Grrls in their natural habitat--bikes in the woods

After my glorious spill, I was itching to get back out there.  Since my husband and I have to trade off child-watching duties to get rides in, he was not able to squire me into the woods.  Fortunately, my enabler lives close and had a bit of free time.

Enabler

I'll confess to being a babe in the woods here and I don't like it.  I can definitely change a flat on a car, but haven't had cause to learn the same on a bicycle, so I don't ride alone.  I'd like to, but I've been repeatedly warned against it.  Sigh.

We met up at one end of an almost-27-mile-long rec trail wearing matching jerseys and smiles.  After a liberal application of bug dope, we got rolling.

As we emerged, victorious but tired, at the other end of the trail, I reflected on my improbable rise from couch-slouch to athletic phenom...

Nah, we rode for about an hour then went home.  But it was a fun hour.  I shook off my nerves from the recent fall and got great advice, too.

I learned the rules of the trail are the same as on horseback--to call out obstacles the others might not see, to pass left after calling it out, and to always keep a few sugar cubes in your pocket.

I was shown sweet tricks for quicker mounting and choosing lines.  Jen demonstrated extended slow-speed balancing while repeatedly waiting for me to catch the heck up.  I remember doing all of these things as a wilder child so the real trick to cyclocross is probably never to grow up.

Until next time, friends...get muddy!

Grounded: gravel, gauze, and self-deprecation...

Excited that the grandparents were going to watch the children overnight, C and I quickly planned a ride together.  Though they are the greatest joy of my life, the kids are also so young that they can also be an impediment to riding.  Someone's got to watch them, of course.  But, it is going to pass, and all too quickly, so I will never complain that they need me.

I wanted to try a maintained trail of some kind so I could get the hang of the shifting on the new bike.  My husband had sold his cx bike when we moved back down to civilization but a quick tire swap on one of his road bikes and he was trail-ready.

Ready to roll

They say you never forget how to ride a bike and that's sort-of true, but it had been seven years since my last ride and it did feel a bit strange, if euphoric.

I had a huge smile on my face after the small, muddy descent and the few branches I rode over though I was later jokingly admonished for doing so with no patch kit on board.  Ha.  Oh, well.  I felt like a kid again, exactly what I wanted in the first place.

Bellatrix in her natural habitat

I was getting the hang of the shifting on this new bike and even enjoying the surroundings.  C pulled up beside me and then it all gets a bit squirrelly.  I've still got no idea how or why it happened, but down I went.  I do remember the fall in slow-motion, like all good tumbles.

Trixie was fine.  That's the first thing we checked.  I knew I was banged-up but okay.  We washed off the blood and some of the sand with water from the water bottles and kept going.  "It doesn't even hurt," I noted, somewhat surprised.

Haha, oops...

A mile down the road I stopped.  We were at a road-crossing and I realized it was going to be a long haul from there on out.  I was still bleeding and the adrenaline was wearing off making it obvious that I had actually hurt my shoulder and should probably ice that.  We bagged the ride and headed back.  I was disappointed (understatement).

Of course it was worth it.  I only sprained my shoulder and I the road rash healed pretty quickly.  I have mad nursing skills from my husband's old spills.  I have a very physical job and I spent the week doing my eight-hour shifts one-handed.  That was probably the worst of it right there.

Cool sling

I'd like to regale you with tales of all my subsequent cx adventures, but I am still working weeknights (when the local group rides go off) and my husband is in serious training for a pretty big goal so he hits the roads for hours and hours at a time.  I'm super impressed by his determination.

So if anyone wants to take an enthusiastic newb out on the trails, I promise to be smiling the whole time and to always laugh at my own foolishness.  I mean, that's kind of me in a bizarro nutshell: equal parts stubborn grit, childlike enthusiasm, and extra hearty servings of self-deprecation.  I don't know any other way to be.  Let's play!!

Obsessed

Since I was 14 or 15 I have been completely obsessed.  I want to confess a love for a boy band here, or for soft tacos, or for glitter eyeliner (that's actually pretty awesome), but my obsession was with names.

A trip to the book store--and there were super-duper many of those--would compel me to the same two sections.  The first was Philosophy.  I was always trying to learn something, so home came Nietzsche and Camus and Sartre and...none of that helped.  I got a C in college Philosophy.  Meh.

Horse camp.  15?  Only the most flattering photos make the blog.  This chick loves books.  And flannel.  And has no idea where her hairbrush is.

The other section was Parenting.  I wasn't a young mom (although my mother was visibly confused when I brought in new baby name books).  I didn't even want children.  Babies?  That was a completely foreign concept to me.  But--NAMES!!!  Oh, how I loved them.  Still do.

And...I lied when I said two sections, I would also sneak into the Children's Department to search for new Saddle Club books or to pick up anything related to Anne of Green Gables.  There were a hundred of each.  I still read those.  Good stuff.

I wanted to know the complete history behind names, their evolution, earliest known usage, all the juicy stuff.  I learned that some authors invented names that we still use today like Vanessa, Olivia, and Evangeline.

I never named my cars.  What??  I dunno.

If you've been following any of this, you'll know I'm searching for a cyclocross bike.  I'm not going to spoil the surprise, but I've got one on hold to try out.  I might hate it, but I'm already trying to name it.

I've got the perfect name but this bike isn't black, and having it repainted would cost nearly the same as buying a second bike so I'd just get a second bike, obviously.

So, I need a name for a very peppy-looking red and white bicycle.

Do I want her to sound fierce?  Do I want her to have a cute name so people underestimate us then get trounced?  Do I use up the cool baby names I won't get to use on actual children and skip the plan to adopt dozens of cats?  I mean, not all at once.

On the short list:

• Harpy (tough and scary--just like me! Grr!!! (see above photo for confirmation of this)
• Philomena
• Ruby
• Isolde
• Freya
• The Flying Tomato
• Lola
• Zelda
• Florence
• Matilda
• Ingrid (nixed for my human daughter--what?!!)

Should I try to hold out for an ebony steed to use the name I covet?  Does it really matter when cross bikes are primarily the color of mud?

Have you ever named a bicycle?  Car?  Stilts?  (I'm thinking lefty and righty for the stilts, though I used to have a pair and those didn't get names, either--slacker)

Feel free to send suggestions.  I sorta dig names.

True love is head lice, and other realizations

I spent last night on the couch, waking every forty minutes or so to again try not to scratch my head and neck.  You're just imagining it, I would tell myself.  Then I would flip over, readjust my pillow and blanket, pretend I wasn't too cold to sleep, and try not to think about the possibility that right then, dozens of head lice were feeding and breeding on my defenseless scalp.

I'd been itchy for a week or so.  I noticed it most during shifts at work when I was running around a lot busy and a little sweaty.  Well, it is hard work.  Must be some major winter dryness, I remember thinking.  Once, I checked my six-year-old's head to see if *I* might have lice.  Nah, he was clean so I was, too.  Everyone knows that if your household gets hit by lice, it was brought home by the kid who is in school.  

Yesterday morning I woke without an alarm clock for the first time in forever.  I was supposed to be relaxing, and I had big plans to paint and meditate and read and NAP, but I couldn't shake a horrible feeling that something bad was going to happen.  I was filled with dread.  I told my lapsed-Catholic Irish-Italian husband about my premonition which only stirred up his superstitious side.  I considered telling him he couldn't take the kids with him to visit family but the worry began to wane, and off they all went. 

After they left, I decided to take a shower.  I shampooed my (presumably winter-dry) hair and then looked down.  What is that?!!  I washed it again.  Two, three...is that a fourth?  I squinted at the dark spots on my hands.  I turned off the shower and dried my hands.  I pulled up the internet and did a search: "Bugs in hair not lice?" It brought me pictures of head lice.  No matter how I worded my desperate pleas of denial, the universe sighed, heavily, and fed me the truth in photo form.  

[expletive deleted]  Dude, you have head lice.

Dude.

My husband and kids were off visiting his family and this was supposed to be a relaxing morning to myself before work which rapidly deteriorated into mild queasiness, a mental tally of all the laundry we would need to wash, and a warning call to my MIL when I couldn't get ahold of the spouse, who was still on a long bike ride.  I followed him on Garmin LiveTrack and cursed him when he didn't stop to call me back.

I called out of work and rushed to the drug store.  When the cashier asked how I was, I told her I'd been better.  Then she looked down at my items--two generic lice solution kits and a fancy package of combs and magnifying glass with a light.  Truthfully, I had no idea what I needed, I just felt better buying something.  She nodded in commiseration.  "I've been there," she said, "I had little kids, too."

To that point, I assumed the whole family was likewise infested and that we were going to have a battle when they returned.  Fortunately, I was wrong.  Everyone had a good wash with the kit to be safe, but it appeared that in my home I was Patient Zero, which makes sense because I've always been lucky.

I tossed and turned all night on the couch, then decided I must have those super lice I've heard about.  Working in a medical facility, you better believe anything you catch there is going to be hardy.  Pure luck.

Embarrassed (but not too embarrassed to admit it now), I had my husband call urgent care and ask if it was possible for me to be seen--or, better, just to have pity and write me a prescription for the demons on my scalp.  Yeah, I went in.

They assigned me the coolest nurse with the most beautiful, long and free-flowing gray hair.  This seemed like a mistake.  It would take hours to comb out all of her hair with that little plastic lice comb.  And these were lice on steroids!  Undeterred, she assured me that 1. she had previously been deloused on an international medical aid trip to Africa and 2. I wouldn't have to shave my head.

I returned home with my prescriptions (one was a mercy filling of an anti-itch med that also helps you sleep), a little bit of hope, and a note for missing work which always makes me feel like a little kid.

After showering with the new stuff, I sat on the edge of the tub while my husband spend the next hour trying to snip out anything even faintly resembling an egg.  I felt great love for him as he meticulously searched my entire head.  I reminded him that he was only supposed to sip the single strand of hair that had the egg on it.  "Hmm...oops," he muttered to himself.  I sat, helplessly, as he cut thick sections out of my hair.  I said nothing as he repeated this ruthless but well-intentioned butchering side-to-side and front-to-back and then around again for good measure.  I'm still not sure what it looks like, because I thanked him, with genuine gratitude, and then headed downstairs without looking in the mirror.

I might just skip the mirror for a while.  

How to know what you don't know: Am I truly meant to be a cyclocross diva?

I'm a trail runner.  It doesn't matter that I haven't run in over a year, does it?  I'm a self-identified awesome athlete with no particularly convincing evidence to back this up.  Ice climber?  Yes, that's me!  Oh, well I haven't actually gotten around to it.  But I've joined all the forums and I have my equipment carefully researched and selected.  And I even get updates on sales, you know, for when I have the time and money.

Mostly time.

My husband, the Irish Italian (you're welcome, dear), is an AVID cyclist.  He is usually in training for something.  He always has big plans and tends to follow through.  (Show-off...)  To him, 100 miles in a day is actually possible.  It's the equivalent of taking the stairs instead of the elevator.  It's upping your incline on the treadmill (I'd call it a dreadmill, but I kinda like them.  I'm weird).  It's like no sugar all week.  Another thing he manages with great success.  While some people look at his data and feel sympathetically winded and vaguely nauseated, HE is looking at the people who do more, and who do it faster.  He has mad goals.

Since he has always been one with the bicycle, you'd think I would have been swept away in a sea of spandex ages ago.  Togetherness and all that.  Well, I did have a road bike for a hot minute.  I was super excited.  Okay, it was poorly-fitted and the brakes were only 70 percent effective, but it was me who quit.  I could have persevered.  I could have found a different bike.  I took that disappointment and put all that energy right into avoidance.  Maybe I'm meant to run...

While I pretended to be completely over cycling, I would still think about it.  Did I want to go for long, unforgiving hauls like my bonkers spouse?  Meh.  Did I want to launch my body all the way down steep twisty-turny sneaky-rooted mountain trails?  Not on a bike. You know, bones breaking and all that.  Besides, that's what my feet are for!  You know how the joke goes that the mom in the house is the only one that still has to keep going when she is sick?  Well, I have three itty-bitty ones.  I'm not dragging broken bones up and down three flights of stairs in pursuit of exercise and thrills.  Plus, work would like me functional.  But...I still want this thrill.  I'm almost 40 but don't tell me the thrill is gone.  I won't have it!

Enter cyclocross.  Really.  Like I want to enter cyclocross events.  It's perfect.  The fun of charging toward deliberate obstacles smacks of the reckless joys of my childhood when I was never without my bike.  Let's devise wild and wicked courses to test our bravery!  Yes, let's!  Let's push ourselves to the point of giddy, well-earned exhaustion.  Let's race towards the mud like mad geniuses of physics.  Wait--people still do this?  I'll admit to being nervous about running, er--riding, with a field of fitter, fearless wonders, but I'm game.  So how do I get started?

That's exactly what I asked superbrain and wildly weird cyclocross maven (and complete enabler) Jen Murphy.  (You must go read her blog, but not before you finish mine, because I eked it out while sick and kids were shouting at me for more gummie snacks)  Per usual, I've joined forums and peeked at gear and prices.  But I want more.  I need the dirty details.  How much is it going to cost to feed my soul?  So here we go...

I need a bike.  How much should I have set aside for a decent starter bike?  What type of frame?  Any components I'll want to change out sooner rather than later?  I'm also between sizes--my problem with bike number one--so do I want to size down for control?  Give up and buy new trail-running shoes?

Let's say I have this bike, see, and I want to know how to maintain it.  When I rode horses, it was a source of pride how well-kept your horse was.  I did everything.  I'm not so mechanically-inclined.  Actually, I have no idea.  I actually think I could be.  So how do I learn everything I need to know from flats to bar tape and when to call the shop?  I'd ask my husband, but he's already 100 miles up the road...

I like to shop, but my husband always jokes that I can't shop outside of clearance sections.  He's right (don't tell him), so how will I know which equipment is okay to bargain-shop and on which gear I need to spend spend spend?  Is my husband lying when he says the expensive Sidi's in his online shopping cart are better than the brand that was on sale and that he has to pay more for the helmet that matches his kit?  I need to know.

Do I need a license to be this cool?  Are there some events that are just for kicks and some that are for points?  Where should a gal start?  I'm a big joiner!  Just check out the "clubs and activities" section of my old yearbooks.  It would be embarrassing if I wasn't proud.  Oh, and what is the "season?"

I'm...a bit..less fit than I was prior to gestating all my perfect children, so how fit is fit enough?  Is there a routine that's more beneficial than another?  An area to target? (Please don't say core...please don't say core...please don't say core...)  You are going to say core.  I sensed a disturbance in the force.  Okay, so core and what else?  Pilates is the devil so I'm sure I need to do even more of it.  Yoga is like candy, so please tell me I can have more of that.  That's strength and flexibility, what about endurance?  I'm sure you've done well when you feel like your lungs are exiting through your mouth because you were really really pushing yourself, but I want to have enough stamina to make it through the entire race before collapsing, triumphant that I survived.  Smiling, even, because this is wicked amounts of fun.  So what do you suggest?  I'll start right away.

What is the culture like?  Every activity has it's own culture.  I used to ride horses cross-country (alternate universe cyclocross for horses?  Also, how you know I am brave as heck--go watch some videos on YouTube) and there were spoken and unspoken rules and traditions and even ways of showing your individuality within the cultural mores.  So tell me what you know.  These could be my people.

Finally, what is the one thing you wish you knew before you started?  Yeah, I want the secret stuff.

Awaiting your wisdom,

Me.