Winter Blues

Many moons ago, back before Sam and I had moved to Colorado, we had come out for a visit to see Sam's father. At the time, his dad lived in Estes Park, which is in the mountains about 35-ish miles north-west of our current residence.

Downtown Estes Park, CO in mid-September 2002. It honestly hasn't changed much in the last 14.5 years.

While we were out visiting, we took a lot of photos.

View from the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, 2002

Although I had considered Boulder (about 15 miles south-west of our current residence) as an option for college just out of high school, I had never visited prior to Sam's and my first road trip together in 2002.

I was absolutely struck by the beauty of this state.

Deer and elk roamed freely through yards during our visit.

The mountains, the sky, the animals all had my attention, and even the populated areas weren't half bad. I jokingly stated at the end of our visit, "We should move here - It's so beautiful!!"

A view from just outside Rocky Mountain National Park looking down into the Estes Park area/valley in 2002. It was a hazy day, but still lovely.

Little did I know at the time that less than half a year later life circumstances would dramatically change and we would do exactly that.

We had to stop during our travel through the mountains because I couldn't get over the rock formations, water and trees.

When we returned home, everyone wanted to see photos from the trip - or at least they feigned interest in such matters, as I'm sure my excitement was obvious. The one question I was continually asked was:  Are the skies really that blue?

Our home at the time was in typically smog-filled southern California and rarely, unless at a beach on a clear day, would we see skies even remotely as clear and blue as those in Colorado. It was easy to understand why people continued to ask the question because to us it seemed such a thing couldn't possibly exist. I assured anyone who wondered such thoughts that the photographs were undoctored and that yes, in fact, the skies truly are that blue.

A photo taken last year, just down the road from home.

I share this today because I understand that I often take my surroundings for granted. It's a lot easier to do than I might have thought at one time, but I am occasionally smacked in the face by a moment or a situation that brings me back to those feelings and thoughts that took place over 14 years ago.

A partly cloudy day, but the backdrop was still something to behold.

Out on a short ride, I caught a glimpse of the blue in the sky and although we are fortunate to have many sunny days in winter, I went back to those conversations years ago and reminded myself that I am so fortunate to call this place home.

A gravel ride three years ago left me in awe of my surroundings.

Occasionally, these rides happen, I think, just to remind me that I shouldn't take any day or situation for granted. I never thought I'd leave home in California, but it happened (and swiftly). I have to remind myself that it could just as easily take place again -- and I could only hope to be so fortunate to find myself in another part of the country with such beautiful surroundings.

It's easy to grow weary of the dry, dead, browns of winter, and this season has been unusually light on snow, making it feel somehow even more dreary (or maybe that's just me). Perhaps my brain expects that if no snow is falling, it should be spring and I expect to see greens and blooms?

Oh well. Regardless, I am enjoying the season and my surroundings as I pedal or walk about. The fat tire bike may not be getting as much use as I'd have thought at the start of winter, but I have no doubt it will see its fair share of time as well. In the meantime, I'll enjoy the tans and browns that overtake in winter, as well as the beautiful winter blue sky. How can I not when there is so much loveliness to see? Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, a small part is still looking forward to spring. It's closing in faster than I thought!

One Month in a Bike Shop

It's becoming a habit to apologize for being MIA more frequently than I'd like, but here I am again. I've taken on some new projects (probably more than I should) and it's left me with little spare time. In some respects, it's fantastic to have so much to do, but on the other side, I'm left with little reflection time, which is unfortunate as I am one who enjoys that time. I am trying to find balance, but, if you've read here for any length of time, you'll understand that is nearly always my struggle.

It is difficult for me not to give everything to anything I undertake, but when there are splits off the main path, I find myself struggling to do anything the way I would like. At the moment, my attention gets pulled in multiple directions on any given day and I find myself wondering why nothing gets accomplished. For someone who once taught classes on time management and organization, I have difficulty implementing these ideas and plans for myself ('Those who can, do; those who can't, teach', as the saying goes). It doesn't help though that I also have a very difficult time saying no to people who want or need assistance.

Which is how I ended up involved in the latest branch off from the main path.

*Image found here

I was approached and asked if I'd be willing to work in a local bike shop part-time to help out with various needs. The immediate request was to get inventory under control and to give the owner time to have a quick break or work on other necessities as the situation dictated. Unfortunately, all the shop staff had vanished for one reason or another (summer plans for touring abroad, back to school, etc), and they'd been left in a bit of a tight situation. I understood that the need is seasonal and part-time, so it seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to agree to do.

Secretly, I also thought, Finally! My way into Interbike. Though, in truth, I'm sure I could fanangle my way in via the blog... I've honestly never tried. Still, it just seemed an easier path to be connected with a bike shop.

Though I've never worked in a bike shop, I am semi-knowledgeable when it comes to bicycles - or at least have enough information in the recesses not to sound like a complete bumbling fool most of the time - so my response without really thinking was that of course I would be willing to help.

Admittedly, it has been a less-than-secret curiosity of mine to have the opportunity to work in a bike shop too, so when assistance was requested, I looked at it as a chance to dip my toes in the pond without having to go for a full-on swim. 

One day early on at the shop, as I was pulling out my hair attempting to understand why the inventory was in the state it is in, the owner asked me to switch out a tube and add a liner to a tire because he was busy with other repairs. He pointed over the counter to a bike I couldn't see from my vantage point, and threw some tire liner at me.

My insides suddenly lit up - and not in a good way. My internal thought was, wait, why am I doing this? You don't think I'm a mechanic do you? You know I am completely inept when it comes to changing or fixing most things on a bicycle, right?

My external response was, "Yeah, sure. No problem," in as nonchalant a voice as I could muster in the moment. After all, I was there to make his life easier and it's not as though I don't know what to do, but I just rarely change tubes for myself (a more recent exception took place, but generally speaking, I've been fortunate enough to shirk off this responsibility to others - namely, Sam).

As I walked around the corner, I spotted the bike in question. Oh, thank heavens. At least it's the front tire in need of repair, was the only thought in my mind. I suddenly realized that the brakes were disc though and that there was no quick release skewer, so off I went to find a tool to free the wheel from the fork.

"You're okay, right?" the owner inquired as he saw me (I'm sure looking like a lost pup) scrounging for a multi-tool.

"Oh, yeah, I'm good. I just need a tool to remove the bolt on the wheel," I responded. Though, it probably didn't come out as smoothly as it appears in written word. One thing I've noticed is that even though I know what parts, pieces, and accessories are, I seem to stutter and stammer through some of the real-life moments because my brain doesn't seem to keep up with my mouth (or maybe it's the other way around?).

As dramatic as one might think this task could have been for me (at least if you are semi-versed in my history with bike repair), it was really a non-event once I found the tool. Everything came off and went on as it should have and I finished in a reasonable amount of time, feeling entirely too proud of myself for accomplishing such a simple task.

Perhaps I was feeling too cocky at this point because a bit later in the day another request was thrown my way to remove a saddle and put a different model on a bike. Aacck, my insides were screaming. Removing and adding isn't such a big deal, but I have a horrible time with tilt. As if reading my mind the owner stated, "Don't worry about the tilt. Can you just get the saddle on there for me?"

This time I actually said something to the effect of, "You know I'm completely incompetent with this stuff, right?" To which his response was, "Well, the only way you'll get better is to do it."

Touché. I couldn't help but laugh at this on-the-nose remark.

Since then, he's cut me some slack (mostly due to the reality that I do want to get everything computer-wise straightened out for him), but I've been told that more repairs are in my future (watch out bike world!).

I've had the opportunity to talk with customers and attempt to fumble my way through real-life problems. It's amazing how different it is to have time to compose thoughts (a la this blog) than to have need for instantaneous response (such as in a bike shop). The knowledge is there, but I find that it doesn't always immediately come out of me in every situation. Thankfully, everyone has been patient.

The brands carried in the shop (at least as far as bicycles go) I am less familiar with than some others, but I know I have an off-the-local-norm sense of what works. I do think that the owner's and my backgrounds are different enough that, in many respects, it is actually beneficial to those coming in looking for advice. We may both love to ride, but our strengths are in different areas without a doubt.

While his ideal shop probably looks something akin to this:

High-end road bikes on the walls and technical gear would probably be the shop-owner's dream.
*Image found here

My ideal is something more along these lines:

Old wood floors, wood racks, steel bikes, wool jerseys, and dogs in baskets (if only my retrievers would fit/sit in a front basket)... what more could I want? There's a definite aesthetic that appeals to me.
*Image found here of Huckleberry Bicycles 

Even though appearances may be different, I know we both want to help people find the right bike for their individual type of riding and to help resolve any issues they may be experiencing whether they race bikes are commute on them. Really, we have more similarities than differences.

Ultimately, I think he'll gain more trust in me as we move forward and I'm able to prove that I'm not as stupid as I sometimes sound, and hopefully I'll get better about answering questions without the occasional stumbling over myself.

It's been an interesting and often entertaining time to have this opportunity to experience what it's like to actually work in a bike shop. It's familiar, and yet somehow all-together foreign. A perfect opportunity for applying knowledge, if I can get my act together, I think.

If you could work in a bike shop (even temporarily) would you give it a try? Have you worked in a bike shop? If so, do you have any words of wisdom for me as I figure my way through this?

Fat Bike

Preface: I started writing this post a few days ago and then stopped myself. I wasn't sure that I wanted to post it at all, but I think this is an ongoing issue that humans, and in particular, females are dealing with continuously and while I don't have the answer or the solution for anyone, perhaps it will be a good point of discussion or a means for someone to vent or share stories. Maybe I'm just rambling to try to sort through my own thoughts. I'm not entirely sure, but I'm going to attempt to make sense of the thoughts that have been rolling around for the last several days and hopefully others will be willing to offer personal insights or thoughts on the matter. 

Over the last several weeks, Sam's and my schedules haven't been the most normal. We haven't spent a ton of time together during this stint, and while that may work well for some couples, I prefer to have at least some amount of time together to vent about happenings or just simply to be in the same room. So, when we had a morning free of obligations recently, I thought it would be a perfect opportunity to spend a little time together.

My suggestion was that we ride to the gym for a morning workout and then ride to breakfast afterward. A couple of months ago we stopped our kickboxing regimen that had existed for nearly 5 years, so I was feeling as though something was missing, and if I'm totally honest, I've started to feel a little extra blubbery after our departure, even though I've continued to work out in various forms. Additionally, I find it challenging to motivate myself to go to the gym by myself, particularly in the summer months. It's warm and sunny, and all I want to do is wander around in the world taking in the goodness.

Sam agreed to this plan the night prior, but when we awoke the following morning, nothing seemed to go right. I over slept and was displeased that Sam hadn't woke me from my slumber. I understood his reasoning (trying to allow me some extra rest), but I was still irritated because it felt as though the whole morning had been thrown off. I also wasn't physically doing well. I was having a hard time standing upright due to a project I should not have participated in a few days prior, so I was trying to work out some kinks in the body.

By the time I finished my leisurely rising and petting of the dogs, the morning was quickly escaping. I figured I'd better get dressed rather than continuing to lollygag or it would delay things further, but just as I was slipping on my t-shirt, our doorbell rang.

A familiar voice could be heard just outside the front door, so I went to greet our friend and we cackled and chatted about summer, her now-second year high schooler returning to classes, and the vegetables overtaking our garden. Some people are just those I can speak with for long periods and not realize we've been chatting for hours. By the time we were finished and she went on about her day, it was nearly 11a. [sigh]

I looked at Sam and asked, "So, do you still want to do breakfast? Looks like we're not going to work out beforehand though because I am really hungry now."

We agreed that we'd ride to get bagels and then get about the day. As we started down the road, I felt fat. I felt that even my bike was making me appear fatter, which is not something I'm used to experiencing. I was fussing with my shirt that felt as though it was riding half way up my back. I pictured rolls of skin being exposed to anyone traveling by, even though logic, if it had been working that day, would have told me that my shirt was just barely sitting above the waistline of my shorts. I could feel my body expanding beyond the confines of my clothing and no amount of stretching or pulling was resolving the issue. The shorts I had on were riding up and pinching at the saddle. My stomach felt as though it was protruding particularly far and as I pedaled all I could feel was the wiggling and jiggling of extra weight attached to several parts of my body.

Most women understand that one does not necessarily need to be fat in order to feel fat. While I definitely do have more than my share of extra meat on my body, there are simply days that I have that feeling of being fat which comes from a whole different place than physical fat on the body. Lots of things can contribute to this. It could be that I didn't drink enough water the day prior, or that I had too much sodium. It could be that I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. It could be premenstrual bloating. It could be something that someone said that unwittingly seeped into my subconscious. There are a number of potential factors at play with this feeling though, so sometimes it's difficult to pinpoint the exactness of how the fat feeling came about on any particular day.

Sam and I weren't even a half mile from home when I proclaimed I was returning to the house. In my mind, all I could hear was snickering from non-existent people we were passing saying, "Fat girl on a bike coming through... make way!" I just felt gross.

At first, I thought switching to a different bike or a simple change of clothing would help, but that, as anyone who has experienced the frustration of looking at a closet full of clothing and feeling as though there is nothing to wear can testify, did not go well.

There I lay, face down on the bed, dogs sniffing at my face as I cried into a pillow. I felt Sam walk into the room, but he didn't say a word. He likely had no clue what was running through my mind and may have wondered if he'd done something to upset me.
                                                         
A few days later, I was on Facebook for a brief catch-up. I don't spend a lot of time there because most often I find there is little of value to me personally, but it was a rather well timed check-in that afforded me the opportunity to see a quick quote-post from a friend on the subject I'd just days before been battling myself.

*Image found here

The post read:
Stop worrying about whether you're fat. You're not fat. Or, rather, you're sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this. -- Cheryl Strayed

For some of us, we're more than "a little bit fat," but I get the point or the quote, and most days I agree with the sentiment. It's such a meaningless waste of time to expend energy beating ourselves up.

The comments that followed made an impression on me as well. I'll simply use first initials to identify the parties for purposes here.

I was amazed! First, the fact that a whole range of ages of women are obsessed with their weight is mind-boggling. In my experience, most of the women who worry about such things tend to be rather fit and/or normal sized humans, yet they beat themselves up over 5-20 extra pounds - based on a chart that a doctor told them was their "ideal" weight.

I also understand the response by E when she said she is "permanently damaged." As someone who grew up with daily and weekly weigh-ins as a child, I completely empathize with those who are traumatized for one reason or another in regard to weight. In my case, it was very conflicting messages... You will be weighed in by a parent every week to make sure you're not gaining weight (or, as became the case as I got a little older, that I was losing weight) combined with a very unbalanced, unstructured, and frankly unhealthy diet and lack of emotionally-healthy role models.
In some respect, I look at E's comment as a means of justifying how she feels. She is damaged and therefore it is acceptable and almost necessary for her to feel justified in her body self-bashing. I don't think this is a healthy response or thought, and even though she may feel that words cannot heal her state of being, I think her own thoughts are doing more detriment to her mental state than she imagines.

I don't know E. I know J, and E is simply one of her Facebook friends making a comment, but I know those thoughts, those feelings. I know there is nothing healthy, good, or positive that comes from these thoughts. Nearly everyone has them at some point - some more often than others - but when we live in constant self-hatred, self-bashing, how can we ever learn to accept who we are or to love ourselves or anyone else for that matter (to semi-steal a quote from RuPaul)?
It is almost as though it is expected that women (I'm using women here because I'm part of that gender and know what has happened to me personally, but I won't assume that males are not subject to this sort of thing either) constantly obsess and fuss over their weight. If I were to tell people that I really don't care about my weight and mean it, I would immediately be judged and (more than likely) get a few sets of sideways eyebrow-glares. If I am an average weight or slim size, women say, "Well, that's because you're already the perfect size/weight, so of course you don't worry about it;" and when, such as is the case for me, we are overweight, other women think or sometimes even say aloud, "Well, maybe you should be worried about your weight." And yes, this does happen. If you've never witnessed it yourself, count yourself lucky because people are surprisingly okay with telling others how, who and what they should be.

I have read studies that were much higher than this figure estimates, (one suggested women lose up to 17 years of life thinking about weight and diet) but even losing a year of life thinking about weight is disturbing.
*Image found here

There is always someone judging, but I think our own thoughts and words do the most damage. I was raised with the idea that I should weigh myself every single day so that I would always know my weight. But weighing daily quickly turned into an easy way to hate my body when it rebelled against what I was doing to improve it. It was far too easy to focus on that number instead of the actual changes taking place or how I felt. Then, I became that number. Those three digits were literally my identifier. When I spoke to others, when I went about my day, any time I went to put a bite of food in my mouth - that label became all I could see in my minds eye.

The best thing I ever did in regard to this matter was to stop weighing myself.

I'll admit, it wasn't the easiest decision to make and even though I had others encouraging me to drop the scale, I fought it for a long time. There is a part of me to this very day that sometimes wonders how I can function without knowing what I weigh, which is sad in itself.

Then, I remind myself that my clothes still fit and I can move and do the things I need and want to do, so the number on a scale is inconsequential. Every time I have a passing thought about weighing myself I stop and ask, is anything positive going to come from this action? Am I going to feel better or will I enter the day feeling empowered in any way? The answer is always, no. So, I don't drag out the scale.

The fact remains, I am not at my slimmest. I don't need a scale to tell me a number to know that I have been lighter at various points in time. Bashing myself does nothing to change my weight though and knowing the number often only makes matters worse. I know that there are factors affecting weight beyond what I do and what I eat as well, and it is the same for many on the planet.

When a person comes from a family of meaty individuals, it is going to play a role in weight. My entire life doctors have tried to tell me that it's purely a matter of calories in versus calories out that is reflected on the scale, but I know for a fact that isn't always the case. Some may view this as my own attempt to feel better about myself (and that is perfectly acceptable if you are one of these individuals), but I've done enough long term experiments to recognize that there is more to weight than simply exercise and nutrition. I understand that weight is not a math problem to be solved with a simple formula. If it was, the answer would be easy and nearly everyone would be a "perfect" size.

Of course, then I wonder what society would be if we all looked exactly the same? It strikes me as rather boring to think about walking out into the world and seeing carbon copies all around me. Part of body composition is evolutionary, I'm convinced. There were those in our history who needed to be slim, fast and long-legged to be able to out run beasts they were hunting for food. Others needed to hold on to more weight to be able to survive lengthy periods without food or famine. How could this not survive in our cells as they get passed down through generations?

Throughout history, different body types have been the sought-after ideal. Even today different cultures view weight and size quite differently. For the western world, our Eurocentric viewpoint is often all that is considered though, and today the idolized body type for a female is one that is lean - though I do see this changing very slowly to a viewpoint that encourages and accepts strong bodies. But, this just feels like yet another goal for women to achieve that, let's face it, won't be attainable for every body type. Additionally, many resources that encourage the strong body don't even show images of individuals who are strong but look different from each other (meaning the represented ideal is still a slim and mildly muscle-y individual).

Until we as a society learn to accept ourselves and each other as we are without need to comment on someone else's appearance, there will always be an ideal that is expected; and when one is incapable of living up to that expectation, there will be self-blaming and continued feelings of inadequacy.

Or, maybe that's just how I feel.

If I take a moment and rewind to the day I cried into the pillow because I felt fat while riding and therefore unworthy of existing in the world, I wish I could take this more rational self and beam her into that moment. I wish I could have the strong me that exists 90% of the time standing by the weak and fragile 10% to tell her that she is okay. That she is strong and capable, even if there are moments of vulnerability to the outside world. I wish I could tell her that we all feel unworthy or less-than at times and that it will pass. I wish I could tell her not to lose out on a moment with someone she loves, just because her brain is temporarily telling her she is unacceptable or undeserving.

But, that isn't the way life works. I can't go back in time or even hold on to the majority of strong moments to help the weak side of me get through the more difficult times. Instead, I have to keep working to be able to bring out the strong side when the weak side is insistent upon taking over. I'm not sure it's possible in today's world to make that happen, but I continue to try.

Truthfully, I am saddened that this topic is so prevalent and pertinent in our society. I can't help but think if we as individuals used all the energy we expend worrying or thinking about how we look or how others perceive us we could make actual, tangible change in the world. We could combine our efforts and do something that actually matters.

I realize the likelihood of individuals giving up this time-killer obsession with looks and weight is slim to none, but a girl can dream.

Post Script: Kendra's comment below got me thinking about past posts on this same subject, so I thought I'd link them here if anyone is curious. The first one is here and talked about the plateau I was experiencing and the other one I'll link can be found here where I talked a bit about my history with weight and food and how I hoped (and continue to hope today) that we'd start to see more diverse athletic role models. 

Flatting Out: An Early Morning Ride

I realize that I haven't written much about my own riding this year. In part, this is because my rides have felt very uneventful. Primarily, I have ridden this year for transportation purposes and although I have moments when I think I should write about some sort of happening from these outings, that thought usually leaves quicker than it came. When that happens, I take that as meaning that there was nothing truly to say about the ride.

As summer is now about half way complete (well, almost), I have started to feel guilty for not riding more athletically or sport-wise over these warmer months. I've had my reasons, and for the most part, I think they are justifiable, but I still miss being out for a lengthier stretch and/or just seeing how hard I can push myself. It amuses me that I seem to fall one way or another though for entire seasons at a time and can't seem to find that space during which I can both ride for sport and ride for transportation. One side always seems to lose.

But, because I've wanted to get out and ride while sweating (Though I suppose I sweat even riding for transportation these days as it's been quite warm), I decided to try to push myself to get up a little earlier than usual and go ride before the day gets going. With so many things to get done in a day, time just slips away before I have the opportunity to get out, but I had decided that if I made a purposeful attempt to go early, perhaps I would actually get out and ride.

This plan seemed to be working quite well for a few days. It was nice to be out before the sweltering heat began and although I struggled to get things together as I was heading out the door, I was able to get this plan into motion. While I don't care for others telling me that I'm not a morning person, I have to admit it really is true. Even though I can get up, I just don't function well for a couple of hours into the day and everything just seems to go wrong when I force myself to be productive early.

A few days into this new experiment, I was heading out when I said to Sam, "You know, I need to get an extra tube to carry. I haven't had a flat in at least two years, but somehow not having a tube with me makes me nervous. I have a patch kit and a pump... and a CO2 cartridge, but sometimes it's just good to have that extra tube, you know?"

Sam, the make-it-happen fellow that he is, walked to one of the storage bins in the garage and pulled out a tube. "This one should work," he said. "I think you bought this and never used it."

"Hmm. Well, thanks!" I said. "Guess I don't need to buy one... Though, I've probably now jinxed myself by even talking about flats."

We both laughed a bit and I joked that I would call if I needed him. Sam was preparing to head off to work though, and I knew I wouldn't be gone for much more than an hour, so I started off on my planned route feeling pretty good.

A few miles down the road, I started to think that my front tire felt a bit spongy. I looked down and everything looked fine, so I kept going and figured it was my imagination after the conversation just a few minutes ago. You really are crazy, I told myself. You've psyched yourself out so bad that now you think you're going to get a flat.

I biked on, but continued to have that sensation that something wasn't quite right up at the front of the bike. I made a couple of turns and ended up on a local highway that leads up to the mountains. I wasn't sure if I was feeling brave enough to climb this particular morning, but I wanted to at least reach the base and then make a decision.

A few miles down the highway, I was pretty convinced something was definitely wrong with the tire. I pulled over to a spot where I'd have some room and sure enough, the tire was going flat. It was a very slow leak as I'd been able to travel as far as I had without much of an issue, but I had a decision to make. Should I keep going and hope that the leak was slow enough that I could complete my ride, or should I turn around and head home so that I wouldn't have to deal with the flat on the side of the road?

The problem in my mind was keeping myself from freaking out about the nearly flat tire. Although I have changed tubes and patched them several times, it has never been when I was alone on the side of the road when it was out of necessity. Somehow, I've always managed to either have a slow enough leak that I was able to get home without dealing with it, or Sam has been with me and either done or assisted with the change for me. It's nothing short of amazing that I've gone so many years and never had to deal with this on my own, I am aware, but somehow in this moment I had a feeling I wasn't getting home without a fix and I definitely would have trouble if I continued on.

So, in a split second I made the decision to turn around and head home. I could feel panic setting in so as I turned, I thought it might be best to put a bit more air in the tire with my hand pump. As I started to pump in air, nothing was happening at first and then, all of a sudden, the tire went completely flat.

Alright, I said to myself, it's time to deal with this. I pulled out the patch kit at first and then thought better of it. I knew I could patch the tube later at home with ease, so I would just use the new tube and then use the currently flat tube as a spare after it was repaired.

Flipping the bike over, I used the tire lever to take one side of the tire off to remove the tube when I found myself scratching my head, trying to figure out how to get the tube out from behind the fork. As I said, I don't function well in early morning hours, so it took me a second to realize that I hadn't removed the wheel from the bike.

Duh, I muttered under my breath, and then followed up with the thought that it really had been a long time since I'd had to deal with changing a flat. I was also riding a bike with fenders, so that took an extra step and a moment for my brain to catch up and to realize that I'd need to remove one side of those as well.

At this point, I looked ridiculous, I have no doubt, and I felt like a complete idiot on the side of the road. I had small bits from the fender attachment in between my lips to keep from losing them, and I was turning back and forth, as I (for the most part) silently tried to coach myself through something that I fully know is not that difficult to do and that I can and have done in the past. I still didn't have the wheel removed, but I wanted to test out the pump as it hadn't put any air in when I'd tried to just pump up the tire without removing the tube.

After attempting to use the pump and realizing it still wasn't putting any air into the tube and therefore wouldn't put any air in the new tube either, I reached my breaking point. My morning fog-brain was not wearing off and I was ready to have a cry on the side of the road. I got out my phone and called Sam.

"Hey," I said as casually as I could when he picked up. "I think I really did jinx myself this morning. Can you come and get me?"

"Where are you?" he asked.

I provided approximate coordinates to which he responded that it would take him a bit, but he would get there as quickly as he could. With that, we hung up and I felt like such a helpless fool standing with various tools in each hand, watching cars and other bicycles whizzing by.

As I stood there, relieved that Sam was on his way, the panicked feeling dissipated. If I was going to be here for awhile anyway, I might as well attempt to finish changing the flat, I figured.

Since I hadn't actually removed the wheel yet, I started to pull that out and then realized I needed to release the brakes. After completely removing everything that was necessary, I got out the new tube and started to put it around the rim of the wheel and then remembered it would need a small amount of air to keep from getting a pinch flat, so I figured I'd try my hand at the pump again to see if I could get it to work. I had the CO2 cartridge and inflator with me, but I've honestly never used it and was a little terrified something might explode or I'd end up hurting myself (Sam would later laugh at me about this and then tell me that we were going to have a training session so that I wouldn't be afraid to use this tool in the future).

The pump wasn't putting out much air, but it was providing a little bit every several pumps, so I kept pumping until there was a small amount of air in the tube. Then, I began putting the tire back around the rim, making sure not to get the tube stuck in between.

Before I knew it, everything was put back together and the tire even had a bit of air in it. I had actually done it. For the first time on my own without the help of anyone (or at least the watchful eye of someone), I fixed a flat!

Believe me, I know it's ridiculous. As someone who has changed flats in the past, this shouldn't have felt like such an enormous accomplishment, but it really did. I realized that all I needed was to calm myself down and know that I have the ability to do the task --and then, not to sound to much like a Nike ad, just do it.

As I stood there beaming with pride, I pulled out my phone again. I saw a text from Sam that he'd sent about 10 minutes prior stating that he was on the edge of town and he'd get to me as quickly as he could. I didn't have the heart to have his trip be for nothing and since he was almost to me anyway, I responded that I was able to get a little air in my tire and that I was going to be riding east and I'd meet up with him.

I rode the highway back in the direction indicated thinking that it was kind of sad that at least a dozen cyclists had passed me and not one of them had offered to help as I'd stood on the side of the road, but on the other hand, I was grateful for the opportunity to prove to myself that I could in fact change a flat without the assistance of another person.

The tire was holding up okay, but it was severely lacking in air so I was taking it slow and wondering why I hadn't run into Sam yet. I was heading up a slight incline when a car pulled over in front of me... Sam to the rescue!

As he got out of the car he was shaking his head and smiling. "I've been back and forth twice trying to find you," he stated. "I should know better with you."

He was referring to a past incident during which we'd been riding together and I'd been so upset and convinced that I couldn't go on that he went home to get the car to rescue me. I had ended up riding home on my own though, despite the fact that I believed I didn't have it in me.

"How did you get all the way over here?" he asked. "I thought you couldn't get any air out of the pump."

I smiled, "Well, I was able to get enough that I figured I'd try riding a bit."

On the way home, we chatted about what had happened and as I exited the vehicle and we removed the bike from the car I said, "You know, if this ever happens again in the future... if I call you in a panic and tell you I need to be picked up, just talk me through it. I know you're perfectly willing to come and get me, but I feel bad that I made you turn around from work to come all this way to get me when I ended up fixing the flat. I know I didn't have a ton of air in the tire, but I can do it and I would've made it home okay. I think I just needed to be reassured that I have the ability to do it on my own."

As much as I could have lived without this situation, I am grateful for the opportunity to prove to myself that I am capable of dealing with minor issues that come up when riding. After years of riding, I still seem to have a deep fear that I am not self-reliant. While I know I am perfectly able, sometimes I need to know-know - as in, out of necessity - that I am capable, and this moment helped me better understand that often I just need to not panic and the rest will fall into place.

Have you had any moments of panic when dealing with a break down on your bicycle and then pulled it together? Have you had fixes that just couldn't be repaired while on the side of the road? How did you deal with your bicycle break-down?

Lost & Found

Growing up, I was always looking for someone who was going to lead me into the "thing" I was supposed to be doing with my life. I never really outgrew that idea. I had read stories, articles in newspapers and magazines, and heard personal experiences from a number of individuals who were happily going about their life's ambition. They would always have a person they'd credit as recognizing their talents and helping to guide them into the person they'd become. Perhaps it's the part of me that enjoys living in a bit of a fantasy world, but I fully expected this to be the case for me too. When routinely chosen last for sports and doing well enough academically to get through without much notice, it almost feels as though there must be some sort of fairy godmother out waiting to point out the thing that makes me special - that thing that I would excel doing - that thing that would cause me to wake up one day and say ah, yes, I really do have something I'm great at.

To my astonishment, that never happened for me (perhaps I'm not the only one who never had that person come to help point him/her in the right direction). For me, it was devastating to get all the way through school and have to acknowledge that the fantasy I'd been living since my very young years might never happen. It's difficult to let go of such things though.

Everyone wants to believe s/he is good at something. Some people are great at lots of things, while others seem to really be able to focus in on one in particular and it charts a course for his/her entire life. Much as I hate to fess up to it, I can become really jealous of these people. I have always been more of a wanderer, a passer-by, or a curious dabbler, dipping my toes in the water of a lot of different things, always trying to find that one place, activity, skill that had eluded me my entire life. I get by in life this way because I have always been willing to work hard at whatever was in front of me. I've been hired to do jobs that I was in no way qualified to hold, but when it was something that I truly wanted to experience I always found a way to get the knowledge I needed and convince the hiring individual(s) that I was the one they needed - even when I doubted myself. Maybe it's one of the reasons I found myself on the other side of the hiring chair for several years, working to find the right individuals to work for companies. After all, it's hard to bullshit a bullshitter (though a few did sneak by me on occasion). That, and I genuinely enjoyed bringing people and a company together to form a great union.

My personal life has a lot of parallels with my professional life. I am great at providing what seems to be extensive information about myself without really getting to the core or exactness of anything. I'm not proud of that fact, and I don't do it intentionally - or I suppose more accurately, I don't do it consciously - but I think it's a protective buffer of sorts that allows me to check people out before really giving up too much of myself.

When it comes to athletic endeavors, I think my junior high school gym teacher put it aptly after I'd finished running one of the last of our weekly miles, heaving and attempting to regain regular breathing. She stated emphatically, "You will never be a track star." Well, duh. I was about 50 pounds overweight, short legs, with no desire to be a runner... and I could barely run the entire mile without passing out. Most of my time in school to that point I couldn't run the full mile, so to be able to reach the point that I could actually run the whole distance was a feat in itself. We're not all supposed to be track stars. I will say this though, I always gave it everything I had. I hated running with a passion (still don't love it to this day), but I was determined to be able to run the entire four laps of the track, which I accomplished without so much as an acknowledgement that I'd achieved something that seemed impossible months before. It didn't matter that everyone else could easily do it; what mattered is that I couldn't and I was able to overcome the mental and physical barriers to achieve a goal, no thanks to my gym teacher (who could've easily offered a few pointers to help me out).

One of the things I've learned as time has passed is that I can't always wait for someone to come and tell me what I should be doing. If I had waited for that magical, non-existent fairy or godmother to come along and point me down the proper path, I probably wouldn't have experienced so many different avenues in life. I'll put it this way: Some people take the same route to work every single day no matter what. I was never one of them. I like changing up the path and finding ways that seem ridiculous or out of the way. Sometimes the best kept secrets, adventures, and lessons are found by not choosing the path considered normal, safe, or most efficient. There are times this gets me in to trouble, but I often find that the trouble is worth the reward.

As I've gotten older, it's become easier and easier to lose some of that free-spirited, spur-of-the moment nature that lurks inside.  The person who intentionally sought out new paths is slowly disappearing. Maybe it's age, or I suppose it's possible some might say wisdom, but I find myself in moments realizing that I've made a choice I wouldn't have made 15-20 years ago. At times, I choose the path that seems safer over the one offering an unknown experience, and I'm surprised at my decision. Those decisions seem to slowly be taking over the let's-just-go-for-it side of me.

Bicycles, in many ways, have helped the spirit of wanting to see and experience new things. Riding a bike can be routine, if I allow it to be, but there is always a new path, a new adventure, another small (or even big) secret to uncover if I am open to it and ready to make that choice. Just as in life though, it's sometimes easier to make the safe choice and go with the route I know. I find myself choosing these known paths more often than not lately. In truth, there are only a finite number of paths I can take right out the front door. At some point, they all become known and seen and maybe even routine.

Seasons change though, which can help bring new perspective. There is a part of me looking for that lost piece of self when I ride a bike, I think. Even on a known path, the outcome really cannot be entirely known until I'm on the other side. I think I'm slowly finding her again - that person who chooses adventure over routine, who makes last minute decisions and lives with the consequences, who doesn't necessarily make the most logical choice just because it's what she's supposed to do. I know that personal history is always going to play a role in the future, and experience will provide some level of importance and prevalence as time marches on, but I hope I always hang on to a piece of that person who looks for the unknown and adventure in life, and I think bicycles are one of the best ways to keep her in reach.

A Grandmother's Tale

Over this past weekend, Sam and I wandered our way to Flagstaff, Arizona. Sam was participating in a mountain bike race, and there will be a report coming on that, but spending a few days in Arizona reminded me of some things that prompted a need to get some other thoughts out of my system. So, while this post is not in regard to bicycles, it was sparked by them in a manner of speaking, and I hope to find some relief or maybe comfort by getting it out of my mind and into a more tangible state. I never cease to be amazed by the small details which can bring about the most interesting of memories.

The last time I was in Arizona I was fourteen years old and visiting my aging grandparents in their respite-from-the-cold-Pennsylvania-winter home, located between Tempe and Mesa. It's incredible that despite the fact that both my grandparents passed away well over two decades ago, there are just certain memories that have stuck with me.

My grandmother pictured in a newspaper, illustrating how she made a "cookie tree."

My recollections of Arizona center mostly on the aforementioned region, including frequent trips into Phoenix to see the "big city" that wasn't all that large at the time.

I laugh when I think about my grandfather driving my younger brother and I into the city.  As he'd drive, his turn signal would click rhythmically through the entire trip, as he could never seem to remember it was on. He always drove at 35 mph, regardless of the sort of road he was traveling, which incensed drivers nearly as much as it does today.  He was always unfazed by what surrounded him on the roads, and I'm honestly not even certain he heard all of the honking and commotion around him on our drives. The car was a bubble of sorts, and he spoke to my younger brother and I as though we were sitting casually in the living room. He would ask us about our futures, how school was going and our grades, and he'd tell us stories of the farm back in Pennsylvania. We'd try to tell him that other people were honking, but he'd always respond with a "What?" or a "Hmm?" To this day, I don't know if he just had the greatest powers to ignore, or if he had no idea what was taking place all around him.

Their home, nestled in the southwestern part of the U.S., was my grandmothers' domain. Time spent with her was full of playing board or tile games and watching Wheel of Fortune. At the time, it was a somewhat newer game show on television, but it was one of my grandmother's favorites. She was so great at solving the puzzles long before the contestants were able to begin to form a possible answer. To this day, I cannot watch the show without thinking of her.

I remember the peach and turquoise southwestern prints that hung on the walls of their home. It was decorated so differently than their "real" home. Back in Pennsylvania, their farm house was decorated with turn-of-the-century pieces and items they'd picked up during their many travels abroad. My grandmother spoke four languages, not including English, and this skill had served them well on their many adventures overseas.

I recall the absence of the super-green, lush foliage I'd grown up with on the coast of California, and an abundance of rocks and desert/cactus plants in hers and the surrounding yards in Arizona.

I also have memories of her rising at 4am to start cooking meals for the day. A hot pot of oatmeal was inevitably sitting on the stove waiting for me when I woke, regardless of the home we were visiting. Mrs. Fields had nothing on my grandmother, and I'm convinced she was, without a doubt, the greatest cookie-maker ever to grace this earth.

She also taught me to crochet, despite my desperate attempts to escape such a task. She always told me that it was a good activity to learn for any young lady; It would keep my hands busy and my mind active.

I sent her letters regularly when we couldn't see each other. My entire youth I wrote to her at least a couple of times each month. Without fail, in the weeks that followed, I'd receive my letters back in the mail with her spelling and grammar corrections in red ink. I took offense to this for a long time, believing that she didn't appreciate that I wanted her to have something of me, something hand-written and from the heart. I often believed her "corrections" were her way of telling me I wasn't good enough. As years went by, I came to understand that this was simply her way of interacting with me and trying to help me learn something from her years of experience as an English teacher.

A portion of one of the very few letters I have left from my grandmother.

She wrote me letters too, even though I sometimes forget that part. She enjoyed updating me on all that was happening in her life, and I loved reading about the things that brought her joy or amusement.

My grandparents were quite old even when I was young. They were in their mid-40s when they had my father, and my parents were in their 30s when they had me, so the generation gap was palpable. Most grandparents are "old," but mine were of the age that I was never sure how long I'd have them around. Even without it being said, I knew they wouldn't be grandparents I'd have into adulthood, or that would be alive to see my children (if I'd had them). I tried to soak up every moment I was with them because I didn't see them as often as one would hope. Living most of the year almost 3,000 miles apart didn't allow for the kind of frequent visits kids enjoy with grandparents who live in the same region.

It didn't matter to me though. They were my grandparents and I loved being with them, particularly in my very young years.

Both grandparents were on the quiet side, my grandfather more so, or at least when it came to conversing with me. Generally, when he spoke to me it was a criticism of something I had done, was about to do, or was contemplating doing.

Neither understood my clothing choices or the fact that I had pierced ears (which was a huge issue to my grandfather in particular). How could they possibly have identified with anything I was doing or wearing or saying? God only knows how they'd react today after seeing my many tattoos.

They had lived through the Great Depression (with 4 children - my father wouldn't come along until later) and were accustomed to subdued, reasonable, and practical choices. They reused everything in a time long before recycling/reusing was part of anyone's vocabulary. It was just what they did, not something that was special, or "in," or "hip."

I was a coming-up-teenager who was struggling to have her own voice and identity recognized, and much as my parents attempted to convince me to "tone it down" around my grandparents, I was a quietly rebellious youth and chose to behave and wear what I would any other time. Some things don't change, I suppose.

Each of my grandparents had stories that fascinated me as a child, and that I hold on to dearly to this day. Most of the stories I recall though came from my grandmother. She was a fabulous story teller, weaving together thoughts that seemed incongruous, but that made her tales so much more memorable.

Despite her introverted demeanor, she would speak at various events, narrating allegories that she'd likely told more times than she could count. I still have newspaper clippings from some of her speeches, as she'd often make local news for her ability to provide motivation through her words. Long before the days of TED talks, motivational speakers, or other speaker's bureaus, grandma was the lady to hear. She was entertaining to young and old alike, and she could morph her tales to a specific audience like no other.

As I grew into more of a teenager and was nearing the end of high school, my grandfather passed away. He had been arguing with my father about financial matters (that seem so insignificant now) when we received news that he passed in his sleep during a hospital stay.

At the time, we couldn't afford to have our entire family travel to the funeral, so my father went alone. I was saddened by the news, and hoped that my grandmother would be able to make it on her own. Soon, we heard that she was moving in with one of her daughters, who also happens to be my favorite aunt. She lived just across the street from their home in Pennsylvania, so it would make for a fairly easy transition.

A few months later, my parents thought it wise for me to pay my grandmother a visit. She was not getting any younger and they wanted me to a spend a bit of time with her. I was reluctant to go as I was in my last year of high school and had so many activities taking place that seemed far more pressing. I had a job and didn't want to ask for time off either.

Begrudgingly, I made the trip back east. When I arrived, I found my grandmother to be physically in a similar state to the last time I'd seen her, but I could tell something was different. She was having difficulty moving around due to a broken hip, but my aunt was always gracious in doing whatever she could to help get her mother healed. My aunt would enter the room, smile on her face and words of encouragement dripping from her lips. I always appreciated that she was such a positive person.

As I sat with my grandmother one afternoon, she started to cry. She had never been particularly emotional, and I always thought of her as quite a tough individual, so to see her well up with emotion was odd. I, however, have never done well with crying people in that I am extremely sensitive to others emotions. Even in my selfish, teenage state, when her tears started to fall, my heart broke. She started to reminisce about the times she'd had with my grandfather and would trail off as she'd just get into a story. I wondered if she was losing her capacity to form sentences, or if she just didn't want to share times that had been so special between her and the person she'd loved for so many decades.

The last story she would ever share with me was not like the ones she'd told me in my younger years. This one was completely non-fiction, and as I sat wanting to be anywhere but where I was, she began her saga.

"I have never told anyone what I am about to tell you," she began. I'm sure I stared a bit in response, expecting that there was some sort of comical line impending. "I am serious," she reiterated.

She would start her story by telling me about the birth of her first daughter and how happy she was to have her. Soon thereafter she had two more children and they had their happy family of five. As the Great Depression was well underway, she found out that she was pregnant with child number four.

Knowing that they were struggling financially without the burden of an extra mouth, she was unsure she wanted to tell my grandfather about this new child that would be coming to their family soon. As she continued, she repeated that she didn't want to tell my grandfather that she was "with child." She feared that he wouldn't be able to handle the stress of such things, so she decided she was going to do everything in her power to lose the pregnancy.

At this point, she started to cry again. She relived to me all of the things she attempted to do to lose this child that she knew they couldn't afford. She would run up and down stairs as fast and hard as she could, she would punch herself in the stomach, hoping that it would cause a miscarriage, and, in short, she shared many things she had done that today would likely result in her being committed, jailed, or at bare minimum that would receive wide eyes and gasps from anyone hearing what she'd done.

I have to admit, I was in shock hearing such a story. This woman, who I believed to be one of the greatest people on earth, was telling me that she had tried to kill my aunt before she was even born.

I tried to fathom what life would've been like without my favorite aunt. She had always been the fun one at otherwise often boring family functions or reunions. She was one of the very few relatives of the 90-some-odd on my father's side of the family who would actually come to visit us. She was spunky and full of life.

My grandmother continued to speak with tears streaming down her cheeks. "I... I don't know how I could've done it." It was a statement, not a question. "I tried everything in my power to not have her come into this world, and now, as I sit here nearing the end of my own life, she is the one taking care of me. The one child I could not imagine having is the one here for me now. She is the strongest, kindest, and most understanding person I have known."

Now I was crying. To come to that realization that the very child she hadn't wanted, the one that she'd attempted to abort, the one that was now nursing her back to health in a most loving and caring manner, must have come as quite an ironic twist. How many years had she carried this story with her? How many sleepless nights must she have had while she mulled it over in her own mind? The sort of self-loathing ideas that must have run through her at times when she'd relive that span of time.

I both despise and love that this is the last story my grandmother would tell me. I don't particularly love that my final memory of her is one of a reenactment (of sorts) of her attempts to abort my aunt, but I appreciate the realness and perspective it gave me of her as a person. It also gave me an appreciation for humans and a capacity to understand that making mistakes is part of existence. No one gets to escape errors in judgment or behavior.  Last moments are no ones entire life, and no matter what we do, we really can't know when those final minutes will be on this earth. We have all done things we wish we could go back and change or revise or completely erase from time, but they are done and gone and already in the annals of history. We hope to learn our lessons, and we hope not to hurt anyone along the way, but not one of us is perfect. Maybe we take from those not-so-great moments an opportunity to learn something about ourselves or the future, or perhaps we can only view those instances as a part of the past.

I really miss my grandmother. I wish I could talk to her today and get her perspective on life and ideas in general. She lived nearly a century and saw so many things that I'm sure society is repeating now. I think she'd appreciate my love of bicycles, and she'd probably find it entirely amusing that I have a blog - full of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes in my haste to get thoughts out of my head. I may have driven her crazy with the way I worded things, but I would think she'd see that her love of writing carried through a bit to me (and I can even make a decent cookie), so I'd hope she would know that a little piece of her lives on - even if it's in a package she didn't always approve of or believe to be the most proper of beings.

A Star-Struck Moment: Spotting 'Fatty' & 'The Hammer'

** Before I get into my quick post, I just wanted to share that the second half of Josie's interview with me is up on Life on Two Wheels, so if you have interest, you can check out the rest of what I shared with her here. If you missed the first part, you can find that here, too. **

I am a spaz.

This shouldn't be news to any who know me, but man, sometimes I feel like a Grade A freak when I see someone in person who's even a remotely well-known individual. It's happened with the few "famous" people I've seen in real, everyday life, and it also happens when there's a happenstance encounter with someone whose blog I read regularly. I see them and think, "Holy cow! I know that person," which of course I don't... at least not really know them like we know people that we have as part of our lives. Still, these are moments in which some part of me wants to rush up to the person and say hello and carry on about something I've read about him/her, or just to say hello. My internal functions behave this way, but on the outside it is not what happens at all. In fact, just the opposite generally takes place. I freeze up and end up leaving the person alone - usually because it feels strange to bother someone who has no idea who I am or (sometimes) why I'm even approaching at all.

It's the same reaction that happened this past weekend in Leadville when there was a quick passing by of a blogger we read regularly in our house.

But, first let me go back for a moment. Over this past weekend, Sam raced in the LT100 MTB (and did pretty well, I think - especially considering he did no high altitude training [I realize we live at a higher altitude than many people, but it's still not the high altitude of Leadville], hasn't been doing much mountain biking this year, and had only 3 weeks to prepare for the ride... but that will all come in a later post when he shares the experience of his inaugural Leadville Trail 100). The race itself was a whole chaotic, wonderful, and epic event. The people were amazing out on the trails (those participating in the race, the volunteers, crews, and so on), and I can't say I have ever been involved in anything quite like it. Even if Sam never does the race again, I'm glad that we were both able to experience it at least once (though I must admit, his part was far more painful than my piece).

Sam was beat up but still moving forward at approximately mile 73

After the race on Saturday, the ceremony was held Sunday morning in a large gymnasium that has the fairly potent smell of chlorine. I didn't mind it myself, but it was definitely something that reminded me of water aerobics at the local rec center or the swimming pool at the YMCA I'd swim in during the summers of my youth. During the ceremony, the winners of each category are brought up on stage, photos are taken, awards given out and so on. People talk, thanks are given, and cool stuff is given away to a few.

But, none of this has anything to do really with why I am such a spaz. Well, at least not entirely.

You see, I knew that Fatty and The Hammer of Fat Cyclist would be at the race. Both Sam and I read Fatty's blog regularly and were aware that they would be headed out to race Leadville again. Throughout the race, I don't think I saw either of them even once -- at least I was not aware of seeing them -- (Sam spotted them on the trail, but again, I'll let him tell his own tale later) but I knew that I'd be able to see them in person during the ceremony that took place the day following the race. At least I figured that would be the case. As the announcer read out names of the ten-time LT100 finishers, the Hammer's name was called. It was a bit surreal to see someone in person that I've seen photos of online many times.

I am genuinely aware of the fact that these are just people - like me and you and every other of us here on planet Earth, but there is something surreal about seeing someone in person that I feel as though I know something about (even if I don't really know much or only a small snippet of their life/lives).

As the ceremony drew to a close, the announcer began calling out every name of those who finished the LT100 in the allotted 12 hour time limit. Before he began this list, he asked people to remain in their seats until he called their name (as they were attempting to have some sort of order in giving out the award, a belt buckle, to finishers). As I looked up, I spotted Fatty and the Hammer already in line. In my typical teasing manner, I couldn't help but say to Sam, "Um, I don't think he's called their names yet," as I smiled and laughed, not really concerned about who was in line and who wasn't. After all, I was still trying to figure out the best way to get a photo of the two of them.

Of course, I also hadn't brought the camera with me into the ceremony, so the only means of documentation would have to be the camera on the phone. As I saw them from across the room, I attempted to get a shot. The results were obviously not spectacular.

The red arrow indicates where the pair were standing as I attempted to sneak a photo

As they moved closer to where we were seated, I thought about how much of a loser I really am. I mean, I know these are normal, nice people. I've read about many others who have approached and asked for a photo, so I know they are highly unlikely to say no; however, I just couldn't get up the nerve to do it. Instead, I stayed put, shooting photos as they walked by talking to others. Thank goodness the likelihood of either of them ever knowing that I was taking these photos (or seeing them) is slim to none!

I suppose a sane human being probably would've just walked up and talked to them, but I felt somehow that I would be intruding on their space and time together.

I apologize to the Hammer, should she ever see this photo. You are a lovely woman, who I have great respect and admiration for, but I got so few shots and this was one that was not the most flattering.

As they passed by us, I knew my opportunity was slipping away and I decided in that moment to just let it go without a fight.

There were plenty of other cycling heroes to be found among the group. From Rebecca Rusch to Dave Wiens, it was kind of like an awesome-cyclist geek-fest for me. I couldn't help but wonder why I seemed so fixated on snapping a photo of this pair in particular.

Ultimately, I realized really all I would've had to do is walk up to them. I know how Fatty loves to feel tall and having either Sam or myself next to him, I know that would've achieved the goal. Unfortunately, that thought didn't occur to me until it was too late. Oh well. Perhaps the next time I won't be such a chicken.

The Queen of Pain - I didn't even realize I'd taken a photo of her during the race until later. As a side note, I can't believe she's freakin' smiling! She'd just gone up (and come back down) Columbine, which is an insane climb.

When I got home and went through the race photos I'd taken, I realized I actually got a pretty decent shot of the Queen of Pain (aka Rebecca Rusch) and just missed getting (what I'm nearly positive is) a photo of the Hammer in action.

Just missed a (better) photo of the Hammer

I suppose the lesson to be learned here is simply to ask, rather than letting the moment pass by. While I was trying to be (at least a little bit) respectful of the duo, I know it likely wouldn't have been a huge deal to ask for a quick shot of them... and next time, I'll make sure I have the actual camera in hand for such happenings.

Slow Ride Rejuvenation

Admittedly, this year I'm off to a rough start with cycling. I have had a few injuries slowing me down and, quite honestly, I just haven't felt the excitement that I have in previous years to be out on a bike. I wish that I could pinpoint something and say, "Ah, yes, that is the reason I don't feel as great this year," but I don't think there is one moment, happening, or injury that can take full responsibility. Instead, it seems that there are many pieces to the puzzle and the conglomeration has made the whole much worse than I'd prefer. Generally, by June I am well in the swing of things. Shorter rides have turned into much longer ones and I am plotting out some challenge for mid-summer. This year, that does not seem to be the case. I ride, but they are painful rides. I try to push myself, but it becomes punishment and proves to be demotivating, rather than the typical outcome of feeling accomplished and wanting to try again for something greater.

One small piece of this mindset seems to be that I find it more challenging to allow myself to ride for pleasure in the heart (& heat) of summer. I'll ride to the market or to workout at the gym or kickboxing, but they are short rides with a purpose. Allowing myself to simply take a pleasure stroll (or roll, I should say) has become non-existent. The last couple of weeks have had me thinking about this quite a bit. I don't completely understand when or why the mental shift occurred, but it was never my intention to give up the piece of riding a bike that was always most important to me, and I decided I needed to take a ride and just enjoy it at slower speeds.Thoughts are always running through my head, but I find the slower rides to be more conducive to getting lost in an idea. With the Hillborne loaded up with camera/lenses and just about anything I could possibly need, I set out on what I planned to be about an hour of figuring out why I don't allow myself to just enjoy a ride once in awhile.

There were many cyclists out on the road, and I immediately felt uncomfortable. It was something about seeing every person on a bike passing in spandex/lycra and riding their lightweight bikes that put me ill-at-ease. While most didn't seem to give me a second (or first) thought, I couldn't help but feel out of place. I had to ask myself when it was that I suddenly became averse to riding a more comfortable bike at slower speeds? My immediate reaction was to want to speed up to race with others, but I knew that was not the purpose for this particular outing and reminded myself to just slow down and enjoy it (and beyond that, my bike is far too heavy to actually race it). It didn't take long for me to start wondering if the lycra-clad folks allowed themselves this luxury once in awhile?

As I wandered out to the back roads, I took the time to just observe. There was plenty to see as most of my rides have been wholly focused on gaining strength and endurance. One thing that immediately stood out to me was the extreme number of dead animals on the roads. I always notice them, but there seemed to be a large quantity on this particular day. Rabbits, squirrels, skunks, prairie dogs, frogs, mice, birds and more all strewn in my path at various points along the way and in varying states of decomposition. As I've noted prior, I have a hard time at the sight of dead animals, so I wasn't particularly thrilled about this "find." However, I actually stopped to take photos of many of them. It was gut-wrenching, but my curiosity took over and for whatever reason I thought it was important to stop and document them in some manner (**Warning for the sensitive/squeamish to skip the next photo).

If nothing else, it was a good reminder that life is fleeting for all of us. We can be here one moment and gone the next, so it was an excellent means of pointing out that I must enjoy the moments I do have.

Not everything was quite so bleak, however.There was plenty of life to be seen, including lots of live animals busy about the days' work,

green grass, and pretty summertime flowers in bloom.

It was a hazy day and certainly not the clearest of skies, but just being able to take in all that is around me was pleasant.

Pretty soon, I no longer found myself concerned about my slow speeds and I was actually just enjoying the ride and documenting the things and people around me.

I was able to chat with others (albeit briefly as most were traveling at much higher speeds) and remember why a bicycle can be such a pleasure to ride. By the end of my time out, I had spent several hours on the roads (and the sun had done an excellent job of lobster-fying me), but I had thoroughly enjoyed it. I also had the reminder I very much needed that riding a bike doesn't have to be painful. It's great to use a bike as a training tool or for more intense exercise, but it's also a wonderful means of just observing and getting around.

Whether you need to stop and remember a love for slow-rides like me, or you want to challenge yourself with a race or pushing up a seemingly unattainable hill, I hope you'll take this holiday weekend to enjoy being out on your two-wheeled friend. Whatever you choose to do, I wish you a very happy Independence Day for those here in the U.S., and a beautiful weekend to all others. Happy riding!