Three Weeks

I'm in Texas (or was)-where the weather's absolutely miserable- because of my Mom and Dad. Dad passed away peacefully at the house on the 17th of June with all of his family around him. After Dad finally came home from the hospital under the auspices of hospice care, we talked to him, read to him, doing everything we could to keep him comforted in his final days. In fact, our hospice nurse Denise, was so exceptional she seemed as if she was a part of our family whenever she was present. Quite an armada of (his circle of) friends came by and visited.

It's remotely bizarre-no, it's pretty damn bizarre--the preparatory work ensuring a funeral, internment/inurment/columbarium, and a memorial service-to go accordingly and timely. My brothers and I and our respective families are here doing the legwork so my Mom doesn't have to. Thankfully and appreciatively the funeral home as well as Mom and Dad's church we dealt with were superior in their relationship and services to us.

It's also especially cool how the community of friends and family are rallying around Mom and our family in our time of distress. The previously mentioned community brought so much food for us everyday it seemed like Thanksgiving. Been running with sweet Melissa to keep my personal growth to a minimum (although I'd say I'm losing).

Extended family and friends are starting to arrive in town so the house is getting packed. My next door neighbor's a class act and my Dad's first cousins are a hoot. One of the wives of the first cousins came in from Canada, she-Grace (there's a reason she has that name)-was a class act too. Listening to what they did back in the Philippines as teenagers/college students was educational for me. It painted a lively, contextual, historical picture in my mind of their interactions when they conversed as family members, friends, as well as their complicitous tomfoolery growing up (including some juicy gossip about them provided from my cousin Gerry). The most interesting history was how they lived and survived in the presence of the Japanese occupying forces in the Philippines. When family members are also your friends that's a major bonus kids!

My family came in on the 17th. Team M's quite the group. Have I mentioned how my family is righteous? The whole is better than the sum of the parts. Their behaviour and support speaks volumes of their personalities.

Dad's memorial service was exceptional. Mom wanted to have it at the church they've been attending for the past three decades. Not much of a religious kinda guy but the Reverend Gary Mueller had such presence and a command of the English language I was actually quite impressed with his reverence and relevance towards my Dad I felt I was in a sacred establishment. I can see why he's the leader of this congregation (as well as his support staff of equally amazing Reverends like Revs. Alice Coder and Melissa Hatch). Of course when your older brother eulogizes your esteemed father, it's difficult to keep your emotions inside. He-my older brother-spoke elegantly about my father: an exceptional father as well as an exception husband to my most amazing mother. My brother's speech and Rev. Mueller's presentation left quite an impression on me afterwards I think often about it. The pictures my brothers and I chose for the visual part of the memorial service got me choked up too. My father was quite the handsome fellah back in his heyday. I kid you not when I say he's the Filipino version of Clint Eastwood. Saw five dear friends at the Memorial Service too: (in no certain order) Jimmy, Kev-leb, Brent--collectively the Rajun' Cajuns--Brian (a teammate when we raced for Plano Schwinn) and Grant, my college roomy and once-upon-a-time complicitor. Good, loyal friends they are...It's the little things that creep into my brain that remind me of my Dad, that get me lachrymose. For example, after setting up Dad's bookshelf speakers in my home, I played Beethoven's Ninth and it reminded both me and Melissa of how much he loved listening to (classical) music. The randomness of items or events that evoke remembrances of my father...

My part of this journey began right after school got out on the sixth of June and we just arrived in Colorado last night-the 24th-after 13 hours of driving. The record high was 111°F (44°C) when we drove through Amarillo. Have y'all ever been to Amarillo during the summer? I bet after the Spanish word for Yellow, the runner up for the name of this town was Caliente. It's not finished yet. Some more items need to be attended to in my Mom's estate and we're-my brothers and our families-going to ensure that it flows seamlessly within the best interests of Mom. Sweet Melissa created a list of things to do to get my Mom's affairs in order. A little daunting because of my world class procrastination skills.

Rode Saturday the 25th-to begin my routines (and burn off the potential energy forming around me middle) and to place some modicum of mental sanity back into my mellon. Felt good to ride in Colorado away from that insufferable heat of Texas (although I miss my brothers and my Mom). Busted out a 31 miler on my 29er where 2/3rds of it was on roads and a third was singletrack. Back to the bidness of being Cycling Dad with episodes of traveling to Texas to helps out me Momma. Gonna try to participate in the Colorado Road Race Championships if I can do it without being pack fodder, otherwise who cares right?

If you're reading this and you have parents that are getting up there in years, you should consider getting the ball rolling in the eventuality of their passing with dignity with their estate in your hands as opposed to the State's. Just saying...

And another thing, don't be a dick to your parents. If you're a teenager you probably can't help it (like yours truly as a teenager) but maturity goes a long way (even if some parents--or you!--temporarily lack this). Be the good son or daughter to your folks unconditionally even if they might not be exhibiting rationale behaviour. Thankfully my Dad had a long, meaningful life where he and my Mom traveled and were surrounded by people who loved them and visited them often. My parents sacrificed and planned their estate in such a way their son's have it better than them. I'll never forget that and I'ma pay it forward to my kids and family to plan a retirement that's beneficial to Team M. You'll regret petty behaviour towards your folks (because you or they held a grudge, and they pass unpredictably quick), then you're stuck with some irreversible dumb $hit you could've avoided simply by taking the high road. Took that advice and I'm eternally grateful.

Have I mentioned how righteous my extended family members are?

Like my brother said in his eulogy, Dad, we love you and we're going to miss you.

The Beginning of Summer (A Story within a Story)

This was written on the 24th of May:
Technically it hasn't started but it has gotten off to a distressing start. My Dad, for reasons I'll keep to myself, was in the hospital for a specific malady when they found a much more serious condition that might be causative to the original malady (ies). Haven't been in the mood to write since this happened. It's difficult to see your Dad-my musical, personal, comedic, familial, and paternal guide-being weakened by age-related, health paroxysms. But since then, I've completed the Santa Fe Century with my good friend J; in fact, I've posted his report on the previous blog entry. Here's what I came up with-on the 14th of May-before the condition of my Dad superseded the priority to write.

The reason why I’m here’s for the Santa Fe Century. Haven’t done any high volume miles this season so what better reason to hang out with my dear friend Jay of multiple decades in a cosmically hip place like Santa Fe to ride, catch up, and decompress from another end of an academic year (aka working my ass off!)
The road trip down to Jay’s cabin (aka ADMACO) was uneventful and sonically blissful. It was a cold and foggy start in Colorado so I handpicked music aligned to the unpredictable, quasi-mysterious, gastronomically adventerous, Georgia O’Keefe-ey, geo-socio-political state of being known as New Mexico. First one up was Miles Davis’

Filles de Kilimanjaro

. The first and last songs are memorable. In Felun Brun when Miles’ trumpet kicks in it is so understatedly powerful and strong it just cut through all the cold and fog that was settling in Sedalia…

Six hours later, nearer to Jay’s cabin, the sights I was so accustomed to as a 20 something undergrad when Jay, our friends and I would take refuge from the pressures of being said 20-somethings were foggy. But once I started rolling through Pecos, NM the memories of times at the cabin came slowly into focus. One of them was the tiny Church...

...The roads sure seem a lot narrower than what I remembered but the trees and the spatial orientation of the landmarks I used to remember where still there. Coupl’a houses got bigger but by and large this area of NM is still largely unchanged.
Jay has a log book in the big room where guests would remark on the day they were having as vacationers. Saw some entries I put in when we went mountain biking (like back in the mid-nineties) and it made me laugh from a majorly by-gone era. This is the Cowles city limit sign almost directly in front of the house (which is up a steep-ish hill).

Here's the vantage point looking at ADMACO from the city limit sign.

At Jay’s I gave my bike the once over and rolled for about half an hour getting my legs warmed up for tomorrow. This is what greeted me after the fog and cold I left Colorado this morning...

19 May (new story). I'm finished with my duties as a teacher and immediately afterwards I flew to TX to help out my Mom and to see my two brothers who were rallying for Mom as well. Our cousin Gerry also came up from Austin to visit and help us. As we were cleaning up/de-cluttering our folks' house I came up on two unopened bottles of Glenlivet (12) hanging out where non-alcoholic possessions usually hangout. Aw deem. So (mathematically speaking): the boys + our cousin Gerry + an unopened bottle of (The) Glenlivet = cigars and a newly opened bottle of (The) Glenlivet in the backyard (for catching up, decompressing, and general shooting the $hit). Gerry likes his neat, whereas I nosed mine before I sacrilegiously put (distilled watered) ice into it.

Seeing my brothers-all together-was excellent. We haven't been together for several years so hanging out with them and Mom (although the reason was $hitty) was rather satisfying.

Back in Colorado, the weather is currently holding in the precipitation pattern so my "free" time to ride (in-between picking up and dropping off the kids from schooly-school) is going to be interesting. Do I ride in cold rain/snow or run indoors? Either option is not particularly attractive, although the half-marathon's coming up...

It's going to be an interesting Summer. Heading out again (with my son and our Golden Retriever) in early June to help out Mom as my brothers and I are staggering our times in Plano, TX. Melissa's sympathetic to my situation because she's cool like that. Gonna bring my road bike.

My friend, Jay's Santa Fe Century Report. Entitled "Sammy Ortiz"

This is a redacted excerpt (from me, the .PDF threw off my margins from the beginning of his text) from my homeskillet, Javier De Soto Santa Cruz de la Collier's (yes, that's his real name and don't let him tell you otherwise) post race report of the Santa Fe Century. It's quite and enjoyable read. Hope y'all like it as much as I did. But, here's the breakdown of Javier...

Synopsis of Javer de Soto Santa Cruz Real Madrid como esta usted de la Collier (yes, that is his real name and don't let him tell you different) and our friendship of two plus decades.
-As a graduate student Jay was a HARD cyclist (years of West Texas headwinds made him hard).
-Jay has an MS in Organic Chemistry with a minor in English.
-we laugh and drink a lot of beer together.
-he still owns the original Selle Italia turbo SLR saddle.
-his patent for sliced bread was stolen so that made him bitter about entrepreneurialship.
-a mutual friend of ours got me a life-guarding, summer job where I met the narrator of said story back in 1989-ish.
-our mutual love of: cars, beer, music, geeky science stuff, people who write well, and food (to name a few) made our Venn diagram circles (his and mine) mo' similar rather than contrasting.
-lastly, he has plead the fifth more than once with his episodes pertaining to jurisprudence.

Characters (in no certain order):
-Jay=first person narrator (omniscient no, but cool? yes).
-Elizabeth=narrator's homeskilletienne.
-Jeff Winchester=conduit o'cycling knowledge and narrator's friend.
-Sammy=phred, tool, poseur.
-Mike=yours truly.

We begin with Jay's background in West Texas as an undergrad beginning with his downward spiral that is cycling...
Second race – October. Again, Sammy talking to friends before the race, “I’m not racing today because I’m upset at how Darrin put this race together. He took the whole thing and just did it, cutting the rest of us out when we offered to help, so I’m not racing today.”
I began to see a pattern. And at the time, I was one of the new guys in the group, so I sought the advice from a higher power, a buddy of mine, Jeff Winchester.
“That Sammy guy?” I quered [sic].
“Oh, don’t even get me started on him! Man, he’s worthless!”
“Does he ever ride? Or does he just talk about it. Because he’s always got some excuse as to…”
“He’s either got an excuse, or he’s quit everything he’s ever entered. Don’t ever quit a ride. Because once you quit one, it’ll just be that much easier to quit the next one.” Such words became prophetic as I rarely saw Sammy out there riding – though he was always full of knowledge.
Santa Fe, New Mexico – Sunday May 15th, 2011, 6a.m. we stepped out of the car to go pick up our ride packets for the 26th annual Santa Fe Century. And immediately upon setting foot outside of the 4Runner, we felt exposed – to the wind and to the temperature, or lack thereof. A quick check of my phone revealed a temperature of 46 degrees, but that didn’t factor in the windchill.
And with the 30-40 mile gusts we were feeling I didn’t want to know what the perceived temperature was. Sometimes more knowledge isn’t a good thing.
I couldn’t figure it out – 6a.m., just barely dawn, and it was already gusting this badly and the secret to this ride is to get an early start so you can make absolutely as much progress as possible early in the day, cover as many miles as possible out of 100 before the winds do kick up (as they will) in the afternoon.
But at 6 a.m.?
“This is going to be an interesting ride,” I said to my riding compadres, Mike & Elizabeth.
And I hate wind.
Living in Lubbock as I did, you’re faced with it every spring. Brutal wind – the kind that turns the sky brown from all the dirt it kicks up from the outlying farms. And if you’re going to ride in Lubbock, you’re going to have to learn to ride in the wind. And while I did learn to hide from the wind, that doesn’t’ mean that I like it any better. In fact, having spent 10 years in Lubbock, I feel
as though I’ve already received my life’s allocation of wind. I’ll gladly take climbing over riding in the wind. Because while every climb has its section to offer reprieve, wind has a way of just absolutely being relentless and breaking your spirit.
We’ve had an unusually windy spring here in Denver this year, which has on more than one occasion hampered my training efforts. Knowing this, and knowing my vocal sentiments about riding in the wind, my friend & colleague, Jim asked me, “So what are you going to do if you get down there and it’s blowing like crazy?”
“Don’t even say that,” I said. I then went on to describe my strategy as far as getting an early start and covering as may miles as possible before the afternoon winds kicked up.
But here it was, 6a.m., and the sun hadn’t even crested Atalaya Mountain yet, and we’re facing a 100 mile day – that we signed up for, paid money for, and traveled clear to Santa Fe from Denver to ride. Any other day, I wouldn’t have gone out. Or I cut my rides down to 20 miles if it’s absolutely essential that I go out that day. Otherwise, forget it.
Because I hate riding in the wind.
The Santa Fe Century route begins by immediately taking you south out of Santa Fe along NM-14 to the town of Madrid, about 26 miles away. And last year, we hit Madrid in 1:25, averaging just slightly over 20 mph.
This year, with the wind gusting out of the south, as soon as we made that left onto NM-14, which turned us south, I knew we were screwed. And for a long time.
Riding out on the flat prairie, you’re quite exposed. And traveling at any rate of speed on a bike induces a windchill in & of itself. Add wind to that, and you’ve just increased your exposed windchill that much further.
Mike took off like a rocket, and cyclist upon cyclist passed Elizabeth & I, and what their secret I couldn’t even tell you as we were getting blown all over the place – our bike’s direction at times being dictated by the gusts which blew out front wheel haphazardly.
I just didn’t know if I could do it. 100 miles of this?
Why would I want to do this?
I couldn’t even answer the question. But there were other people out there, and I just kept heading south.
And if everyone else jumped off a cliff, would I?
Evidently so.
Another aspect about the Santa Fe Century is that because of its route, you have to make a decision relatively early as far as centuries go, if you’re going to bail from the 100-mile route and take on something shorter. And the way this route is laid out, you have to commit to cutting your ride to 50 miles before you even reach the first rest stop in Madrid at 26 miles. And I can’t tell you exactly how far that point was from the start, or how long it took for us to get there. But I can tell you that both Elizabeth & I stopped.
And we looked at each other, long and hard. Because there were a lot of other things I would’ve rather have been doing that day than riding in a gusting headwind.
“I’m fine, if you just want to go in,” Elizabeth said.
And I would’ve been fine too. I would’ve had no problem making that decision.
“I know.”
And we looked at each other some more. And we saw people making that left turn to cut their century ride short because of the wind. And we stared down that road.
“I have to go on,” I said. And it felt weird to say it. It’s like they weren’t even my words. “I have the Iron Horse in two weeks. And while I have no problem making this decision to head in, I have a feeling that I’m going to have a hard time living with this decision later. I need this workout to prep for the Iron Horse. And if I quit this, then it’s just going to make the Iron Horse that much bigger of
an obstacle to overcome. I have to do this.”
And I thought of Sammy Ortiz.
And Jeff Winchester, “Don’t ever quit a ride. Because once you quit one, it’ll just be that much easier to quit the next one.”
Such decisions are easy to make, but much harder to live with. I then discussed my revised ride strategy – how we’d just try & noodle along into the wind, but trying to make that left turn at Stanley, NM which turned us back north and put the wind at our back as soon as physically possible. And I tried to explain to Elizabeth how she could draft behind me, hiding from the wind to limit her exposure.
But the truth was that neither of us knew if we could actually pull this off. 100 miles in a day is hard enough, but in wind like this? That said, I don’t think either of us entertained the worst case scenario idea – catching the sag wagon in because we simply couldn’t make it. I have to believe that once we clicked back into our pedals and set off, that we truly believed that we would make it. And in just a few miles we had made it to the first rest stop in Madrid. I think it was good for our spirits to at least have made it to the first rest stop. Our next obstacle, wind aside, was that most of the elevation gain in the century occurred in the next two segments to Cedar Grove – the 1600’ climbed out of Madrid, coupled with what is usually considered to be the true crux of this route, Heartbreak Hill which rises toward the sky at a 17% grade over a half mile.

Upon pedaling out of Madrid, I accidentally clicked my left shifter. But when I did, suddenly realized that I had dropped my chain onto the smaller chainring in the front, thus affording an easier pedaling cadence than what I had experienced previously – I had been climbing the hills into Madrid in my big chainring.
“What the?!?? I’ve been running my 53 all morning so far?” I had neglected to drop it back down after motoring out of Santa Fe at the speed we departed.
“I saw that and thought, ‘Gosh, he’s awfully strong to be pushing that gear!” Elizabeth said.
So once realizing I had additional (and easier) gears that I hadn’t yet used, the 1600’ wasn’t bad to acquire as the foothills, depending on which way you were facing, did provide a bit of relief from the wind to the point where our direction wasn’t dictated by the front wheel reacting to the gusts. But conquering Heartbreak Hill, for me at least, would have to wait another year.

“That’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen,” Elizabeth said as she saw the road rise steeply skyward.

Last year, I made it about 1/3 of the way up before stopping and walking the rest of way, as did Elizabeth this year. But this year, merely approaching it heading backinto a headwind was enough to immediately surrender defeat. Besides, we still had 60 miles to go in what was so far, an arduous day. As for Mike? He conquered the entire 17% grade in the headwind, then proceeded to single-handedly rescued helpless orphans from a burning building once at the top, and then put out the fire with his two water bottles before the fire department even arrived.

Mere mortals like Elizabeth & I can only aspire to be as great.

We skipped the rest stop a t Heartbreak Hill as it came before the monstrous climb and neither of us wanted to cool our legs before approaching that thing by stopping, so we soldiered on, descending into the Cedar Grove rest stop. This allowed me have the volunteers from REI take a look at my rear wheel, as it was feeling soft on the descent – and they replaced without delay using their own replacement tube. A classy move, and I’ll be a customer of theirs for life. But having skipped the rest stop at Heartbreak Hill, and using the rest stop at Cedar Grove to tend to a mechanical, I knew I was running low on fuel, but also knew the coveted Stanley rest stop was only 15 miles ahead.

And Cedar Grove marked the first of two essential left turns of the day, as it marked the southernmost point the route of the century would have us take. From here we would head back east into Stanley, and then make the left turn I had been dreaming about since Madrid – the one that took us back north, hopefully with the wind at our backs. Onto Stanley, and for the first time all day, at mile 50, we were no longer facing a direct headwind, but rather more of a diagonal cross wind. I motored as hard as possible to bite off these miles and make it to Stanly to turn back north, and ended up conversing with a couple of guys along this long straight stretch.

“This wind is relentless,” I commented.

“I’ve ridden this century 7 years now, and I’ve never seen it like this. How you can run a 100-mile course and face directly into the wind for 65 of those miles is beyond me.”

This guy felt my pain, though his misery evidently didn’t love my company because a few short pedal strokes later, his small group was gone. And my commands to the engine room for more power fell on deaf ears, because I hadn’t eaten. I was running on fumes and 7 miles out from the rest area. Shortly thereafter, Elizabeth had caught up to me.

“I’m not going to lie,” I said, turning to her. “I’m really hurting here.”

“I can’t say I’ve enjoyed too much of this day, myself.”

We were wounded. Though in the distance, we could see NM-41, our cross street, that dear left turn that would turn us back north. I checked the wind – still coming from the south, if only it would hold. And a few short minutes later, we pulled into Stanley – the two of us needing a rest stop like we’ve never needed one in our lives before. We were famished, our spirits beaten down by the wind.

But the atmosphere at the Stanley rest stop contrasted with us as it was light & jovial, reggae music playing, and the volunteers happily serving up Gatorade, sandwiches, cantaloupe, pretzels and oranges, welcoming our arrival. Not since the wild hyenas of Africa were featured on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom have you seen such reckless abandonment while scavenging. We ate everything that was offered and consumed massive amounts of Gatorade. It was our longest rest stop of the day, easily 30 minutes.

We fought for every one of those 62 miles to make it into Stanley. But what lay ahead of us was the long straight road back to Santa Fe that passed through Galisteo & Eldorado. Last year, I fought a headwind through this section the entire 41 miles that it was back to Santa Fe. This year, I could only hope that this was the left turn I had been dreaming about putting the wind at our backs as it was nearly 20 miles to the next rest stop.

And having been beaten down by the last 15 said, “I really need for this section to go well.”

Sometime after 12:30 p.m. by the time we left Stanley. We had been on the road for six hours and covered 65 miles. Yet there it was, just a few short pedal strokes later, we could feel it – the wind at our backs for the first time all day. What was a difficult section last year proved to be a heck of a lot of fun this year – rollers, but with a net downhill. So powering down the backside of one would help slingshot you part way up the next. I felt good, I felt strong. I passed countless
people on the upside of the rollers. I felt like my old self again and for the first time all day, remembered why I loved this ride so much. We gained a lot of ground back on that stretch 20-mile stretch which went by all too quickly.

Galisteo to the final rest stop at Eldorado is a net climb, culminating in a long, gradual hill several miles long that rises out of Lamy and continues on until just a couple of miles south of Eldorado. And while it isn’t hard and is completely ridable in contrast to Heartbreak Hill, it’s about the last thing you want to see at mile 82 into a century. And after blowing my legs on the previous section,
decided simply to noodle this section to save some of my energy for the fast trip back to Santa Fe from Eldorado.

“On your left…” I heard come up from behind me on the climb out of Lamy, so I moved over to the right to allow the female voice to pass when it continued, “…at some point.” As she wasn’t moving any faster than I was. To that point, it was the funniest thing I’d run across all day, and as tired as I was, shared a good laugh together with a stranger who was as tired as I was at this point in the day, trying to climb the same hill as best as possible.

Elizabeth led this section, chugging along like the cog train that she is despite the fact that she detests climbs, and we met back up at the rest stop in Eldorado.

92 miles. We were almost there, you could practically smell the chiles roasting in Santa Fe.

“We have just a couple of miles to go here, then we make a left onto I-25 for a fast shot across the interstate and back into Santa Fe.”

“I’m not counting my chickens until…” she said.

“We’re practically there, this section is going to go by in a hurry,” and in fact while we were motoring along I-25 again with a tailwind, I turned back to her & said, “Enjoy this feeling right here, because it’s all just about to be over.”

And we motored this section – as hard as we did the section from Galisteo to Eldorado, until finally we saw our Old Pecos Trail exit. Stopping at a light, we saw some police activity on our side of the road, but on the other side of the intersection – a couple of cop cars plus a motorcycle cop.

“I hope that wasn’t a cyclist that got hit,” Elizabeth said.

I couldn’t imagine coming all 100 miles in a century, only to be mowed over by a car with the finish line literally in sight. But once we got to the crime scene, we realized that it wasn’t a cyclist at all that was involved – it was an Amish family that had been pulled over for some reason.

“That has to be one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen on a bike! But that made the rest of the day completely worthwhile to see that.” And as brain dead as we were at 100 miles, we shared a good laugh over that one while quietly wondering to ourselves what in the world an Amish family could’ve done do have caused such a commotion with the Santa Fe police. That, and I never really pegged the Amish to be such scofflaws.

And upon finally arriving back at the 4Runner, found a note on my windshield saying how Mike had finished the century in 6 hours flat, to our 9. All these years Mike & I have been riding together (term used loosely), he’s still an animal with his worst day still being than my best.

Denver, Colorado – Tuesday May 17th, 8:38 a.m. – And when my colleague Jim approached me and asked me how it went, I was able to answer his question, “You asked me what I’d do if I were faced with a bunch of wind for the century – well, I guess I’d ride it.”

“Don’t ever quit a ride. Because once you quit one, it’ll just be that much easier to quit the next one.”

Besides, if you go around quitting rides, then you’ll never get to exercise your imagination as to why some poor Amish family got pulled over in the dream state that comes around mile 100.

-courtesy of Jay (not used by permission either beetches).

p.s. it was just a smidge longer than a century

A Whole Lot of Nuttin' Going On!

My semester/year's ending as a high school teacher (I'm still coming back to a job next academic year). That's bringing delayed joy and an inordinate amount of planning in order to execute the worthwhile concepts in a timely manner and to give a final exam twice (not the same): mine and the district's. Lacrosse and soccer's in full swing (both girls have practice every day and my son on Sundays) so my base miles are pretty much non-existent. So how do I get a modicum of self-indulgence (relative sanity)? Oh and I'm also training for a half marathon too in early June; but, this Friday and Saturday I got in back-to-back rides: Friday off-road and today, on the road. Therapeutic baby. Therapeutic. I gotta get it when I can get it (it's probably the same mantra as a HS teenage boy, but for different reasons).
Drove to Maura's lacrosse game which was exciting! The score was tied with 30 seconds remaining and our girl won the face-off, marched it downfield and shot the winning goal. Awesome. Yelled myself into a headache. I wasn't a little league dad or anything but just hollering for our mountain girls.

I was satisfied with my performance up Mt. Falcon Friday. Mt. Falcon is a thousand foot climb contain in three miles where people go there to improve their PR. So if it's a guy, and they see a body up ahead, they'll race you 'til their eyes bleed. I try not to fall into that category but damn my testosterone producing testicles. Damn them! I was just moseying along, going a pretty good clip, listening to my iPod (some mellow Ben Folds tune) when out of the corner of my eye (you ever notice how your hairs on your neck stand up when you're getting eye-balled?) I saw a dude taking a breather on a switch-back and when I got within 100 meters he bolted. He bolted fast because he put a mighty gap on me but dammit I was determined to hunt him down like the dog he was. I placed it under the training category of interval training so let's go sucka! Sho nuff there's this spot of a rock garden that if you don't hit it mountain side and grunt it; or hit it near the precipice with body english and finesse (you have to time the 6 o'clock pedal strokes or your pedals'll hit a strategically placed baby-head), you'll have to dismount and walk it. He tried the near precipice but completely ham fisted it and had to dismount. That's where my 44 year-old arse finessed it and passed him barely breathing and not establishing eye contact (that's the dickhead roadie in me...). Once it leveled out, I put it in the middle-ring and rocked it like a meth addict with a fresh syringe. I was one with my Yeti and when that's the case a mental conduit originates from my bike and attaches to my medulla oblongata. That's when she starts talking to me: telling me to go faster, giving me hints to English my frame to accelerate through twisties, and scolding me when I touch the brakes. I tacked on the Parmalee loop at the top, twisted my fork travel to max and let 'er rip. Nobody else was on this part of the mountain, made it a power workout and kept in the big ring from this point forward. I forgot how steep it was and cleaned a rock chicane that usually makes me unclip one of my pedals. 1.5 hours and 9 miles later I'm back at my truck. Chased down and passed a dual-suspension guy on the downhill on my hardtail Yeti. I'm getting ornery in my advancing years.

Today, after the snow fell and Maura's sweet lacrosse game, I hopped on my road bike and fired-off 50 very uneventful miles in 3 three hours in gusty, cold conditions. I couldn't get the climbing I wanted because where I live it's still hovering around freezing and the roads are not clean. My all purpose miles for this week (which includes my running) is 63. Not impressive but I can eat a hearty Easter brunch tomorrow without worrying about caloric surpluses. For dinner, sweet Melissa made Pad Thai. Yum. Washed it down with Shiner Cheer.

On a musical side note I've been completely smitten by TV On The Radio and Lang Lang's Live In Vienna. If y'all have never heard of TVOTR they are a Brooklyn-based band that has LAYERS of sound. Kinda like the way Radiohead has layers of sound these guys have a very distinct, rock band falsetto harmonizing kind of thing that's so impressively and sonically unique you either love 'em or hate 'em. It's like a wall of sound with their singers busting out a falsetto on normal vocalizations with a boomy bass sound, accompanied by a swinging guitar and rock steady drummer. I have Desperate Youth, Bloodthirsty Babes and their latest: Nine Types of Light. As for Lang Lang, not only is he a twenty something prodigy but this is his debut performance for Sony classics and by golly does he perform. The sound dynamics on this live CD (two discs actually) is amazing!!! You can't even tell it's live until the audience starts clapping. His encore is a couple ditties from Frédéric François Chopin and he slays. Chopin's probably my top three classical artists and so I discriminate when people play Chopin. Barenboim, Pollini, Szpilman are three who I think are superb and give me chicken skin and now I add Lang Lang.

Ite den kids, wish me luck on the Santa Fe century. I'ma do it with long time home skillet, Javier de Soto Lambrusco and will crash at his cabin in Pecos, NM due to his largess (minus the condescension).

Next to Last Day of My Spring Break

The first part of my Spring Break was taking my middle and youngest urchins 890 miles southeast to the lovely Dallas suburb of Plano, TX. I brought my bike to do some group rides but it was soooo cold (whereas the week prior it was in the 80s) and drizzly the bike stayed put at Mom and Dad's. That was okay though, it meant more hang time for the familia. Maura brought her lacrosse stick down and we played catch in-between rain drops, hung out with the parents and I made breakfast and dinner most days. I did manage to get 12 miles worth of running down there. The best day weather-wise was when we left back to Colorado-go figure. My eldest went on her first Mother-Daughter trip to San Francisco. It was great seeing my parents. 5 days was enough before we started to get onto each others' nerves. Goodbyes are so awkward. I kind of hate them. Waving goodbye as we drive away is not a natural phenomenon.

Coming back on a Thursday meant that I could make it to out our Natural Grocers Racing Team picture. It was on the same day held at a nearby crit. I would be financially irresponsible to pay for a one day license, chip rental, and race fee to get my butt handed to me when I can get base miles for free. Back in the day when entrance fees where cheaper I'da considered it but with gas prices going nutty and our sizable commutes I can't whittle away at our potential gas pool of money. I probably gained some mass doing some quality eating with my folks and kids and having not touched the bike in a week was not the recipe to race. The season's long and I've resigned myself to probably racing the bulk doing crits. Looking forward to when XC mountain biking starts up. Due to La Niña, the high country should be thawed out sooner than most seasons; and, I got the green light to get a new mountain bike this season. Seriously considering a 3x9, hardtail 29er. Did some research and to sum, what I found is this: a 29er is not an all-rounder but it is good enough for Front Range mountain biking. I can see its limitations at some of the WinterPark XC courses-especially the technical uphills; and, at Slickrock in Moab. I want the carbon rig but my wallet's not that fat. Realistically the aluminum version of the Flash 29er with a Lefty fork-that'd be the shizzle kids.

After the team pics we went out for a ride. It was Joe, Ben, Kenny, and my lame memory is slipping and two others (Brendan and ?). It was nice riding with Kenny again let alone race with him. I haven't raced with him in a while. We've done the same XC races but not in the same category like we raced in the IIIs so it was nice riding hard with him today. Seeing the racers and the race today inspired me to do more training (at least start with smart calories). I will pay more attention to leg, weight training seeing that I probably won't be in any shape to be competitive in 80+ mile road races but can hopefully fake sitting in a pack attempting to complete a crit. I do want to do the Colorado State Master Road Championships and the series at the State Patrol (track) come Summer.

Work starts Monday. That sucks. This Spring Break though was memorable in a way that I spent some quality time with the kids (as opposed to other Spring Breaks when we were hanging out). Really enjoying each others' company in a way that transcends the other times we spend just being physically near each other but not really interacting. We snuggle at night, talk kid talk and just like being next to each other. Not in the Brady bunch sort-of-way but in our sort-of-way that's intrinsically meaningful and not subject to non-family interpretation. Took Maura on her first mountain bike ride and she slayed. Mason did too (his second). They're both fearless and I really want to do more with them in that particular skill set. Right now they both love the things I find recreationally valuable (I'm a big believer in sound mind, sound body): skiing and cycling (not in any particular order). It can only get better (and more expensive too I suppose).

They're spending the night at Grandma's tonight and I already miss 'em...

Last Day of Winter!

Ah yeauh. Did the hour of power today. Absolutely stunning day as Old Man Winter's letting go of his grip on our colorful state. It was just above freezing at our place and by the time I arrived at the shit-on-your-neighbor-shindig (aka the HoP)-parking area it was well into the 40s. Unfortunately some $hit-heel shot out the car's, driver's side window that was parked in front of me. Wasn't even 15 minutes as I was going back and forth warming up before the HoP. Probably some GED'd, hillbilly loser whose exhaust system's blasting a hole in the ozone layer. What a crappy start. As I warmed up, the pistons felt heavy and was breathing a little on the loud side but nothing too worrisome as I was doing a systems check on a slightly used, battle scarred (all the appendages that stick out when hitting the deck road or crit racing), espresso fueled, 44 year-old piece of machinery, made in the Philippines. Getting the glow plugs warmed up, that's all. At crits I usually camp out for 45 mins on my rollers but I guess today's 15 minutes'll have to suffice.

Jeff Leischner, my teammate was there too. I hadn't seen him since we raced the mountain bike Spring series last year. Other than the pace picking up quicker than usual and the wind being as pesky as all hell, everything was going fine at race pace until the climb into the golf course. I got shelled so bad that by the time I made it to the turn around, the lead group darted off to the trip into Chatfield. No worries, I just inserted myself into the back of the last group of riders, put it into a slightly higher rpm, with my hands on the tops and belly breathed until I was breathing somewhat normally. Had to put the heart rate back down just in case there was going to be another protracted surge.

Unfortunately with a group this big and with the sidewinds being a mofo, people were taking a lot of yellow-line violations to stay in their drafts. There were a lot of surges and a lot braking, not your usual flow-style with experienced riders pedaling consistently. Last year there was always a sheriff or the county po-po to pull us over and lecture us accordingly because we were behaving like a bunch of novices. When somebody pops in the pack it seems like slow motion when the peloton goes around him so's he can be jettisoned from this pack akin to a swarm of bees.

Another $hit-heel motorist feigned like he was going to head-on collide with us as he made a sharp move into our peloton scrubbing the yellow line and correcting himself back into his lane. Amazingly ass-holish. This was in the park so unlike last week I was motoring and braking and accelerating with the main pack. As the imaginary finish line got closer people busted several yellow line violations to accelerate and advance their positions, which got us going too. Herd mentality when we see people jump. I too got out of the saddle to get it to ramming speed but intentionally sat down to drive more watts into the pedals. Jeff played it smart and pulled himself out of the pack so as not to get crashed out which is normally the case when wheels touch this early in the season. Three years ago I saw a guy crash, hit the deck hard shattering his helmet, and when he was done sliding, he started to convulse. Thankfully EMS is the sheeeyat around here. All this potential danger for the thrill of bike racing? What little mayhem I have seen (bikes and bodies, including myself) should make competitive cycling contraindicated for most but here we still are: pedaling, elbowing, holding our position in the draft, chicken winging (that it's your turn to take a pull you ehfing free loader), spitting, launching snot rockets, adjusting ourselves, peeling powerbars, pointing out road obstacles, gossiping, yelling at crappy bike handlers as well as "car up!" or "car back" with our hairs on fire heading towards a finish line (imaginary or real). Suffering in our shared, collective, self-inflicted pain while rolling down the road as spandex-clad advertisement for our sponsors reinforces our competitive streak I suppose. In the end though, regardless of an entrance fee, it still is deeply satisfying knowing that the group you started with has whittled down to this select bunch due to attrition. On our cool down back to the parking area, I met another teammate named Eric (sp?). He too's a Master. I'm a Master. That sounds funny, master's racing...

Motorpaced/climbed up to the first big switchback on Highgrade after the HoP to accumulate more miles using different muscles. As I was getting ready to leave back home I was introduced to another competitor named Mike Woodard. From one competitor to another we did the secret cyclist handshake because we know what's involved physically and mentally in this singularly painful sport (besides boxing or UFC) and we relish the fact that nobody else knows (or cares about) this.

back to doing the hour of power

After a two week hiatus from the hour of power, I got back onto the saddle (literally) for some real pain. Ooo boy did it hoit! The climb onto Arrowhead G.C. was especially painful but there was such a long train I was able to same time it with the second group.

As usual the downhill out of the golf course was slamming and I was caught with a group of two (three counting me) between the leaders and the main pack. The first guy took a tremendous pull and I came around him and got into preying mantis tuck on the downhill and was actually able to accelerate slowly, ever so slowly closer to the leaders, who were about 200m away. There's nothing quite as lame as seeing the last people in the lead group pedaling, with no great intent, while we are pedaling furiously with our hair on fire and our arses on the horns of our saddles. Once my speed slowed down, my bridge companion busted out the Russian pace-line and pushed me mightily fierce-like and that quick acceleration allowed me--us--to close in on the leaders as I spearheaded our trio crunching my 52x12 with everything I had.

It was all for naught because I got shelled once we got into the park and had to waste energy going around people who popped while the wind was making mince-meat out of me.

The hour of power is a grand total of 21 miles of go-with-your-hair-on-fire fun (if you can call it fun). Cooled down six miles worth of post cramping spinning. Sucked then, but hours later I'm more or less pretty satisfied with my efforts.

What an introduction back after two weeks off skiing and mountain biking in this beautiful state of Colorado. Tomorrow it's soccer action with my eldest.