Heart of a Warrior

I'm pretty sure I'll never be one of those girls who bounces out of bed at the sheer prospect of riding my bike.  Don't get me wrong, I love riding my bike.  I just also love burrowing in my warm cozy bed.  Because my love of cycling can be so easily trumped by my bed, I resort to trickery.  I round up the troops and make them ride with me.  I might stand myself up, but I won't leave a friend hanging.  So this morning, I set out in the good company of Terry, That Laura, Nick and Abby.

This morning I ate the cycling breakfast of champions: oatmeal, skinned grapefruit and a banana.  The last time I rode, I had eggs for breakfast and almost had a reversal of fortune on the side of the road up to Shasta Dam.  (Note to self: Eggs are not a good cycling food.)  But back to this morning, I slipped on my Team Fatty gear, dismayed that the fatty part, while once ironic, is now just truth in advertising.  I'm working on that.

The weather today was so perfect, blue sky, cotton ball clouds and barely a hint of wind.  It was warm enough that I didn't even need tights.  We headed out to Millville Plains, my most favorite place to ride.  You can see for miles and miles at the top of the Plains.  The cows grazing there must be the happiest in all of California.  My favorite tree lives there, too.  She was all sticks and bones standing guard over the plains, but I know she's secreting away green buds for me underneath her black skin.  Spring is coming, spring is coming I told her as I whipped by.

My legs were strong most of the ride leading me to believe that maybe, just maybe, my spin instructor isn't entirely evil.  My legs were strong enough, but my heart, my heart was fierce.  I had the heart of a warrior today.  It pumped away pressing uphill, screaming downhill, and keeping time on the flats.  It was glorious and I smiled so much my teeth hurt from the cool air.  Not even the five putrid dead skunks I passed or the pair of pitbulls that chased me could dampen my joy.

Thirty three miles into the ride and three miles from home, my legs began to ache.  The sort of ache that feels like my bones are hollow and might shatter any second, but I've had this ache before and I know it passes if I just ignore it.  Well, I complain about it and then ignore it.  Same difference.  I willed my legs to circle me back home.  At home I rested in the front yard.  Not even the fact that I'd locked myself out of my house could ruin this ride.  I waited for a friend to arrive with spare key and as my legs pulsed complaints, my heart was steady, calm even.  I sat there making a sweaty print on my walkway and realized I'd just had one of the best rides of my life.  Now that just might make me bounce out of bed to ride next time.

Getting Greasy. Getting Sick. Getting Chased.

Dear friends & family,

With increasing temperatures and daylight stretching long into the evenings, May was a great month to be a cyclist.  More accurately, it was a great month to be someone trying hard to become a cyclist.

.252 miles this month: Redding and the surrounding areas are splendid this time of year.  Shasta Dam holds a lake of sapphire water.  Millville Plains is bursting with wildflowers.  Whitmore's deep green pine trees fill the air with the smell of my childhood spent on a mountain in Oregon.  Mt. Shasta is tipped with white snow against a cloudless blue sky.  I live in a breathtaking place and The Rocket and I saw it in all it's splendor this month.

.1 Rookie Mistake: You know that saying "Hindsight is 20/20"?  Well, friends, I'm seeing clearly now.  One weekend in May, I set out to ride 65 miles in the Anderson Park Century ride.  I didn't have anyone to ride with, but I was surrounded by other cyclists, so I set off at seven in the morning.  I was riding along just fine.  In fact I'd even made a friend and we were having a great time riding up the never-ending Wildcat Road.  The heat rose up from the asphalt in waves and I drank routinely from my water bottle full of endurance drink.  I hadn't tried this drink before.  I know.  I know.  Even rookie cyclists know you never, ever try a new drink on a long ride.  As I pedaled up toward Shingletown, my stomach felt like it was being wrung out like a dishtowel.  My stomach cramped so fiercely that I gave serious pause to lying down on the side of the road and letting the buzzards pick at me.  And you know I hate birds.  When the thought of buzzards feasting on my innards began to sound better than riding my bike, I pulled over and made the Rescue Call of Shame.  My step-dad jumped in his van and I turned around to meet him.

.1 Cowdog: As I coasted downhill, fighting back the rowdy uprising in my stomach, I came across three cowboys mounted on horses and one energetic cowdog.  The cowboy entourage was taking up the entire width of the road.  I called out "On your left!"  The cowboys moved over, but the cowdog wanted to play my least favorite game, Crash the Cyclist.  The dog beelined right for me.  I called out "Watch out, dog.  I don't want to hit you."  Cowdog's owner offered up the very helpful suggestion "Just run him over."  I replied "That won't end well for me."  The dog charged my right foot and in the nick of time, I clipped out and kicked the dog.  He yelped.  I am not an animal person, but kicking a dog made me feel terrible.  I rode away riddled with guilt and dreams of lying down on the side of the road.  After a measly thirty-five miles, my step-dad scooped my up in his rescue van and returned me to my car.

.1 Soccer Halftime Show: After checking in with the ride coordinators to let them know I was no longer on the course, I walked back to my car.  I'd parked along a chain link fence surrounding soccer fields.  There were hundreds of itty bitty soccer players enjoying a halftime break.  As I walked the fence to my car, my insides did the Vulcan death grip on my stomach and before I could turn away from the cute, little soccer players, everything I've ever eaten began to revisit me.  I clung to the chain link fence and threw up.  A lot.  The soundtrack to my misery was a chorus of high-pitched "Ew!  She's puking!  Ew!  Ew!  Ew!"  As I was doubled over, all I could think of was that great soccer announcer bellowing "Gooooooooooaaaaaaallllllll!"

.1 Flat Tire: The next weekend, I was determined to take The Rocket out and expunge the memory of what competitive eaters call a "reversal of fortune".  I headed out to the garage to prepare The Rocket for a nice climb to Shasta Dam and a drop down onto Keswick Dam.  Go ahead and insert your own dam joke.  I'll wait.  I plugged my water bottles (full of water only) into their holders and noticed The Rocket was looking at me with one very sad, flat back tire.  Last month she got a flat front tire after driving home from S. California.  This time she got a flat after the rescue van pick up.  I think The Rocket is sending me a not so subtle message that she does not like riding in cars.  She likes to be on the road.  Message received.  Last month I successfully changed a front tire by myself, but I've never changed the back tire.  This involves removing the wheel from the chain and stuff like that.  I took out my trusty tire irons and set to work imitating everything I've seen other people do.  Miraculously, my pretend attempt worked and I changed my back tire all by myself.  My hands were black with grease and I knew my mechanic brothers would have been very proud.

.63 miles: Two days later I headed up to Whitmore with my friends Nick and Nathan.  It's a sustained climb with some steep pitches, but my legs felt strong.  A couple of times I had to stop to remind my heart that it is also strong and there is no reason for it to beat out of my chest like that.  After a quick breather and a stern talking to, my heart shaped up nicely and I enjoyed my longest ride of the season.

.1 more dog: After stopping at Whitmore School for some water and a snack, we turned around to enjoy the downhill home.  I was cruising along pushing in my big chain ring.  Nick and Nathan were behind me and I was lost in some monumentally important reverie about what kind of burrito I wanted for lunch.  Nathan interrupted my burrito planning session when he yelled "GO, ALICIA, GO!"  This wasn't the peppy yell of a cheerleader rallying the football players.  This yell had the distinct tone of immediate danger.  To confirm this Nick yelled "You're screwed!"  As I shifted into my little chain ring to pedal a little faster, I looked back and saw a rat terrier nipping at their heels at 20 MPH and gaining.  The dog eventually tired out and turned around.  Let me take a moment to provide a public service announcement.  If one is on a bike and would like to warn someone that a dog is starting a game of Crash The Cyclist, it's very helpful if you actually mention the word dog somewhere in your warning.  Yelling "You're screwed!" isn't as helpful as one might think.  Having said that, I loved Nathan's take on rat terriers: they're dangerous because they can get caught in your spokes.  Classic.

.2 more dogs, no seriously: After fun with the rat terrier, we continued toward home.  This time the boys were ahead of me, but within sight.  As we rode next to a hill, two bulldogs came tearing down the hill after Nick and Nathan.  The dogs were a blur of barking, growling, and serious running.  Fortunately my sloth-like speed made me invisible.  As the boys sprinted away, I began to realize that soon the dogs would tire out, turn around, and see me.  Oh, this did not seem like it would end well.  With the boys out of sight, the dogs turned around and trotted toward me.  I tried to be calm.  I tried to be cool.  I failed.  As they neared, I used a voice reserved for cute babies and adults who annoy me and said "Hi, sweet doggies.  Whatcha doin', you good wittle doggies?"  Bulldog #1 panted and wagged his tail at me.  Bulldog #2 was having none of that.  I don't blame him.  I can't stand it baby talk either.  He gave me a sharp bark that clearly meant I had three seconds to leave with all body parts in tact.  In a wavering big girl voice, I said "Ok, I'm leaving" and pedaled away, praying the dogs didn't want to play Crash The Cyclist From Behind.  They didn't.  I turned a corner to see Nick coming my way.  He said "We sprinted away and then I realized we'd left you behind."  I informed him that he was definitely 0 for 2 when it came to dogs that day.  There's that saying that when 2 or more people are being chased by something, you don't have to be faster than the something, you just have to be faster than the slowest person.  Let me tell you, being the slowest person stinks big time.  I've got to work on that or I've got to start packing milk bones in my seat pack.

.$1,195 donated so far: Thanks to Jean P., Amy and Steve P., Tracy H., Jeff W., Anita J., Carmen L., Chris F., Katie L.., That Unicycling Guy, Sue H., NVB employees, Kyra M., Janet M., Nancy W., and Debbie S. I appreciate your support and generosity.

.$805 until I reach my fundraising goal: I'll be accepting donations through the month of June, followed by my century ride in July.  So, if you'd like to help me meet my goal and support a great cause, click on the link below to donate online.  You can also write a check to The Lance Armstrong Foundation and I'll make sure it gets to the right place.  Thanks for your support!

Fondly,

Alicia

Fight cancer by supporting my century ride for The Lance Armstrong Foundation. https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=294743&supid=241282118

My Favorite Tree

Today was my first bike ride of 2009.  I'm a little nervous about this cycling season.  Although I am part of the Fat Cyclist team, I don't have a local team to speak of.  The bad thing about that is nobody will be setting up routes for me, telling me where to show up, and making sure I get my miles in.  The good thing is nobody will be setting up routes for me, telling me where to show up, and making sure I get my miles in.  I am my own woman, responsible for all of my training.  Ok, I'm not quite convinced it's a good thing yet, but I'm trying to see it as an opportunity for growth.  The other good thing about going solo is that I can just tell my cycling friends when and where I'm riding and they're likely to show up.

Today I rode in the good company of my hubby, Sir Steve (the bike mechanic), Nick (the captain of the CJD team), my friend Marie, and That Laura.  I piled on layers and layers of spandex and set out to face the unforgiving wind.  It was blowing to the South, which was fantastic when I was cruising South, but otherwise meant I was caught in a nasty crosswind or, even worse, a punishing headwind.  We rode out to Palo Cedro and Millville to my very favorite place to ride, Millville Plains.

Millville Plains is always beautiful.  It's sweeping views and natural landscape leave me awestruck.  Today was particularly stunning.  The edges of snowcapped Lassen were razor sharp against the blue sky.  As the wind pushed at my back, I watched the waves of grass and weeds roll like the ocean.  And of course there is my favorite tree.



It's an oak tree, I think, and it stands all alone watching guard over the plains.  Maybe at some point in your life you've been asked that inane question, "If you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?"  Hands down, I'd be that one.

As I rode home with the wind blowing dirt onto my teeth and pushing The Rocket around like a kite, I thought of my favorite tree.  It is unmoved by wind.  It is impervious to cold.  It is unfazed by the scorching summers.  It girds strength from roots, pushed deep beneath the plains.  This season I will be like my tree, mustering strength from deep down.  I will stand guard against cancer.  Although I am without a local team, I am not alone.  I am surrounded by friends who stand with me.

So, if you were a tree which one would you be?

Hollow Legs

Saturday was my first road ride of the season.  I'm just going to cut to the chase and say I got my, uh, my, um, pride, yes let's say pride, handed to me.  The morning of the ride I woke up extra early to prepare.  I put on layers of cycling clothing.  Then came the all important jersey selection.  I peered at the rainbow of jerseys stacked neatly in my cycling drawer.  (Yes, I have a cycling drawer in my dresser.  I also have a cycling drawer AND shelf in my garage.  It's okay to be jealous.)  I decided to go with my favorite pink Fat Cyclist jersey.  It has FAT CYCLIST emblazoned across the back pockets.  Awesome.  I slipped on my jersey and then headed over to the mirror to tame the bedhead.  Irony stared back at me.  I've grown squidgy around the edges and there's no hiding anything in Spandex.  I've got muffin top.  I'm too fat for my Fat Cyclist jersey.

Then me and the muffin top headed out to the garage to give The Rocket a little attention.  She was sleek as ever, bright pink wire casings looking all happy at me.  I gave her a little air in her tires.  By a little, I mean her tires were at 30 PSI and I had to pump fiercely to get them back up to 100 PSI.  As I was pumping, I noticed cobwebs laced in the spokes.  Muffin top?  Flat tires?  Cobwebs?  Had it really been that long?  Not good.  Not good at all.

My friend, Laura, met me at my house and we headed out toward Millville Plains, my favorite place to ride.  On our way out there we saw some pretty cool things like a field full of itty bitty goats.  Then we saw buffalo.  Buffalo are so cool looking.  They are unimpressed by everything.  I tried to snap a shot of a buffalo right next to the fence, but as I got closer he moved away, no doubt freaked by the muffin top.  Sorry, buffalo.  Just a little ways beyond the buffalo we passed a manger scene.  It had Joseph.  It had a handful of animals.  It had Mary, but no Jesus.  This led me to wonder WWJD?  What was Jesus doing?

We continued on, Laura speeding ahead of me and then graciously hanging back so I could catch up.  She could have totally stomped me and left me to my own devices to get home, but she didn't so that was nice.  The weather was perfect, sunny, crisp and with winds at about four miles per hour.  It doesn't get better than that.  In Millville we stopped at the Post Office and scarfed down some snacks.  Well, I didn't actually scarf.  What I thought was a whole Clif bar in my saddle pack was actually half of one I'd opened last season.  Clif bars are tasty, but this one had taken on the consistency of concrete.  Don't get me wrong, I ate it.  It just took a long, long time, meaning that Laura had to wait for me.  Again.

We reached Millville Plains and I was loving the sweeping views.  Laura raced ahead of me, and with the exception of one or two cars, it was blissful solitude.  The kind of solitude that quiets the mind and steadies the heart.  I was turning the cranks pretty slowly, but with snow-striped Lassen to my left, I didn't care. I chugged along with a ridiculous grin on my face.  I love riding my bike.

Laura had mapped out a thirty four mile ride for us.  I'd ridden most of the roads before and thirty four miles is usually a pretty easy ride for me.  Not Saturday.  At about mile 25, I got what I call hollow legs.  Hollow legs are when my legs start to ache, not muscle ache, not cramping, but a deep ache in my bones.  Each pedal stroke feels like my legs are empty aluminum cans, ready to crumple at the slightest strain.  I have ridden with hollow legs before, but usually at mile 75 or 80.  To be greeted with hollow legs at mile 25 was disheartening.

This is the part of the story where I get philosophical.  Feel free to skip ahead.  I've learned a lot from cycling.  For example, it really is all about the journey.  The destination is just icing on the cake.  Another thing I've learned is that it's possible to cry and ride at the same time.  In fact, it's quite rewarding, even invigorating at times. Fortunately, I had no need to cry on Saturday because the most important lesson I've learned on my bike is that my mind is stronger than my body.  Much stronger.  If I can convince myself to just keep pedaling circles, then I know I can ride beyond the pain.  Hollow legs are no match for a strong mind.  My body listens to my mind and my mind is one tough cookie.

After nine miles of mental fortitude, we were back home eating minty ice cream sandwiches.  I slumped on my couch for a few minutes until I was confident my legs could carry me to the bathroom.  I eased my salty, sweaty self into the shower.  My shower is about as big as a refrigerator.  Single occupancy only.  No tub.  No frills.  Not even room for big ideas.  As the scalding water ran down my head and turned my flesh pink, I sunk to the floor of my shower.  I closed my eyes and the water swirled in rivulets down my cheeks.  The water pounded my head and legs, massaging the aches away.  A singular thought rose from the steam.  I can't wait to ride my bike again.