The Mad Madder's Blog

Maddie Vs Her Couch

It is comfortable on my couch. It’s ugly and practically decrepit, but hugs me easily into its generous contours. It welcomes me home after a hard season’s racing. It forgives my absence, my neglect during the sunny days of four-hour rides and race weekends away. It is a friend. It is constant. Now spring is nearing and it is time to be training.  But we have grown close again and it does not want to let me go.

 

It is November. On my couch, my computer nestled in my lap, I visit racing sites and plan the 2011 season. I monitor the Team Elevate Cycles site and facebook page. Emails about races and kits and spin training and rosters and rides are answered. New racers are courted and veterans encouraged. The black and orange expands from 15 to 20 to 25. I’m not on my bike, but, right now, it is the beginning of holiday season anyway, and this needs to be done.

 

It is December. My bikes sit idle, both still caked in the detritus of their last muddy race. As I walk by my ‘cross bike, I trail my hand along the seat, pat the patient handlebars. ‘Don’t worry, baby. I’ll be with you soon.’ But like a black hole pull, I am back on the couch, draped with a comforter against the mid-winter chill. The television provides background noise to my online exploits. I’m sure playing Bejeweled improves my dexterity for mountain biking, right?

 

It is January. I have changed the rear tire on my ‘cross bike so I can put it on the trainer, but still it cants against the railing immobile. It’s a slow progress. I’m not racing seriously until May. It doesn’t matter that my outline remains in the couch cushions when I’m not home, an outline slightly expanded by the infusion of bacon and beer and a lingering ‘Thanksgiving to Christmas’ padding.  If nothing else, my horse’s training is moving forward in leaps in bounds. I may be slow as dirt. But in that one thing, I am worthy.

 

It is February. When I look at my bikes, I say: ‘At least I’ve been hiking.’ I have logged innumerable miles over snow capped peaks, capturing on film stunning vistas and fabulous friends. But, though the voice in my head maintains that 20 hours of hiking on a weekend is enough, more in fact than most people do in a full week, I have yet to touch my bikes.

 

 

It is still February. My bike and trainer are living at Elevate Saratoga. I can’t ride at home alone. I am not strong enough to fight my couch. I attend spin classes. I motivate myself through companionship and guilt. Training is feeling good. I should be doing more. But, this year I just don’t have the willingness to push myself alone….

 

Last year, I entered the season feeling invincible. I placed higher than I expected in road races and I won races on the mountain that I thought were out of reach. I upgraded to Cat 1 in two XC races. I was good. I wanted to be great. I had trained hard all winter, amazing my friends with tales of my hour plus race simulation intervals and three and a half hour long Sunday trainer long rides. ‘What dedication! I wish I could train like that!’ I basked in their approval. I hiked mountains and biked mile after invisible destination-less mile. I was committed. I was going to win.

 

And then, mid-season, at the apex of my misplaced assurance, my delusional thoughts of grandeur reaching their peak, first my body failed me, then my confidence collapsed. My back in spasm, my knees grinding a bone-on-bone pain, I sat in my car and cried away the remains of my season. I didn’t know how to recover. So I didn’t.

 
And now back to February, a month characterized by darkness and depression. So much for it being an only 28 day month. I’m back on my bike but distracted. Hiking has begun to bore me. The days are dark. My horse is still advancing but my universe lacks structure. I want to know how this story will end.

 
But you don’t get that luxury. Every day you wake up and you’re in charge of your own progress. Yes, it’s trite. But you don’t get anywhere unless it’s where you want to go, unless you want it enough. You get there on your own. It is my legs that turn my pedals. It is my heart that pushes past the pain. I might be behind schedule, but a few inspirational bike movies later and I’m back on the horse (…bike).

 

I don’t know where this story will end. I may hit the roads flat. I may take my mountain bike out and crash and burn. I might lose. I might win. I might flounder in the middle. But at least now, I care. I want to be out there, to put road worthy tires on my bike and hit the pavement. I pass a hill and I want to climb it. I want to be back in it. I want to try. And, right after I finish this last beer, I will…

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Didn’t I Say I’d Never Do This Again?!

It’s true. Last year, after suffering through the almost three and a half torturous muddy horrific excruciating hours that was the Williams Lake Classic, I promised I would NEVER EVER EVER do that to myself again. But, true to the Maddie precedent for never learning my lesson, there I was, a year later, packing my car to head for Rosendale, NY for the real beginning of my cross country racing season and the first race in the New York State Mountain Bike Series: The Williams Lake Classic.

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I can defy gravity…sort of

With five road races under my belt already this season, it was about time a criterium showed up on the calendar: the Marshall and Sterling Spa Crit.

I like crits.  They’re an ADHD girl’s dream. The requirement for patience, so absent from my repertoire and so necessary for road racing success, is missing. Sure you might sit in a bit on someone’s wheel, take a rest after a pull. But, basically, you redline. In crits you grimace. You gasp. You sprint. You lean. You test the limits of gravity on the corners and the limits of your heart on the straights. This is a chance to prove how much pain you’re willing to put yourself through, how far you can drive yourself. It’s my kind of world.

And this race, above all others on my race calendar this year, was important to me. Almost a year ago, at the first running of this race, I lost my best friend, Natalia. I still think of her every day. Her memory drives me and this race, dedicated to her and raising funds for her scholarship fund, had been in my sights for months now. I’d been doing everything within my power to make sure the race would be a success and, of course, to make damn sure I was ready to race.

So after a fabulous morning course marshalling, watching face after face pass by distorted in pain (with some spectacular crashes sprinkled in to really get me inspired), I was relieved from my post on turn four and it was time to get ready.

I’d downed three bottles of water already but that had barely dented the feeling of oppressive languor that mid-80s temps combined with a muggy Louisiana swelter imposes on a Northerner. By the time I’d donned my kit (the black will be awesome in XC and ‘cross season but not so much at that moment) and jumped on the trainer, I was pretty sure I was going to keel over from heat exhaustion and miss the race, dangling carcass-style from my bike, feet still securely clipped in. But, luckily, I had some great helpers keeping me entertained and hydrated while my coach, Mike, combined race strategy pep talk with paparazzi harassment. Disaster averted.

Before I knew it, I was off the trainer, joined by the other four wonderful Team Elevate Cycles ladies racing: Aurora, CJ, Julie and Melissa, and riding some preview laps. Fortunately, once you got moving, the breeze alleviated some of the stickiness. It was still hot, but tolerable.

The twenty-odd of us were quickly back at the start line and lined up to go. I knew a good percentage of the field and remembered how quickly the race had jumped last year. So I chose to line up behind the girl I believed to be the fastest: Jenny Ives. I just wanted the fastest wheel to take me through the first turn, the turn that scares me the most since the full field is in contention and battling for the hole shot.

And I’m sure that would have been a brilliant plan if, when the pace car took off and the race was on, I could clip in my other pedal. I’m an infamous fumbler even with my two-sided mountain cleats and with my Mavic pedals I often feel like I’m the star of a circus clown act. Fumble anxiously and watch the field distance itself. Look down at foot. Fumble again. Look up. Field is further away. Fumble. Further. Fumble. Click.

Now to chase. Luckily this is familiar territory for me. I had a full 2009 season of experience being nearly constantly basically last in road and XC races to draw on. It taught me how much fun it is to pass people. And my experience being last-ish in crits has taught me that if you don’t pass people quick you’re done. So I passed. I passed inside. I passed outside. I pedaled hard through the first two corners and sprinted up the backside. And caught the leaders. Phew. Now to sit in….

…For all of ten seconds. Because the lead group was working hard to gap the field and shed anyone with plans to suck along at their tail. Oh well. Can’t complain I’m bored. Turn, sprint, turn, sprint. Open gap, close gap. Rotate, lead, drop back, catch a wheel. Turn, sprint. Turn, sprint.

Working together, our group of six riders started to lap a few riders. I felt good. Every time we passed the finish line, the official turned the lap counter card. As I passed. Me. Not some group in the far distance, laps ahead and getting further from me with every pass. Me. Suddenly all those painful hours suffering on the trainer were worth it. All those hours watching any movie with a high explosion to dialogue ratio. All those hours squirming awkwardly trying to make biking in place a comfortable proposition. I felt GOOD!

And then, coming out of turn three, infamous turn three, turn three of the disastrous crashes, the girl ahead of me, reacting to a rider in her path, turned her wheel into a lip in the road and found herself tumbling perpendicular to my path.  There was no space for evasion. I was hugging her wheel as close as a racer could and ran directly into her frame as I collided with her at 25+ mph. Mountain biker instincts kicked in immediately. Do not stop your fall with an arm and be sure to protect your head. So I kept my hands on my handlebars, tucked my shoulder forward and prepared to roll out of the fall.

There was a clichéd moment when I found myself a million miles off the ground. A frozen second. I clearly saw every detail of Rodney’s black and red Fizik tape, every detail of the fallen rider’s white, pink and black Anthem kit, the seam in the road that torqued her wheel.

Then impact. Impact comes at full speed. You need to be able to forget it to continue, so it comes fast. It seemed I was up before I hit. My bike extricated from the chaos, I threw myself in the saddle, clipped in with marginally less trouble than usual and was back in the race.

Oh surprise, I was chasing again. (I think there is an element of self-fulfilling prophecy at work sometimes…I’m so surprised I’m doing well that I subconsciously self-sabotage…Probably not, but I am sensing a pattern.) But, after three quarters of a lap, I managed to reach Julie, who was waiting generously to help me try to bridge back up to the break.

Having a team is wonderful. And having a team with selfless riders willing to work for each other is a luxury I never thought I’d have. Julie let the break go to wait for me. She burned all her matches to give me a chance to catch back on. Ultimately our chase was futile. The two of us could not bridge the gap my flip had caused. Four excellent riders working together with a 45 second advantage was simply too much to neutralize, but the rest she provided gave me the chance to stay in the race. Having toasted herself for my cause, Julie sent me off on my own with a little less than half the race left. From that point on I was on my own, knowing I had to be worthy of her effort.

Each lap my teammates at the finish line called out the gap time to the lead group, steadily growing toward a minute as they picked up the pace as the race neared its end. Try as I might I couldn’t make time on them. But the lap counter kept falling and I was still passing racers.  Only a few more laps. Only a little more pain. There were only 4 riders ahead of me and I would not let anyone get near enough to me to take my 5^th place.

With three laps to go, I leaned ever further into the corners, stood to sprint up the short ‘hills’, and made sure when I hit the line I had left nothing in the tank. On the final lap, I summoned the last of my reserves, sprinting alone across the finish line (somewhat foolishly I suppose since a sprint finish is fundamentally unnecessary with no one to outsprint…but I was carried away by the roar of the crowd…). Done.

5^th place. Only a few places higher than last year’s 8^th place but when results are posted there will be a time by my name. Not lap but a real time. Just over a minute and a half down from the girls who chose the traditional non-crash route to the finish. Who knows what might have happened if I hadn’t crashed. But, for once, that didn’t matter to me. I had raced well. I had emerged nearly unscathed from what should have been a collarbone breaking crash. I would make no excuses and finish my day with a smile.

All that was left to do was collect my winnings (enough to buy a beer or two and remind myself that next time I should keep the rubber side down.

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A Weekend in Hell

The name of the race is L’Enfer du Nord. To those of us versed in Frenchy-speak: Hell of the North. A two-day event, officially the ECCC championship race weekend staged out of Dartmouth in Hanover, NH, it also touted a few adjunct categories, including a women’s 3/4 road race on Sunday.

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It cost how much to do this?!!!

To say I wasn’t looking forward to racing the Tour of the Battenkill might just be one of the greatest understatements of all time.  I dislike climbing and I have an attention span comparable to that of a child in its terrible twos. The Tour of the Battenkill is long and hilly. But I had registered months ago in a fit of misplaced ambition and my stubbornness would not let me bail.

So I found myself, after a week of torturous anticipation, throwing my ‘cross bike in road disguise on the back of my car, gill-stuffed with spare wheels, a million layer options, and enough Clif electrolyte water to hydrate a small African country. Cambridge Ho!

The Elevate racers were staging out of team rider, Josh’s house, only one mile from the registration area. Generally before a race, I spend time warming up, talking to myself and trying to hide the fact that I’m freaking out. But with a race team comes perks. Julie had graciously offered to work the first feed zone and Josh had arranged for a person to work the second. So I could just pull in Josh’s driveway, kit up, hand over my bottles, give Julie my spare wheels, and be ready to go!

It seemed like only seconds since I’d woken up when the official was giving us our pre-race briefing and the pace car was on its way. I guess I was going to have to race it.

Road racing is weird. There’s no real way to explain how strange it is when a road race starts. You’ve built up all this nervous tension and then you spend the first miles calmly wandering the countryside, chatting with your neighbours, the average pace well below your typical group ride.

We’re racing? Really? Sure this isn’t some twisted unisex speed-dating event? I’ve learned where people are from, what they do for a living, how long they’ve been racing, where they went for breakfast…. To someone used to the mad dash plunge of a tri’s cannon launch or the chaos dash of a 5K start, such a civilized beginning takes some getting used to.

But, after all, it is a race and all civilizations eventually fail.  So after five miles or so of blissful meandering, the first climb.

Oh climbing, thou demon torture! Foul creation of a twisted mind! (or perhaps simply an aggravating battle against gravity and conditioning…) God I hate climbing. But after a winter’s trainer torture and subsequent sessions of climbing repeats, I found myself cresting the top in the first 4 with my legs granting me permission to continue racing. Nice!

Less than 10 miles down, only 50 and change to go. Whoop.

And that’s when a lady in yellow came strolling up the left side of the field, casually asked a rider she knew if she felt like joining her, and walked away from field like she was off to a Sunday picnic. A few failed attempts at reeling her in later and we never saw her again. Ladies and gentleman: We have a winner!

So the race continued…second place had become the new first. And as we challenged climb after climb and dirt section after dirt section, passing riders dropped off earlier fields, I kind of thought second might be within reach.

And then, around mile 30, on a relatively smooth dirt section, I tried to shift gears… And dropped my chain.

ARGH!

I faded to the shoulder, watching the field saunter away. I knew that, with the tempestuous gusts swirling around the course, catching the field right away would be my one and only chance at a top 10 (my race goal).

I reached over and struggled my chain back on, waving aside the wheel vehicle, By this time the field was accelerating out of a corner around 500 meters in the distance. Time to bridge the gap.

Bridging a gap sucks. It sucks the air from your lungs, the heart from your chest. It sucks pain into your legs and across your shoulders. You tug at your handlebars, straining for that extra power, that extra push that can propel you back into the slipstream of the pack. It sears your muscles like a firebrand. But to fail means your race is over and you’ll struggle alone the remaining distance. An unacceptable prospect.

So gap up I did. And found myself, jelly legs quaking, first at the back of the remains of our start pack and soon wormed up to the center to sit firmly in the draft and recover.

Not a moment too soon it turned out, as, just after I settled myself in for my rest, a squirrelly rider took out all four of the riders behind me. All that remained of our start field were thirteen riders (including the missing person off the front).  All I had to do was sit in and stay close, beat three riders and I’d be in the money. Sure. Only that.

We soon entered a rolling dirt section with quality climbs followed by momentum-building descents. A perfect place for my chance at the lead. My mountain biking skills come in handy on descents. When riders less familiar with maneuvering rocks and ruts hit their brakes repeatedly. I pedal the descents and use the thrust up the next rise.

I exited the section with two women ahead of me, and the remains of the pack well behind. But the tormenting winds resurfaced and I was soon sucked back in the mix. We organized a swift rotating pace line and started making time on the lead two racing together ahead of us.

And then the final climb. Six miles out of Cambridge, the remains of the field turned left and left me. I hadn’t anything remaining. I could make it up the climb. I could finish the race. I could be happy with my effort. But I couldn’t go so much as a lick faster and I watched my chance at anything other than a top ten distance itself up the climb. Oh well.

I crested the hill and five surprisingly short downhill miles later I was across the finish line in a respectable 3:25. 9^th. In the money and perfectly happy. After all I had survived respectably and it was almost time for Brew Fest. Life, sometimes, is good.

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The First Slice

I was reading The Fortress of Solitude by Jonathan Lethem the other day (not in and of itself remarkable since I rarely go two feet in my apartment without a book), but while reading (in the shower of course), I came upon this section:

“There’s a story I like to tell,” said Brodeur. “When I was a boy I used to love pizza, and whenever my father took me to the pizzeria I’d order two slices. And I’d sit and he’d watch me wolfing down the first slice with my eyes on the second.  I wasn’t even tasting that first slice.  And one day my father said to me, ‘Son, you need to learn that while you’re eating the first slice of pizza, eat the first slice. Because right now you’re eating the second slice before you’ve finished the first.’ And a year ago I realized that I needed that lesson again.  I took a look at my life and realized I had my eye on the second slice of pizza.”

It got me thinking. Who amongst us hasn’t been guilty of ‘second slicing’ at some point in our life? Been guilty of giving only perfunctory attention to the ‘now’ while straining desperately toward some imagined future? People work jobs they hate, saving money for some time they’ll never reach, and never get to enjoy what that money can buy. People catalogue wish lists and dream about what they’ll do in some far off when, missing out on the myriad opportunities available in the now.  Yes, this concept is trite. I’m not talking about some Newtonian apple-on-the-head moment here, but how often do we check to see if we can really taste that first slice?

I like to think that in general I’m pretty much a ’first slice’ kind of girl (except when it comes to actual pizza, which I demolish with a pathetically second slice (and third and fourth slice) attitude…I can’t conquer that particular demon yet). But I feel like lately I’ve been splitting time between dwelling on this year’s hard times and racing failures, and dreaming about what I hope will happen tomorrow. Or next week. Or next month. Any time but now.

I’m not saying that I don’t enjoy what I’m doing. The Adventure Race cracked me up. I am still proud of changing my starter. I love hanging out at Trivia Night at Desperate Annie’s. I do fun stuff. Lots of it. And I have no intention of stopping any time soon.

But, when I get home, and I’m collapsed on my couch, or failing miserably at falling asleep, lately I’ve found that the fun is gone and I’m peering around for my second slice, the first one not yet finished. I needed a change and there is no time like the present to get started.

But even the best laid plans can fail and I woke up on Saturday, not thinking about how much fun I had baking holiday cookies with the LUNA ladies the night before, not glad it was the weekend, not looking forward to an evening holiday party, not loving my fluffy comforter, but wishing I hadn’t woken up. I had two and half hours of training, including a race simulation interval, to do, but I didn’t even want to get out of bed. Not even to get coffee. Blah.

So, I ‘wasted’ a good number of hours trying not to do my workout by reading voraciously and showering more times than is necessary when not doing anything. Eventually, harnessing my stubborn and knowing that training will supposedly lead to racing success, I finally convinced myself to do my race simulation workout outside on my ‘cross bike.  It wasn’t windy and temps were hovering around freezing. Spending forty-five minutes at race pace on a trainer was too terrible a prospect this early in the winter. Frostbite seemed a small price to pay for avoiding that treacherous combination of boredom tempered with pain.

So after an hour warm-up on the Scott/trainer combo, I grabbed Rodney and hit the streets to do some hot laps around the Saratoga Lions Club Duathlon course (my favorite close to home testing ground). After a quick ten minutes to re-warm myself, I cranked it up to race pace. And, pulling my sleeve fully up to avoid the sneaky ‘Aren’t I done yet?!’ watch-check detractor that sucks the fun from many a workout, I got started.

And a couple minutes later, I found that I had no urge to check my watch at all. Yeah it was cold. Yeah it was getting dark and consequently colder. But damn was it nice to be outside. Here is my slice. Maybe my first. Maybe my second. My third, fourth, fifteenth. Whatever. This is the slice I’m eating now.

So I forgot about next year’s races. I forgot about the party coming up. I forgot about saving my legs for my hike the next day.  And (with my heart rate suitably race oriented of course), I focused instead on enjoying the moment. The feeling of conquering rough ground on ‘cross tires. The light fading over ice frosted trees. The pleasing burn of cranking the big ring, high cadence, up that long slow hill. And, especially, the double and triple takes I was garnering from passing cars.

“I must be looking pretty fast!” I thought to myself. “Or pretty damn hot!”

I know, clearly, that they just thought I was insane (or maybe that they’d had one drink too many at that last party to be hallucinating an idiot out biking in the December gloaming). But luckily being insane gives me the excuse to misinterpret situations. So I was fast and I was sexy. After all, who doesn’t look sexy in a billowing wind jacket and ten-year-old tights, a helmet jutting from their hat covered head like some demented mushroom? Hot. Definitely hot.

Not my toes and fingers though. By the time I was done communing with the pavement, the rubber-neckers, and a few startled deer and turkeys, my extremities were white cold and begging for home. So I rolled happily back to home base, reheated with an additional thirty minutes of spin time (and the end of the unrated Charlie’s Angels DVD I was unselfconsciously enjoying), and finished the evening with a nice party and a reasonable bedtime.

As I was drifting off to sleep I thought to myself: I don’t care what tomorrow holds. Yeah I bet it’ll be good, but damn this slice tastes good!

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Maddie + Hangover versus Adventure Race!

As I’ve mentioned before, it’s easy to get me to do things. I get bored easily and I love to race. There is very little more fun than lining up with a group of like-minded people, be it on bike, on foot, on kayak, whatever, and racing. So last week, when my friends Mo and Karen mentioned that the Albany Running Exchange was putting on an Adventure Race, boasting the potential for creek crossings, tree climbing, boulder sliding, and many other nonsensical endeavors, I was in.

This, of course, was foolish. I haven’t run in almost a year in deference to my frequently busted knees and this race claimed a distance between 4 and 8 miles. (They won’t tell you how far…largely because they don’t know I’m assuming). But it seemed like an excellent opportunity for a good workout and a good laugh. And from watching the youtube video of the prior year’s race, it looked like a good bit of the race would be more of a chaos hike than a run.  I can hike. I wasn’t attempting to win. I’d be fine.

Two days before the race, I received the world’s best confirmation email. The basic message was that what I was signing up to do was dangerous and I was foolish to want to do it. But since I insisted I was allowed to race as long as I promised not to complain since I would likely cry at some point in time. This only made me more excited, proving categorically that I have problems.

The night before the race I made sure I hydrated and carb-loaded carefully. I started with a bit of mac and cheese and then switched to liquid calories, consuming the race-conducive combination of: Peppermintinis, egg nog, margaritas, more Peppermintinis, and some beer. Brilliant Maddie. Absolutely brilliant.

To say I woke up Saturday feeling less than stellar may just be the understatement of the century. “I’m going to do what today? Race? Sure you don’t mean lie on the couch trying not to throw-up?” But I had pre-registered and Mo was on her way. So I gathered my druthers, layered up, stuffed a change of clothes and shoes in a bag and tried to keep my LUNA bar breakfast down. And learned that Mo was hung over too. One more reason we all get along so well! (Karen wasn’t hung over. She’s smarter than we are.)

We showed up at Dippikill near Warrensburg where the race was being held in perfect time to sign-in, chose the appropriate layers and notice the spray painted start line, with the word DEATH in giant letters and an arrow pointing in the direction of the course. Sweet!

A few minutes after 1pm found the just over 100 registrants amassing behind the death line rearing to go. We were told to turn around. Then asked to lie down. Then instructed to do fifteen push-ups. Okay….

So in the middle of my fifteen (gorgeous) push-ups, the announcer yelled: GO! Yikes! We rose in a sea of confusion and the race was off, leaping over a short wood fence and plunging into the woods.

The basic premise of the Adventure Race is that anything goes. And we immediately realized they meant it. This is no ordinary trail race if you define a trail race as a race on defined trails. This was bushwack racing at its finest. The path was delineated by a string of pink tape tied to random trees. The ground was uncleared and strewn liberally with the detritus of the adjoining trees. Branches obscured your view and snapped back at eye level as the masses charged through the trees.

Within the first five minutes I had seen five people tank it and I’m sure many others were tumbling outside my field of view, which was limited since I was busy staring at my feet to avoid spraining an ankle. Once the field thinned out a bit, the course hit a stream. And there we stayed for the next fifteen minutes or so, plunging across it every fifteen yards or so. At first, I tried to keep my sneakers somewhat dry but quickly realized it was a losing battle and I was better off just jumping in (and that was considerably more fun anyway).  So plunge I did. And plunge again. And again. It was glorious. I couldn’t stop chuckling. It was FUN!

Finally having made sure even the most tentative of stream crossers was soaked, the course headed uphill. Really steeply uphill. That was my time to shine. Having passed a number of racers trying to keep their shoes dry, I kicked in my hill climber skills and jogged by the walking racers. I, for whatever sick reason, love running uphill. I was feeling really, really good. Not bad for not being a runner!

Then as the course leveled out, according to a nearby runner’s GPS about 2.2 miles in, my ITB problem showed up again, having been under control for two years. This isn’t even the knee problem that stopped me running for the last year! I hurt it doing a half-marathon, feeling the first pain at mile 7 and insisting on running to the finish to break 2 hours. I broke 2 hours and hobbled for weeks. Smart. So the second I felt the twinge I started walking. I’m finally getting smart enough to not compromise my biking for a better time in a fun run. As long as I walked, no matter how fast, I was fine, but one running stride and stab, stab, stab.  Oh well.

Sucking up my foolish pride, I walked it out, allowing racer after racer that I had passed to pass me back as we entered a smooth, level carriage trail. Perfect timing as per usual. But it was starting to snow and it was beautiful, so how could I complain?

The level section quickly turned off trail and headed up, and up, and up, until finally we reached a point where a rope hung down a sheer rock face. One by one racers grabbed the end of the rope and trusting their shoes for traction pulled themselves hand over hand up the rock. I congratulated myself on not having stereotypically puny roadie racer arms as I hauled myself up the rock. One racer behind me posited they’d have Bloody Marys at the top but no such luck. (Though the race was helping my hangover, I could have gone for a bit of Bloody Mary hair-of-the-dog!)

At this point we were at the top of the climb and were treated with slide on your butt rock descents (not the best thing for a tricky knee but pretty funny). Soon I could hear the music rocking at the finish line and I figured we were almost there…. Until the course took a hard left and headed directly away from the finish line.  Hmm. That’s just mean. I was about an hour and a half into the race and was getting a little peckish to say the least. I wanted those promised hamburgers!

Luckily, we just had one mini loop (that was very confusing especially with the snow on the course making one intersection extra disorienting. Many a racer was found there scratching their head…the only part of the course that could have used some work) and then we actually headed for the finish. In typical, over-proud, Maddie fashion, I insisted on running across the finish line, bad knees be damned, in a reasonable time of around 1:48 for the approximately 5 1/2 mile course.

I promptly headed in to the cabin to get myself a hamburger and some water while I waited for Mo and Karen to finish. Pretty soon we were all done and had food and a Saranac Pale Ale in hand. MMM MMM GOOD!

No major injuries (stupid knee is tweaky but I’m ignoring it). A large number of calories burned. My hangover 83% cured (it was a bad one…all day long….damn you Peppermintinis!). So much fun! I could do this everyday. Why does anyone run on roads?!

So thank you Albany Running Exchange for another fabulous event! I’m thinking we need a full series of these races…. Anyone interested? (Hint. Hint.)

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A Sublimely Simple System of Silliness

When left to my own devices, during that awkward month of the year when I am not supposed to be riding my bike too much to allow my body to ‘recover’ from the horrors I’ve put it through during the nine month racing season, I tend to spend an inane amount of time pondering things that don’t need to be pondered. After all I have to do something during the commercial breaks in a football game.

Among the frivolous topics of speculation this particular year were: “If Verbal Kint is Keyzer Soze, what really happened in The Usual Suspects?”, “If the psychic was right and I was a sex slave to a cruel Mormon man in a previous life, does that excuse my occasionally deviant behavior?”, “Should I put broccoli in my beef stew?” and, the one that resulted in today’s random rant, “What is the unifying theme in the people I find attractive?”

This particular question has come up before, stemming largely from the fact that if you lined up all the guys I’ve dated and/or found attractive over the years the only thing you would find they have in common is me finding them attractive. Tall or short, black or white, blond or brunette, athletic or bookish, scrawny or built, yeti or big foot. Whatever.  So what is my sick and twisted subconscious looking for I ask myself? Hmmm….

While there is really nothing much to be gained from solving the mystery of what I find attractive (either someone is attractive to me or not, I lack any real control), the scientist in me loves a challenge. Hence the pondering and the resultant theory:

A Sublimely Simple System of Silliness

I have decided that the only thing that these poor unfortunate souls (please break into your best Ursula from the Little Mermaid impression) had in common was an ability to be silly.  The degree to which said individuals embraced the silly seems in direct correlation with the strength of said attraction as depicted on the following useless graph (See there’s the scientist talking).

chart 2!

Silly calls for silly like pizza calls for beer. My own personal version of pheromones, the detection of silliness seems to be the factor that elevates an initial physical reaction to the next level of attraction. As with most human beings, I am prone to the “well now, that’s pretty” double-take, but what differentiates that visual response-head turn from a lasting attraction seems to be the inability of the attractor to take himself all that seriously.  After all, what are we other than an aggregate of cells that move gangily about making mistakes, offending people and tripping over our own shoelaces? (or at least that about sums me up.) What right do we have to take ourselves seriously?

Instinctively, with the unfailing ability to look past social dictates and prejudices, my brain picks out those most likely to put up with a girl who thinks the most logical means of getting from one end of the apartment to the other is clearly a full speed sock slide (despite occasionally disastrous consequences in the stair section).  A girl who can giggle for a full hour over her inability to drink water lying down while failing to embrace the reasonable solution of sitting up.  A girl who knit herself a fringed scarf out of orange fuzzy yarn so when she’s unhappy she can wrap it around her head and pretend to be Red Fraggle. A girl who thinks playing “king of the couch” (and winning of course) is just about as much fun as can be had in an evening.

So while I’ve been doing my unsuccessful best to worry about height and age, eye colour and IQ, I should just have been asking “Would he dress up like a Smurf and mountain bike race with me?” or “How will he react to the idea of barefoot full-contact kitchen hockey? (a staple of my Montreal days)”

But clearly my subconscious is far smarter than I am and has been asking those questions all along.  So the next time I find myself going past that double-take for a triple or quadruple.  The next time I feel my heart trying to mimic ‘cross race pace when I’m just having a casual chat.  The next time I pester my unsuspecting friends with tales of some guy’s grandeur and they ask me: “Why this guy, Maddie?”   I can say: “Because he’s silly.”

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Madeleine Bonneville: Auto Mechanic.

In my family, it’s basically a given that when something is broken or work needs to be done we do it ourselves.  My father at various points in his life worked in the realms of construction and auto repair and therefore has the knowledge necessary to complete all but the most complicated of home and car jobs.

 

Over the years, my brother, my sister, and I have been roped in as free labour on a million of DIY projects. I have sheetrocked, sheetrocked and sheetrocked some more. I have scraped wallpaper until I believed the cider vinegar would remove my fingerprints.   I’ve spackled, painted, dug holes and lifted anything that needed to be lifted.

 

I am, I fear, my father’s personal living deadman.  Luckily, this particular job comes with the not-so-fringe benefit of free food.  I’ll do just about anything for food. I have, however, become somewhat suspicious whenever I’m invited to dinner since half the time dinner really means please come over and hold up this bay window while I install it. But the food is always tasty and in the long run you end up with a repertoire of skills that come in rather handy when you are as perpetually broke as I tend to be.

So why, Maddie, are you bringing this particular subject up now, you may ask. Because I have branched out from amateur contractor/house painter extraordinaire.  You may now call me: Madeleine Bonneville: Auto Mechanic!

 

I have fixed small things on my car before. I’ve reattached my sagging bumper, jury-rigged my exhaust system with bailing twine, cleaned spark plugs, and, of course, fixed flats. But this week, I, for the first time, replaced a part of my engine. Whee!

 

The story begins, as all my car related tales do, in inclement weather.  My cars are equipped with a fail-proof sensor that can detect the worst weather conditions in order to coordinate with any imminent mechanical failure.  My muffler fell 90% off my car and wedged itself under the frame to require jacking in a sleet storm.  My transmission died in the middle of nowhere Vermont at precisely the frigid moment when Fahrenheit met Celsius. And this last Saturday, with my back seat full of party gear, the rain pelting down, my car stopped starting. As Groucho Marx once said: Nothing. Not even ice cream.

 

Great. Just f#$@ing great.  I have almost thirty people coming to my apartment in a handful of hours and I’m listening to the delightful click and nothing that is means I’m not making it home any time soon.  So, like self-sufficient girls everywhere before have done, I called my father.

 

“Hey, Papa, So….My car won’t start.”  And to my rescue he comes.

 

Parked inconveniently facing in and surrounded by cars on all sides, we struggled to find the optimal angle for a jump.  And got a whole lot of nothing.  So we waited to see if a charge would take.  And nothing.  So we attempted to bypass the battery.  And nothing. Grr.

 

Luckily, I drive a manual. So, with the help of a friendly passing stranger, we managed to push start the car and get it back to my apartment in time to salvage my cooking plans.  But there went my racing plans for Sunday.  A fabulous way to finish a tanking season!

 

A new battery then.  My old one was incapable of being jumped and could barely open my automatic windows. Fine.  I can change a battery in my sleep.

 

So a day or so later, a new battery in hand, I opened the hood.  Wielding my trusty bike multi-tool’s 10mm wrench, I made quick work of that simple task.  Good. I’m back on the road.  So I seat myself behind the wheel, depress the clutch and turn the key. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

 

Another call to the repository of automotive knowledge later, I had tried to jump the new battery with no luck and I was jacking up the car to clean the wires off the battery that looked a little corroded.  Having no tool up to the job, my available wrench set being ever so conveniently not metric, I wandered over to Elevate Cycles to borrow a socket wrench and wire brush.  (Thanks Chris!)

 

But, after an hour spent under the car, much to the amusement of my neighbours who are fully and logically convinced that I’m insane, the contacts were cleaned and I was dirty.  Oh and the car still wouldn’t start. ARGH!

 

What now?!!!

 

So now it turns out my starter needs to be replaced.  So I returned Chris his wrenches and started making phone calls.  I drew a big blank at the junkyards but Advanced Auto Parts had just what I needed.  I gave them my name and waited a day or two to gather the money for the part.

 

So, Thursday, when the temp finally seemed high enough for me to get to work, I popped the hood and got down to business.  Namely finding the starter, which I had read online was located generally under the car slightly to the left side of center.  Fine.  So, having detached the battery to avoid a delightful shock, I jacked Mister Honda up again and crawled back under.

 

And found out that my starter is not, in fact, under my car.  Woo hoo!

 

Nope.  The starter on a ’92 Accord sits conveniently accessible just to the right of the battery, somewhat blocked by the air conditioner line but not requiring feats of acrobatics to remove.  It does however require large wrenches and leverage that is far from easy to accomplish in such a cramped area.  So, my brilliant plan to solo this job was shot.  I jacked the car back down and made another call to my Papa.

 

So, not entirely unlike Captain Planet, by our powers combined that starter had no chance!  One wire disconnected with a flick of the wrist. The line to the battery barely bothered fighting.  The upper bolt ceded with white flag flying.  Then the lower bolt, chuckling to itself with glee, said: Heck No! I won’t go!

 

So the heavy weight battle of the year ensued:

A nicely messy 17mm bolt, well entrenched vs. Francois and Madeleine Bonneville.

 

Oh, it tried.  It really tried.  It resisted the first assault.  It resisted the socket wrench. It resisted a wrench hammered onto the socket wrench for more leverage.  But finally, pliers clamped onto the socket wrench started the bolt a moving.  And once it gave up, the starter was free.

 

Hands turned a super sexy shade of grease black, I walked up to the counter of Advanced Auto Parts, handed over the old starter and claimed my prize: a shiny refurbished starter!

Putting the starter back in was a whole lot of no trouble at all.  Pop it in and reattach everything in reverse order.  And voila!

 

I sat my nervous butt down behind the wheel and turned the key.  Sweet success!  That’s right baby.  My car starts!

 

I know I didn’t do it all by my lonesome, but I was grinning like I had invented beer.  It feels so damn good knowing you have saved yourself money and gained a skill for life.  Every time I turn that key now I can say: Yeah, I did that.

 

So, next up, the blower motor! Sounds like a job for: Madeleine Bonneville: Auto Mechanic! (Don’t be surprised if I design myself a super hero suit and you never see me grease free again!)

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For a fallen friend

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

I stomp my pedals faster and faster as slick tires eat up the miles.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

Aching lungs expand and contract.  I gasp as the burn in my brain reaches my straining legs.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

A throbbing heart tests the confines of my cracking chest.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

When I pedal hard enough the wind strafes my face, stinging forth the tears I no longer know how to hide.

She’s gone and I don’t understand.

I want her back please. I want to be able to stop pedaling. I want to go home and call her.  I want her to be riding with me. I want to stop thinking. I want my friend back.

Natalia started me biking.  She gave me her old blue Trek 1000, complete with a biopace crank and geometry designed for someone else, the word aluminum proudly emblazoned on its side.  She put up with the temper tantrums that came as part of my cycling learning curve. I hate being bad at things and, knowing me well, she let me pout and swear and generally suck the joy out of our rides as I figured things out. She taught me how to spin a high cadence.  She forced me to learn how to draft.  We explored the four corners of Saratoga County and beyond, wandered through the Battlefield, lunched in Luzerne, took mid-ride breaks to swim and sightsee. She was with me when I completed my first century.  And my second.  Then my first triathlon. And my second. And slowly and steadily, with the infinite patience she brought to so many aspects of her life, she gave me the greatest gift a friend could give.

Since that somewhat inauspicious beginning, my love of bikes has expanded to the level of an obsession.  I’ve gone through a number of bikes since that first Trek.  I’ve added a mountain bike. And a ‘cross bike. My racing has expanded from a hobby to a lifestyle.  I’ve raced all across New England and even traveled to Nevada twice for the Xterra USA Championships. Bikes are such a big part of who I am and I can’t separate that from her.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

As my muscles near exhaustion, I try not to picture that day, the indelible images that tattoo my memory. I try to forget convincing her to race. I try to forget our jokes at the start line.  I try to forget her smile as we struggled miles behind the leaders.  I try to forget those last moments before she fell.  I try to forget the trip to the hospital. I try to forget that awful moment when the doctor closed the door behind him and I knew she was gone.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

Maybe if I pedal hard enough, if I push myself hard enough, if I go far enough, if I go fast enough, I can forget.  Just for a second, I can forget.

She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone. She’s gone.

But I don’t want to forget.  I don’t want to lose her.  I know I will carry her with me forever.  She is such a part of what I am, what I’ve become. I know that I can’t keep this up forever. Eventually the ride will end and I will have to face the truth. I know she’d be mad at me for this, for punishing myself, and I don’t want to let her down.

I blink back my tears, cadence slowing.

She’s gone. Nothing changes that.

But I can still see her up ahead. Just on top of the rise.  Laughing at me. Waiting for me to figure it out.  She knows I’ll get there.  And because she believes in me, I know I will.

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