiser, stop running scared. It's much like the new Bud Light commercials that show these hip, young things slinging back the blue-emblazoned bottles, with the new slogan.

But here's why the craft beer scene is important. Those brewers that make the beer worth fussing over are often local guys and gals making what I equate to high art for your tastebuds and soul. What they make appeals to us, the moustachioed hipster at the wooden table, us curly-topped girls, because it's a little piece of art, something to be tasted, enjoyed. Those people, these artisans, are making something for us, something beautiful, and making a living at it. They are worth patronizing.

I'm not anti-pilsner. You could look at my tasted-beers list at the Saucer, or into our beer fridge on a warm summer day to discover I love a good pilsner. One with body, that makes me think of Monet's Haystack Series and fried chicken and potato salad. Or maybe just a jet-set weekend to eastern Europe.

What I don't dig is a megalithic company like AB trying to steal back market share by overinflating the gastronomical value of their suds, and acting like something is somehow intrinsically wrong with craft beer.

Get your heart out of it.

Riding over trails... it sounds easy to romanticize, especially when surrounded by the smell of pine needles and fresh air, with morning rain still damp on the leaves. But let me tell you. You can't romanticize that shit. The minute the brain makes that choice, a large root from one of those pine trees will shamelessly toss you headlong into those slippy leaves as you ride along with little hearts popping out of your head. Keep it up, and they'll be broken hearts.

But when I began pining away for a mountain bike, that's just what I did. I thought it would be all rosy-cheeked, sweet fun. I had no clue that my road-biking skillset would in no way transfer well to the trails. They say that what you don't know can't hurt you, and I guess in a way that's true. In my corollary list of wrecks so far on the trails, I haven't sustained much more than some bruises and scrapes. Nothing to even keep me from sleeping at night.

I'm learning to love the insanity of going quickly down a hillside trail riddled with rocks and roots. The roots, frankly, are the worst part of the whole deal, this business of riding on trails. They slaughter my core and upper body, and leave me exhausted quickly. The strength training seems to be helping a little with that, and I'm staying upright on tougher sections more.

Each time I head to the trails, I find myself apprehensive. This morning, I kept thinking it was obvious I had been on the road more than the trails lately, as I made little mistakes in my maneuvering. But then I had glimmers of hope when I realized I was moving through areas more quickly and with better handling. The last section of trail this morning was one I struggled on a few weeks ago. The trails are full of roots... chock full. Like the washboard I heard the woman play at the Flying Saucer that time so musically, and it sends me bouncing, out of control. I know I need to improve my front wheel lift, but it's so riddled with roots, I'd have to ride the whole way on my rear wheel. And we know that isn't happening. But today, I didn't wreck, didn't drop my chain, kept my gaze ahead instead of just in front of me, and rolled through successfully to the next trail feature.

Look, I won't lie to you. This new riding I'm doing, it beats me senseless, mentally and physically. It's like my own personal Fight Club, except I can tell you about it. And just like you don't fall in love with Fight Club, but you like the way it makes you feel, and you keep going back for more, that's how I feel about the hardness, the ass-kicking I get out of this. It's challenging, and we know I love a challenge.

Go home, Hemingway. You're drunk.

I'm in a mad dash to finish For Whom the Bell Tolls before January expires, as a commitment to my resolution to read one book a month. I don't see anything amazing happening prior to my completion of the book, though, so here comes my January Book Report.

Lemme give ya a little prefacement here: I generally adore Hemingway. His books rank amongst my favorites. I voluntarily devoured The Old Man and the Sea when I was but a youngster in high school. I loved the drifting nature of the book... like the sea. I followed that a few years ago with The Sun Also Rises, a monument to love, lust, alcohol, merriment, gender roles, and bull fighting. Hemingway gives us what I amorously describe as his word soup, paragraph long sentences, full of texture. For a lover of words, it's rapturous. Last year I read A Farewell to Arms, and was once again captivated. Upon finishing the piece, I was left with a literary hangover so severe I couldn't read for a month.

I expected the same from For Whom the Bell Tolls. While the book delivers intermittently, some passages feel like a drudge-fest. The lack of the happy-go-lucky party boy Hemingway is largely apparent. Hemingway steps forward with his literary hallmarks about a third of the way through, just as the reader is drawn down into the depths of despair, as an entire village dehumanizes one group of its inhabitants, just before they kill them. It's heavy stuff. There are startling, sparkling glimmers of light, as the main character (Robert Jordan, who is addressed as such at every excruciating mention of his name...) falls intensely-but-rationally in love, or in short meetings. But generally, reading this book is close akin to trying to ride a road bike in squishy mud.

However, I realized last night that my synopsis doesn't do the devices of Hemingway service. The book is an examination of death, and the unpleasantries of war. It shouldn't be comfortable. It should not feel like his other works. It is imperative that he alternate between a sense of urgency (Jordan's love affair) and a feeling of slow-moving dread (mood of impending doom, constant bombardment with death, fear and loathing of Pablo, constant wait for nothing but the worst) in order to convey the concepts he wishes the reader to digest.

Perhaps my discomfort originates in the similarity of the cadence of the book to the pace of real life. We sit around, waiting for life to start, when death is just ahead, and life is all around us, burgeoning with explosive beauty in the aches.

It isn't sexy, not like The Sun Also Rises. It isn't rosy-come-downhill-plunge-into-depression in the style of A Farewell to Arms. The intent doesn't eliminate my frustration with incoherencies I find (see: The winter fool), but it does sooth my expectations. If you're a fan, read For Whom the Bell Tolls. If you've never read Hemingway, don't make it your first.

Life as Practice

Last night, I finally managed to do a modified headstand in yoga, a position known well as tripod. You place the crown of your head on the mat, followed by the palm of your hands, and prop your knees onto your elbows, balancing on your palms and head. I've never been successful before. But after years... and years... of effort and practice I was finally able to prop up properly. And it felt like levitation. Glorious.

So much of my athletic life feels this way lately. Years of toil and effort are slowly paying off. My yoga practice is becoming more honed and mature. I'm beginning to clumsily attempt much more challenging postures, forms of meditation, and breathing practices. I do my best to go into each class with an awareness of who I am on that day, and practice gently from that place. And I'm growing as a cyclist, getting faster and stronger. But there is no perfect, no jump-off point in either yoga or on the bike where I could say I had attained my best. My best is always just over the edge of the earth, riding on the sun and moon around and around.

In a special session yoga class I attended over the weekend (or maybe in a Yoga Journal email? The source of information is fuzzy...) the instructor reminded us that yoga is, and will always be, a practice. Yoga is more fun when you think about it that way. I didn't wake up one morning able to touch my toes or do backbends. I started doing yoga as home practice in high school as a way to lose weight, much like running. At this point, there's a good chance I've been doing yoga in some form for more than half my life... it's no wonder I'm handy on the mat.

My success last night, and the doors it opens to future success through practice sent my free flowing, meditative mind spinning and gyrating. I always relate life to my singular experiences on the bike and on the mat, but it goes without saying that our day-to-day lives are much like my yoga practice.

We have to wake up each morning and make the choice to be gentle and flexible with ourselves. It's imperative that we get rid of this idea that "Life is not a dress rehearsal" and that perfection exists. Each day is a practiced dress rehearsal for the following twenty four hours. Mistakes will be made. Success will be seen. But the sun and the moon take their turns just the same, and bring with them new opportunities to learn and renew, no matter where you are.

And with that, I'll leave you with this tidbit. I'm still muddling my way through For Whom the Bell Tolls. I'm at the point where Robert Jordan realizes he may have only one or two days to be with the girl he's fallen for, before they die. He mulls over the misfortune, but in so doing finds an indelible truth:

"But in the meantime all the life you have or ever will have is today, tonight, tomorrow, today, tonight, tomorrow, over and over again (I hope), he thought and so you better take what time there is and be very thankful for it." For Whom the Bell Tolls, Hemingway

Feeling Crafty

Amidst the bike riding, strength training, and general life-parenting, winter-movie-watching I do all the time, sometimes I have the urge to do something crafty. The hipster that lies within, and lurks about on Pinterest has been wanting to do something interesting for a while: arm knitting. I see these pictures of lumbersexual fellas with yarn wrapped around their arms, and it's enough to make me swoon. Paul and I have been chatting about lumbersexualism as of late. He was lumbersexual before lumbersexual was cool, and if I sat down and listed the things that attracted me to him when we first started dating, they'd include a list that any guy in plaid flannel and boots would envy: love of the outdoors, ability to survive in said outdoors, beardedness, and general rusticness. No, Paul does not arm knit. He can sew, though, thanks to sewing Boy Scout patches onto his shirt.

But... arm knitting. It's as kooky as it sounds. I felt like a cross between an ancient maker of fishing nets and my grandmother. A primordial matriarch! A sexy one.

It's an amazingly quick method of producing super-chunky infinity scarves. I'm not an excellent knitter with needles, but arm knitting is forgiving enough for me to churn out a scarf of decent quality. In no time. Flat. It only took me about an hour, including the tutorial I watched.

Knitting, and crafting in general, is excellent activity for stress and sense of satisfaction and well-being, by the way. Much like physical activities (biking... yoga... running...) it's a way in which we humans who get very, very hung up on individual problems and issues can let go, and fall into a state known in the psychological community as "flow". I can't cite anything... I just know I've heard that. I learned it by osmosis. Aside from the come-four-year-old jostling for my undivided attention, I found myself forgetting about the nagging thoughts that have followed me (neglected projects, parenting, looming heart rate test time trial), and just sat. And existed. And knitted, like a rough, beautiful, primordial Amazon woman.

Here's the final product, on my decidedly non-amazonian body.