passedbyachick.com

So, what’s the “Pain Cave?” At least, according to a cyclist?

It sounds almost cozy. Well, at least if you’re not claustrophobic, like I’m not. I’ve actually fallen asleep inside an MRI machine. Seriously! It’s like I’m inside a little cocoon, warm in a blanket, and with the earplugs all the knocking and clicking takes on an almost pleasant, hypnotic anti-rhythm.

Cozy! Snuggly! Um...

I remember reading a cycling acquaintance’s Facebook posts last year or the year before. She went to the pain cave often, apparently, and even took her friends there. I felt like people were going to a party I hadn’t been invited to, but could maybe crash someday if I were lucky and clever. It almost sounded like a wild party, one where you might accidentally smoke crack and run around with no pants on, like Shoshanna on that episode of Girls.

In my Training Peaks comments on my Levi’s Gran Fondo ride, I mentioned having been working so hard on Coleman Valley Road, somewhere around mile 80 and with 6,000 feet or so already handled, that I couldn’t really even see anymore. I mean, I could see well enough to stay upright, and not crash into things or other cyclists, but time and visual perception became distorted as I kept placing unreasonable demands on my little chicken legs. I was also an emotional wreck, billowing red mist trying to pass James back and also wanting to die but being unable to stop.

In an email response from Coach Thomas, he said, “oh yeah, the Pain Cave!”

I was kind of dismayed, not only because I hadn’t met my goals for the ride, but because I realized I’ve really only been to the Pain Cave two other times this year: once during the Sea Otter Circuit Race on Laguna Seca’s famous racetrack, while trying to hang on world champion endurance mountain biker Rebecca Rusch‘s wheel (who, coincidentally, has nicknamed herself The Queen of Pain) during her first ever road race (and my second).

The other time was during the Pescadero Road Race in June, while chasing a bunch of sassy little Cat 3s up Stage Road. But I didn’t go in the Pain Cave on Haskins, an even harder climb. Just Stage, and just on the first lap.

Three visits to the Pain Cave in 2012. Pathetic, and sad! Maybe I’m…the Queen of Crashing? Queen of Making Small Wattage, like, Forever? Queen of Delivering Emotional Pain? Queen of Zone 2? My ability to push my legs and my heart into this cozy rager of a bicycle party at the upper reaches of my Zone 5 is seriously lacking.

My sad realization almost overshadowed the entire day. Almost, but not quite.

The Deets

103 miles, 8,800 feet of climbing

2010 Gran Fondo elapsed time: 8 hours, 50 minutes
2010 Gran Fondo moving time: unknown due to Garmin user errors
2010 Gran Fondo average cadence: 41 rpm
2010 Gran Fondo average speed: 10.6 mph

2012 Gran Fondo elapsed time: unknown due to Garmin user errors and results not being up yet, but probably around 6 hours 45 minutes
2012 Gran Fondo moving time: 6 hours, 26 minutes
2012 Gran Fondo average cadence: 78
2012 Gran Fondo average speed: 15.9 mph
2012 Gran Fondo average watts: 134
Stops: 6
Crashes witnessed: 2
Energy Gels consumed: 5
Bottles used: 1 (although, had I stopped less frequently, might have used both)

The Queen of Pain’s 2012 elapsed time: 5 hours 12 minutes, a course record for females
The Queen of Pain’s 2012 average watts: 212
Age difference between myself and the Queen of Pain: -7 years

Which means I have 7 years to become that awesome.

Power

I heard an interesting figure last week. When discussing cycling power and epic rides with another cyclist, he shared with me that with proper training, most cyclists can enjoy a 7% increase in power year over year.

2012 CP20: 205w
2013 CP20: 219w
2014 CP20: 234
2015 CP20: 250
2016 CP20: 267
2017 CP20: 286
2018 CP20: 306
2019 CP20: 327

So I’ll be 44 in 2019 with a CP20 of 327w. That might be enough to approach the low five hour mark for Levi’s Gran Fondo. Of course, I might also have switched gears and become something really ridiculous, like, lazy, or a lawyer, or a mommy. Which doesn’t necessarily mean I can’t continue the the wattage trajectory, just, it might make it a little more difficult. And, the figures may have a decreasing rate of return. They probably do. But anyway, I’ve got time to get awesome.

More Deets

This day I was riding my Cannondale Super Six Evo with SRAM Red. I run a SRAM XX mountain bike derailleur in the back to accommodate a plus-sized 11-32 cassette. These days, SRAM is heavily marketing their WiFLi drivetrain to people who might ordinarily consider a triple front crankset, which seems funny to me because it’s not that difficult to achieve the same effect, all without the fancy new name and industrious marketing. Compact crankset + mountain bike derailleur + 11-32 mountain bike cassette = being able to spin up walls like it’s nbd. Thanks Coach Thomas for not giving up on getting me to switch!

The weather was absolutely horrifically freezing and miserable in the morning. James and I waited behind at least a few thousand people on the start, but were lucky to be next to a generator that was powering a coffee stand and pumping out warm exhaust fumes. But once we got going, I was the coldest I’ve ever been in my entire life.

I didn’t start to warm up until we approached Occidental. On the first King Ridge climb, I got a PR, but missed it on the second one because of a bathroom stop (I skipped the crowded potties in Occidental and took a lightning fast stop at some potties on the side of the road in one of the switchbacks in the second climb).

Another stop at Tin Barn, and then Ritchey Ranch, and then a freezing cold, moist descent down to Highway 1 (damn you, Queen of Pain, for taking my one Strava QOM on Drop to the Ocean). It was pretty painful along Highway 1, because James and I were caught up in a pretty fast paceline and it was tough to hang on, but hang on we did, all the way until Coleman Valley and my date with the Pain Cave.

My Favorite Things

1. That Diana and Nikki, my two BFFs, both had great rides. Diana’s experience was pretty intense with her first Gran Fondo, and Nikki killed it on the 60+ mile Medio route. I was thrilled to not have seen her out on course (and I saw and passed plenty of Medio riders)

Happy, Crack Free Girls

2. That James is now the keeper of the key (although I was a little sour about getting dropped just miles from the end when this was supposedly a “together” ride).

3. That I wasn’t broken the rest of the day, or the next. After the Annadel Cross Country race in August, during which I worked very, very hard and yet didn’t find the time or inclination to visit the Pain Cave, I was useless, napping in bed the rest of the afternoon. Saturday after the ride I was ready to boogie.

4. That I was able to ride so hard, for so long. After a whole year of being a very good little Zone 2 girl during my epic rides, and then having had a pretty good, long sufferfest during a few long races, I thought I would see what I could get away with. I still tried to save some for the end, but was pretty happy that I could flog myself so thoroughly for nearly seven hours and still be ready for more.

I had no idea the Pain Cave was such an elusive thing. I don’t think my Facebook acquaintance really understands its meaning either. I hope to be there again a few more times next year; maybe like with anything else, practice makes perfect, and I’ll someday be able to crash that party all cool-like, without accidentally smoking crack and running around with no pants.

Skinnies.

Not skinny jeans.

NOT THIS.

Skinny things that you ride a mountain bike over.

Wow, that guy riding over the skinny is pretty manly, said me.

I consider this a type of "skinny" as well. Photo of a skinny trail I rode by Nathaniel Gordon.

The trails in Mendocino, that I rode as part of Murphy Mack’s Mendocino Mountain Bike Madness (M5), were sweet. Smooth, flowy, fern-lined, beautiful. I’d say a large majority of the trails were, well…skinny. Micro-track. Narrower than what people in the bay area commonly refer to as singletrack.

And that’s fine. Whatever. Except when the skinny trail is perched on a precarious hillside ledge, which much of the trails were.

This trail was so skinny, you needed a rope to keep yourself from falling down the mountain. Photo by Nathaniel Gordon.

M5 was an all-inclusive weekend; for $285, you got two nights of cabin camping, seven gourmet, organic, farm-to-table meals, a fun race, group rides, and instructional clinics, all centered around the trails at Jackson State Demonstration Forest. There were nice bathrooms with hot showers. It was probably the most glamorous camping (I’m not sure I would go so far as to call it “glamping,” as the bathrooms were outside of our individual cabins, risking one to exposure to bears, spiders and other things in the middle of the night when getting up to pee) I’ve ever engaged in. It might have been glamping, thanks to the efforts of Murphy Mack, the event organizer. Maybe I’ll try for a cabin closer to the potty next year.

We checked in Friday, found a cabin, and ate a wonderful dinner. It was very cold that night. No matter how hot it is in Ukiah (like, 95 degrees) it will always be cold in a Mendocino forest. I will never forget this again.

Saturday Morning: Sport Race

Saturday morning we were both signed up to race. I decided to race “Sport” class. Mountain bike racing usually has four categories: Beginner (Cat 3), Sport (Cat 2), Expert (Cat 1) and Pro (Pro). Beginner was only one 10 mile lap, and I wanted to ride two laps for a longer ride, so off we went at 10:30.

We all huffed and puffed along the fire road in a peloton, and I made sure to take this part of the race seriously, to put myself as far ahead as possible. Once we hit the singletrack, which was indeed rather skinny, I was a little bit miserable trying to follow the quick riders up the hill, and not wanting yet to give in and let the person behind me by. There as a 10″ root or water bar that most people stopped and clambered over, while one guy went riding the half-inch wide bypass to the left. Rude! How dare someone have more talent than me. Sigh…

As things spread out a bit on the climb, a girl was making her way closer and closer to me. I could hear her talking. By the time we got to the first mini-summit of the first climb, I let her by. My self-esteem was pretty low at this point; the climb was hard, and this chick was just handling it. AND she claimed to be a new mountain biker. I struggled my way up the hill; there were one or two very narrow, tricky sections that had steep dropoffs (i.e. cliffs). I think I dabbed. Like Lee Nails, all you can do is Press On.

The descent was like a totally-worth-the-wait roller coaster ride. It too was mostly skinny, but now that I had some momentum, I felt more confident in my balance. I caught back up to Lina, the chick with the motor, and she politely let me by. Sweet! Was pretty sure she’d catch me again so I hurried to try to put some distance between us. I was following a guy in a Metromint outfit and a big guy in a royal blue jersey. Royal Blue was slowing me down just a hair, but I took the opportunity to rest and followed him for a good while up the next climb.

During Climb #2, there was a big split in the trail; both routes were part of the race course. Metromint and Blue went one way, I went the other. Turns out the way I chose, while more difficult, put me ahead of Mint and Blue by a lot. I never saw Blue again the rest of the race, and Mint didn’t catch me until we were on our second lap, up Climb #1 again.

I never saw Lina again either. I wondered how many gnarly girls were ahead of me. I wondered where James was, and how he was faring. I wondered how Snoop Doggy Dogg got his name, and merrily sung a song of his to myself. I wondered if I might make it through the next lap without dabbing.

Towards the end of the course, there is a 18″ wide board crossing a stream. Embarassingly, I walked it. Again. Got back on my bike and sprinted for the finish, hoping against hope that my second lap would be faster than my first. It wasn’t, but I won the race! Amazeballs.

Saturday Afternoon Ride: Widowmaker, Etc.

We drank some beer, had some lunch, and then got ready for our afternoon group ride. We had an enjoyable shuttle ride to a place 45 minutes or so from camp, then wind our way back on some sweet singletrack.

It was sweet, mostly, and mostly terrifying. Lots of skinnies. Even more narrow microtrack, and the addition of occasional 2×6 planks over little gullies formed by draining water. No, I didn’t have far to crash usually, but riding over these skinny pieces of wood really shook me up. I was pretty fatigued from the race too. Frankly I would have rather seen a perfectly good man wearing skinny jeans than another narrow bridge or 2×6 on my mountain bike ride. I tipped over into a soggy ditch, soaking my right foot, and was vexed.

The trail reminded me though, at times, of some trails I’ve ridden at Pogonip and UC, in Santa Cruz. Very lush, with challenging and interesting terrain features strewn about occasionally. Only, these were mostly new types of terrain features, like the skinnies, the ledges, and so on. A good learning experience, yeah I cried okay there I said it, and I can’t wait to kick its ass next year.

Murphy Mack told us, upon checking in, that the alcohol would be flowing and that if we remembered the weekend, we would have not had a successful event. So we had some drinks that night, but were like two golden retrievers taken on too long a walk – two drunken retrievers – and we passed out early in our warm cabin (our neighbors made a fire in the adjoining fireplace, heating our cabin too).

Sunday Morning: Next Time Stick to Road Rides

There were a few choices for group rides on Sunday, but the slowest one was a 30 miler. We were both pretty smoked so over scrambled eggs and french toast decided to just do a lap of the 10 mile race course and head home. I thought, oh, you know, no big deal, just spin, go up the climbs nice and slow, be mellow on the downhills, it’ll be fine.

Well it wasn’t fine. My legs had nothing in them, my balance was all screwed up, and my brain was wandering even more than it usually does. I tipped over a couple times, making these awful, gurgling, scared noises, which I’m sure James thinks are sad and ridiculous, but whatever. I pretty much survived until that wooden, three foot wide bridge in the middle of the course. The one with the handlebar-height metal pipe railings. I took the fast approach, following my speedy boyfriend, after taking the slow approach during the race. Looked where I wanted to go, and then BLAMMO. Pain.

I’d hit my hand and handlebar on the railing at a pretty good clip. I didn’t crash but started howling. Stopped and rubbed my hand a bit, and god it hurt! Took my glove off and was just about blinded by copious amounts of florescent red blood. Swearing turned to tears, and then shock, and then pedaling, up the second climb, and down the second descent. We didn’t know a better way back to camp; turns out we could have been back in 10 flat minutes instead of 45 minutes of gnar. I eyed my left hand warily, watching the red spot of blood soak further and further through my black glove, but stayed focused on getting back and not falling over again.

Oh well. The on-site EMT recommended stitches, can you see why?

Just another flesh wound.

Lucky to have a driver, I started drinking, showering and packing, and we got the eff out of dodge. I boozily enjoyed the pretty ocean views on the drive home, and we stopped in Cloverdale for milkshakes, and then I got dropped off at a hospital in Santa Rosa to get sewn up.

Thanks to Murphy Mack and his merry band of candy colored cyclists for an amazing weekend. Coach Thomas would have loved these trails, his tips and tricks helped get me around an unfamiliar trail with utmost quickness (well, for me). And thanks also to the Cupertino Bike Shop for their undying support and love!

I started riding road again three days later, and was back on the trails Sunday. I consider it yet another very inexpensive lesson:

MAYBE YOU SHOULD RIDE ROAD INSTEAD OF DIRT WHEN YOU’RE SO TIRED YOU CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT!

There’s no Crying in Mountain Biking

This happens a lot: Boyfriend takes girlfriend mountain biking for the first time. Girlfriend cries. Girlfriend sells mountain bike or stuffs it back into the garage to collect dust.

It happened to me two or three years ago. My 1997 Specialized Rockhopper hardtail, which I’d only ever ridden on creek trails, but was now at Annadel State Park. I had no idea how poorly suited my mountain bike was, or how challenging the terrain at Annadel was, or what kind of bad ass my boyfriend must have thought I was, but after climbing the steep, rocky Canyon trail (“it’s just a fireroad”) and then turning onto some singletrack, I had what must have been a panic attack and started crying. I was more afraid of going 0.5 mph over a rock than I was going 120 mph on a motorcycle.

I had an opportunity last fall to buy a new, modern mountain bike at a great price (thanks Cupertino Bike Shop), so I thought I’d try it again, this time, on my terms, riding the trails I wanted, stopping when I wanted, and crying when I wanted. Rode a few times. Was still scared, but no crying, and I slowly dabbed my way into some more technical riding.

Obsession hit with the purchase of my Santa Cruz Blur TRc this spring. I rode a lot, I fell a lot (sorry Mom), and somehow I ended up placing second in the beginner class at Downieville last month.

So winning the beginner ladies’ cross country race at Annadel two days ago was kind of like having dinner with an old boyfriend who broke your heart – and looking rad. I crushed it. I mean, for me. I crushed it in only the way a novice mountain biking girl can crush such things, finishing the 24 mile course in 2 hours, 27 minutes, 45 seconds. I would have come in 15th of 50 in beginner men, and 2nd of 20 or so women (of the masters and beginners racing the short course).

If I wasn’t still in such disbelief, I might actually be thrilled, and proud. I keep fighting off thoughts of how slow I am still, how far away I am from actually being good at mountain biking. I don’t think them in a sad way, just, in a factual way. They keep telling me to quit fucking around. Go faster!

Practice Makes…Walking

The race itself was pretty much mayhem. 650 mountain bikers in a peloton speeding down the streets of Santa Rosa, then stuffing themselves into the mouth of Howarth Park like a big swarm of bees flying into a tiny bird house. I saw my friend Sarah Pittiglio, fellow motorcycle racer and general bad ass, and wanted to keep up with her so we picked our way forward through the pack.

With all the traffic, sections that were normally easy to ride turned into hike-a-bike sections. I managed to keep things clipped in until Violetti, a steep, rocky, loose fireroad climb. It’s a good thing I went and practiced Violetti, Cobblestone and Channel so many times, because all the hard stuff I finally was able to clear consistently, everyone around me was walking through. I’m sure they could ride it too, but it only takes one to bring the conga line to a halt.

Just after the conga line, and clearly looking for someone to save me

Up Richardson, a smooth, steep fireroad, everyone spread out and I had some time to think finally. My heart rate was around 180, unsustainable for me for a long effort, so I backed off and tried to pace myself. I didn’t pass anyone. I got passed a lot. I hated it.

Chain Drop, passedbyadude.com

My suckfest on Richardson knocked me back into a more compatible group, I think. When we hit the technical singletrack, no one passed me and I found myself keeping pace with riders ahead of me. But on Live Oak, a rocky, narrow climb, I dropped my chain again – in the back, to the inside – this has been happening more and more lately. I f bombed, getting off the trail, flipping my bike over and trying to wrestle the chain out from between the hub and the cassette. Saw boys passing me, swore some more. Got it sorted and ran up the hill pushing my bike up to an easier spot to remount.

I passed some boys back. I wondered how many beginner girls snuck in front of me, or were already in front of me. I wondered where Sarah was, I really wanted to try to hang with her sport class awesomeness. I tried to remind myself to have some fun on the descents. At some point on a rocky climb my right foot flew out of the pedal and I smacked my right inside ankle bone on the crank arm – AGAIN – and I howled in pain. Like a bitten inside cheek that keeps getting stuck between your teeth, my ankle was already raw, swollen and bruised. Time to amputate.

Pros. Descents. More Mayhem.

Feeling a bit like the Amazing Race trying to follow the directional arrows stapled to trees (I still don’t really know my way around Annadel), wondering where that horrible rock was before Marsh (the one that made me have another ankle incident a week prior), grabbing Gu and water from the volunteers, and waiting like a little lamb for the pro wolves to start getting up in my business. The pros took a “long cut,” and after riding it they’d be back on my trail.

When the pros came through, I hope I struck a good balance of riding my own race, but also cooperatively looking for convenient places to let them pass. I called out which way I was pulling over so they could get by. At one point I stopped and pulled over, and a short course lady got by. No! I pedaled furiously down the Ridge and Marsh descents and finally got her back on the Canyon descent (the same trail I cried coming up years ago). I flew over and around a thousand small boulders, trying to keep pace with some of the pros who passed me.

On the flat fire road at the bottom, I sprinted for the finish, imagining my other short course lady to be on my ass. I didn’t want to have gone through two hours of mayhem and ankle pain just to let some chick beat me right before the line.

She didn’t. I crossed the finish line, found my truck, tenderly laid down my amazing Blur TRc (I still cannot believe the things it can do), turned down a cold beer, and promptly died. I averaged 174 bpm for the duration of the two and half hour race, generating a much higher Strava suffer score than from the slightly longer Pescadero Road Race. I had no idea how I finished until our friend Maxine came over and told me I’d won!

Thanks Daydreamer Cinema for the photos - oh, and this chick Julie is rad

My race preparation was pretty good – Howard from Mikes Bikes Los Gatos, Team Buy-Cell.com, Trail Head Cyclery and Coach Thomas had all helped me with mental prep, tire choice, tire swaps, and road training, but my post-race prep was terrible. I had no recovery drink, was out of water, had no chairs or champagne, and it was hot, dry and dusty. The rest of the day I was like a wind-up toy with a broken wind-up thing.

I need to work on my outfits. Turns out sleeveless doesn’t look very pro, especially with elbow pads, nor does my pink Camelbak. Have to learn how to drink from bottles on the dirt bike (and how to not fall on my elbows).

Like I'm just out for a Sunday ride...with an elbow pad falling down.

And while I love the Specialized Prevail helmet, when I see pictures of me in it I think of this:

All in all, stoked about the race. Bike Monkey put on a great event. Happy to have crushed Annadel after it crushed me a few years ago!

Peace out Annadel!

That Was Easy.

I know. I feel a little funny starting out my Death Ride report this way, like I’m gloating, and useless gloating on the internet gets ridiculous. But I worked hard and planned well, and maybe all the planning and training that I’ve written about will help someone other Death Rider someday. Having an amazing coach who put me on a plan that profoundly improved my fitness this year helped a lot too.

The short version: I finished the Death Ride with 9 hours and 45 minutes of moving time, 12 hours elapsed. The weather was perfect, the people were perfect, I had some sit bone discomfort around mile 85 that was mitigated by the generous re-application of chamois cream, and at no point did I feel smoked. I came, I saw, I kicked its ass, and I left feeling like I could have ridden harder.

The longer version.

Cycling is my mental escape, as was motorcycling. When I ride, it’s so easy to forget about what the hell I’m doing with the rest of my life. I first threw myself into bicycles after having broken off a four year relationship and engagement in the fall of 2010. The relationship, with another cyclist, has had its fits and restarts since then, and cycling, as always, is one thing in life that is clear to me, something I can cling to when everything else is sideways.

I also am grateful to have the freedom to work from home and set my own schedule. This allows me the time to train. I’m also single, no kids, just a couple cats (of course).

In other words, I ride a lot.

So don’t beat yourself up if the Death Ride wasn’t easy for you. If it wasn’t easy for me, I’d have issues. I’m so impressed by the people who complete this ride who have demanding careers, families with needs, who have come back from emotional or physical challenges, or who haven’t grown up as athletes, to complete the ride. It’s a huge accomplishment. What I did was not impressive, it was what I was supposed to do. I was healthy and prepared. I grew up in sports, so my mind is used to gearing up for hard shit, and with a ride like this, your attitude is more than half the battle.

The nitty gritty.

I arrived at 12:30 on Friday and parked my Sprinter Van, the rig I used to haul motorcycles to races, in a roadside parking area about two tenths of a mile up from Turtle Rock Park. I brought a scooter and unloaded it, and then got a few things situated.

I didn’t have a ticket to ride. DR announced online months earlier that starting at 7 p.m. the night before, they would start selling the tickets of people who’d cancelled or not shown up to pick up their registration packet. I was there at 3. With a chair and a book and my water. I was second in line. By 7:15 p.m. I had my bib numbers and was on my merry way, sashaying past over 300 people all standing in line, anxiously awaiting their tickets.

In line for no-show Death Ride tickets

Speaking of which, I had never seen so many amazingly fit people in one place at one time. I’ve never done a marathon, or a triathlon, so this was kind of my first rodeo for something big like this. Eye candy everywhere. I think the opposite end of the earth would have been, like, an Applebee’s in Missouri.

I was asleep in my van by 10, alarm set for 3:45. Very cozy in my summertime mummy bag and on top of a 2.5″ inflatable sleeping pad.

When I peered outside into the darkness a few minutes before four a.m., there were bicycles whizzing by. Kind of a lot. Wow! Shhhoooom. Shooooooom. Shoom. Little lights flickering in the darkness. I was excited to ride, despite the cold, which really wasn’t even that cold for a summer morning (or night?) in the mountains.

Breakfast at Turtle Rock Park, in a nicely heated cafeteria style building. Coach Thomas had told me “eat and drink early and often,” so I put together a pretty full plate of eggs, pancake, and bacon. For the first half hour, I would be barely pedaling, and then after that, my effort level would still be only a Zone 2 (110-150 watts, 125-145 bpm). If my tummy was full of breakfast grease, I figured it was okay because I wouldn’t be working that hard for a while and I’d have time to digest it.

The descent from the start, down through the town of Markleeville, and to the base of Monitor Pass, was dark. And there were so many riders. It was somewhat dangerous probably, but it fun. We all had lights, it was cold but not too bad, and we were all speeding through the early morning in a kind of careful peloton. Although, ever the racers, my riding partner and I quickly grew impatient with the slow descending around us and kind of charged forward on our own.

Shortly before the first pass there was a spookily lit checkpoint next to an ambulance, where officials made sure we were all official riders with bib numbers on our bikes and jerseys.

Monitor pass began. I was again impressed with the sheer number of riders around me. It was motivating, but I stayed within my power zone, hoping to see higher power numbers up Carson, the last pass. Many people passed me, and I passed many people. Some people I passed, I thought, “wow, that’s going to be a long day.” There were so many…interesting…bikes. And people. The people watching was phenomenal, and made the time go by fast.

Before I knew it I was at the first rest stop.

Monitor Pass 1 (to rest stop): 140w, 150 bpm, 7.4 mi, 1:05 (PR on time, not power, maybe aided by the draft of all the people around me)

The descent down the backside of Monitor was amazing, as always. I got to “play” with a cyclist who had a helmet camera, and he put together the cutest video about his day out with his team. Look for us descending Monitor starting at 2:10, I’m in blue. The whole video gives you a nice flavor of what the whole experience is like.

Coming back up Monitor I was high on life. I was playing music from my iPhone, the weather and views were incredible, and I was happily spinning with a high cadence in the rad mountain bike gears Rickey Fogle installed for me, heart rate just a touch under 160.

Cheese, Ascending Monitor

Monitor 2: 141w, 153 bpm, 9.1 mi, 1:20 (PR on time, not power, again, the draft from hoards of people)

Ebbets 1, at least the bottom part, was a bit of active recovery. I really slowed things up, then once I hit the cattle guard went back to my plan. I hadn’t seen the backside of Ebbetts before. I didn’t enjoy the descent, it was bumpy, narrow, too many people, so I just made my way down carefully, turned around and started climbing back up.

Ebbetts 1: 131w, 149 bpm, 10.8 mi, 1:23 (from junction with Monitor)
Ebbetts 2: 136w, 156 bpm, 4.6 mi, 0:42 (HR seemed really high for my wattage back here, I might have been bonking)

Descending the front side of Ebbetts I saw one crash. There were already several people standing around to help, but no emergency personnel, so I didn’t see what value I would add besides possibly making someone behind me crash, so onward I traveled. There was a lunch stop at the bottom, and we were stopped for about a half hour, eating sandwiches and Cup O’Noodles.

We had maybe 15 miles to go to get back to the van, by Turtle Rock Park, where another stop would occur. On the way there I ran into fellow SJBC rider Laura Hipp, got to chat with her a while, and then finally we stopped for some cold drinks and the generous reapplication of chamois cream.

Me, and Laura Hipp, SJBC

The march towards Carson was uneventful. My private battle with the headwinds actually made the time go by quickly; I would huddle with a small group of riders for a while and rest, then leap out, sprint moderately up to the next small clump of riders, huddle, rest, leap, sprint, etc. When the climb really kicked into high gear, I tried aiming for over 150 watts, I really wanted to finish strong with higher power numbers on my last climb than my first. I must have been fatigued, because I only managed 2w more than the morning’s first climb:

Carson: 142w, 153 bpm, 3.4 mi (from the rest stop to the top)

The Death Ride organizers always serve ice cream at the top of Carson Pass, and then you can sign the year’s official Death Ride poster. The whole thing was a little cultish, like Burning Man, and I was totally drinking the Kool-Aid (and eating the ice cream).

I Scream

I love the honey badger so much my friends started calling me "Cooley Badger." I kind of like it.

We still had something like 20 miles to go after getting to the top of Carson, but they were uneventful. A fast, bumpy, car-addled descent, but just the thing this ex-motorcycle racer loves (yes, I passed some cars). In the end, I was nowhere near the fastest, but nowhere near the slowest either. A happily average sized fish, but in a ass big pond.

Congratulations to all you other Death Riders out there. Thanks Cupertino Bike Shop, Coach Thomas, and life!

Roxy, about five minutes after I got home from Markleeville.

In the quest for true love on two wheels, I did a mountain bike race a week ago Saturday at Monterey’s Fort Ord, part of the CCCX cycling series. I don’t know exactly where I fit in with bicycles, I just know that I love them and want to be rad. So I’ve been trying out different things.

It’s so different from motorcycles. As soon as I got on a “crotch rocket” I felt like Will Smith in Independence Day when he flies the spaceship for the first time, and it became clear pretty quickly that I wanted to be on the fastest, sexiest bike and make it my bitch. That led to road racing. I knew I didn’t want to set land speed records, or race supermoto, or dirt bikes. I loved the sheer speed and acceleration, the aggression, and the glamour of road racing.

No such clarity with bicycles, so onward I pedal.

I had a seat dropper on my mountain bike, a device that’s triggered by a lever on the handlebars which will raise and lower your seat post. Great for learning how to ride down very steep, technical terrain, but it’s heavy and I wouldn’t need it for a cross country race, so Friday night I replaced it with my standard seat post. I’m not a climber. And I know the weight doesn’t matter that much, but I swear to you, it feels like a load of pancakes in my stomach when that dropper is on and I’m trying to hustle up a hill.

I wasn’t thrilled thinking about my smooth front tire in the sandy loose stuff at Fort Ord, but wasn’t unthrilled enough to do anything about it. Figured I’d just be careful and if sliding happened, it’d be good for my skill set.

Race mornings start early: sunrise over Mt. Hamilton

Sophie Bee and I planned to arrive at registration when it opened, at 7:30. Early, but I’d been wired up since three a.m. like me, Christmas morning, circa 1982. We wanted to get a full lap in on the course as a warm-up before starting. This would be Sophie’s first mountain bike race since racing here a few years ago and injuring her back, leading to surgery, poison oak outbreaks, and all sorts of nonsense, so I was glad we could cheer each other on.

My warm ups are pretty miserable. I puttered around the course, watching Sophie zoom up the climbs. I remembered my goals for the day:

• Don’t crash: avoid charging into unfamiliar turns or feeling pressured by faster people behind me
• No chain drop: fortunately this hasn’t been a problem on my Santa Cruz Blur TRc, but I dropped the chain on my old bike three times my last race here.
• No wandering off course: this happened last race. A combination of fatigue and distraction.
• No more poison oak: see “don’t crash,” above.

As we got the 15 second countdown for the start and all eagerly awaited the whistle, I pretended I was trying to get the holeshot in a motorcycle race. Instead of looking for the twitchy shoulder about to wave the flag, I tuned myself to the sound of that whistle, and off I went. I tried to draft some girls who got out of the gate fast, and by the time we turned off the road and into the course, I was third or fourth, behind a quick junior and another fast looking lady. I wanted to be as far ahead as I could be and make girls pass me.

I don’t remember when I passed Chantel, the junior, but it was fairly early on, so all I had left was Anya Thrash (best competitor name ever), and she was very quick. My heart rate was pushing close to 180 chasing her; I felt good, but had no idea what to expect with four laps and a bit over an hour and a half of racing, plus I wanted to stay true to my goals. So I slowed down.

Coach Thomas was like a broken record in my little brain, too: “eyes up the trail. Eyes up the trail. Eyes up the trail.”

My poison oak outbreak was feeling prickly, like it recognized its brethren out on the course and got excited. It’s kind of been killing me the past week or two. And I also got my period. On the third lap. But I kept pedaling, and each time I came upon a “lapper” (a slower rider from a grid that left before us), I passed him as promptly as I could, hoping that other girls might hesitate more, allowing me to charge ahead even further.

There was this one lapper I came across. Oh my god. He was huffing and puffing, and doing alright on the climbs, but each time we got to a corner or a sand trap he parked it and this was all in a very tight, long section of singletrack. I felt like I was on an Ninja 250, following around a slow R1 at a track day. I almost punted him. When we got to the short paved portion, I expected him to sit up a bit and rest like the other riders were doing, but no, he raced me! We both stood out of our saddles and sprinted down the road. Needless to say, I beat him to the trail head and off I went, but I was smoked by the effort.

A couple looks over my shoulder indicated that Sophie was not in the vicinity. I couldn’t quite believe it, because she kicks my ass every time we ride, so I hoped that she hadn’t had any problems.

There were several sand traps on the course, some that seemed deep to me. A couple laps I tried to fight my way around them, one or two laps I plowed and prayed.

I smiled for the photographers. I counted down the laps, occasionally forgetting how many I had left.

My heart rate held steady in the 170s the whole race, but I was trying hard to conserve energy on descents and carry corner speed, and then have some energy in reserve to run up the short, steep little climbs.

When the finish came, I was ridiculously happy to have met my four goals, but on top of that, only one girl finished ahead of me. I won my age category, the 35-44 beginner women, and came in 2nd overall. Sophie came in a few minutes behind me, also winning her 45+ category and very thrilled by the race.

CCCX XC Domination!

We stayed and watched some of the Cat 1 and 2 racers, including my friends Sarah and Bri. Here’s Sarah coming across the finish:

Damn this poison oak. It’s like I’ve been in this honeymoon period with mountain biking, and now it’s thrown up a pretty big red flag. Well maybe not a red flag, more like a yellow. Like finding out that your super rad boyfriend, like, is rude to wait staff, or gives you yeast infections.

So far mountain biking is worth it.

Cheese & Poison Oak