I'll Snitch on Myself...

There are a FEW ways to watch the Tour De France in Louisville:

1. You can pay approximately $12 extra dollars a month for a slightly upgraded cable package that basically includes Versus and a host of other USELESS channels that you will only use to give your thumb exercise with the remote when you are bored with commericals.

2. You hopefully have a friend who has paid the extra $12 and you offer to cook them dinner, do their laundry, or care for their animals all from the comforts of their oversized couches (with the Tour in the background).

3. You locate a bar in town that is showing it. You are lucky to find a well positioned stool.

4. Find a local bike shop willing to host a dozen or so bicycle enthusiasts for several hours.

I chose option number 1 for a FEW reasons:

1. I like to lounge around on my couch in my plaid flannel pajama pants that I have owned since I was 18 (no joke…these pants have lasted longer than any relationship I’ve had). I like to eat a Klondike bar, some movie candy, or sip on a tasty beverage. It seems worth the $12 charge to have my OWN private bathroom only feet from my couch.

2. While I have some friends with cable, I cannot bring myself to employ the use of their couch for nearly a month so I can watch bike riders carve through France. I feel this crosses that invisible friend threshold line and I would not likely be asked over for holiday parties.

3. I hate bars. I hate bar food. I hate drunks. I hate sitting at a bar bending my neck upward while dodging mindless chatter of strangers around me. The bar is NOT an appropriate venue for the Tour.

4. My local bike shop does not have a couch and this is a required provision with watching the Tour. I will further have to engage in conversation about every detail of every rider. I just want to watch the race, not disect it piece by piece.

So I spend the extra hard earned funds, fully aware that it is an “extra” in life. It is not a necessity. For three weeks, nearly every morning I can wake up and turn on the tour. Most stages start at 7AM or 8AM…which means I can sit back, drink coffee, not get dressed, not shower and enjoy a stage of the race. Even if I do MISS a stage…no worries…they will show the stage at least 2 more times throughout the day and end it all with a recap show. That is quite possibly the BEST part of the entire 3 weeks. Not only can I watch any stage I want…but I can also choose when and how long I watch it.

All of that said…I must confess, instead of watching last nights recap show…the preview for the steeper mountain stages, the individual interviews with the race leaders, or even the cycling commercials showing sexy bikes…I watched SOMETHING ELSE. There we were, sitting and taking in the time trials from the beginning of the race when I remembered that Hot Tub Time Machine was now on Demand. So instead of listening to the strategy some of these cyclists are planning to use for the upcoming stages, we watched a group of men travel back in time to the 80’s when their lives were hip and they were cool.

Yes, we chose a mythical hot tub over a century old bike race. I’m embarrassed enough for all of you (the movie was very funny though).

Feeling the Heat

For some reason this summer, hell has truly opened up its doors thus engulfing everyone around us in a crock-pot of heat and misery. The interior of my car has exceeded 120 degrees with a digital thermometer. I could potentially fry eggs on my passenger seat instead of getting a bagel on the way to work. With this apocalyptic heat wave, riding has taken on a new challenge. Short 20-milers feel like century rides near the end. It is nothing to suck down 2, 3, or even 4 bottles of luke warm water on a ride. Once I am finished riding, I must attempt to peel my kit off in sopping wet layers only to immediately put them into the washing machine before the salt forms a crust around the seams creating a faded look on black riding shorts.

As if the winter were NOT enough punishment enough to cyclists, this summer is a horrible sequel to an attempted hobby known as "training." Winter precluded rides because of the numerous snow, ice and wind chills below zero. Your muscles do NOT work when they are frozen. Now, we must contend with 96% humidity, arid oxygen, and blistering sun. It's safe to say that when you are out on your bike, you look for lava vents to open in the roads at any given moment. To surmount ALL of this pressure, then I have to think about racing. If there were ever a time I felt in a frying pan, this is IT!

It was a large enough feat to commit to one team. This decision was made only after I spent days literally making pro and cons lists, carefully surveying every friend with a bike, and even consulting my family, who has NEVER raced bikes. It is a well known fact that I am a "commitment phobe." This is what a failed marriage does to you. You become overly independent and the fear of commitment seeps into your everyday activities. I am lucky to commit to any specific brand of toilet paper, let alone, a bike team. However, I made the choice...to say yes and race. Once I committed to the cross team, I came upon an opportunity to join another team…a track team in Indy. Hmmmmm. For some reason, this decision took less thought perhaps because I adopted the attitude of ‘why not?’

Now, I am flooded with raging thoughts in my head which can all be edited to one question…”WHAT HAVE I DONE???!!!”…I love the bike. I am good on the bike…but now I have to race in front of others, in front of other cyclists, friends and family. Then again, in 2005, I stepped on stage to pour out dialogue in front of a crowd of several hundred…so I can do this. Right? (It would be good to nod your head here…please). If anything, I get 2 new bikes out of this experience. Any cyclist loves an excuse to purchase ONE bike let alone TWO. I will learn from this experience…how to handle my bike better…how to deal with other riders…how to coordinate my kits with my bike…how to avoid pile ups…how to handle my nerves, quivering stomach, and mouthfuls of grass and track.

There are those people that NEED pressure…they thrive on it. They also have heart attacks and protruding veins with intent stares. I appreciate a little heat…I appreciate a little pushing…I appreciate a little competitiveness. It does not cause me to excel though…I am a planner…I like agendas and control. When I have neither…I feel quite untethered to the world. Of course as the saying goes…"if you can’t take the heat…"

I am not ready to leave the kitchen yet.

Fall Fashion Preview

Forget purchasing the tweeds and earth toned textured fabrics of the upcoming fall season; The main staple in this girl’s wardrobe is SPANDEX. The orders are in for skin suits, bibs, shorts and jerseys. Track and cross season require the same wardrobe planning as cocktail soirees and debutante balls (sans taffeta and parasols). Every detail is important from accessories (shoes and gloves) to hair (pony tail or do I work the sporty mullet?). Helmets are the new sheik” must have” ranging in colors and vent styles along side padded shoulder cross suits designed to make lifting more manageable (I beg to differ). Who knew that cycling fashion also offered functionality?

Decisions…decisions…decisions. While the skort is NOT appropriate for women’s racing (or riding for that matter), there is also the worry of “after the race” attire/ look. The boyfriend can simply use a wet nap and fresh clothes to spruce up. I, however, will need a full entourage bag with hair accessories, spray detangler, make-up and perfume. It’s okay to express bodily odor on the cross course or the track…but not on the sidelines cheering your team mates on with your fists wildly shaking cow bells. Besides, these days there are at least 4-5 cameras ready at anytime to snap, upload, and tag a Facebook photo before you can blink (Learning to untag yourself is also a task to accomplish!). I do not want to be caught sidelining with mud, grease, and sweat gracing this temperate skin.

Even the bike needs to be a part of the wardrobe. Nothing can ruin a look more than a severely mismatched bike, skin suit, and helmet. Perez Hilton would have a field day noting the destroyed crank sets, bloodied shins, and sweat stained kits. Thankfully, he is way too busy this season following the Hollywood elite. For now, the cyclists are safe to make small faux pas in fashion as only a handful of dabbling bloggers will catch and report them to the world (the readership of Perez Hilton and the average cyclist blogger are no doubt VASTLY different).

At any rate, I have saddled the task of forming a new and complete spandex wardrobe that I must make look cute but not too cute. It must look cool but not too cool. It has to be functional but not militaristic. If I were a pro, I would have a stylist whose job revolves around these key principles while I focus on riding. Alas, I am not a pro nor will I be dressed like one. My only fashion commitment at this juncture is the sure fact that I will have my jersey on correctly and my bike will be clean. My largest challenge will be pinning my number so they are straight.

I NEED MEAT!

Hydration and nutrition are two of the most important aspects of cycling. Timing, portion control, and calories become a necessity on any ride longer than 10 miles. Forget Gatorade, Kool-Aid or a Snickers…the science behind proper body fueling is noted by athletes world-wide.

As my training is progressing, I have started the task of hill repeats which is just what it says, repeating a hill with a set amount of trips up and down…up and down…. Within our park system, Louisville is home to many hills, one of which is, Cochran Hill a snake-like hill slap dead in the middle of the park. Repeating it burns your calves, your hamstrings, and your caloric intake.

While proper nutrition guidelines suggest the consumption of appropriate proteins, no sooner than I had finished my seventh trip up and down the hill did I desire one thing….MEAT. In fact, on the 6 mile trip to return to the car, all I could picture in my head was a heaping plate of MEAT. By meat, I mean BBQ…smoked and delicious coated in a sugary sauce thus possibly defeating any restorative powers to my twitching muscle fibers. Combine the heaping plate of meat that I did consume in record time at a local BBQ joint with the sugary goodness known as a “buttermilk pie” and you have a satiated cyclist void of hunger and possibly considering never eating again.

Every cyclist has pre, during, and post-ride foods that are their signature foods. I have seen cyclists consume Big Macs, pizza, and fried chicken (not all at the same time). I have also seen cyclists consume broccoli, baked chicken, and nutritional bars made up of 40 or so chemicals meant to restore muscles and hydrate the body. High end performance foods are always recommended by the pros. However, I am not a pro. I am a girl training to have a successful cross season and when I finish a ride, I am not about to crave a peanut butter soy honey bar and an electrolyte energy water. Hell no! I am craving proteins…heaping, smoking amounts of fatty proteins. Dare I say, I need it slathered in sauce and by sauce, I do not mean a Gu gel, or a HammerGel gravy, I mean, sugary, molasses laced, preserved BBQ sauce. I think it is safe to assume, I probably will not be asked to join some SUPER serious road team anytime soon.

Memorialized

The kick-off to summer is usually Memorial Day weekend which includes one paid day off and a total of three days of cook-outs, friend hopping, and endless snacking. This tradition was not deterred by occassional storms or relentless humidity which kept your clothing constantly "damp."

The weekend became a "new parent weekend" as the boyfriend and I navigated our future parenting skills with one golden retriever who is void of ANY usual adolescent behavior. While I was prepared for furniture climbing, shoe chewing, constant rough housing, carpet "accidents" and incessant begging for all human foods, we were  met with quite opposite behaviors. He prefers the leash, is quite even tempered and rarely barks unless his needs are not being met socially (he likes to greet EVERY dog and EVERY person). Even his separation anxiety is limited to a few minutes of barking and whimpering. He enjoyed a Saturday morning at the farmers market and greeted the locals as if he had been doing this tradition for years.These wonderful absent puppy habits allowed the "new" parents to sleep in Sunday and avoid dressing until the noon hour.

Buddy checking himself out before a walk through the neighborhood

It is important to take a break from parenting and thankfully we summed up the courage for a friend to attempt clipless pedals again while also battling overgrown trails on the mountain bikes. Vines, grasses and thissle bushes seemed dead set on slowing down a quad female bike group but we exceeded our own expectations by plowing through the trails and dodging an onslaught of sweaty runners. No one wrecked...no one dry heaved and this we agreed was a good end to the ride.

Self portrait in HOT sun...

Post bike ride bliss was followed up with the FIRST seasonal dip in the chilly pool. A loaded recyclable bag of tortilla chips, melted chocolate, strawberries and other salty, ooey, gooey snacks provided the post ride food buffet necessary for an afternoon in the sun. The sun, however, hid behind a massive dark cloud which never dumped rain directly on us (whew, thanks!) but aborted our chances for severe sunburn (we are thankful for this). Swim lessons and learning to float in a device that resembled an oversized diaphram provided ample hilarity.

Swimming with a large diaphram-looking device 

Being  new parents, getting used to doggie schedules, discussing optimal food options, treats, and potty breaks made for an exhausting weekend all in all. The best way to shut things down was with a grill, some gin and tonics, and a dog panting with the rythum of a freight train.

Feed and water daily...

This is THE year for my hostas at home. Three years of steadily growing tiny two-leaved plants have resulted in a harvest of hosta plants on steroids filling my front yard to the brim with greeness. My pride runneth over. Secure in the fact that I could grow a few plants, I have escalated my prowess to animals.

Victor Hugo (the cat, not the author) is a staple in my house. In a room of 150 cats at the local shelter, I came to know Victor and the past three years have been an easy, breezy walk in the sun. Victor's activities include long naps, eating, taking even longer naps and making biscuits on my stomach (kneading activity done with his paws while purring vivaciously). Thus, people come over and marvel over my plus size, over friendly, easily amused cat. He is void of the "normal" cat behaviors such as hissing, urinating on favorite furniture, and generally despising the world. This makes him a fun attraction at my home like a carnival ride. Seeing that I enjoy challenges...I am once again adding another complexity to the rearing mix.

First note....Buddy is not MY dog. My boyfriend has longed for a dog for sometime. Since the first night we met, I have heard about a golden retriever he helped raise into his senior years. Leave it to me with one afternoon of googling, plotting, planning to find "Buddy", a spry 2-year old golden retriever bursting at the seams with energy. Buddy is being housed in middle Indiana surrounded by Amish farms, small towns, and a collection of rusted out American autos. This past week we drove 1.5 hours (yes, hours) to visit Buddy. I had every finger and toe crossed that the union of he and the boyfriend would be a happy one. Thankfully within seconds of meeting Buddy, we found him upside down smiling up begging for belly rubs. (Whew).

Two VERY happy boys...

Tonight he comes home...and he will be a wealthy dog because he will have 2 homes for living comfort. He will live with the boyfriend the majority of the time and visit his "relation-not-yet-decided" feline sibilng. My duties as an “alternate rearer” will include walks, park strolling, running, playing, and coordinating social events for him including play dates and dog parks. I am pretty sure he will request I do his Facebook updates since he lacks thumbs.

I would be amiss if I told you that we also want to train him on the trails. The boyfriend has wanted a trail dog for sometime and this dog has the spunk for it. This will require some work and dedication but I am certain that if I can grow hostas from a single celled life form, convert a cat into a social being similar to Frank Sinatra, multi-task a household with laundry, cooking and decorating, take care of a relationship, I can work with Buddy and welcome him into the fold of successes.

Now, children may be a whole different story...

The comedy of errors known as vacation...

Early in the throws of winter, I attempted a weekend away to the North American Handmade Bike Show. This trip resulted in $1,349 worth of work on a car, many exhausted hours in an overpirced hotel lobby and true hatred for Virginia or West Virginia. In fact, recent conversations have concluded that me and my signifigant other DO NOT think of those areas as states anymore due to the enclave of negative memories. Like he said, "Virginia is for f&*kers!" (he was angry when he said it).

You can imagine that there was some hesitation, nerves and even jitters about this next trip. A longer drive with a fully loaded car of bikes, bike parts, clothes, lotions, creams, and snacks all eventually headed to Brevard North Carolina. The long weekend agenda included nothing but bike riding, hiking, nestling in oversized chairs, and truly relaxing. Attempting to relax when you think your car may blow a vital part is extremely difficult but as the miles wore on, we seemed to settle into a rythum with myself as the navigator and the boyfriend as the wild Indy-car driver.

Suprisingly, the drive was without hazard other than a missed exit and squealing tires to reach said exit. The oversized rig that was cut off behind us did not even apply his horn but that might have been because his nerves filled his seat and he was too distracted to press on the wheel. Besides, we were FULLY aware of our mistake! We attempted a wave when we stopped sweating. The trip was divided into a brief overnight stay in Knoxville, Tennessee which is landscaped with churches, firework shops, and fast food stops. Before settling in for the evening, we treated ourselves to some spa treatments working our the knots in our muscles and minds. The night was spent in a cozy, quaint and off the beaten path bed and breakfast overlooking the French Broad River. The quiet and tranquility felt wonderful and being able to sit in a swing watching the sunset definitely defined vacation.

By Thursday, we were on the road to roll into Brevard and a cabin with 7 other adults (by age only) all ready for an epic weekend of riding and hiking. This weekend did not disapoint in the area of being EPIC. First, the boys on a wild race pace mountain bike ride neglected to account for one of our crew...a taller than average guy with a super calm personality. Our shaken nerves were hampered with an enormous rain storm  and a winding two lane road with drop offs longer than a skyscraper. As we drove (and walked) up and down the busy road hoping to find him, we only found frustration with the lack of cell phone service and relaxed sense of urgency among the locals who told us they had not seen a tall guy in a bright jacket ride by (WELL! DID YOU LOOK?!). Finally as the rain tapered, there, riding up the road was our lost bunkmate surfacing unscathed and calm as a bug in a rug. Cheers, high fives, and even tears met him at the cabin followed by a lecture from a distraught, angry, and now relieved wife (STAY TOGETHER ON THE TRAILS PLEASE!!!).

On the next day with the weather cleared, it was the girls turn to ride the mountains and we did. After carefully plotting our route and detailing our description in the event the rangers needed to be called for a search party, we left the cabin towards DuPont National Forest. The onset of the ride was some of the most picturesque hills and scenery I have ever laid eyes on. We dreaded the last 10 or so miles due to the fact that the ONLY way to return to our cabin was to ascent a 12-mile stretch of road known as 276 or Geer Highway. The road is a two lane, narrow, curvy, hilly invention that serves as the only throughfare through the area. There are no short cuts but we were ready for the challenge. I was overly thankful for the "granny gear" I had, although it was slightly different from my old cassette. My embarrassment of riding in the granny gear diminished when I knew the other rider was also feeling the hills. My accomplishment was nearly reached until my encounter with a Subaru Forrester.

On a tight turn approaching a "slow car turnout", I became aware of two old ladies crawling up the hill in their car. When clear, I waved them on from their crawling pace but quickly realized they were not going to pass me. In a second attempt, I waved them on but still did not hear the accerlation of their engine. As I approached the next curve, I planned to stop and make them pass but when I turned my head back to the left to secure my point, I realized not only were they NOT going to pass...they were NOT going to avoid me and their mirror smacked my kidney. In the best efforts to compose myself, I straightened my wheel and prepared to turn into their car as we were approaching one of those dangerous guard rails. Then, they passed...slowed (I thought they were going to stop to check on me)...and sped off. It was then, I sprang off the bike. My helmet came off and I immediately dismounted mid-hill. We had the last 5 miles to go...but my nerves had bonked. Thankfully my ride partner retrieved the car and we returned home, safely.

I later learned that the boyfriend, who had gone out on his own EPIC ride, also found the mountains to be challenging heaps of rock and had to battle acid reflux, awkward cross bike gearing (rear cassette needed more gears), and muscle cramps which sporadically occured throughout the ride, mostly on the uphills (nothing like an added challenge). His hydration choice of a beer was probably not the PRO choice but he also refused any rides from people. Lessons learned.

You might think with a lost husband, a clipped cyclist, and a bonked roadie, we would call this weekend a bust. Instead, we celebrated with a 6-mile hike to an amazing bald rock face known as John Rock. The female only hike included a confused left turn which lead to an uphill, stair studded climb marred with moss, waterfalls, and hemlock. The climb was well worth the woes and sweat soaked clothing. The summit opened up to a rock ledge overlooking a hatchery and Looking Glass rock. It was an instant distraction from a clipped cyclist, a lost mountain biker, over energized husbands, cramping boyfriends, and too hot to sample coffee or tea. The reward after a quick 30-minute downward hike was Dolly's Dairy Barn which is overloaded with democracy. Literally hundreds of flavors caused quite the confusion for decision challenged, starving women craving carbs.

That evening, our last by the roaring fireplace (it was 75 degrees outside) made for a quiet night of couch cuddling, leg rubbing, and the realization that we had to return to our real lives the next day. All of the excitement...all of the adventures folded back into our minds and made for good conversation on the way home (which we did in record time thanks to me understanding that I own a "race wagon"). Until next year...