Like sands through the hourglass, these are the weights and my thighs

I’ve been following the progress of a writer I follow/girl crush who has bravely posted her weight-loss journey on her blog in painful detail. Heidi rocks.

Heidi Swift’s Grit and Glimmer

Weight is always a touchy subject for the womens. We like to talk a big game about healthy body image, but secretly wish to be thinner at the same time. Being “average” or “okay with yourself” is great…for other people.

Athletic women are no more immune to body image issues. Not only do we wanna look great, but lower body fat does correlate to improved performance. Look at photos of Marianne Vos from a couple of year ago. The featherweight physique we see today was very different then. It’s probably only a 15 lb. difference but on a woman’s body, that’s a lot. Now, she’s practically unbeatable. So as female athletes, if we’re flinging 20% body fat around, we’re failing on two fronts, not just one.

I’ve always straddled that line between fit-looking and not. I’ve most stayed on the fit side, but it doesn’t take much to push me over the edge. The shit spiral of the last couple of months has pushed me to the point where I can’t even see the edge anymore. My activity is down, my weight is up, and I don’t recognize myself anymore. I’m to the point where I need to work just to be back to mediocrity. It’s time to stop screwing around.

I’m not a well-known writer and don’t have the riding pedigree of a Heidi Swift – no one is going to give a shit about my story. But I really admire the cohones it takes to lay bare something so personal and think it’s a pretty decent motivator for anyone. Put your shit out there for everyone to see — now that’s accountability.

So I’m gonna post my personal and highly embarrassing numbers for random Google searches to find. Let’s go!

Scary Weight

I hit scary weight…a couple of months ago. And things have not improved.

I’ve been struggling with my weight for well – let’s be totally honest – since I broke up with a boyfriend almost 4 years ago. I got super skinny as a result of the stress (totally not the right way to lose the weight) and have consequently been building the weight back up and beyond “normal” ever since.  I’ve never been able to find the secret ingredient to keep my motivation up.

I wanted to be skinny for the Boston Marathon.
I wanted to be skinny for the Tour of the Battenkill.
I wanted to be skinny for the team photo shoot.

I wanted to be skinny for a hundred other events in the last four years.

I’d put a goal weight on the calendar, work backward counting the number of weeks, and calculate the amount of weight I’d need to lose each week to get there. I’d devise a nutrition plan, planning out every single meal for a minimum of 10 weeks, complete with a corresponding shopping list.

I’d have a “last hurrah” meal with pizza and ice cream or a cheeseburger if I was also swearing off meat, and declare the next day “The Beginning.” I’d do well for a week. Maybe two. I’d see progress in that amount of time. A new vein. A better-fitting pair of pants.

Then sometime would happen. A stressful day at work (the usual culprit). A fight with a friend. Some stupid, small event would give me permission to seek solace in food again, and I’d be off the program, not just losing motivation and straying from my nutritiona plan, but utterly destroying the progress that I’d had made in a fraction of the amount of time it had taken to get there.

Sound familiar?

I knew I didn’t have any real problem. I’d lost weight successfully before, but, for whatever reason, the self-discipline I once had was gone. It wasn’t hormones. It wasn’t depression (although bouts of that always made it harder). It was and still is will power.

Meanwhile, the last couple of months have been a shit spiral.

I worked my tail off all winter in preparation for the Tour of the Battenkill, which would be one of my first road races ever. I’ve been running for 10 years, and never worked so hard for something. Because of the intense training in winter months, I didn’t lose much weight – maybe 2 or 3 pounds – but I could see changes in my body. Muscles developed. My fitness was better than ever.

In the weeks following the Battenkill, however, I experienced as intense a post-race malaise as I had ever felt. After every hard running race, the impulse to get back into it would return a few days later. With Battenkill, returning to the bike was like going back to the week before that race: I was sick of riding. Sick of the bike. Sick of watching my HRM. Sick of trying to hit VO2 max. Riding had been stripped of its joy, and it wasn’t coming back.

The body I had worked so hard on all winter started to sag and spread. I couldn’t sleep because of the sharp drop off of activity, but my body still wanted to eat. The lack of sleep only exacerbated the impulse to eat. Then I’d feel bad about it and, ironically, once again seek solace in food.  Spiral down farther and farther.

Then…I lost my job.

I had given over essentially the last month of my life over to work. I worked early. I worked late. I brought my computer home and worked there. Two Fridays ago, I was up till 3 in the morning to make sure something got to a printer on time.  The very next business day, I was told my position was no longer funded.  I’d sacrificed my training, my body, and my relationships for work, and was told there was no value to that sacrifice.

I’ve never felt worse.

Things could be much worse in the grand scheme of things. But telling myself that someone I love could die or that I could be very gravely ill are frankly little solace to me right now.

No job. No boyfriend. Not a shred of self-confidence. I need a win. Desperately.

So maybe losing 15 pounds is not the most profound, enlightened way to gain back one’s mojo. But looking at all of the challenges I have in front of me, losing 15 pounds might just be the best thing I can shoot for at the moment.

I can’t control who’s going to hire me. I’ll do my damndest to get a job, but ultimately that’s someone else’s decision. Will I stumble upon Mr. Right in the next few weeks? Considering the last 4 years, probably not. There are too many things outside of my control to rely on those things to build my self worth. But 15 lbs.? 15 lbs is within my control. I have within my power everything that would go into achieving that goal.

It’s not going to be easy. I’m not naïve enough to believe that the other factors won’t affect my progress. I know that all too well. But the ship is sinking. I won’t get ahold of those other factors if I can’t get my shit together. And if I can do this, then maybe the spiral will reverse, and the rising tide of good energy will perpetuate itself.

For fuck’s sake. It better.

Grumpypants

Rest weeks suck.

Week 5 of the Tour of the Battenkill training program, and this so-called “rest week” is not quite the respite I thought it would be.

I’m both itchy because I’m not riding like usual, but sore because of some new exercises I did at the gym yesterday. Riding the trainer last night was horrendous because I’m having serious saddle issues. My body is pissing me off.

I sit down at my desk with my little homemade burrito, which is about a quarter of the size of a Chipotle burrito. I’ve literally measured everything that’s inside of it. (I’m late to work all the time b/c it takes me so effing long to prepare my meals.)

Then my officemate walks in carrying a bag from Good Stuff Eatery with a burger and fries and what’s sure to be a full-sugar Coke. I can’t even smell my lunch, which is directly beneath my nose, because of those damn fries.

I don’t eat much red meat and only give myself cheeseburgers as a reward after racing or an especially hard workout. I resent her and her cheeseburger. I resent everyone who eats cheeseburgers. 

I know, I know. Accomplishment. Working toward goal. Tightening your butt instead of watching it spread. Still – Rest Week is making me want to hit things. I can smell food like a drug-sniffing dog.

I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I made the very questionable decision to sign up for the Tour of the Battenkill, arguably one of the toughest one-day road races in the country, with no racing and very little riding experience. There’s folly in that decision, I admit. On the other hand, I’ve taken it really seriously having gotten a training schedule and a new road bike and turning my apartment upside down to accomodate a little bike shop in my dining room. I’m committed.

A couple of weeks into my training plan, I’m not in heavy-load mode quite yet. I thought that this weekend’s Vitamin G (G as in Gravel) team ride in Loudon Co. — a 40 miler with only moderate climbing but lots of dirt — would be an ideal introduction to gravel riding. I got my new SuperSix. New bomb-proof tires. Got my teammates. I was ready to kick it!

Here’s the thing: This was gonna be my first extended ride on gravel — ever. All I’ve ever done was a mile or two at a time. So while I got all the right gear to handle this, most likely this ride was still gonna suck for me. I drove to the ride start with JB who impressed upon me that the climbs weren’t easy, the descents were tricky and I should fully expect to freak out at some point on this ride. So just conserve as much energy as possible and try to keep up.  

Here’s another thing: you know when you’re with someone who’s better than you – like way better—and their “zone 2” is your “zone 4?” Well, why not go on a ride with 5 someones better than you, all men, all Cat 3 or better, on gravel, when you’re not in any kind of shape yet and see if you can keep up AND conserve energy.

Less than 8 miles into the 40, and I’m riding along, at my already typical 50 feet back from the pack, thinking: I’ve made a terrible mistake.

Not just today in coming out for this ride, for which I’m painfully unfit. But also for signing up for this stupid race. For thinking that some superficial mountain biking skills would prepare me to ride 2-inch thick gravel on a 25mm tires. For thinking I could skate past dues-paying and get right to the rewards. I’m quitting. I’m quitting right now. 

At about 15 miles into the 40, I realize I’m overdue to eat something, but I’m too sketchy on the gravel to take my hands off the handlebars. I’m going to bonk and then die.

At about 17 miles into the 40, JB drifts back to ask how I’m doing. I’m burning all my matches just trying to keep up. There’s no way I’m making it another 23 miles. My heart is going to explode, and I’m gonna die. What was I thinking coming out here!?

You know, you can do all the mantras and visualization you want, but you cannot entirely prepare yourself for meltdown. It’s like PMS (men, just take my word for it). You know you’re having a “moment.” You know there’s no real reason you feel this way. And yet the intellectual awareness of it isn’t the magic pill to make it go away. You’re in the moment, totally aware of what’s happening, and yet still powerless to un-melt.

So what do you do? I don’t know really — I just kept pedaling and swearing. I wish I could say that I had a grand epiphany about how to forge through tough times at that moment, but the reality is that I frankly didn’t see a way out and didn’t want my teammates to slap me with a quitter stigma forever.

At about mile 32 of 40, Devon reminds us of the remaining 8 miles. Please, for the love, do not count the miles down. 

At about mile 35 of 40, Jason tells me we’re approaching the last dirt climb. Jason asks if I want to do the climb or take a shortcut. Climb. I want to climb.

Why – you may ask – did I choose to do the harder option when I was already having, like, the worst day ever?

Because I went into that ride expecting to have to do it. Because I rode for 35.5 miles mentally preparing for that climb. Cut it out, and the ride is unfinished. Because I have rubber tiles and a bike stand where a dining table should be, and the largest investment of money since I bought my car underneath me. I’ve committed and need to see this through, today and for the next 4 months.

I won’t say it was easy. It was a climb on a crap road with a little bit of water to suction your tires. You don’t know at the beginning that there are three sections; after each you’re dying for a reprieve. Tap your shifter and realize you have no gears left. Swear b/c the gears are jumping on your brand new, piece of #$%, mother@#$#@ bike! But realize that the race is only gonna be harder than this, so getting through it takes you one step closer to being ready.

While it was neither my best riding nor mental performance ever, I will remember is that as whiny and apt to quit as I thought I was, it was all just mental noise. I was never really at risk of quitting. The big goal I’ve set for myself to do this race and the smaller goal I set to do that ride saw me through the difficult moments.

This winter/spring of training is going to be hard. The bad rides will outnumber the good. I will whine. I will feel shitty. But quit? Nah, I don’t think so.

Nerve :: De-perfecting the art of creating anxiety

Biking make me nauseous.

Every car ride to the trail has me psyching myself out about all of the obstacles I’m going to be facing, and how many times I’m going to fall today. The anxiety about that gives me agida. Standing around in the parking lot before a ride, my heart rate must be up near 120. Even from the total safety of my desk, I get nervous watching GoPro videos of downhill runs and cross races. What’s going to happen!? Slow down!

I have an uncanny ability to make myself nervous. I’ve made it quite an art. If I think about something I will be doing for long enough, I’ll create enough anxiety to break a sweat. Job interviews, driving in the city, going places I’m unfamiliar with – the dumbest things make it advisable for me to bring a shirt to change into. And don’t bother taking me to a horror movie unless you wanna defend me in a fight after I repeatedly kick the seat of the person in front of me at every boo! moment.

Since I started mountain biking, the first 20-30 minutes of every ride consist of getting over the pre-ride jitters. Depending on the situation, I may very well be shaking like I’m about to meet the President. My nervous energy goes into over-braking and choking the handlebars too hard. I don’t shift gears enough because I’m concentrating too hard on clearing obstacles. After that period, though…I’m totally fine.

I’ve ridden a familiar trail every weekend for the past three weeks, and, while the nerves have definitely diminished, I still get myself worked up before every ride. Even though I know what I’m in for, even though I know I can tackle pretty much everything on the trail, even though I’m riding by myself with little chance for embarrassment…I still get nervous.

Has anyone successfully tackled nerves before? What are your secrets? Repetition and familiarity are most definitely helpful elements, but what else am I missing?

Open Letter to My New Team Members at Gripped Racing

The 2012 racing season is upon us, so it’s time for the yearly reshuffling of membership. You all have no doubt noticed a few additions, me included, so I wanted to give you all a little explanation for my entrée to the team. I’ve spent some time with and gotten to know a lot of you, so perhaps the intro e-mail JB sent a little while ago may have elicited a reaction something like, “uh…I thought she wasn’t a mountain biker.” Well, you’d be right. I’m not. Yet.

One of Gripped Racing’s guiding principles is to support new athletes to the sport. A lot of organizations and clubs say they support beginners; very few actually do it.  After hearing me lament the lack of resources for beginners to mountain biking, JB decided that Gripped needed to put its money where its mouth is and bring on a true beginner to provide the kind of support and tools one might need to get to the point of racing competitively.

stuph on me

I’m not a novice as far as athletic competition is concerned. I did practically every organized sport growing up and have been involved in long-distance running for the last 10+ years. I’ve done mostly road and ran a PR (and Boston qualifier) of 3:26 at the Philly marathon last November.  This past year I got really into trail running and came in 6^th at the North Face 50K trail race in June.

Despite having traversed the world of sport, I have had a checkered past with mountain biking. Over the last few years, I’ve made a few attempts at it, which have, in every case, ended with some kind of crash (no more teeter-totters for this girl) followed by a period where I just didn’t wanna get back on a bike. No, I’m not a natural at this. Those of you at the Schaeffer clinic know how much I was bumming over my present lack of skills. However, I have a true interest in mountain biking and really want to be competent at it. So when the invitation came to join Gripped Racing, it was both a challenge and a chance for me to put my money where my mouth is. If I were serious about getting good at this, then I’d need to cross the line in the sand.  So I did.

gripped racing stuph

Part of the agreement of being on Gripped Racing is that I too now have a mandate to bring new riders, especially women, to the sport, and what better way to do that than to speak to them from the same perspective. I’m going to chronicle what it’s like starting out, and try to pass along the things I’ve learned to people who might have similar questions and face the same obstacles. I’ll ask the questions other might be afraid to ask. I’ll make rookie mistakes so that other people don’t have to.  My experiences (and missteps) will help others blaze their own trails of success. Learning a new skill can’t happen without doing. Trying. So if what I’m doing convinces one person to get out there and try it, then I’ll consider it a success.

This first year in particular will be about learning fundamentals and getting exposure to the sport, so while I probably won’t be joining you guys for rides at Gambrill or be part of the contingent racing the SM100, I will be seeing as much as I can. Team events, of course, are part of the deal. In addition, if any of you are going to a race and need support – whether it’s hand-ups or setting up camp or ringing a cowbell – just ask me. I’m more than willing to lend a hand when I can.

I’m grateful to Jason for the opportunity to joined Gripped Racing, and I’m humbled to be considered a teammate of such a fine and talented group of people. I couldn’t be more excited about the 2012 season and am really looking forward to breaking in that 29er.

Redemption

After my ego flogging at the racing clinic a couple of days ago, I was not eager to ride the mountain bike in a group setting again anytime soon. (I love and respect ya’ll (especially you Gripped folks), but I’m tired of chasing your skinny asses through the woods.) I knew if I wanted to get myself feeling good again, I needed to ride in a setting where keeping up with people far better than me was not an issue. I chose to hit Rosaryville State Park because the last time I was there it was rutted and frozen and some speedy locals did two laps in the time it took me to do one. I was ready for some redemption, in more ways than one.

Rutts. Rosaryville this past January.

Today was a beautiful, sunny, 80-degree pre-Fall day, so my Vitamin D levels and spirits were high just being outside. The trail parking lot was just a couple of spots short of being full. I tried not to let the crowd with their potentially judging eyes of my mismatching cycling ensemble make me nervous (although there’s something to be said for dressing to set accurate expectations).

As usual I spent the first few minutes sweating and wheezing and working out the anxiety. I hit the brakes too hard. I bobbled. I pulled off the trail to let people by, rather than testing my skills at riding off and back on the trail safely. I tried not to feel weak because others were riding cross bikes [for f*ck’s sake]. I consciously tried to keep loose, shaking out my hands and rolling my shoulders, but the death grip on my handlebars is something ingrained right now. I looked at my watch – I had only gone 15 minutes and my back was already soaked. Oy.

Thankfully after a few miles, the Rosy trail smoothes out and really starts rolling. After the mental noise of my anxiety quieted down, I started hearing the soundbites of friends with the bits and pieces of advice they’ve given me. Lean into corners. Fight back when the trail pushes you one way. Bend your arms and let the bike press into you when a sharp uphill bucks the bike up and wants to launch you unsuspectingly into the firmament. Suddenly I understood what people meant when they said “flow-y.” I wasn’t freaking out going over roots. It might be overstating it, but I had a bit of a Spidey moment – I felt like I had better vision and was reacting faster to things that appeared on the trail. I was remembering places that I had seen on the few trail runs I had done there in the Spring and was anticipating better. It had been a hard time finding it, but I was actually having fun.

I took a turn a little too hot and had to try to bank off of a log on the side of the trail. Unfortunately the log was not lodged in place, so it and I slide out. But that was the only mishap of the entire lap.

I got back to the parking lot feeling good (for once). I was sweaty but not completely exhausted and wondered if I had another lap in me. I was enjoying feeling somewhat successful and happy and was a little worried about going out and having a crash or negating my good lap with a lousy one. After popping some Powerbar chews and resting for a few minutes to let the sugar high kick in, I decided to temp fate and go for it.

Some anxiety resurfaced because I knew I was pushing my luck and risking my good mood by going back out, but once I realized that I was flowing better and riding faster the second time around, I relaxed. I still weenied out whenever another rider went by, (and thank you to the non-DBs who acknowledged the gesture) because I felt my legs starting to fatigue. Otherwise I tried to stay steady and not stop much, except for the technical things I truly couldn’t clear. I rode over log piles and through creek crossing. I shifted down in anticipation of climbs that stopped me up before now that I knew what was coming.

Hurricane Irene brought massive flooding to the park, which washed away a bridge crossing, so a nasty culvert is all that’s left. As I dismounted to walk across, a dude in a Cannondale team kit came up behind me and rode clear across. I was impressed. It was such nasty terrain that I didn’t feel bad at all for walking, so in that case it was kinda cool watching someone who really knew what he was doing. At this point, I still don’t quite know what’s possible on a bike and am often quite amazed.

Hitting each landmark as I rode made me feel better and better. The park road and no falling. The descent where those dudes lapped me last time and no falling. The one semi-tough climb on the trail before the end and no falling. I was able to appreciate the flow of the trail and not get stopped up on roots too much. My reactions were quicker, my movements more confident, my attitude rising.

I reached the end and was amazed at how good I still felt. Tired to be sure but still with a lot of life left. And I was beaming from successfully completing two laps in about two hours, when the last time it took me an hour and a half to do one. Another rider in the parking lot tempted me: “Going for a third?” But I thought one affront to the gods of fate was enough for one day.

Lesson Learned
It’s not the same as watching a good rider, but I am feeling certain things out the more I ride. I’m at a point where I’m trying to figure out what I guess is a delicate balance between knowing when to move the bike and when to move your body. A very common piece of advice is, “lean into the turn.” I’m understanding that concept when going down flowy descents, but on unbanked, gravelly switchbacks leaning your body into the turn seems like the last thing you [I] wanna do. I’m sure this is partly due to my tendency to ride slow, but in some cases leaning my weight into the turn while pushing the bike the opposite direction as something of a counterweight seems to be the trick. I can’t always actually DO that, but I get it!

I still feel like I fishtail a lot either going over roots or trying to turn through an obstacle too soon. Am I approaching those incorrectly or is that a feeling I need to get used to? Seems the more I learn, the more questions I have. I suppose that shall be my fate so long as I am a beginner.

My next step is a critical one, because, so far, every time I have taken steps forward, I seem to inevitably take subsequent steps back. Consequently, progress seems slow. At this point I need to not bow to peer pressure, not try to do too much too quickly, and ride within myself and my ability. When a well-meaning but completely delusional friend tries to get me to ride at Patapsco or Gambrill, I need to remember my missteps and avoid getting sucked into something I know will only pummel my confidence. This is not a race. I’m not getting paid. I have the rest of my life to learn to mountain bike. The whole reason I decided to pursue this was because I thought it would be fun. I need to make sure I’m being guided by that. Always.

Doubt :: Do I belong here?

I doubted that I should even go today, but outside encouragement and my own desire to remain positive and optimistic got me out the door to the Gripped Racing “Intro to Racing” clinic at Schaeffer Farms.

I’m a beginner mountain biker, so what I need right now is to focus on fundamentals, not to jump ahead to worrying about racing. I knew this. But the whirlwind of an unexpected birthday present and an invitation to join the Gripped Team made me think that I better get my ass in gear and jump in with both feet.

In my brief past experience, anything I attend labeled “clinic” means that not a ton of riding happens, so I decided to run 10 miles this morning to get a workout in.  In addition, I get riddled with anxiety before riding by myself, let alone with a group of people, so I showed up to Schaeffer an hour early to get a quick loop in to quell any jitters.

I do feel much more solid on the new 29er and it handles obstacles much better than my POS Giant, but at the core I am still not a good rider. I descend choking the brakes. I can’t pick lines. Roots freak me out. I slid out trying to come out of a creek crossing. I got caught on every steep ascent because I didn’t see them coming and wasn’t ready in the right gear. The constant braking, clenching and sheer worrying really took a toll. After it took me 40 minutes to complete what I knew should have been an easy 3.5 mile loop, the jitters were anything but quelled and I was already dead tired.

As the group of attendees to the clinic swelled, I only became more nervous – more people to be embarrassed in front of. Jason did a lecture before we got on bikes, which gave me time to cool down and get tight. So when we embarked on a warm-up lap, the previous lap was a distant muscle memory.

I gladly took up the rear and lost contact with the group in a matter of mere moments. A few mechanicals allowed me to catch up, but every time the group took off, I was left alone almost instantly. I was glad to not have anyone behind me, but I really didn’t expect to get dropped quite so easily.

As I rode I wondered how people picked their lines, how people take rooty descents so quickly, how they take downhill switchbacks. And I didn’t even have anyone to ask! It only took a half a lap to realize that I was right to have had hesitations about attending today. I did not belong there.

I caught up to the group and found them turning around to double back on the trail. As one of the gal attendees- a roadie who had never been mountain biking and was borrowing a bike – passed me, she said, “this is so much fun.” I’ve been out half a dozen times and have yet to find the fun; and here was someone out for her first time and loving it. I was jealous and demoralized and really didn’t want to take up the back anymore. Then Jason advised the group to try to take the trail a little faster this time as they had already seen it now, but trying to go faster was exactly the kind of pressure I didn’t need. So I told Harris that I was gonna continue forward and not to wait up for me.

I caught up to Kevin and Scuba fixing a flat and was thankful for the break. As they took off, I once again followed. They slowed their pace to allow me to stay on, but I really didn’t want them to. Meanwhile Kevin gave me some great advice on clearing obstacles and climbing that I was glad to have gotten. If there’s one thing I definitely walk away from today with, it’s varying speed on rooty ascents – brute power, as I’m apt to use, will only get you so far.

We got back to the parking lot as the rest of the group was lining up to practice sprint starts. I rode to my car with the intention of getting in it and driving away. But explaining my exit to Jason was not something I wanted to do, so I stayed. I listened to some further lecture and decided to stay to ride on my own. The groups split up and went down different arms of the trail.

I waited a few minutes for them to clear and started off. Before too long I came up on one of the groups sessioning a log and decided to stop rather than ride through. This turned out to be a bad decision because I found myself yet again falling off the back of the group each time they started up. At each stop I implored them not to wait for me, but it seemed that someone would always hang back. That just made me feel bad for holding them up.

More of the same – timid descents, spinning out on roots, lots of stopping and walking.

At a trail intersection, the group decided to take a turn on the yellow. This was my chance to ride back alone on the white – why I didn’t I still don’t know. After two botched climbs, I really didn’t want to ride anymore. Mentally I was done. And the last thing anyone needs when all they want to do is stop is to ride over roots. Lots and lots of roots.

Not being able to cry when you really, really need to is one of the worst feelings in the world. Everyone back at the parking lot was smiling, exchanging thank yous, and working out plans for the meal at Dogfish Head. All I wanted to do was get all my gear off and flee. Not attending the post-ride festivities really wasn’t an option, so I had to hold that frog in my throat through the whole thing. But once I got my car onto the relative anonymity of the highway, I really couldn’t stop the tears. I cried the whole car ride home. I cried when I got home. I cried through my shower. I’m still crying a little bit right now.

It really wasn’t just the difficulty of the day and the bad decisions I’d made that made me so upset. I’ve been out riding half a dozen times now without much of a marked improvement. And it’s not that I’m making mistakes that I’m aware I’m making; I’m just not able to do certain things. I can’t descend fast. I can’t corner. I can’t hop a log. I just can’t. There’s a level of comfort and a flow required for mountain biking that isn’t coming with experience. What if I just don’t get it and never will?

The fantastically patient guys on the team would try to explain concepts, some better than others. The others would gesticulate and gesture and lean and sputter trying to articulate something that comes naturally to them. I listen intently to any piece of advice more experience riders try to give me, and I’m increasingly starting to believe there’s something they have that I just don’t. There’s an disconcerting level of doubt in me that I have what it takes for this. I’ve always been gifted athletically. I pick things up quickly. The one who always got picked first in gym? This girl. But I’m not getting this. It’s not clicking. I’m not figuring it out. And I’m worried. One thing I do know is that I won’t be wearing the Gripped Racing colors till I feel like I’m not diminishing the name by wearing them.

Surprises :: All in the timing

I hate birthdays.  Well, no, I take that back.  I hate my birthday.  Besides my relative dislike of being the center of attention, I also have a pronounced discomfort in asking a large group of people to come join me in celebrating me.  No, I don’t feel that way when others ask me to birthday parties and Happy Hours.  It’s just one of many neuroses wrapped up in the joy of being me.

34 is not a hallmark year.  It doesn’t end in a zero.  It’s not even divisible by five.  You don’t get insurance breaks or enter into a new age group category for races.  So the unremarkable nature of this particular year, coupled with my general birthday malaise, made it easy, when people would ask, “what are you doing for your birthday,” to reply, “oh, nothing much really.”  Because, in truth, I was doing nothing much really.

My friend, Jason, has a different perspective on birthdays.  He was completely unsatisfied with the notion that I wasn’t planning anything on the commemorative day of my birth than a bike ride and an early bedtime, because I had to volunteer at a half marathon at the butt-ass crack of dawn the next morning.  He said, “even if it’s just a drink, we’ll do something.”

I acquiesced, so Jason picked me up for something on the Saturday afternoon of my birthday.  We picked up ice cream at the local dispenser of milky, sugery crack, The Dairy Godmother, because the daily flavor was a particularly stellar one. Jason said we’d have to book back to his house to get it in the freezer. Sure. On the drive there, Jason kept looking at his phone. In this day and age, it’s not uncommon for people to glom onto their phones for constant input, but it got to the point where his compulsive and nervous checking forced me to say something.  “Are you expecting something?” His reply a cryptic, “Yup.  Some things are all about timing.”

Mmm-kay.  So between that answer and the fact that we did not drive the ridiculously easy way we always take to get to his house, I knew something was up.  So I thought, fine, I won’t ask.  I want to see where this is going.

As we drove through the congested streets of Clarendon, we passed by Revolution Cycles bike shop, where a pretty orange bike hung in the window.

I said, “ooh, look, orange bike.  Someday I want an orange bike.”
Jason cocked his head.  “Huh?”
“The bike in the window, look. All my bikes are red, blue and black.  Yuck. I want something cool for once. Someday I want an orange bike.  Or a bright green one.”
“Agreed.  Red, blue and black suck.  What about the white one?”
“Oh, that’s pretty sweet too.  I could totally do a white bike. White. Yeah. That’d be sweet.”
“Or maybe a white bike with an orange stripe.”
Yeah, just maybe.

We continued to drive for a few minutes, when Jason told me to open his card, which, besides a little personal note, spoke of birthday surprises.  We had to be getting warmer then.  Even before I could finish reading, Jason made a fast turn into the parking lot of Freshbikes.  “I gotta pick up my cross bike.  Come in a for a minute.”  This was an unannounced stop.  Not atypical of Jason necessarily, and, since he had a race the next day, seemed totally plausible.

As Freshbikes is a bike shop, I had no trouble keeping myself amused and drooling while Jason busied himself with the bike mechanics. A few minutes went by.  Then, while trying on the fresh selection of winter gloves, I turned to see Jason, shit-eating grin and all, holding a bike next to him.  The first thing I assumed was that Jason had bought himself a new bike.  His self-satisfied grin spoke of a new toy in the stable. Good grief. However, when I spied the big white bow and noticed that Jason was looking at me and not the bike, I realized that this gleaming white piece of aluminum was a gift. For me. A white bike. A white bike with an orange stripe.

A Cannondale Flash 29er, to be exact.  To someone who has only ever had cheap or used bikes and works for a non-profit, a piece of machinery like this was only ever a dream, or at least something that was a couple of years of saving away. For me? It’s mine?

I was speechless.  I was without speech. Incredulous.  Shocked. Whichever way you can possibly say that I could not believe, for a series of reasons I won’t bother listing, that this bike was really for me. I started shaking! The beauty of the gift itself. The meaning of its being given. The surprise of the moment. The warmth I felt for the giver. It all welled up and had to escape through my trembling fingers. Hold it together Miss America, I had to tell myself.  Alas, after a quick spin on the white beauty in the parking lot, shaking gave way to tears.  I was able to play them off at first as the result of the brisk night air in my eyes.  However, I had to fight the frog in my throat for the entire remainder of the evening, and didn’t entirely succeed.

Shortly after the big reveal

Surprises like this, especially birthday-related ones, don’t happen to me.  It’s the stuff of movies, the stuff of other birthday stories that I’m never witness to (and usually don’t believe anyway). I’m grateful to now know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of not only a spectacular birthday surprise but also a true gift. I know it’s easy to look at the cost of a bike and say that anyone would be happy receiving one.  But in this case, it signified so much more than money.  It was something that I wouldn’t/couldn’t have gotten for myself. Something that I would love, appreciate and care for.  Something that was meaningful and would, without doubt, be used. Something unexpected. Something that took work and sacrifice to get. Someone takes what he knows about you and applies it to getting something for you he thinks would make you happy – that’s what gift-giving is supposed to be.

I’m still now overwhelmed by the fact that Jason did this wonderful, generous, selfless, thoughtful thing for me.  I don’t quite feel that I deserve it, but, if my friend does, then I must be doing something right. Thank you, JB, for the gift and the new perspective, but, more than anything, thank you for being my friend.

P.S.   The gift didn’t come entirely without strings attached. I’m now obligated to raise my skills to be worthy of the bike, and put those skills to use as a member of the Gripped Racing squad.  Surely updates on my quest for mountain biking mediocrity will be forthcoming.