The ride home

On a race Sunday, there is no such moment as the moment when we get in the car to come home. Once in the car, it means we are headed for hot showers, a comfy couch, loving animals and the end of another race Sunday. It is also the most reflective time of the whole day.

Race Sunday starts at 5AM with the loading of the car, feeding of the animals and review of every bag packed. You cannot get 2-hours away from home and realize you forgot your helmet or your favorite socks. It's a chaotic hour getting everything you packed into the car, forcing your body to wake-up and take in calories. The goal is to always use the bathroom at home but quite often there are pit stops on race morning. Once we are in the car leaving home, we are in "race mode." There is little conversaiton on the way to a race as we listen to a mix of music we've compiled on our i-pods to avoid listening to small town gospel hour on the radio (no joke). We eat more calories, we drink coffee, and we wonder about the course silently anticipating whatever the day will bring. It's high anxiety and we both avoid interferring with the others race prep routines.

This is a stark contrast to when we leave for home. We moan and groan adjusting our sore bodies in the car seats. No matter the temperature outside, we find ourselves reaching for the heated seat button to warm our sore lower backs. The anxiety has given way to sheer exhaustion. Besides being physically tired, we are mentally drained from cheering on teammates, cooking enormous amounts of food and keeping the peace at our temporary campsite. I talk to JC, who is usually driving, so he doesn't tire. It's silly conversation about all the things we would do differently if we could do the race over. We talk about the funny cyclocross dogs we see and the cute things the kiddos say. All the while, we are nursing our tender carcusses awaiting the moment we arrive to our final point B.


At this point in the race, I am thinking about food and sleep.



One of the many pups at our race tent. He's smiling because he didn't race.

The road trip home is more relaxed with all attention turned towards the few required necessities like calories. I am not a person who dines in the car regularley but after a race with consistent hunger every few hours, I find the ride home is the perfect time to reward ourselves with something greasy and naughty. The burger and fries holds us over until the next stop at home and another meal, usually home cooked or slapped together with leftovers. With every passing mile, we count down the time to reach our comfy couch, loving animals and post race snacks.

The ride home is the only time I can enjoy the beauty of our surroundings. In the dark morning hours, we see a sunrise streaked with beautiful colors brightening the skyline. It truly happens in slow motion. The stark contrast is noticable from exit to exit. However, I cannot tell you we truly appreciate this beauty. We are usually too distracted locating coffee shops and approved bathroom stops. On the way home, I can take in all the colorful leaves, the sights, sounds and smells of fall. Externally, I read the signs for every pumpkin patch, corn maze, and haunted house along the route (sometimes aloud which JC doesn't care for). Internally, I run the race through my head turn by turn thinking about all the things I would do differently and all the things I need to work on.

The car ride home is the last place I swell with pride. I ride home proud of my husband for making good decisions. We congratulate each other as if we had podiumed and we nurse each other's aching bodies. He will tell you he usually needs more nursing than me. Whether it's band aids and ibuprofen or an extra hand to hold chicken strip dipping sauce, I'm there. Whether we win the race or not, there is this little moment where you are just happy that you can race and happy that the day has ended well. After the car is unloaded, the laundry piled up and animals fed, we finally collapse on our couch and only then can we say the day is done. Then, we count down until the next weekend and do it all over again.

Team Cook-Position Filled

Everyone knows I love two things, cycling and cooking. I cannot do the two at the same time but I love these hobbies equally. The athletic, competitive part of me obviously comes from my dad who enjoyed a youth of various sports and eventually car racing. The cooking gene skipped over my mother and landed on me. Mom's signature dish is Hamburger Helper or a hash of lima beans, corn and tomatoes that to this day, I refuse to eat. I'm a genetic mess of athletics and fine cooking.

Just over a month ago, I was ready for another cyclocross season. The first race was the weekend before the wedding and my nerves were stacked with racing and wedding details. To say the race sucked would be the kindest thing I could say. From the start, I hated it. The course was a rough jagged mesh of pumpkin stems, soured apples and rude officials. My class of women is small and often we are combined with several other groups. The mayhem of juniors, younger women, single speed men made me squirm. As I sliced through the tape, an official yelled at me thinking I was trying to cut the field when in actuality I was just trying to figure out the direction of the course. I walked off. I had a "I want to throw my bike moment."

The truth is, I love racing but doing it alone is no fun. I do not have a ride or training buddy. I get bored riding around by myself. I've done all sorts of team sports but our team is stacked with accomplished riders and accomplished riders do not train others. It's not that anyone on the team is being snide, it's just expected that you will find your own mate. Few women ride or race in this area, so I have no options for training partners. Without the monies to hire a trainer or genetic clone advancements to create a cool training partner, I instantly decided not to race this season. Not wanting to be a deadbeat on the team, I reverted to the only other thing I know, food.

Caramel espresso brownies.

Just two races into the season, our team has not starved. While we wake before dawn and travel some distances, no one has gone hungry. This team does not subsist off peanut butter, gu gels, or protein powders. With some research, I crafted a simple seasonal menu including marinated kabobs, burgers, and pastas. It requires preparation and time spent over a searing hot grill. I do not mind one bit. In fact, it makes me want to operate a food truck (that's another story for later). Other teams definitely notice our set-up of Belgian waffles, burgers with grilled pineapple, and assortment of sweets. We've had a few riders panhandle us for a spare waffle or muffin to hold them over until they reached home and a drive thru.


The morning set-up complete with coffee and espresso.

 There is no worse feeling that starving after a race. Your body constantly craves food. Like many, I am quite cranky when I am hungry as are my team mates. We like to eat and we don't want jersey warmed gu's. Perhaps its an odd contribution and not nearly as glamorous as the racers. My class of racers really do not matter. No one cheers for the Cat 4 women. No one comes to see the Cat 4 women. No one takes pictures of the Cat 4 women. We really don't do anything exciting like the elite men. We're a slower group. So, why waste my time? I may race again but I'm going to need someone to make me excited because doing it alone is not exciting. In the meantime, I will cook until my heart is content and contribute something that I enjoy. None of my team mates are complaining because their mouths are full of food.

Knots

 Knots are tied, the I-do's have been uttered and with the changing of the season, comes a changing of my name. Our faces are cramped from all the smiling of our wedding day. With the sunset on the first official day of fall, came about a southern charmed wedding worthy of any style magazine. There were no bows, no flower girls, no vocalist singing Ava Marie. There was a short march through a garden accompanied by a bag pipe player and the bride wore a tea length dress baring her ankles (gasp). The officiant wore a real kilt and stood with a clipboard. It is exactly what this couple wanted.


Saturday morning, we awoke to a full service breakfast outdoors with the birds singing.

Thanks to the abundance of reality TV, weddings have been stereotyped as elaborate productions hosted by self-centered needy women with the groom used as a fashion accessory. This wedding was the polar opposite involving everyone including close friends while remembering distant loved ones. These nuptials produced a bargain basement price tag without compromising the fun or simple elegance. The wedding dress was purchased off the rack (gasp). It did not have a train, a bustle, or excessive beading. The groom did not wear a tux and tied his own bow tie (gasp!). There was so sit down three course dinner of dried out chicken surprise served on rented china. The bar was even self serve. No one seemed to mind mixing their own cocktails. No one seemed to mind they were asked to not bring gifts. Instead, we walked into a tent of smiling laughing folks having a good time applauding our short ceremony. 

Bike decoration made by mom.

This three-hour evening was birthed from seven months of careful planning. The largest challenge was keeping things small and simple. So many of the traditional wedding elements did not pair well with this couple. We do not attend a church. We do not enjoy a lot of attention. We do not like cookie-cutter events. Our goal was to make  our wedding as personable and pleasing for us and our small entourage. The guest list was cut off at forty-five persons. We did not invite everyone we wanted. Instead, we invited persons who hold a special place in our lives, who mean something to us. A historic home can only accommodate so many people and the shorter guest list made it easier for us to socialize with everyone.

By far, this was a D-I-Y wedding. Mom, dad, father-in-law, sister-in-law, friends all helped this craft fest get off the ground. The invitations were hand stamped, bouquets were made in the kitchen, homemade sangria soaked in a garage, and table centerpieces were hot glued to ensure durability. No wedding planner was hired. We did not purchase prefab wedding favors wrapped in white tulle. We did not have a plan B if the weather did not cooperate. From day one of planning, we went on blind faith that everything would be outdoors without worry. Every detail along the way had a touch of us and when it came time for us to make our way through the garden with our family and friends looking on, all the hours of crafting, hot gluing, and taping paid off. Every detail was noticed, appreciated, and so well received. At some point, I turned around and could not believe that this little wedding was pulled off so calmly. My stomach ached from the laughter of seeing so many folks and my heels did not tire (I brought back-up shoes). When we finally collapsed in the bed, his heels blistered and my hair matted with hairspray, we laughed.


Cake table with special dedication to couple and those not with us.



An off the rack dress accessorized with great grandmother's pin.

 I've always held the belief that weddings should be about the couple. If the couple loves churches, pews and organ music, then by all means, they should have it. However, so often couples are lost in the haze of making others happy and hosting something that is not them. We succeeded hosting an afternoon that was us. We made it. I could not be happier and I could not have hoped for a better day.


The kiss.



Time

The wedding date is down to days and soon it will be hours and then minutes. Neither of us feel nervous or unsure. If anything, we are ready to do this wedding and have a great day with our family and friends. It's crazy to think that what started out as having beers three years ago has turned into a wedding producing one dog son and more extended family for both of us.

It's nice to get well wishes from others with their cards and such. I keep smiling because people keep congratulating us and we haven't uttered a single "I-do." We did not register for gifts. We have everything any couple could need and a registry seemed gluttonous. We've asked people to donate to the Golden Retriever Rescue Society in Louisville in lieu of china or bath towels. We love animals but we are more passionate about those animals who need homes. The only thing that trumps our love of the bicycle is the love of our golden retriever.

With wedding bands ordered and marriage licensees secured, we just wait. We wait until a gaggle of family descend on us wanting pictures, toasts, hugs and hand shakes. We wait until Saturday afternoon before dressing in our best clothes sans spandex, cycling tee's or yoga pants that we are more known to wear. We wait until the bagpiper (yes, we have a bagpiper!) arrives announcing a courtship coming full circle.


Where we will have our vows

There are voids along the way. We do not get to share our day with my grandfather whom I miss more than words could ever express. I miss his sounds, his sighs, and his gruff exterior. I miss his "country-ness" and ability to speak his mind without the concerns of being politically correct. I was and still am the favorite granddaughter. He would like JC. He would shake his hand and make some comment about him being bald. We would all laugh. Sadly, we do not get to enjoy that moment. We do not get to share the day with JC's mom and I will forever have a void of not knowing her but I have an arsenal of stories from others that I suspect will bring me closer to knowing who she was. I already know I would have enjoyed being with her. I love cooking and I love her son. As I understand, she had the same loves.
 

Historic Bed and Breakfast awaiting guests

For all that goes into planning a wedding, the last remaining days are the hardest and most demanding. There are small tasks that make me wish I had a supportive sibling who was eager to help. My mother has been a task general and although she has voiced her distaste for the bagpiper, she has remained supportive and assisted in every stage of the wedding.

Gardens around the Bed and Breakfast

Now we wait. We watch the weather channel constantly hoping for pleasant weather without heavy rain showers, wind storms, or tornadoes. We answer phone calls and emails to show our appreciation for the congratulations we receive. We wait and miss those not here. Yet, this time, next week, the day will have passed, names will have changed and we move on. Mom has always told me I've never been one to stand still or stay in one place. I like to move around, move on, and get to the next chapter. This time, she's right.

Under the gun...

According to the calendar, I have a wedding to attend soon. My own! Which is more nerve racking, preparing for the first cyclocross race the weekend before the wedding or preparing for the wedding? It's a trick question as the two things are equally stressful.

My parents asked me not to race the weekend before the wedding but I really want to. My race is 30-minutes and my field is rather small. It's not like I am racing IN my wedding dress. JC will be racing just a few minutes before me. We will finish about the same time. For both events though, it is down the final preparations, the final details, the tasks.

Between interval training rides which stiffen my legs to concrete, I've confirmed the photographer, had a quick dress rehearsal and check in with mom regularly on other details. Without my mom, our wedding would likely be a thrown together potluck outside under a misshapen tent with JC and me in jeans and tee shirts. Mom has been able to do so much with so little. She is crafty with that glue gun.

Normally, this time of year I am nervous anyway with the race season approaching. The wedding is just icing on my nerve cake. There is nothing to worry about but when you are a task master and a person who likes to be a hostess, it is really hard to not want to work the event like I've done so many times over. It’s equally as distracting to not be able to train every night of the week. I’m a worker bee and like to be my best at all times. Mom consistently reminds me that I am not supposed to be working on our wedding day. I will likely be doing some tasks...it's how I operate. I can stand on a ladder in heels. I’ve done it before.


New Cyclocross Frames Awaiting Building

Speaking of tasks..the next tasks, taking a day off to go to the Social Security office and the DMV. The name change will happen sometime in the next six weeks. I'm ready. My new bikes have my married name on the top tubes but my racing license has my maiden name. It's all in the details.

I would like to think of the cyclocross race the weekend before like a bachelor/ bachelorette party sans jell-o shots, drunken madness, and any glittery stripper nudity. Next week, I am having drinks with the girls to celebrate the approaching nuptials. Since I am not a party girl, this is the perfect thing and something I am truly looking forward to. The cyclocross race just continues the party in a spandex sweaty haze.

It has not been a traditional engagement. Nothing, JC and I have ever done has been traditional or normal. There has always been some hitch, glitch, or hiccup. We’ve been able to look back and laugh about the past three years while looking forward to the future. This has truly been a great year and whether I was supposed to end up here or not, I’m here. Bring on a race, bring on a wedding, just not at the same time.

More Than a Star

In late November, I will turn thirty-six. I am a self proclaimed over achieving goal setter. I set goals for everything from athletics, to work, and home. If there is a bare minimum, I want more and I am not afraid to work to get what I want. I’ve held a steady job (or two at a time) since I was 16 and have never regretted a single day of it. I check off goals like a long to-do list. Now, on my list, I want to own a Mercedes Benz.

Why a Benz? Why now? My father has worked for Mercedes for nearly 40-years (Tafel Motors in Louisville, Kentucky). While many girls grew up wanting a Barbie dream house, I wanted hot wheels, specifically mini Mercedes replicas in all colors (the gullwing was a favorite). My youth is memorialized by the smell of diesel fuel, the distinctive purring of Mercedes diesel engines and the infamous star logo.

My dad is my hero. He’s done all the things a good parent should do. My dad has worked ten, twelve or fourteen hour days often bent over hot running cars for as long as I can remember. He’s provided for our family so I could have things like a nice home, sports, and a college education. He has always taken pride in being a service technician even with the back breaking work that is required to be a mechanic. My dad is a poster child for the blue collar, honest American worker. Even with this kind of demanding work schedule, he’s always found time to be with me. He never missed a softball game, science fair or art show. He will tell you he was sometimes embarrassed attending events in his uniform. To me, it was my dad. I only cared he was there he was there for me. I did not care about his fashion choices.

With my youth enveloped with all things Mercedes, you can be assured my parents home was filled with Mercedes calendars, key fobs, tee-shirts, hats, posters, visors, books, and various certificates that dad earned marking milestones. Our house was a Mercedes pep rally marred with pride in very room. What we did not have in my youth was a Benz in our drive-way. Dad always said that a Benz was a reward and he wasn’t ready to own one yet. I believed my dad and slowly but surely that became the reward I wanted. When people would ask about what I wanted to drive, I always said “Mercedes.”

Through two degrees, a few life changes, one job layoff and various moves around my hometown, my dad has continued to be there and I still desired to own a Benz. In my twenties, I was only a few steps shy of being able to own one but I wasn’t ready for the reward until I felt I was settled in life. This January, I became engaged, secured a comfortable fun job and by all definitions, I am settled. My fiance and I saved our funds and hoped that we would be able to purchase a trade-in. Dad was on the vigilant look out for a wagon in good condition.
 Dad, nor Tafel Motors let me down. Upon returning from a brief vacation to Maine, dad alerted me to a pristine trade-in , a silver C240 wagon with less than 69,000 miles. He instructed me to purchase the car immediately, without driving it. As usual, I listened to his advice.

The new car coming home this week.

To most people, a car is just a car. I am not one to believe in status symbols nor do I need the latest and greatest trend. I am known among my friends for my frugalness and determination. I’ve owned four cars since my sixteenth birthday, all European. They were cars designed to get me from point A to point B. This week, after dad completes some work on the car, I will have my Mercedes Benz that I want and that I worked for. It’s used but dad has assured me, my future husband and I will get many more miles out of this car. It is not a luxury car, it is a symbol of my dads work, his pride in a product and my reward for never slowing down in life. It is hopefully a mark that his rearing paid off. To this day, mom and dad do not own a Mercedes. He wears his uniform everyday with the iconic star symbol but drives a car with over 200,000 known miles. My parents’ home is still rifled with all things Mercedes. I believe as dad is preparing for retirement, he is hoping to own a Mercedes. It never crossed his mind to buy the wagon for himself. He purchased it for me. I can only hope that I could buy one for him someday, perhaps a new goal for my forties. How awesome would it be to buy a car for my life hero?

The New Domesticity

This weekend I was submerged in domestic bliss over a hot stove boiling cherries to prepare for pie and jam. I’ve just returned home from the northeast visiting my friend who I teased about “selling out to suburbia.” She had always been a city girl, living in a small apartment, commuting by subways and scraping by just to makes ends meet. Now she owns a charming bungalo home in the suburbs, commutes into the city (sometimes by car), has a full size stove (as opposed to her apartment sized appliance), a backyard with bird feeders and a driveway. She noted that since moving in, she has the urge to bake and cook more. We compared recipes. We talked about food. I realized in my hazing of her transition, I was hazing myself. I love the kitchen!

If this were the 1940’s, I would likely not be working outside the home. I would be tending to offspring and keeping house. I would prepare at least three meals a day. For some, this may sound horrible but I love the kitchen. I love preparing meals and cooking from scratch. When I read about contaminated food or chemically engineered foods, I squirm. I immediately think of something homemade.

When I set out to make jam and pie this weekend, it was labor intensive. The crust had to chill before I could roll it out. I had to pit the cherries by hand, sterilize the jars and wait for everything to congeal or bake. Yes, it took time but in the end, I had a delicious selection of homemade goods. I could identify where everything came from and how it was prepared.


4lbs of hand pitted cherries.

No one taught me how to do these things. As a young child, I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandmother in the kitchen. She cooked everything from scratch, even ketchup (it was delicious). She did not write many of her recipes down. That is a loss of mine but I learned from her science mastery to just try things. Some things work out, others do not. When she cooked from scratch, It took more time and no, she never worked outside the home.


Boiling cherries soaking pectin bath

My mom told me this weekend that my grandmother would be proud to know I love the kitchen. Even my own mother refuses to bake or cook things from scratch. She hates the kitchen heat and labor. It is a choice she makes. She laughed, while sampling my cherry pie, at my excitement over blueberries but shrilled when I mentioned peaches (her favorite fruit).

Finished product, pie and jam

The feminist movement was more about equality. Certainly, some women wanted to escape the grasp of domestic duties. I try to balance my career and home life. It is easier said than done. We do have meals in a paper bag at times. I am not as happy on those nights as I am in the kitchen making homemade sweet and sour chicken or burgers. It’s a choice. I choose to spend the time and effort. I do not need to burn my bra or escape from the confines of “the man.” I have an apron and I’m proud of it.