Confessions of a Lapsed Triathlete

Interlude.

2012-01-21T19:39:00.000-08:00

It feels pretty weird to be sitting in front of the computer again for the purpose of blasting my life out onto the internet. And scary. And cathartic.

Why such a long break? Maybe because I ran out of things to say about heartache, cancer and bike racing.

Or maybe it was the uncharacteristic lack of major drama in my life over the last 8-9 months. I went to work (which I enjoy), spent time with my friends (whom I enjoy) and rode my bike (what I enjoy). I drank too much, discovered yoga (which has changed my life-more on that later) and had approximately a relationship and a half. I survived my first three trials (actually, I killed it) and learned to do a tripod headstand. 2011 was a good year for just keeping the boat afloat and on the river.

I hit a year of remission on October 17, 2011. I cried a lot that day.

Somehow I feel like I quietly became a different person over the last year, and I'm struggling to describe it in writing (having sat here for 45 minutes now, writing and rewriting and erasing). I think the best way to put it is that I'm finally learning to get out of my own way.

I'm the most consistently peaceful and stress free that I can remember being, ever. I still have my moments of excruciating loneliness and road rage, but those are fewer and far between.

So, this blog. I think the best way for me to work through the new way of being that I am experiencing is to write and to share the things that my damaged self has a hard time expressing in words.

So bear with me for a while as I hash this out and incoherently wax and wane poetic about whatever yoga book I am reading. But rest assured, I do plan on racing my bike this year and no mountain bike ride is complete without Lindsay crashing into something.

The Badger is Back

2011-04-19T15:19:00.000-07:00

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I haven't blogged in four months. I don't want to hear it. The Badger don't care. She had a lot of shit going on.

Before I go much further, you should probably know where this Badger nickname originated. Readers, the reason why the interwebs were invented:

How I was introduced to this video in the first place is a fairly amusing story. I have a bartender friend that had been trying to convince me for weeks that a 15 minute Cross Fit workout, performed maybe three times per week, was a sufficient workout regime.

"A workout regime for what?" You ask. This was my exact question.

His theory was that you only need to be fit enough to escape from something or chase down something that you needed to fill your basic needs. In my mind, this theory was flawed for at least two reasons. First, set aside the fact that very few modern human beings are ever placed in situations where performing twelve burpees and ten rapid repeat dead lifts are useful escape strategies. What is the point of making the escape, then dying of a heart attack immediately afterward because your aerobic conditioning taps out after 8 minutes? Second, the latter rationale is bullshit. Under that rationale, we'd all just need to be fit enough to operate a motorized cart around Wal-Mart.

That video is what he sent me to prove his point. Discuss amongst yourselves. I think he wins the argument only because he has decided to disregard the basic rules of rational discourse.

----

Back to the nickname. I got to spend the weekend in the Dalles a few weeks back with some of the lovely ladies of Sorella Forte. We watched this video approximately 80 times and somehow the ladies started calling me the Badger. Probably because I really just don't give a shit. And because I eat cobras for breakfast

I like this nickname. Its ridiculous, fits right in with my notoriously cantankerous nature and gives me an opening to do something I always thought would be cool....glue a pelt to the top of my bike helmet.

----

So yeah, the Badger is back...blogging, at least. Racing bikes is a different story. I want to want to race bikes, but it just hasn't been happening for me yet. Which is too bad, because I now own a carbon fiber Ferrari:

I love this bike. It corners like a dream and would climb like a Contador but for the fact that the ass on top of it hasn't really been bothered to get into climbing shape.

I've started one race this year: Piece of Cake. I flatted twice in the first four-mile gravel section and hitched a ride back to the start. I was signed up for Cherry Blossom, but got the flu three days before the start and spent the weekend catching up on Top Model (i.e., watching the Jade/Joanie/Danielle season for the sixth time), shotgunning kombucha and reading Stephen King novels.

Here's the catch with Cherry Blossom. I was actually relieved when I got sick. This is not the thought process of someone that should be racing bikes.

So, for now, I'm just training. The mojo will come back in its own sweet time. I've started a consistent yoga practice and am a regular at a weekly strength class that is so rough that I only need to do one class per week.

And....drum roll...I've got a new gig imposing my demonic will over an indoor cycling class offered by my friend Julie's coaching business. I love it. Nothing like being despised for a good, healthy reason.

----

And finally, the cancer update. I hit my one year cancer-versary on February 24. My first six-month mammogram came back clear and I just have to keep popping pills and showing up for periodic gropings by my oncologist.

For now, cancer is just about managing the side effects from the meds (honey badger like hormone fluctuations) and figuring out some of the lifestyle issues that go along with my last 4.5 years of treatment. The oncology physician's assistant more or less bullied me into seeing a oncology social worker about fertility issues. I was hoping to remain in denial about all of this until it became relevant (I know, mature strategy), but apparently having cancer does not remove me from having to make post-cancer adult life-planning decisions. Sheeeeee-it.

Life is good and, for those of you that cared, I'm sorry for being absent from this blog for so long. So much of the winter was wrapped around searching for a new job (which I got) and dealing with personal issues that were not-safe-for-internet.

But the Badger is back, and thanks for coming back as well.

A Post In Which It is Obvious That I've Already Checked Out, Although Vacation Isn't for Four More Days.

2010-11-15T15:39:00.000-08:00

Most important news up front. My October 1 MRI was clean. I am officially in remission.
-----

Now onto less important items of note.

(Correction from the last entry: I got third at Alpenrose, not second. Yes, I am a terrible liar and will suffer in the afterlife as a result.)

So yeah, my vacation in the B's lasted about a week. I thought briefly about trying to pull the cancer card and weasel my way out of the upgrade. Then remembered that, six months ago, I didn't even think I'd be racing at all this year. So I took that upgrade with a smile and a side of "get ready to get your ass handed to you."

But rather than put my big girl pants on after Alpenrose, I raced my singlespeed with the men and did one Cat 3 Race in Washington.

In mid-October I did back to back races at Heiser Farms and Rainier. Those of us who finished both mud fests should get the insanity version of the Hardman Award.

Heiser was 90% mud. Pea soup mud that was at least an inch deep and up to six inches deep. And smelled suspiciously similar to livestock feet. I tried to keep up with the guys on the first lap, but after three spectacular fishtailing crashes, modified my goal to "Keep Moving in a Forward Direction." I never really got my heart rate up from pedaling, as 50% of the race involved fishtailing downhill, 35% entailed pushing my bike (and 15 pounds of mud) uphill and I was laughing too hard to get up to speed for the last 15%.

Want to feel like a little kid again? Go mud wrestle with your bike for 45 minutes. Pure joy.

Rainier was just stupid hard on the singlespeed, even after I swapped out the 42 front chainring for a 38. Lots of mud, lots of "running" and that huge $)*%ing climb in the middle. It was a big reminder that, as much as I want to fool myself into thinking otherwise, my body is a long way from completely rebounding from the cancer treatment. I am pretty comfortable keeping my heart rate around 85%, but any spikes over that drain my tank pretty quickly. And I don't have the power that I used to. (Patience, grasshopper, patience.)

I didn't race the third weekend in October because I HAD MY PORT REMOVED. Doctor's orders were to take 4-5 days off of exercise to let the incision heal, so I went to San Fransisco to watch my sister-in-law run the Nike Women's Marathon. The fact that (1) she ran an awesome race and (2) it was inspiring to see 20,000 women of all shapes and sizes complete the event (3) does not change the fact that running is stupid.

My final "real" weekend of racing was SSCXWC weekend. I qualified for the Sunday race, but after having a great race in my Category in the morning, decided to call it a day and drive home.

More of what I do best: Running.

I didn't race an A race until Hillsboro last weekend. By then I cared so little about the whole cyclocross scene that I dropped out after two laps. Apathy and a two-day old hangover trumps 60 minutes of racing any day of the week.

And like that, my abbreviated 2010 racing season comes to a close. I lost interest in Nationals after I remembered how much it would cost and that I'd be off the bike for two weeks leading up to the race because of my New Zealand trip. But I will be heading over to Bend for Nationals weekend to heckle and party.

-----

Other than that, life has been full of things that aren't exactly blog-appropriate or I was too chicken shit to sit down and write about honestly. There was the aftermath of break-ups, hook-ups and festering personality conflicts. Then there was the "no-duh" realization that I have spent the last four years using bikes and boys as a distraction from dealing with all of the heavier stuff in my life.

So I made some big decisions. First on the agenda is selling my condo. I like where I live, but its a place in which I didn't intend to live for as long as I have. Its also space where I've been through four breakups and cancer house arrest. I need a fresh start, and if I don't do it in small doses, I have a feeling I'll implode and move myself and the furballs to Iceland.

Gratuitous Cat Photo.

Iceland, the home of Bjork's "music." This is scary barometer of the intensity of restlessness I've been dealing with and the lengths to which I will go to get that worked out.

------

This rushed post will be the last one for awhile. As I said above, Amanda and I are getting the hell off this piece of rock and heading to New Zealand for two weeks. We have tickets to see U2 in Auckland, plans to do a 100K bike event (we're going to wear our State Champion jerseys in order to demand the global respect that rightfully comes with OBRA dominance), will drink a ton of wine and, I shit you not, I have been bullied into going to a Jack Johnson concert. Granted, I told Amanda that I'd only go if I could get drunk and belligerent and yell "Free Bird" after every song. This is a risk that she seems willing to take. In turn, I am willing to accept the risk of letting her drive a car on the wrong side of the road.

We'll try to post pictures on Facebook, but look for an epic blog post once we get back on American soil on December 4.

Revenge of the Skinsuit, And Other Stuff.

2010-10-05T09:53:00.000-07:00

Wow....someone got a little bit behind on blogging again. Lots of big things have happened in the last five weeks, the biggest of which was I FINISHED TREATMENT. It still seems really weird to write that in all caps because that last radiation appointment was very anticlimactic. I sat under the microwave for 60 seconds, the clinicians gave me a guardian angel pin and then I cried in the car for about 15 minutes.

And now, here I am, floating in a sea of "Now What?"

Here's "what," the bullet point version. Some adventures, some bike races and a lot of alone time.

I raced Kruger's Kermesse at the end of August. I'm thinking of it as my first real post-cancer race, even though short track was really my first time lining back up. I had expected to finish in the back of the 15 person group. Instead I got second and might have won if we had another lap. Kermesse races are awesome...all the fun of dirt, but without that running nonsense. I wore my new short sleeved skinsuit as I was still too chubby to fit into my kit. Made some new friends, drank some beer and slept like a baby.

The day after treatment ended, I drove to Bend to spend the weekend with my teammates. My original plan had been to do Cycle Oregon, but I made the (wise) decision to postpone that for another year. Me + tent + putting up said tent by myself after riding for 80 miles = probable catastrophic nuclear event. The girls and I climbed South Sister on Sunday:

South Sister is much more of a trek than I had anticipated. Straight up for 7 miles. But the view at the top was totally worth it:

The reason that I have made this picture extra large is to point out that I am wearing the completely wrong footwear for the occasion. I sprained my ankle on the descent and then got horrendous shin splints from wearing borrowed boots and limping 6 miles out of the wilderness.

But for that view? I'd do it all over again.

Saturday night Amanda hosted a "intimate accessories" party at her house. Between the hike and the ankle and three glasses of wine, I got pretty tanked and almost died when the very masculine, 50-something year old friend of the consultant slammed a suction-cupped glow-in-the-dark dildo onto Amanda's fireplace. And just let it sit there bobbing for the next 15 minutes. Thank god I was dehydrated or I would have peed myself.

The next weekend, Amanda and I went yurting on the coast near Newport. Yurts are rad. It's all the fun of camping (nature, peeing outside, listening to RV generators hum all night long), but without tents. We basically ate our faces off in Newport (Local Ocean=best meal I have ever had on the coast), drank a few bottles of wine, read books and slept a lot.

Two weekends ago I rode in the Echelon Gran Fondo out in the Columbia Gorge. 100 miles with one very long 20 mile ascent that started at mile 45. I rode in the Chris Horner peloton for about 30 miles, but didn't actually get to meet him because each time I got close to the front, some middle age wingnut in a Primal Wear jersey porkchopped me for the spot next to Chris. I wanted to get some face time in and all, but it wasn't worth being injured by a guy in a Grover jersey.

Part of the event was an OBRA sanction hill climb "race." You could start whenever you wanted since the event was chip-timed. A big group of testosterone left together, but I waited for Julie and Rich and we headed up the hill about 20 minutes later. I had no intentions of racing, but settled into a good pace as soon as we started gaining elevation. I climbed most of the way alone and felt great until running out of water about 2 miles from the summit.

I forgot about the whole "race" aspect until there was a photo posted on facebook that night.

Because the event awards time bonuses for fund-raising (I raised over $3500 for Livestrong and the OHSU Knight Cancer Institute!), I had 20 minutes chopped off of my already respectable time and finished in ninth place....overall. Three minutes behind Chris Horner. Hilarious. Even more hilarious is that I must have also been the fastest female with an OBRA license that completed the whole 100 mile ride, because I also "won" the hill climb with my non-bonus time.

Finally, I started racing cross last week. I'm operating under the theory this month that racing is a lot more fun than training, so why train? I did three races in five days and was very pleasantly surprised with how my body is rebounding from treatment.

First up was Blind Date at the Dairy on Wednesday night.

Photo: Stephen Fitzgerald

I rode my singlespeed and had a great race (other than looking like I was doing the truffle shuffle over the barriers) until the last half lap. I was on a choppy, rocky section--a point on the course that was the physically furthest from the finish line--and felt my back tire go flat. I rode on it for another minute or so until it rolled and I was forced to hoof it back to the finish line. This involved running when people were watching and walking when no one was looking. Man, I hate running. However, I hadn't had a race flat in the last three years, so I suppose it was my turn.

Saturday was the David Douglas CCX race in Vancouver. I am really getting into this Saturday race stuff...new courses, small fields and no bathroom lines. The course had a lot of great, fast flat sections and swoopy singletrack. The "highlight," however, was the run-up that you couldn't see the top of until you were almost there. That makes for about 60-90 seconds of run-up. Man, I HATE running. I finished a respectable fourth place after crashing in the first lap and sort of dinking around on the third lap.

Sunday was the shitshow know as the Cross Crusade Series opener: Alpenrose. I love Alpenrose and have done really well on that course for the last two years. With over 200 women in the race, and over 60 in my category, I just wanted to get a few points to reserve a call-up for the 2 or 3 crusade races that were on my schedule for the rest of the fall.

Photo: Jose Brujo Sandoval (I am easy to spot in photos--just look for the Euro-trash neon yellow sunglasses.)

This is what the women's field looked like. Insane.

The wonderful thing about cross racing this year is that I am not wasting a whole lot of energy being nervous before the race. I ate a big waffle and shot the shit with friends I hadn't seen on months. Only pre-rode 1/4 of the course and my warm-up consisted of rolling around the parking lot for 10 minutes and standing in the bathroom line.


Photo: Brujo. (Look at how much hair I have now!!)

I got a little anxious once we lined up, but mostly because I thought I was going to wet my skinsuit. Which, after I lost about 10 pounds in the last month, now fits considerably better than it did at the Kermesse.

Here was my race strategy: get in a fast first quarter of a lap to get out of the riff-raff, then settle into a pace that I could keep for 40 minutes.

Photo: Tim Schalberger. The entry into a two-barrier truffle shuffle.

Since we began catching Master A riders in the first lap and lapping beginners almost immediately upon starting the second lap, it became hard to tell who was chasing and who was being chased. I knew Elise and Sarah were right behind me and that Anna Christiansen was probably making us all look like amateurs up front, but had no idea who else was in the game.

Photo: Rich Rosko

I was pretty sure I was in the top 7-8 riders after the first lap, and top 5 after the second lap, but then my math got a little fuzzy.

Photo: Dave Roth.

I'd pass some people, then I would get passed, then pass back. Then oxygen deprivation kicked in and math became impossible and irrelevant.


Credit: Stephen Fitzgerald. The skinsuit...how to look fast without actually being fast.

I rode the race completely clean and rolled in right in front of Elise.

Then, as with all races where there are dozens and dozens of riders, there are hugs and high fives and the speculation begins. Where did we finish? Who beat whom?

Turns out that the only person that beat me was Anna Christiansen. That's right, this cancer patient on a single speed got second place at a Cross Crusade race. What was the best about the day, however, was racing with my friends and rejoining the collective suffering that is bike racing. Suck on that, cancer.

Accidental Semi-Fame.

2010-08-27T09:18:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, it was always my dream to have my face on the front page of the local paper's sports section. I was a decent all-around small school athlete. We didn't have soccer or cross country programs at my high school. In the fall, your choice was volleyball or cheerleading. Notwithstanding my height (5'6" in sneakers), I was a decent volleyball player, mostly because I was fast and strong and willing to dive headfirst into chairs. But never a standout.

Basketball was my thing in high school. I was just another short, insecure and awkward girl in braids until I hit my freshman year. I spent the previous summer at one of my uncle's camps playing with boys and generally getting my ass handed to me. But when I started playing with girls again, I had grown three inches and figured out that I was the fastest person on the court and threw the meanest screen in three counties. It was a revelation. I was never tall enough to play the position that suited my love of banging around in the paint, but I was quick and fit and fearless. Won some all-state and all-league honors, but never made the front page.

My high school basketball career ended on a sour note when we lost by one point in a playoff game because I had fouled someone who made both free throws as time was running out. I came back to basketball in law school and played on three straight intramural championship teams. I still obsessively follow college basketball, but haven't played since I broke my wrist in 2004.

I started running track in junior high school. Softball was the other option and it was pretty obvious from my short lived little league career that I couldn't throw a ball for shit. My dad and his sisters were all runners in high school and I know he was pretty pleased when I decided to run track. At first, I just wanted to keep in shape for basketball. But then I started winning races and was hooked. I won almost every 200 meter race I ran in junior high and became one of the best high school quarter milers in the area by the time I was a senior. The best, though, was a phenomenal talent....and my teammate.

My track coach (one of the best human beings on this planet) suggested during my senior year that I try training for the 800 meters. He justified this by claiming that most small school 800 meter runners were 1500 meter runners that were stepping down and that my 400 meter speed would be an advantage. But I also think he wanted to give me a chance to step out of Andrea's shadow.

My big moment in local high school sports history finally happened during my last race at the state track meet. I had finished fourth in the 400 meter race after I ran a crappy final corner. And I was not a happy camper. I had easily qualified for the 800 meter final, but didn't want to run it. I was 17, hot and stubborn and pissed off. I don't remember what my coach said to me other than to just run in third or fourth place until the last 200 meters, then take off like by butt was on fire.

Somewhere in my parent's closet at home is a videotape of that race. Starts with a closeup of a nervous girl in double french braids and striped knee socks, digging at the track with her spikes. Then we are running. I do what I was told and hold my position in third or fourth place until the last 200 meters. The great thing about the video is listening to my coach's commentary throughout. When we hit the 150 meter mark he's positioned somewhere behind the camera, screaming at me to go. There is no possible way that I would have heard him, but in the instant that he starts hollering, I pull out into the second lane and put on the afterburners. I held on and won by about 3-4 meters.

My dad was working the track meet that year and got to be the person that got to hand me a small slip of paper with the number 1 on it as I passed through the finish line. I still have that slip of paper. One of the best moments of my life.

My front page article came during week that I graduated from High School. It was a good article chronicling my high school track career, which culminated in winning that state championship and later setting a school record in the 800 meters.

----

Last Saturday I rode the Crater Lake Metric Century with my friend Jennifer. The even organizer is a friends of my parents and when he got notice that I was going to be riding, the information was passed along to the local paper.

So here it is: my second appearance on the Herald and News Sports Section front page. The full article can be found here. Not exactly the way I had pictured things turning out when I was 14, when I wanted fame for being good, not just for showing up. It is funny how life changes.

----
Finally, another fundraising plug. On September 26, I am going to be riding in the Portland Columbia River Gorge Echelon Gran Fondo. The event raises money for the OHSH/Knight Cancer Institute and Livestrong.

My plan is to continue to celebrate the end of my cancer treatment by finishing the 100 mile ride. My goal is to raise at least $2500 dollars. I also think I get to meet Chris Horner (for all of you uninitiated in the world of pro cycling, Horner is from Bend and was the highest placed American at the Tour de France this year),

I am halfway to my goal and need help from my friends and family. If you would like to donate to help stomp cancer , you can do so online at this link.

Ask, and Ye Shall Recieve.

2010-08-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

There is an enormous amount of release and relief that can be found simply by saying, "I am not OK. I need some help. I cannot live like this anymore."

Break-ups suck. Cancer sucks. The hormonal fluctuations caused by chemo-induced menopause suck. Chronic fatigue sucks. Put them all together and you've got yourself a perfect storm for going completely fruit loops.

The fact that I'm anxious and depressed right now is probably not surprising to anyone that has been within 15 feet of me in the last month My schedule is pretty chaotic with trying to fit exercise, eating right, working and getting to treatment in the 8-9 hours a day that I'm not completely wiped out. I've gained about ten pounds in weird places that make my body feel unbalanced and awkward. And I'm not sure what is more emotionally overwhelming: coping with being single again or wrapping my head around the idea of intimacy with a new person in a post-cancer world.

It took ten days of spontaneous, uncontrollable weeping and the return of the terrifying "pubic hair growing on my head" dreams before I decided to take the advice that I had so freely doled out to others.

"Go get some help. Talk to someone. You don't have to live like this."

Lucky for me, it only took one phone call and six hours of waiting before I was sitting in a counseling office in the hospital's cancer center. Admitting that I was having a problem getting a grip, and hearing back that that grip-lessness was not at all unusual for someone in my set of circumstances, was sweet relief.

Lucky for me, there is something that can be done about all of my grief and frustration. Some medication to help me cope for few months and a lot of talking to people who deal with people like me all of the time. Learn how to deal with the stress of scans and tests, the tedium of five years of hormone therapy and the awkwardness of talking about my disease with strangers that may someday want to see me naked. Ride my bike.

----

As of today, I am halfway done with radiation. My left boob is abnormally tan and the breast tissue is starting to harden, but my skin is still in pretty good condition. I'm using aloe vera on the area throughout the day and some emu oil at night. And I like that I have a medical excuse not to wear a bra.

I really like the ride to the hospital, now that I've got the logistics and timing dialed in. The ride is 16.8 miles round trip. Four miles of climbing each way. The climb through Washington Park and the Zoo in the way out is steeper, but beautiful. The climb along Hwy 26 coming back is exposed to the sun but the elevation gain is more gradual and gives me a chance to feel a sense of superiority over the afternoon traffic that is moving along more slowly than I am.

Finally, I am getting my hair back. Last weekend it was a mere five o'clock shadow under my scalp, but five days later my head is covered with a thick mix of both peach fuzz and real hair starters. I also have a bit of peach fuzz along my lash line and in my armpits. I'm four weeks out from chemo, so I expected to see something by now, but I've been surprised about how quickly it re-appeared.

As my physical self starts to regenerate, looks like its time to re-focus on my mental self.

Reality Check.

2010-08-11T17:11:00.001-07:00

Sometimes we cross paths with people who are put in our path to give us a reality check. After sitting next to me on the MAX today, hopefully there is a guy in a BMW somewhere that realizes that his life isn't as bad as he thinks.

Today has not been a good day. I'm really pissed off about having cancer. My relationship with the Mexican finished disintegrating this weekend and since I wasn't sleeping already, my ability to handle life in the last 48 hours has been questionable.

I took the MAX to the hospital today. I was scheduled to have my port flushed, then go to radiation. I checked in at the oncologist's office and, after checking in, sit there for 20 minutes. Upon reminding the receptionist that I was here, it was obvious that she had forgotten to notify the nurses.

So I left to go to radiation. Radiation is usually a pretty brief appointment...in and out in less than 15 minutes. But I had to see the doctor today. Basically waited a half hour (with nothing to entertain me other than a three year old People magazine) to have her look at my boob for 10 seconds and tell me it looked fine. As fine as 2/3 of a boob with a wonky nipple can look.

Then back up to the oncologist's office. I'd never had my port accessed without numbing the area first, and upon the first attempt to insert the needle, understood why we numb the area first. Because it fucking hurts. I jerked 6 inches in the air and the movement tore the needle out of my skin. I started crying, there was a lot of blood involved and I left the office with a huge gauze pad taped to my chest.

Which brings me to the guy with the BMW. First, even though the train was packed with commuters, he had his stuff spread out on two other seats. He was gracious enough when I asked him to move his things, but then he wanted to chat me up about how bad his day had been because his BMW was in the shop and he had to take the train.

This, in my opinion, was a full-on demonstration that some people live on a completely different planet of self-awareness than the rest of us. This planet is called Planet Paris Hilton. A planet where a lost day of BMW driving is a catastrophic event that must be shared with the puffy-eyed and exhausted woman sitting next to you. You know that woman, the one with a huge gauze pad sticking out of her shirt and no eyebrows.

I managed to tolerate this for about three minutes. Finally, it was one huff of frustration and complaint too many.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," I said.

At this point, BMW man finally exited orbit and made contact with planet reality. I think he finally looked at me, really looked at me, and became deeply ashamed. I don't purposely like making people uncomfortable, but it is my guess that, for once, I may have made the world a better place by feeling sorry for myself and completely losing my shit on an innocent bystander.

The Return of the Race Report

2010-08-04T12:49:00.000-07:00

I usually don't like writing race reports where nothing unusual happens during the race. But, as you know, Monday's race was unusual and exciting for the simple fact that I was out there thirteen days after my last chemo treatment and three hours after my second radiation treatment.

The race itself may have been uneventful, but the evening was not without some unintentional cancer side effect hilarity. First, I had wardrobe issues. After my diagnosis, I sold most of my 2010 team clothes to my teammates, keeping just a few items for cyclocross season. I don't ride much in my team kit, primarily because I think the shorts are the work of the devil and I have three brand new custom Hincapie kits (courtesy of my firm and R's employer) that are infinitely more comfortable. And a wee bit larger.

I brought my team kit to the race Monday night and it turns out that the ten pounds I put on during chemo make a huge difference in how my kit fits. Two days later, I still have elastic marks on my thighs and as for the jersey, lets just say that I chose to race in a cotton T-shirt rather than spend 30 minutes with the hem of the jersey creeping up around to my neck.

I also learned that I need some different sunglasses. I am down to approximately 10 eyelashes, which are essential to keeping wind and dirt out of our eyes when we ride. The D-List sunglasses that I use for short track did not cut the mustard Monday night. If you noticed I was crying on the course, those were not tears of joy or pain. I was just trying to clear my eyes out so I didn't run into a tree, another racer or the portable BBQ by the course.

When the whistle blew I let everyone start before I did, then started navigating the course at my own "race" velocity. My plan was to do two laps, then quit and rest up for the team relay. However, this plan was quickly short circuited as I began passing people. Just a few people, most of whom had crashed or had a mechanical, but it was enough motivation to try and ride out the entire 30 minutes.

Short track is hard enough with a healthy cardiovascular system. Throw in a lack of fitness and some stupid cancer, and by the fourth lap, my lungs and legs harmonizing through a full on rendition of "What the Bloody Hell is This!" "Shut up Legs" may help Jens crush souls through the pain, but if my legs had shut up, I would have stopped completely and faceplanted into the dirt.

But I finished without crashing or having to put a foot down and I wasn't last. The latter fact shouldn't even matter, but it does.

To be honest, my body wasn't ready to even pretend to put in a race effort. (No kidding, says you.) And I'm not sure that it wasn't detrimental to my physical system in the short term. But mentally, the effort and the resulting hiccup of fatigue was worth it. I needed to get back out there and test my mind and my body. And I also needed to go out there and commune with my fellow races. The enjoyment I get from watching races one thing, but to have a shared experience with hundreds of other people is another thing altogether.

I'm going to ease my way slowly back into the "serious" racing thing, but it doesn't mean that I can't have fun in the meantime. Kruger's Farm Dirt Crit on August 29....be there or be square. I'll buy a beer for any of the B Ladies that can lap me.

(In other news of note, I was on KBOO's Bike Show this morning with OBRA's executive director, Kenji Sugahara, promoting the High School Cross Series. The podcast can be found here.)

Bikes! Dirt! Hot Flashes!

2010-08-03T12:36:00.000-07:00

Last weekend, I described my cancer experience as being a filter between the old and new normal. If nothing else, this disease gives us the opportunity (and down time) to take a look at our lives and decide what we want to bring through from the old life into the new life.

My first "in with the old" is my grand tradition of being overcommitted to things that I'm really excited about. I've taken on a new major volunteer project. This year OBRA (the Oregon Bicycle Racing Association) is developing a cyclocross series for high school clubs. I agreed to be the Grand Master High School Cyclocross Regional Coordinator for the Portland Metro area. The goal for 2010 is to get some high school 'cross clubs up and running and get the infrastructure set up for bigger and better things next year. I'm sort of bossy, so this is a good project for me. Our first meeting is tonight, which gives me approximately 5 hours to get the hell over the fact that I hate talking in front of crowds. Must tell myself to remember this is about getting kids on bikes, not about my public speaking neurosis.

I've also decided to ride, and fund raise for, the Echelon Gran Fondo on September 26. Go here to donate. I promise that the proceeds will benefit Livestrong and the OHSU and Mid-Columbia Cancer Centers, not the "Lindsay Needs to Purchase a Race Bike Before February 2011 Campaign."

---

I did my first post-cancer race last night. The season finale at the Portland Short Track Series. I wanted to do the team relay, which required that I do my category race earlier in the evening. My plan was to do two laps, then drop out. But two laps went by and I was not last. In fact, I was passing people. Competitive nature overrode common sense and I finished the race. I forgot how hard short track is, especially when one is as aerobically un-fit as I am right now, but it was so fun.

You know what this means...the return of the race report!!! I'll put that together tomorrow and you can marvel in now I managed not to crash and in how it only took six months for my team jersey to become unacceptably and inappropirately tight fitting.

---

And, oh yeah, I finished chemo. Did you hear that? Shall I say it louder? I AM ALL DONE WITH CHEMO BITCHEZ. And thank god for that, really. Because I am hot-flashing like a maniac and don't know how I'd be able to deal with much more of the sleep deprivation that is caused by waking up every hour of every night feeling like someone has placed my head in a convection oven. I did read last week that the hot flashes caused by chemo can last months after treatment is done, but, for my own sanity, I'm ignoring this possibility. WAKE UP OVARIES.

I have already started radiation. Three down, 28 to go. The treatments themselves aren't that bad, but I haven't seen any side effects yet. Other than the unusual side effect of than wanting to stab myself in the eye with a pencil each time I think about commuting out to St. My Cousin Vinnie's EVERY DAY FOR SIX WEEKS.

I'm going to need a twelve step program for Beaverton overdose by the time all of this is over with.

Some Shameless Self Promotion, and Some Om.

2010-07-14T14:29:00.000-07:00

I was interviewed on Monday for an article in the Bend Bulletin this morning about cancer, Lance and this weekend's Tour Des Chutes in Bend, Oregon. (Thanks to the wonderful Miss Heather Clark, for thinking of me and listening to my decaffeinated rambling.) This was my second time as an interviewee (the first time was for an article in June's RaceCenter magazine, "Return of the Athlete"), and I can't say that I've mastered the arts of not repeating myself and not forgetting what I was originally asked in an attempt to formulate an eloquent answer.

Here is Heather's article.

During the interview, we talked a bit about cycling, the limits of traditional medicine and taking control of one's own care. Looking back on my own experience with chemotherapy, I can definitely point to the moment where I started regain control of my physical and mental health. It was when I posted the list from the naturopath on the refrigerator, ate my first dose of mega-protein and went for a walk.

Being accountable for my own care has been something that has carried through since that day. I can tell when I fall off the wagon and eat too much sugar and too little green food. Or when I skip exercising. Or exercise too much. It doesn't feel too great, but what does feel great is knowing that it is 100% on me to make the needed corrections and get back on track.

If are curious about what I've been doing, keep reading. If not, I wish you Happy Weekend. I'm taking off tomorrow for a long weekend in Bend--the Tour Des Chutes ride, some easy mountain biking and a whole lot of sunshine.

Without further ado: My accountability list.

Eating: My diet has seen some major re-working in the last four months. Although I am still getting that occasional nacho or coke fix, I am concentrating on avoiding processed foods and incorporating more green stuff and fruit stuff into my diet. This hasn't been hard to do, as I've discovered that I like cooking (!?) and that I'm not so bad at putting together healthy and delicious meals. I'm also very lucky that I live in a city where there is a farmer's market nearby on every day of the week. I'm able to get fresh produce on a whim and I try to buy one item per week that I've never used before and incorporate it into a meal.

Right now, I'm big on smoothies, green tea, meal salads and anything with quinoa.

As far as recipe resources, I get many of mine from Sunset magazine, MIX magazine, Real Simple,

Elana's Pantry, and Jamie Oliver cookbooks.

Exercise: I try to exercise for an hour every day. When I first started chemo, this hour mostly consisted of walking, but due to a serious bike jonesing, a chronically crabby SI joint, and a sore ankle from a glorious hiking wipeout, I have gradually replaced most of my walks with bike rides. I also have rejoined my twice-weekly core strength/speed/agility class.

I have had to bring a whole new perspective to that class. In the days BC, this early AM class was the first of two workouts. Class in the morning, followed by a bike workout at lunch or after work. No problem, easy breezy.

In the days AC, I have to use a much lighter medicine ball, and if I can make it through class without having to cut back on repetitions or sit out an exercise, I am totally killing the workout. KILLING IT. And if I can ride the 3 miles to work afterwards...BONUS.

Acupuncture: I have been going to acupuncture for four years, and have been seeing my acupuncturist 2-4 times a month since my diagnosis. She's been able to help me with the inflammation issues associated with surgery, the GI issues brought on by Adriamycin, the aches and pains of Taxol and the mental challenges of being a cancer patient.

Massage: I haven't been as consistent with massage, but it has been a great tool for both relaxation and for getting normal range of motion back into my affected arm. In my ongoing battle with my right SI joint, I'm trying a Thai massage tomorrow.

Yoga: Developing a regular yoga practice is my latest challenge. Lots of excuses: Yoga classes are not cheap, I am remarkably inflexible and the the idea of having to quiet my mind and BE CALM for an hour is mildly terrifying.

All of this being said, there is a lot of material out there that indicates that a regular yoga practice lowers stress which, in turn, lowers my recurrence risk. Since all of this accountability stuff is not only about getting rid of my current cancer, but also doing whatever I can to avoid a future cancer, seems like a good thing to incorporate into my routine.

I've decided the best way to go about this is to work with someone one-on-one so I can develop a practice that addresses my two needs: stress reduction and increased flexibility. That starts this week. Stay tuned.

Reiki: I am seeing a practitioner that I know through Team in Training and it has been, surprisingly, one of the most effective means of dealing with my symptoms. If you don't know exactly what Reiki is, there is a decent description on Wikipedia.

I've only been to Terry twice, but have come out of both treatments with increased energy and a relaxed mindset, and the post-chemo treatment completely relieved my body of the aches and pains caused by Taxol and the Neulasta shot.

------

I've been blessed to belong to a community of people that have made much of this available to me with minimal out-of-pocket expense. Bike people rule, y'all.

However--if you don't have these types of resources available to you as easily as I do, I would highly recommend looking for programs that are available for free through hospitals and non-profit organizations. For example, OHSU provides yoga classes and massage to cancer patients at little or no cost and the Cancer Centers at Providence have more patient programs that you can shake a stick at.

Me, 7. Chemo, 1.

2010-07-07T13:37:00.000-07:00

How did almost three weeks come to pass since my last blog post?

I'll tell you--I'm a tired cookie. On my good weeks I'm trying to bill 35-40 hours at the firm and on my bad weeks, well, they're bad weeks. I'm really anemic and my white blood cell count has dipped enough where I've had to keep on with the Neulasta shots. The shots, after not really affecting me that badly during the A/C days, are really kicking my ass now. Doctor says that its likely the combination of the soreness that Taxol already causes and the fact that my body is finally needing the hard-core bone marrow kickstart that the Neulasta causes.

The shot was this morning, and I'm hoping that premedicating with Advil and yoga will head off some of the discomfort and the resulting lack of motivation to do anything other than lie around in bed watching the World Cup and the Tour. Thank god for the Tour--when I'm too tired to put on anything other than underpants and wife beaters, tuning out to Phil and Bobke is a little more dignified than MTV's "True Life: Facebook is Ruining My Relationship." (I came to the conclusion that it was Jersey, not Facebook, that was ruining the relationship.)

My eyebrows and eyelashes are currently in the throes of Custer's Last Stand. I'm awkwardly (and rather unsuccessfully) learning how to draw eyebrows and used the alien-like change in my face as an excuse to go drop $80 at Sephora this morning. Apparently you can mitigate looking like an albino bowling ball with the clever application of eyeliner and creme eyeshadow. We'll see how that goes.

I have only one chemo treatment left. One. This is a good thing for many, many reasons, not the least of which is that I am completely over this. By "this" I don't so much as mean the Franken-eye, the perpetual exhaustion and the scaring myself in the mirror in the middle of the night. What I am over is the waiting for the net chapter of my life to begin. I have a million things I want to do, need to do, and it's hard to be patient.

I had a small tempter tantrum about this a while back. I've got an ongoing mental list of things I want to accomplish in the near future. It includes some small things--like learning how to make biscuits from scratch and buying new towels for my bathroom--and not insignificant things like outlining a book, writing a business plan for something I'd like to try in 2-3 years and starting a small non-profit.

With all of the downtime I've had in the last few months, it logically (?) seemed to me that I should be using it to get some of these bigger things accomplished. Then cancer reality sets in and all I have the energy to do is lay in bed, watch bad TV and feel guilty about my utter lack of productivity.

The Mexican finally had enough of this last weekend. I can't remember, verbatim, the lecture I got, but the gist was this: You need plans and things to look forward too, and you need to follow through with these things when you are well, but not a single one of these things has to be done RIGHT NOW. You are making yourself (and me) crazy trying to be a super-hero.

As much as I hate to admit it, he's right. I have placed an enormous amount of pressure on myself to be a Cat 1 Cancer Patient. To be tough and inspiring. Putting on appearances is almost as exhausting as the treatment itself.

So here's to being lazy and vulnerable and skipping out on more productive activities in order to make, and subsequently eat, a bowl of whipped cream and watch Footloose on CMT.

Cheers.

Health Update for June-uary

2010-06-16T15:20:00.000-07:00

(If you don't get the title of this post, you obviously don't live in Portland. It's the middle of June and I wore a GoreTex jacket, shoe covers and a wool hat to commute this morning.)

Enough with the recent existential whining. Here is the latest on the nuts and bolts cancer stuff.

First, congratulations to me for hitting my 100 day mark as a cancer survivor. On my 33rd birthday, no less.

Second, five chemo happy hours down, three to go. I am now on a new drug, Taxol. So far, Taxol has been much easier to deal with, primarily because Taxol does not cause nausea. As I'm on the third consecutive week of being able to eat on a normal schedule, I've gained back all of the weight that I lost when I got sick six weeks ago. All of this has conveniently reappeared in my gut region. Hellooooo, chemo potbelly. Hellooooo, stretchy skirts and empire waist sundresses.

I refuse to be totally accountable for this, and almost have myself convinced that part of the weight gain is attributable to the fact that the chemo is fucking with my ability to poop on a regular basis. This has become one of my daily cancer patient gripes. So much so that I might have to turn this blog into "Confessions of the Bald and Chronically Constipated." Thirty-three is entirely too young of an age to be figuring out how to incorporate prune juice and Miralax into one's daily smoothie. But so it goes.

Taxol's major side effect (other that fatigue) is muscle aches and joint pain. So far, all of this has been manageable with rest, Advil, Epsom salt bathes and staying warm. The weather, of course, is not cooperating with the latter strategy and I have taken to wearing a thick wool stocking cap and wool socks in my office to compensate.

Some of the expected side effects are becoming more pronounced. I am officially anemic, but my blood numbers have been outstanding otherwise. My skin is dry enough that my face now soaks up shea butter hand cream and my nails are splitting. I also have some sort of member of the mushroom family taking up residence on my left hand. Its not exactly the same fungus as last summer, but still....fungus. Nasty. So now, in addition to the wool hat and socks, I am wearing a latex glove on my left hand to keep the fungus cream on my hands and off of my keyboard. I look and feel like a crazy person, only one step away from the guy in front of my office building that wears a sleeping bag like a cape.

Now for the fun, unexpected side effects. First, I am a walking, talking booger factory. All of my nose hairs fell out, so my nose drains constantly and any debris in the air collects on the inside of my nose in solid form. (Surprisingly, so far I still have my eyelashes and enough eyebrow to get by without an eyebrow pencil.) I have boogers that will randomly fall out of my nose when I am talking to people. This is really sexy and not at all distracting. But, however, not as sexy and distracting as:

The Franken-eye.

This is the name I have given my left eye. Something about chemo has made my eyes very dry and sticky, therefore causing them to stick shut when I blink. So please do not be alarmed if we're having a normal conversation and quite suddenly I look like Sloth from the Goonies. Just give me a minutes to manually open my eye and pretend like nothing unusual is happening.

----

I met with a radiation oncologist last week and have that stage of my treatment tentatively scheduled. Because I haven't had any setbacks or blood work issues, the doctor was willing to bump up my start date eleven days (July 31) and increase my daily dosage such that I will be done (D-O-N-E) with treatment the day before I leave for Cycle Oregon. This pleases me to no end.

Re-Entry Woes.

2010-06-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

So where have I been lately? That's a question with no easy explanation. I'll start with my weekly Free Will horoscope:

"If you have long conversations with the image in the mirror this week, I won't call you a megalomaniacal narcissist. Nor will I make fun of you if you paint 15 self-portraits, or google yourself obsessively, or fill an entire notebook with answers to the question "Who am I, anyway?" In my astrological opinion, this is an excellent time for you to pursue nosy explorations into the mysteries of your core identity. You have cosmic permission to think about yourself with an intensity you might normally devote to a charismatic idol you're infatuated with."

The mysteries of core identity. Who am I anyway?

I might not be having long conversations in the mirror, but I sure have been talking to myself a lot lately.

Figuring out who we are is often referred to as a process of "finding oneself." For me, it feels more like a process of elimination. Take all of the things I could possible be and gather them up. Some of the identities were easy to get rid of. Some of them I had to experience to realize whether they fit or not. Some of them I didn't realize existed until after experiences of extreme joy or fear.

Being diagnosed with cancer was like having my existing slate wiped almost completely clean. Which is simultaneously a blessing and a curse.

In the times BC (before cancer), I lived this frenetic, competitive, structured existence that I thought suited me to a "T". I did what I thought I was supposed to do: college, law school, got a good white-collar job. I got married (and yes, divorced), bought a place to live and incurred some good old fashioned American debt. I trained and raced and won things. Life was a whirlwind of billable hours, training rides, take-out and happy hour.

I thought I had everything I wanted. But after spending the last few months thinking about other things and doing other things, it is apparent that this pre-BC existence won't work for my in the times post-BC. The times where the simplest things are making me the happiest: cooking, sewing, reading, spending time with friends and moving my body just for the sake of moving.

Instead of being a liberating thought, this scares me to death. Since I went back to work and realized that the break has not reawakened any enthusiasm for my current career, there are frequent moments where I'm paralyzed by dead and anxiety. Thirty-three year old women should not tear up with dread at the thought of being lonely and bored in their offices. Yet, this is exactly what I did on Monday morning.

Knowing that things need to change is easy. Figuring out what to do next is terrifying. But something has to give. I know that I would be wasting my newly discovered (and precious)state of cancer enlightenment if I just went back to the status quo at the end of treatment. And the status quo will not keep me healthy in the long-run. I am sure of that.

People change careers all of the time. ALL OF THE TIME. They go back to school and start businesses and write books. They take risks despite the odds. There is nothing about who I am that makes this impossible for me. I might not feel like I have many useful skills, but I can learn to do anything...I can write a book, run a bike shop, rule the world, own the Internet...if I can get out of my own way long enough to get started

So here's the Catch-22. While cancer has given me the gift of enlightenment, is is also a big impediment to following through on change. I have to keep my health insurance and need a steady stream of income to pay for food, my mortgage and what will be a lifelong stream of doctor's bills. And my chronic bike habit...nothing about that will ever change.

I've talked about this with a couple of people this week and they both pointed out that getting physically healthy should be my first priority right now, that the lifestyle changes will work themselves out. This is true, but getting healthy means not only becoming cancer free, but getting my other ducks in a row so that I am happy, anxiety-free and, ultimately, stay cancer-free. And procrastinating and doing nothing is not exactly moving me in the right direction.

Advice...anyone?

Oh, Lance.

2010-05-28T17:27:00.000-07:00

I bet if you own a bike, you have an opinion about Lance Armstrong.

Just in case you have nothing better to read this afternoon, here's mine.

Reading "It's Not About the Bike" after I was diagnosed was mind-blowing. The story was a good one when I read it for the first time. But the second time was like reading about my own life. Other than the whole winning the Tour seven times thing. And that's just because they don't let women ride in it.

Lance is one intense mutha-fucker. Maybe you'd call him a jackass. As someone know for opening her mouth at inopportune times and taking ill-advised flyers off the front to a race just to get my thirty dollars worth out of it, I get that.

I get that the first thought that went through his mind when he received his diagnosis was that it would effect his bike racing. I get the whole thing about being weak and poisoned and despondent. I get the epiphanies that you get when you realize that you are being given a second chance to get your shit together and go be the person in the world that you were supposed to be all along.

I get all that.

What I don't get is what to think about Lance and doping. Here's why. He's a survivor.

Lance went thought something significantly more toxic than I am enduring. The radioactive substances they pumped into his body killed his reproductive system, wasted his body and caused uncontrollable nausea. What I am going through is much more doable, but the fact doesn't change that it is all incredibly toxic. My body and my soul will never be the same.

After being exposed to so much toxicity, after being stared in the faced with my own mortality, I couldn't imagine going back out into the world and exposing my body to more chemicals, more medical uncertainties, solely for the purpose of winning races. It makes zero sense to me.

If the hand grenades that Floyd has been launching at Lance and the cycling institution turn out to be true, I'll be honest with you. I'll be sort of devastated.

I used to not care about this sort of stuff. Cheaters were cheaters and we all know about cheaters not prospering. Or dying of heart attacks at 35 or having their balls shrink into their chests. They all get their's in the end.

But Lance? Lance is a survivor. No, correction, Lance has made himself into "The Survivor." If he also turns out to be a doper it will feel like a slap in the face to thousands of other survivors who have drawn inspiration and strength from his intensity and perseverance.

Oh, Lance.

----

But, all of that aside, as a cancer survivor, I cannot help but appreciate the attention he has brought to our disease and the struggles that survivors face even when we become cancer free. So there's that.

So I'm suspending judgment for the time being and am planning to support the efforts of the Lance Armstrong Foundation by riding the Tour des Chutes on July 17. Because, when it really comes down to it, there are still survivors out there, and sometimes we need all of the help we can get.

To the Left...To the Right...And Back to the Middle.

2010-05-22T13:13:00.000-07:00

We all know that progress rarely occurs in a straight line. Instead, it undulates or peaks and plateaus before peaking again. This is definitely true in cycling and I am finding that it also holds true with dealing with this disease.

After a few weeks of zen, I got sick, got tired and found myself falling back into old, less healthy patterns. I judged, procrastinated, worried and skipped new practices that I know made my life better. I didn't exercise, slacked on my writing, was needlessly unpleasant to bank employees and dropped the ball planning my own birthday party. I let the fatigue win.

Its a delicate balancing act--trying to get back into my normal pre-cancer routines (working, cycling, socializing), but keeping only those elements that are healthy and productive while eliminating the things about that life that weren't so great. Forming new habits is hard...its always three steps forward, a step or two backwards.

The self-judging has been the hardest old habit to brake. The cycle of thinking that I should be working more or feeling stronger. That there isn't ENOUGH to my life...am I healing enough, working enough, resting enough, eating enough good food, exercising enough, getting enough from my relationships. Enough already.

Today's lesson: Living a balanced life is not like standing on solid ground. More like standing on one foot, blindfolded, on a wobble board. It doesn't come naturally--without training, conscious planning, constant adjustment and the acceptance that sometimes we lose our balance and slide off.

So for this cancer patient, it is time to get back on the wobble board. To plan meals ahead of time so I eat well during my bad weeks. To lace up the shoes, put on the rain coat and walk, even when the Portland weather is doing everything it can to discourage us from going outside. To write without worrying whether there is anything relevant or humorous within the words. To not judge myself as weak when the concentration necessary for three hours of lawyer work kicks my ass. To embrace the simple and eliminate the stressful. To remember that even when I feel strong, I need rest. To ask for help when I need it.

Escape from Portland.

2010-05-14T09:14:00.000-07:00

OHMYGODFUCKINGCABINFEVER.

That is the best way I can describe, using letters instead of frustrated and unintelligible noises, how Round Three has gone so far.

Chemo was Monday this time around, due to a scheduling issue with the doctor's office. And I woke up Monday morning with a head cold. So I knew going in that R3 not going to be the cakewalk that R2 had been.

The infusion itself...no problem. As the owner of a brand new iPad, I spent the two hours geeking out on my new toy. Some out there might say that porn is the best way to kill time on the internet. I am not one of those people. I am a person that spends an hour in a measurement conversion application calculating that I weigh 10.71 stones and averaged 16.7 knots at Jack Frost this year. All very useful and important information.

By Monday afternoon, I could feel the fatigue clamping down on me. And it didn't let loose until Thursday afternoon. Cold fatigue on top of chemo fatigue was not fun. Didn't exercise, didn't cook. Just shuffled in a bermuda triangle from the bed to the couch to the kitchen. Slept, dazedly watched bad TV, ate burritos and tried to stay hydrated. (One of the strange things about masking nausea with medication is that it really doesn't affect my ability to eat. What it does affect is my fluid intake. There is something about drinking water that made me feel more wonky than eating a heavily loaded bean and cheese burrito. Go figure.)

I now have a serious case of cabin fever. It started yesterday afternoon when I was driving home from acupuncture. The treatment did wonders for clearing up my sinuses and lungs--one of the last things that I need right now is a respiratory infection. Stuck in the construction traffic on MLK, I had an overwhelming urge to get on to I-84 and drive until the car ran out of gas. To go anywhere with wind and fresh air and sunlight and without a incessantly beeping clothes dryer. Something to jerk me out of falling back into bad habits of funk, procrastination and ambivalence.

A horn honked nearby and I was jerked back to reality. The reality of my body and its need for more rest.

I gave myself another twelve hours of couch surfing, tea drinking and wedding-reality-show-watching. But this afternoon I am headed to Astoria to spend some time with a friend, then to Pacific City to meet some teammates at the end of the Reach the Beach ride. Time to get back into good habits--writing in my journal, finishing a book that has taken me too long to read, walking, connecting with people. Living, not waiting.

Hair We Go.

2010-05-06T13:46:00.000-07:00

This cancer shit can never be simple, can it?

My hair started falling out over the weekend. Whatever, totally expected. What was not expected was creative path my hair decided to take before its curtain call.

There isn't an "easy" button for chemo hair loss. Because that would be nice. Press the easy button and all of it falls out at once, I rinse out the shower and that would be that. I could then proceed along with being awesomely bald or, at least, able to wear hats and wigs without my stubble catching, pulling and hurting my suddenly sensitive head.

Of course, it doesn't really work like that. Instead, I have been up shedding stubble all over the greater Metro area and, after six days, am still left with a hair yarmulke.

Yes, my hair is falling out....everywhere but from the crown of my head.

I feel like the cancer monster is getting back at me for kicking ass through the second round of chemo. In exchange for increased energy and a healthy GI system, I am now afflicted with the opposite of male pattern baldness. Its so ridiculous that it is, quite honestly, hilarious.

-----

I made two big steps forward toward normalcy this week. First, I went back to work. For those of you that just started reading this blog, I am a lawyer. I have a specialty practice area and only work for a few attorneys, all of whom I adore. However, I can't say that I adore working in a law office. Even in great firms like the one I work in, there is always this overarching vibe of panic mixed with self-importance mixed with entitlement and expensive cologne.

After two days back in my office, I can already see that my biggest work challenge will be not letting this vibe ruin my new sense of zen. My office is on a busy hallway and I frequently found myself trying to concentrate over loud conversations that made me want to tip over my desk and run around in a circle screaming "NONE OF THIS REALLY MATTERS." Nothing would ruin zen like a psychotic episode.

Second, I started back up with strength class on Tuesday. I'm sore. But it's a welcome soreness because it is movement related, instead of caused by surgeries or medication or being unable to sleep. I have to be very careful not to stress my affected arm and, this morning, learned the hard way that I have to focus a bit more because misjudging the speed and trajectory of a medicine ball could mean taking an eight pound weight directly into the chest. Not good when one has a port on the right side and a structurally compromised half-boob on the left side.

This...I Can Deal With.

2010-04-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

Cycle 2, Day 4 is almost in the books.

I'm still really tired from the chemo, but life has been so much easier this time around. Physically, I have had enough energy and motivation to do my daily walkabouts. Today, it was just three meandering laps around Willamette Park with my friend Delyne, but yesterday I was able to do most of Terwilliger. I'm hoping to make it down to the Eugene Roubaix tomorrow and get a walk in while the girls race, and Sunday, hopefully, take my track bike to the velodrome for a half hour or so. A couple of good runs off of the top rail at Alpenrose will definitely be good for the legs--and the soul.

Mentally, its been like living on a different planet. Simply put, I feel like I can deal with all of this right now.

We made a few changes to my medications this time around and I think it has made part of the difference. I'm taking half of the original steroid dosage and, fingers crossed, haven't had any nausea complications as a result. My skin immediately cleared up and it has been easier to wind down in the evening. I've also don't need as much sleep medication. Part of that is probably attributable to the lower dosage of steroids, part of it to keeping up with the exercise.

I've become one of "those people" in the last two weeks. You know, "those people" that watch every little thing that they put into their body. Many things have been eliminated from my diet because they don't agree with my newly finicky stomach: coffee (!!!!!!), processed sweets and heavy carbs, soda. I'm drinking a ton of homemade iced green tea and Nuun-flavored water. Alcohol doesn't even sound good...a glass of wine or a half of a beer with meals on my good days has been all I've been able to handle.

And I'm eating like a champ: lots of protein, fruit and only organic eggs, dairy and meat. Slowly learning how to work more legumes and greens into my daily routine. It's been hard because by the time I eat everything on my "must-eat" list, I'm usually at my food intake limit for the day. (The anti-nausea meds keep things down, but also make harder to funnel stuff in the opposite direction.)

Too bad it took me 30 years to consciously think about these things, because, all things considered, I feel great right now. Less toxic, less bloated. Able to, you know, deal.

Time for a nap...have a wonderful weekend, y'all. I'll get into some trouble this weekend and have some good stories on the flip-side.

The $102 Dollar Haircut, And Other Weekend Stories.

2010-04-27T18:38:00.000-07:00

Health stuff first. Round Two of the Adriamycin/Cytoxin Cocktail Hour Extravaganza took place this morning. Post-chemo retail therapy courtesy of Whole Foods. My household is going to eat well tonight, if I don't manage to undercook or overcook something.

My weight is stable. If anything, I've lost some weight in the last two weeks. Probably a regular pooping thing. My blood work was all excellent. Some numbers were predictably down, but I'm well within normal levels of everything that they test for.

Chemo itself was uneventful. I went by myself and behaved. Passed the time by listening to the She & Him albums (if you like Camera Obscura, the Noisettes or alt country, I think you'd like this collaboration) and reading another chapter in Anti-Cancer. Next time I think I'll wear my new hat to make things interesting:

Thanks, Mel. And yes, this cancer does make my ass look fat. Thanks for asking.

Now the fun stuff. Winner of the previously unannounced best chemo text contest: My goat, Angela Jamison. Angie has been encouraging me to turn all of this word making into a book and had this insightful comment:

"I bet cancer would feel exploited if you used your relationship with it to get famous."

I was driving when I finally read this text and almost had to pull over from laughing. (Yes, I am aware playing with my Blackberry while behind the wheel is now against the law in Oregon. However, I was on Highway 26 at a dead stop. So you sanctimonious traffic safety nazis can go fuck yourselves.)

Yes, I could become the cancer equivalent of the winner of that "Be Paris Hilton's Best Friend" reality show. Or Nicole Richie. Same difference.

----

And speaking of sanctimonious traffic snobs...onto the story about the $102 haircut. I went to the Bishop's on NE 28th on Thursday afternoon to get rid of the hair. It was supposed to cost $12.

It was a refreshingly pain-free process. It took three run-throughs with three different clippers.

No tears, no negative emotion. Just a lot of relief, a wacky gay guy with clippers and some bad cheap beer. And lots of inappropriate jokes:

I am now SO ready for the wind tunnel. Watch out Lance, I'm going to KILL IT at the Tour time trials this year. In an old T-Mobile kit and on a recumbent tricycle with a flag and a Burley trailer You will cry in embarrassment, then give me a six-figure deal to ride for the Shack next year.

When we got back to the car, I had a parking ticket. A NINETY FUCKING DOLLAR PARKING TICKET. And a snarky, mis-spelled, grammatically incorrect note from the owner of the driveway I was blocking by three inches. I admit that it was a crap parking job, but I was so distracted when I parked that I didn't even notice. And, truthfully, I am the type of person who re-parks.

Christy and I drove away quickly, and I'm glad we did. It was the only event that ruined my zen last week and I really didn't need to make a scene in the middle of some bored, stupid person's porch.

Life has a ironic sense of humor. Shaving my head was the most expensive haircut I have ever received.
-----

I spent last weekend out enjoying the Cherry Blossom Cycling Classic. Enjoying it because I wasn't fucking racing it. The road courses on Friday and Saturday were short enough that I was able to ride them in the opposite direction and watch the racing from my bike. I did 18 miles on Friday and 25 on Saturday. The Saturday ride was what I like to refer to as a Grandpa's Tall Tale Ride: either uphill or into a headwind the entire ride. All it was missing was a blizzard and a plague of locusts. But it was sunny, and, dear jesus, I was ON MY BIKE.

My team had a great weekend. The Mexican finished 6th in the Cat 4 race. He's only been bike racing for six weeks and finished sixth in a stage race. I am very impressed. (Yes, I am hanging out with the Mexican. Again. Don't judge. Next time you catch the cancer, shave your head, have a wonky boob and are covered in some sort of weird steroid acne breakout, you will understand how good it feels to have someone in your life that tells you that you are sexy, and acts like you are sexy, every time he sees you. Even if that person is certifiably insane most of the time. Turns out that it is all about regulating my own exposure to that crazy, sexy, irresistible insanity.)

But my girls? My Cat 3 girls ROCKED it:

From left to right: I won the 10-lap cancer patient crit (as the only entry) on a borrowed bike while wearing running shorts and wore a rad cowboy hat for the rest of the afternoon. Everyone else here made it to the real podium. Alice finished 5th in the General Classification for Cat 4s: 5th in the Crit, 5th in the TT and 6th and 7th in the Road Races. She is now a Cat 3. Mindy was second in the GC in a totally stacked Cat 3 field. Rock. Anna was second in the Stage 1 road race. Amanda was second in the criterium. The gal in the Veloce kit is Kelly McKean. She finished second in the Stage 3 circuit race (also known as the "Hardest Circuit Course I've Ever Seen"). I am a climber, for sure, but Kelly is a climber on a whole different level.

The Cat 4's also did exceptional: everyone finished and Mo pulled a Ninth Place GC finish out of her sarcastic, gluten-intolerant ass. And didn't get dropped in the crit. Mo is awesome.

But, team business aside, I do have to say the highlight of the weekend was watching one of my favorite people, Anne Linton, win the Cat 3 crit. Anne is older than dirt (which is something I tell her every time we race together), but is one awesome fast old lady. She has been part of my lead-out for several PIR victories and I still owe her some return favors. I was so excited to see her finish first that I almost missed my own teammate finishing second.

So proud of you, Anne.

Cycle.....Well...Cycle!

2010-04-22T09:14:00.000-07:00

First, the big news. I rode outside yesterday. For the first time in 45 days.

Before the ride was the mixed joy and frustration of working on my bike. An activity I hadn't done for months. I sold my race bike to a teammate before the diagnosis and, now that there is no reason to spend big money on a 2010 model race bike (why do that when I can buy a 2011 model race bike-duh), I am planning on using my Tri-Cross for summer riding and Cycle Oregon.

Which meant conducting what is usually a very simple exercise...swapping out wheels. A simple task that was made completely infuriating by one of the most aggravating pieces of equipment in the cycling world: Tektro cyclocross brakes. It should not be that f-ing hard to (1) undo the brake arms and (2) adjust the brakes to eliminate rub.

I threw a tool yesterday. I have been doing some of my own mechanic's work for a long time and had never thrown a tool in frustration. I felt like there was a hidden camera in the ceiling and a roomful of lab-coated engineers and psychologists in a secret test facility sitting in front of a screen and rejoicing that there nefarious plan had finally worked.

Anyways. Breathe.

I met Heidi at her house for a short spin around SE Portland. For some reason, I didn't want to wear my team kit, just casual knickers and a long-sleeved shirt. It seemed like if I wore the pinstripes, there would be pressure. Pressure to do what, I have no idea. Train? Win the hills? Not die of a heart attack in the Springwater Corridor headwinds? Who knows.

The first 15 seconds were a total rush. My legs literally went:

What??

What?!

What!!

The motions were automatic were once I had a few minutes to adjust: Shift, pedal, brake, weight the corners, bunny hop to check for rattles.

It was like my soul was coming out of hibernation.

I think we were out for an hour, but an hour was enough. I was breathing pretty hard into the headwinds and inclines and my shoulders were aching from being forced back into the cyclist's hunch. But I finished the ride feeling more joyful than I had been feeling for weeks. And between the hour on the bike and the hour on foot in Forest Park in the morning, I fell asleep without a sleeping pill last night. Again, for the first time in weeks.

---

Second piece of news. I'm shaving my head today.

It's a control and timing issue. I'm on Chemo Day 10 and common wisdom is that it starts to fall out around Day 14. I'm going out to the Gorge this weekend to support my teammates and friends at the Cherry Blossom Cycling Classic. (And by support, I mean heckle. And by heckle, I mean finding the longest hill on the course and yelling "Why are you going so slow?" at everyone. This also might involve an air horn and a bucket of Gatorade to pour over people's heads. I'm a good teammate like that.) I didn't want to deal with the hair over the weekend if it happened early, and I can already tell something is happening with my body. I haven't had to shave my armpits since Saturday. (Yes, we're talking about my armpits again. Hopefully for the last time in a few months.)

I also didn't want to deal with shaving my head in the first few days after chemo. And I sure as shit don't want to deal with any clumps of hair falling out, EVER.

So today's the day.

Which is totally ironic because my hair has been behaving marvelously for the last two weeks. Its mocking me. So, with everything that dares mock me, it's time to dole out some punishment.

But in all seriousness, I'm expecting to need to grieve for a little bit of time over this. I've never been a hair person. It's been short for over 12 years and my haircut has always been about keeping it out of my face and off my neck (its very thick) and how quickly I can look normal after taking off my bike helmet (with the help of a few genius styling products, I can go from ride to work appropriate in 15 seconds).

But although bald may be beautiful, it also immediately flags me as a sick person. Throughout all of the surgeries and scans and doctor visits, I was able to hide my "sick person" status under my bra or by holding my affected arm close to my body. Can't so much get away with hiding anymore.

Being bald will also force me to work on my patience with other human beings. Like most reasonable people, I do not like being stared at. And I'm going to get stared at. Yelling "WHAT?! I HAVE FUCKING CANCER. FUCK OFF!" to everyone in Portland is not going to make me someone anyone else wants to be around for the next few months.

So I am going to have to grow up and learn to make eye contact and smile insanely at strangers. My theory is that if they think I'm also totally cuckoo for CocoPuffs, the staring will stop in a more timely manner.

My life is already one big lab experiment. I might as well make it an entertaining one.

Cycle 1, Days 7-8. There Is Light at the End of the Tunnels.

2010-04-21T08:07:00.000-07:00

Gaaaahhhhhh!!! If you were using this blog to check in on me and have been worried for a few days...Sorry!! I have improved 4000 percent since Sunday evening, took Monday off from the computer and felt so good yesterday that I spent most of it out of the house catching up with some friends (go eat brunch at Tasty & Sons on Williams, owned by TNT alum John Gorham, NOW), running some personal errands and going on a walkabout in the West Hills.

Monday morning was like waking up on a new planet. I slept seven straight hours and was able to eat breakfast and drive myself out to my naturopath appointment at St. MCV's.

Going to the naturopath was probably the best thing I've done for my mental health since the stupidfuckingcancer odyssey began (by the way...its been exactly two months since my diagnosis. Never has a 60 day chunk of time seemed so short and so long at the same time.) Our appointment was 30 minutes of my verbal dump, 15 minutes of him processing that verbal dump and 15 minutes of him laying down some new laws.

At first, I thought the guy was a bit of a kooky hippie, but by the end of it I found him to be quite remarkable. Working with cancer patients is all that he does and I believe him when he says that he's good at it. This is why.

For 30 minutes he listened to my life story quietly, without affect, judgment or posture. Asked me about work, about why I liked bike racing, if I had set any post-treatment goals. Then he left the room, gave me 15 minutes to compose myself and came back into the room in exactly the form I needed: the coach. Which is basically to say that he was able to read me like a teary-eyed open book and presented his treatment plan in a way that totally resonated with my personality. He's given me a set of nutritional, mental and physical challenges and has basically said "If you do this, you can win." And by "win," he means "not get your ass knocked around by chemo for four months."

We're starting small--base miles, bitches. There is a list on my refridgerator that is 6 items long. Three of those items are related to digestive health, otherwise know as pooping. I will save the lengthy pooping discussion for another day, because it really does merit its own post. Suffice to say, everyone knows that if you're not pooping, that is bad. If you are doing chemo and not pooping, this is super duper bad because that means your system is struggling to get that toxic shit out of your body. It just sits there like antifreeze in a sewer. Ugh.

The fourth item is protein related. In a nutshell, chemo kills your fast growing cells like a Serbian mercenary--that is, without discrimination. Chemo get cancer, but it also gets hair cells, fingernail cells, cells on the inside of the mouth, blood cells. Without protein, the body struggles to rebuild the good fast growing cells. Most people get enough protein, but apparently cancer patients struggle with protein because many of the food that are palatable during chemo are high-fat, high-simple carbohydrate foods, not high protein foods.

Sorbet and dry cheerios, my comfort foods of choice, do not contain enough protein for my body to rebuild and fight. Thus, from here on out, yogurt and at least two eggs per day, every day. Normally, I can't eat eggs on a regular basis because my body doesn't do well with them when I am exercising at a high intensity. Which, obviously, is not happening right now. So eggs now taste good. I'm going to try and learn how to poach eggs one of these mornings. Maybe should get a video camera first.

The next item on my marching orders, pun intended, is to walk at least 5 miles every day. Even if I have to do it in 3 or 4 segments on my rough days, 5 miles. I made it four miles on Monday (was still pretty tired from the four days of chemo hell), but did five and half yesterday afternoon. On Terwilliger. None of this pussy waterfront shit for me. If I was going to walk five miles, I am going to WALK FIVE MILES. In the rain. Uphill both ways (seriously-it was Terwilliger, people, there is no downhill.).

My whole concept of five miles has changed. On a bike, that's what....15 minutes? Maybe 30 if the whole 5 is uphill? Five point five miles on foot took me eighty minutes yesterday. Granted, that was because most of it was uphill, but still. Eighty minutes.

I was fucking sore and tired by the end I got home. But I was gloriously happy the entire time. It was like exercise crack. Slowing down made me appreciate the scenery and really listen to song lyrics. As much as I hate to admit it, Lady Gaga is sort of a genius. Madonna, too but she tends to waver between awesomely ridiculous and ridiculously awesome. Compare anything on "American Life" to anything on "Erotica." Night and day.

Next item is my reading list. He looked at me and said, "You're a smart woman. You can read two books this week." Um, okay, hippie facist doctor man. First on the list was Lance Armstrong's book. You know, that one. The one we have all already read. I read it ten years ago, while my grandfather was dying of leukemia. Reading it ten years later as a bike racer and cancer patient, it basically blew my mind. I will write more on that later. The second book is "Anti-Cancer: A New Way of Life" by David Servan-Schreiber. Going to start on that one today.

The final item on my list is a writing exercise that is intended to help with my anxiety. As soon as I wake up, five minutes with a written journal. Whatever is making me happy, anxious, angry, depressed, sad gets written down--without proofreading or wordsmithing.

It may surprise you, but I've never been a private journaler. I've kept private blogs every once in a while, mostly to play with writing styles, but nothing freeform, personal or on a consistent basis. I've only done this exercise twice, but both times its lasted over 20 minutes and I feel like I've been through detox when I'm through. So THIS is what I've been missing with journaling, but its better to have learned this lesson later than never.

Whoa.....it's eight AM and I have to get moving. I have a walking date in Forest Park, lunch with another survivor and, if the weather holds, a short bike ride with the effervescent Ms. Heidi Swift planned for today. Better go eat my eggs and yogurt.

Over and out.

Days 5-6. Not a Happy Post.

2010-04-18T15:03:00.000-07:00

I keep thinking it can't get any worse, but then it does. In stages and fluctuations. Its moved from a funny stomach, to a wonky stomach plus fatigue, to fatigue that was manageable emotionally, if not physically.

Chemo dump is on a whole new level today. Like the amp in Spinal Tap. You know, the one that goes all the way to 11. Chemo plus sleeplessness equals...seriously, fuck me, this is awful. I am having a hard time staying awake for more than 15 minutes and I ache. Everywhere aches, my skin, neck muscles, scalp, toenails. Toenails ache, who knew.

The only exercise I am getting is in my head. The tug of war between the voice that pleads to have my old life back and the one that shouts that I have to be stronger than all of this. Who has the advantage depends on whether I'm grateful or angry that it is an absolutely beautiful day in Portland. Right now I have the windows and curtains wise open, and am curled up with my new quilt in bed, closely supervised by the cats. Grateful that its not only a perfect day for a ride, but also the perfect day to rest and heal.

Tonight, who knows. That is part of the sonofabitch of all of this. Being trapped in my own body and in my own head. The downward spiral of anger and loss and sadness is so easy to get trapped within and, at night, there is no one that can pull me out of it. Except me. And my goddamn toenails hurt too much to pull anything right now.

But it will get better. It will get better because it has to. The challenge is not losing my mind in the meantime.

Cycle 1, Days 3-4

2010-04-16T21:35:00.000-07:00

From Wikipedia, the word of the Day(s):

Fatigue (also called exhaustion, lethargy, languidness, languor, lassitude, and listlessness) is a state of awareness. It can describe a range of afflictions, varying from a general state of lethargy to a specific work-induced burning sensation within one's muscles. It can be both physical and mental. Physical fatigue is the inability to continue functioning at the level of one's normal abilities.

I am so fucking tired. And there's really nothing funny to say about it. Chemo is seriously lacking in a sense of humor...what a crabby whore. Sleeping 15 hours a day is not funny. Forgetting words and whether I've taken a shower today are not funny. The effects of horse steroids are not funny. Being too tired to flee your own chemo farts is not funny. OK, maybe hotboxing oneself is slightly funny (especially when the cats get caught in the fray). But don't laugh about it to my face. Yet.

----

What I really want to do today is send A HUGE THANK YOU AND LOVE YOU out to the lovely ladies that collaborated (behind my back...the only time they'll ever catch me with my guard down) to make a beautiful new quilt for me to cuddle in whenever I need some good, strong sisterhood energy: Sarah, Casey, Cathy, Heather, Heidi, Tiffany, Stephanie, Alice, FT, Margi, Anna, Mindy, Shari, Sage, Jen W., Michelle, Angela, Alia and my wonderful mother.

With a particular shout-outs to Sarah for masterminding the whole affair and to Steph for her very inspired "Whip Cancer" square:

You all rule. I am so blessed.

Guest Author: The Most Awesome Race Report Ever

2010-04-14T19:52:00.000-07:00

Quick Cycle 1, Day 2 Chemo Update: I was wonky in the stomach this morning, but pills and lots of naps had me feeling a lot better this afternoon. I walked for an hour this evening, with a break at Zupan's for a Haagen Das bar.

Now onto the main event. Kings Valley, as written by my Aussie teammate, Jamie. Read it and try not to laugh out loud.

----

WARNING, WARNING – unusually high number of scientific jokes contained in this report. Do not read if you have liver damage, are a serious cyclist, or may become a serious cyclist. Your doctor can conduct a simple test if you are at risk.

April 12th, 2010

Dear Editor of ‘Crap Cycling’,

Please accept our paper on the analysis of Sprint Wombat's King's Valley Road race. We feel that our findings will be of interest to the wider cycling community and our hope is that with publication in ‘Crap Cycling’ others will learn from his mistakes. In accordance with the international nature of the Journal we have used SI units throughout.

We look forward to hearing from you.

Dr. Cannon Dale, Dr. Van Iller and Sir Velo.
Lactic Threshold Laboratory
Institute of Advanced Cycology
Bonktown, OR

Title: The King's Valley disaster – how, why and what!

Study Aim: To dissect the 2010 Kings Valley (KV) road race of Sprint Wombat (‘the subject’). His self-proclaimed goal was to support more talented Hammer Velo team mates; Driveby, El Luchador, The Kid, Mr Smith, The Neighbor, The Quiet Achiever, and Ryan (no known alias), and finish as high as possible with a minimum of errors. This paper is based on observation, satellite imagery, mental telepathy and interviews with the subject and race officials. It analyzes the known knowns (but not the unknown unknowns - we know what they are) and attempts to understand what went wrong.

Method: The subject (aka ‘The Wombat’) rode his bike around rural Polk County (Oregon, USA) for 93 km (56 miles) under OBRA race conditions. The subject rode a 2010 Cannondale CAAD 9 (54 cm) modified with fancy titanium time trial seat-post and saddle. 50/34 x 11/23.

Results: 47th out of >60 (actually number of finishers will never be known because of mass quitting and at least one rider who took a wrong turn and nearly ended up on 99W).

Discussion: With input from a well meaning, non-cycling State Champion, a well-crafted team plan was formulated. The ‘body mass index (BMI)-challenged’ were to stay close to the front of the pack to control the pace. The plan was for these BMI-challenged individuals to work later on in the race protect the 4th percentile BMIers (light fourckers) for the final sprint. The subject totally ignored this plan for no good reason and settled mid pack for the first half lap. This turned out to be a grave error because of the narrow road, large pack and large quanta of inexperienced riders who braked at every opportunity. There was little room to pass. The wind on the back half of the course was formidable but not an issue for the ‘mid-pack’ plodders.

The 25 km (15 mile) point marked the hill that what would become the finish line. At a mean grade of 6.02 (+/- 0.56)% the hill was of modest steepness and about 1 km in length. The subject was in 41st position at this point. Due to his high BMI, the subject slowly drifted back through the pack at -2 m/sec. This backward motion is described in the ‘regression analysis’ plot shown in Figure 1. Within seconds, the subject was ‘off-the-back’ and losing ground at a rate of -5 m/sec. The subject was observed to repeatedly shout at his legs “shut the f*** up, legs”.

As the subject breached the hill he placed his arms in the ‘drops’ and proceeded to increase cadence to 95 rpm. With the tailwind and downward gradient, the subject increased velocity to 43.4 kph in an attempt to rejoin the pack. Within 3 km the subject caught a strong rider from Portobello. Together, they worked to bridge the gap with the pack, passing riders at regular intervals. They gained ground on the pack on the flats at a rate of 10 m/min but lost ground on the climbs and in the wind at a rate of 5 m/min. After working together for 16.84 km they ceased the chase and ‘sat up’. Mr Smith, who had been chasing the subject for a time then caught up and they rode together discussing their options still with 40.09 km to complete the race. The long-range microphone picked up the subject uttering the phrase “mate,……. I’m buggered if I’m going to get another DN-friggin-F”. Mr Smith then replied “although my ass really, really hurts I’m with you all the way, Jay-me”. At this point it turned into a training ride and the subject and Mr Smith rode the rest of the way, taking turns to ‘pull’ each other. Although the final kms (miles) were traversed with 20% lower intensity than something faster, they appeared to be pleased to finish in the top 50. At the end of the race the subject was overheard to remark that his mouth was “as dry as a dead dingos’ donger” and sought rehydration assistance.

In summary, the subject rode poorly and was positioned too far back in the pack to cope with the finish line hill on lap 1. Consequently, the subject was dropped and failed to influence the race in any way at all. We hypothesize that with a more advanced position at the start of the hill, the subject would have been safely cocooned in the pack-womb sucking his thumb. We predict that he would have survived to deeper into the race.

Conclusion: STAY AT THE FRONT 95 (+/- 7.0)% OF THE TIME

Day 1, Cycle 1

2010-04-13T17:18:00.000-07:00

Before I get knocked on my ass by the toxic cocktails that were pumped into my system this morning, some updates and some smart ass comments about what I have already learned about chemo infusions.

[Skip the next part if you don't want to read about chemo drugs.]

My first four chemo cocktails are a combination of cytoxan and adriamycin. This is a standard treatment for breast cancer. The adriamycin is the hair killer. It is bright red and pumped into me using a syringe over 15 minutes. The cytoxan is administered through IV drip over the course of an hour.

Before these are administered, I visit with the oncologist and a blood draw is taken. Once in the treatment room, the first course is an IV drip of super-steroids and an anti-nausea medication.

Then the chemo drugs. Shit that might burn a hole in the universe shot into my bloodstream.

After that, guess what....more medication. I have four bottles: must-take anti-nausea pills, must-take horse steroids and two sets of "in case of emergency" anti-nausea pills. I hope all of it works because I waited at the hospital pharmacy for two hours after chemo. Rad. Tomorrow I go back to St. My Cousin Vinnie's for a shot of Neulasta, a white cell booster that aids my immune system. And for the drugs they were out of at the pharmacy. Because, as I have learned, hospitals run of things all of the time. Like sane patients.

I can expect to feel OK for a day or two and the worst over the weekend.

[Rejoin here for some more non-essential cancer advice.]

The infusion room at St. MCV's is very nice. As something that has only been open for a few months, it should be. Huge windows on two sides, comfortable recliners, and all of the beverages and lights snacks you can stuff into your face while impeded by an IV pole.

Hydration is my new big THING I CAN CONTROL, so I came prepped with three full water bottles with the goal to get through all of them before I left the infusion room. The infusion time was shorter than I had expected and I spent most of that time talking or being talked to, so I only made it through two. Good for my system, but it also meant having to pee every five minutes. And, of course, I had to go and pick the seat the farthest from the bathroom door. Every 450-700 seconds, I would have to clomp past (because, of course, I am wearing cowboy boots...and ninja socks) all of the other cancer patients to the john. Thud, Thud, Thud. Slam, Flush, Slam. So much for keeping a low profile. But I did get all of the adriamycin dye out of my system within 40 minutes.

Non-Essential Cancer Advice Note to Self #1: Next time, sit closer to the bathroom door.

Non-Essential Cancer Advice Note to Self #2: Hospital wireless sucks balls. Bring more magazines and cell phone charger.

Non-Essential Cancer Advice to Everyone Else #3: Please text me at will during infusions. Playing with my blackberry in an important manner keeps me from staring at other people. Staring at other people makes me look like an asshole. No one want to be The Asshole in a chemo treatment room, but I can't help it when I'm anxious.

So help me out on this one. Next round, April 27 from 10AM to 1PM. If you want my cell number, email me off-line.

Non-Essential Cancer Advice to Everyone Else #4: Post-chemo retail therapy is highly recommended. I have been going to Target after all of my big appointments. All of the adrenaline rush, but for one-sixth of the price of downtown Portland. I bought at $15.99 cowboy hat this afternoon. It is ridiculously fantastic...I haven't taken it off yet. That or the ninja socks. Which, considering that I am now also wearing a seersucker miniskirt around the condo, makes me sort of awesome-sauce right now.

Non-Essential Cancer Advice to Everyone Else #5: If you don't know about Cleaning for a Reason and are going through cancer treatment or know anyone going through cancer treatment, please go here NOW and learn about them. While I was packing up my bags, my mom and I just happened to be talking about the service that spit-shined my condo yesterday (Maid to Shine in Vancouver, WA....did a phenomenal job), the patients next to me and the oncology nurses overheard, but had never heard of it. WTF?!

These ladies donate their valuable time and supplies to help cancer patients. All I had to do was make a phone call, get a doctor's note and sign a waiver. And voila! You can now eat off of my bathroom floor. Not that I would recommend it, but you get the point. Cleaning for a Reason pays for it once a month and I am having the service come in twice monthly on the day before infusions.

The doctor's note requirement threw me for a loop. Apparently there are people out there that fake cancer. For fuck sake people, really? For these people I have created a special level of hell. This level of hell involves screaming uncontrollable three year olds, dog shit that hasn't been picked up, neon-colored skinny jeans, BumpIts and Jack Johnson playing on a continuous loop. And the only thing to eat and drink are PBR and bananas. And everything operates using Windows 97. That, to me, would be the worst hell could possibly be. This is saying something, as I have fucking stupid cancer.

OK, off to pee (again) and try and control my anticipation anxiety. Will keep you all posted.

And So It Begins.

2010-04-12T17:41:00.000-07:00

The following ditty is about support groups, in general, and, specifically, about the one I went to last night. I can't tell the story however, without breaking a bit of fucked up news. R ended our romantic relationship this weekend. That is all I really want to say about that until I work through some things in my head and with him. I'm not going to judge, blame, make excuses for him. Suffice to say that both of our lives are really fucked up right now and we both need a lot of time to get healthy.

So, support groups. After last night, I have this theory that most people come to support groups partially for the support, but mostly because it is cathartic to tell horror stories to terrified individuals. People with normal experiences don't come to support groups. People whose vaginas turn inside out and grow hair on their backs during hormone suppression therapy...those are the people that go to support groups.

Which leads me to another piece on non-essential cancer advice. Which I will preface with my second favorite line from Raising Arizona: Let y'all without sin cast the first stone.

Lesson #2: Do not show up to your first support group high.

I needed a serious break from my life yesterday afternoon. Insomnia, the break-up and chemo were all bearing down on me like a lead weight. Too exhausted to go exercise, but too emotionally wired to sit still. The solution: some specially prepared baked goods and three hours of "Nurse Jackie."

I'm not an expert in the craft of baking medicinal food stuffs, but my guess is that picking dosage is an art form. Too little, you just get gassy from eating 14 rice-crispy treats. Too much, you end up upside down on the floor of your condo talking to the ceiling while your mother watches. Then you fall asleep face down and wake up with a puddle of drool on the Pergo floor two inches from your face.

This is my life as a cancer patient, folks. A total champion of humanity.

By the time my ride to support group arrived, I had rejoined the land of the living, but still had a nice bit of a head buzz. We arrived at the meeting a bit late, me with a not unexpected sense of paranoia that it was going to take everyone about 15 seconds to realize that I was showing up to a cancer support group stoned.

We all quietly ordered drinks while one woman was giving the group her health update. The McMenamoron that was serving us rolls back up to the table five minutes later, interrupts a heated discussion on vaginal dryness and calls out our drinks in roll call.

"Water, water, water, iced tea, green tea, water, water.....jack and bourbon."

Everyone pretends not to stare as I take my drink, remove the straws for ease of access and take in 3/4 of the drink in a single pull.

It takes two hours before it is my turn to talk. I drink two more bourbons and listen to stories about vaginal atrophy, unexpected hair growth, debilitating bone pain, treatments that don't work and denied health insurance coverage. I am freaking out by the time it is my turn to talk. Lucky for me, we are already 20 minutes over time and everyone has one foot toward the door.

No one asks questions as I go through my diagnosis and treatment and when I get to the part to about the break-up and the baked goods and the bourbon, I get a relieved sense that my obvious bout of binge drinking is completely understood. They've all been there. And there is no shame is seeking relief anywhere we can find it.

----

Chemo countdown is down to 17 hours. I'm trying not to take an outsider's view of my life right now. It's easier just to take everything an hour at a time, rather than obsessing about side effects and reorganizing my care-giving now that I'm now a single person with cancer.

So, for now, its all about making lists, packing for chemo and wrangling up some lemon drops and ginger candies.

Thank You, Team in Training.

2010-04-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

I'd been meaning to write something like this for awhile, but finally got around to it when my friend Cat asked me to put something together for this year's Team in Training team.

It's not exactly blog-format-appropirate, but I like what I wrote enough to include it here verbatim

--
First, thanks to all of you for being here. I heard you all were riding Hagg Lake today and it made me smile...I have fond and not so fond memories of racing my bike out here in three consecutive weekends of monsoons last spring. Second, I am sorry that I am not here to meet you myself. I am down in Corvallis supporting my cycling team at a big road race, but hope to make it to a Saturday workout later in the spring. And thanks to Cat for reading my words for me. I have faith that she'll be able to convey the perfect amount of cantankerous wise-assery that I have become known for.

Some of you know me, but many of you do not. I was part of the very first Team in Training Pacific Crest team in 2005 and was hooked from the first moment I stepped onto the track with my new teammates. I was a mentor and captain for the 1/2 ironman teams in 2007 and 2008 and a swim coach last year. Although I have transitioned from triathlon to bike racing over the last two years, I still consider the Pacific Crest teams part of my extended family.

On February 23, 2010, I was diagnosed with Stage IIB Invasive Ductal Carcinoma. For those of you not fluent in cancer-ese, that means breast cancer. The five seconds that it took the doctor to give me my diagnosis completely changed my life. At 4:45 PM I was a state champion bike racer and reluctant part-time attorney. At 4:46 PM I was a 32 year old cancer patient.

Over the last six weeks, I have undergone three different surgeries to remove the tumor in my left breast and several infected lymph nodes. I start four months of chemotherapy on Tuesday. That will be followed by 8 weeks of radiation treatment later in the fall. If you want the hard and fast medical details, Cat can direct you to my blog.

We all started this TNT journey for a reason. Mine was because law school interfered with my ability to really support my mother while my grandfather died of Leukemia in 2001. I felt like I had to put something back into the world to make up for what cancer had taken from my family.

But what I want to talk about is why I stayed on my journey. Take a minute and look around you. This was my the reason. My teammates.

These people will become your rocks in the next few weeks. Some of them only until Pacific Crest, some of them for much longer. These are the people that will not only ride with you in the rain and get catastrophically drunk with you during race weekend, but will also be the first to contact you on scan days or bring you food when you're too sick to get out of the house.

One of my rocks is my boyfriend Ricardo. Not surprisingly, we met through TNT last year. In fact, our first real conversation was out here at Hagg Lake a year ago. It took me six months for me to realize that he liked me, but it has been worth the wait. We are an odd couple. I am 155 pounds of leg muscle and stubborn obnoxiousness. He is small and smooth and suave. When we ride together, he climbs like a mountain goat. I climb like a monster truck. But, somehow, we make it work.

Ricardo was the one that found my tumor and harassed me into getting it checked out when I was sure it was nothing. He has held my hand in recovery rooms and has helped me unwrap my bandages after every surgery--probably because he gets to fondle my boobs in the process. He hugs me when I cry and pulls my ear when I get difficult. I get great care because he flirts with the nurses and he has an uncanny ability to make me laugh in waiting rooms. You haven't seen anything until you've seen a confused Mexican play with your prosthesis bra in front of your surgeon. Or talk about boob drains in front of your father.

Without TNT, I would not have Ricardo. Or Cat, who visits me even though she is deathly allergic to my worthless housecats. Or any other of the dozens of people who have lit up my life in the last six weeks. I think about that every day.

I love riding, partially because I'm blessed to be a talented racer, but mostly because riding bikes is an experience where our humanity tends to shine through most purely. I have never seen human joy and suffering like what I have seen on training rides and at the end of bike races. The people that are brave and wise enough to show those emotions to the world are the people that you need in your life when the going gets rough. My going is rough right now and the people I have depended on the most are the ones that I have pedaled with over the past six years.

My hope for all of you is that you will never have to lean on your TNT family like I have had to lean on mine. That the worst experience that they ever have to get you through is a flat tire or a hangover. But it should be comforting to know that these are the people that have the strength of character to step up in times of crisis and chaos.

You should all be very proud of yourselves for starting this journey. Not only are your efforts improving the lives of cancer patients, but you are opening yourself up to a world of friendship and camaraderie that only exists on two wheels.

Now get out there and ride.

Chemo Countdown

2010-04-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

7: Days until chemo starts.

105: If all goes well, days until chemo ends.

90: consecutive minutes I am able to sleep right now.

4: consecutive days I have had sleeping problems.

I probably over-educated myself into this sleeping problem. As I have spent a lot of time in the last four days catching up on my cancer reading, every night I have a "side effect" dream. Not really nightmares. More of farcical exaggerations of my worst fears. Two nights ago I dreamed that I gained 100 pounds from the steroids and the only clothes that fit made me look like Larry the Cable Guy. (If you don't know who this is, google it yourself. I'm not including a link to him here. On principle.)

[Warning: Adult-ish content ahead.]

So when you have chemo all of your hair falls out. ALL of your hair, if you know what I mean. Last night I dreamt that somehow my body got massively confused in the hair-growing back process and I had pubic hair growing out of my head. The dream was so real (thank you Ambien), that when I woke up at 3AM, I got up and went to the bathroom to check that my head wasn't covered in short and curlies.

Yes, my name is Lindsay and I have chemo anxiety. Can't really deny it anymore. There is absolutely no way to predict how the drugs will affect my system. I could feel crappy two days every two weeks, or I could be in hell for four months. I could get unhealthily skinny or become a puff-o-saurus rex. I can't wait to get it started just so the uncertainty ends.

My oncologist is optomistic and I believe her sincerity when she says that the side effects will be less debilitating than I think they will be. However, it seems to be a more pragmatic strategy to hope for the best, plan for the worst.

Many of you that read this blog have also stepped up to help in the last few weeks. Thank you , thank you , thank you for that. And here is some information to help you, my team, plan for the next few months.

If you have contacted Christy about food and she's told you to hold off for a while, late next week would be a good week to bug her again. My mom will be here most of the week and will take care of feeding us, but we have run through most of the meals that have been sent over so far. Please check with her to see what sort of foods I am able to eat before sending anything over. It is almost guaranteed that my sense of smell and taste will be wacked out.
I love visitors, but if you are sick, getting sick, have sick children, work with sick people--I love you, but please stay the hell at home. And when you are here, I'm going to be OCD about hand sanitizer and hand-washing. Which is totally not my style, but, then again, neither is going through fucking chemo.
I am apologizing in advance for the times when I am crabby or fall asleep while you are talking to me.
Autumn Peterson at Verte Massage and Brooke Jordan at Therapeutic Associates/PACE have graciously volunteered to take care of my body for a few months. Please help me thank them by sending some business lovin' their way.
Finally, if I am up to it, make me get out of the house and enjoy Portland. It's going to be a beautiful summer and it would be a shamed if I missed it because I was moping inside watching Heald College commercials and talking to my cats.

Last item of business. Above all of my cancer reading, I highly recommend the following book (in spite of its slightly annoying name and format): Crazy Sexy Cancer Tips by Kris Carr. My copy was borrowed from the St. Vincent's Breast Clinic, but I am going to go out soon and buy my own so I can mark it up.

Kris was my age when she was diagnosed with a rare and inoperable vascular cancer. Her energy and outlook really resonated with me (and not just the chapter on retail therapy), and, more importantly, her advice got me back to my private journal and motivated me to plan for my future in a way that I have never done before.

And that's good stuff for a chemo patient, yo.

An Interlude on Keeping One's Sense of Humor

2010-03-30T19:01:00.000-07:00

One thing I have on cancer on a consistent basis is that I am a lot more entertaining. At times, I let it get bigger than me, scarier than me, but at no time has it ever been funnier than me. Some people fight it out of their system. I have a lot of fight, but think I may also be able to sarcastically harangue it out of my body.

To this end, I have made it my personal mission to try and make every health care professional that has to deal with me laugh at least once. Today I went three for four.

First it was the poor sucker that brought out the water/iodine cocktail that I had to drink an hour before my CT scan. I asked him if there were roofies in it. Later he told me that no one had ever asked him that before. I told him that it was probably because he was really hot and he didn't need sedatives to bag a chick. He told me I was his favorite patient this month. I almost gave him Mo's phone number, but that ultimately felt more like a punishment than a thank you. (Love you too, girl).

Second was the IV nurse. Because I have a specialized port in my chest to ease IV administration, it takes a special nurse to insert my IV. IV nurses, I've quickly learned, are sort of a dour lot. It probably comes from spending every hour of every work day having your arrival dreaded by every patient. After she pulled the IV out post-scan and rinsed the port, I sighed and asked her if she had a cigarette. She laughed in spite of herself.

Third, the CT tech. We were discussing logistics (since I can't raise my left arm above my head, we had to figure out how to position my arm so it didn't interfere with the chest scan), he mentioned that I was awfully young to have breast cancer. Without thinking, I muttered, "that's what she said."

I struck out with the woman who seemed to be coordinating the CT scan circus. Mostly because she had a sizable mole on her chin and I was afraid if I opened my mouth I was going to pull an Austin Powers and starting screaming "MOLEY MOLEY MOLEY MOLEY." Made a good decision and just let that one go.

----

There are certain things that no book or pamphlet warned me about when I started this odyssey. One of these things is something that I've already bitched about numerous times: the swamp pit. When one undergoes a lumpectomy, this also involves various degrees of lymph node removal. Which then interferes with the muscles and nerves necessary to properly maintain the hygiene of the armpit on the affected arm. I have had three surgeries in the last four weeks. I have not shaved my left armpit since March 10, 2010, and its just been in the last five days that I've been able to properly soap and rinse the area without pain or jeopardizing the stitches. What this basically means that not only do I have four weeks of hair growth under there, because I couldn't move the arm, the area trapped in a lot of heat and drug-saturated sweat.

This, you can imagine, does not smell nice. I'd be sitting in my writing chair, minding my own business and something would waft past my nose that smelled like ten-day-old Burning Man. I was going through three or four shirts a day. As soon as I could smell myself, it was time to change.

So here's my first piece of non-essential breast cancer advice: On the day of your diagnosis, quit shaving your armpits. Then have them waxed the day before surgery. Cancer sucks enough without being the source of a "What's that smell?!" face.

I have a discussion with the swamp pit every day before I shower. First, I tell it that its time has come. It talks back to me in a voice that very closely resembles that of my first restaurant boss (The one that thought most of the world's problems could be solved if something, anything, could be fucked in the ass. His words, people, not mine.) Then I try to stretch my arm. After wincing, I then tell it that although it has lived to see another day, its days are definitely numbered.

Here's the moral of this story. Cancer stinks and likes to fuck things in the ass, but I will ultimately have the last laugh.

Paging Jennifer Garner.

2010-03-28T18:22:00.000-07:00

Last night the Mexican asked me to describe how I see my life.

Do you remember those hand held toys with pegs and hoops submersed in water? You would push a little red button on the bottom of the toy, air would shoot up into the water and the bubbles would send the hoops into disarray. The purpose of the game was to get all of the hoops onto the pegs.

My life feels like that little game. A month ago, all of my hoops were on pegs. Maybe not the right pegs, but on pegs nonetheless. Now it feel like all of those hoops have been blown off and each time a hoop might settle on a peg, a big blast of air blasts everything into chaos again.

I can see why people turn to religion in a time of crisis. It means being able to plead with an invisible hand with the power to push, or not push, that air-blasting button.

----

My left breast is officially waving the white flag. Wednesday's second attempt to get clear margins will be the last attempt. If the news is not good this week, it will mean removing the breast. Most of which doesn't much resemble a breast right now. More like the under-inflated half of a yellowish-green dodgeball. With some stitches and a delta of broken blood vessels thrown in for good measure. I try not to look at it in the mirror when I undress.

My arm is rapidly improving. The nerve pain is no longer a debilitating ninja, but simply an indicator of the limits of my limited (but improving) flexibility. I still cannot raise my the arm high enough to shave the world's stinkiest armpit or wear items that require raising my elbow above shoulder level. But I was able to sleep last night with my arm around Ricardo and to pick up and hug my cats when I got home. (If you are wondering why this latter task would take two arms, you obviously haven't met my cats.)

But I am still very unsettled. Tuesday will be spent at St. Vincent's undergoing a bone scan and a full-body CT scan. The concern being that the cancer, having invaded my lymph nodes, has also invaded other parts of my body. I am also undergoing genetic testing to determine if I carry a genetic mutation that would indicate that I would probably see a recurrence of the breast cancer and that it is more likely that I would get ovarian cancer at some point later in life.

Although I am trying to be positive, it's hard to do after repeatedly getting my ass kicked with bad news.

----

Finally, on the topic of hair. I have a crazy head of hair. Thick to the point of notoriety. I used to bitch about it constantly, how it took three elastics to hold a ponytail in high school or how I can't cut it too short without risking looking a hedgehog. My mom used to tell me to quit complaining, because I would never have to worry about going bald.

Oh, the irony.

On the current treatment time line, I'll probably lose my hair in about four weeks. Not one to be caught unprepared, I spent part of Thursday morning investigating my options in socially appropriate head coverings. (In a perfect world, I would just wear an afro wig or hijab everywhere for a few months. But either would be too hot in the summer and would do nothing to help my quest to keep my diagnosis from becoming a distraction once I an able to return to work.)

I know that the current selection of head coverings reflect the female demographic most likely to be undergoing chemotherapy, but YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME. On the mainstream websites I found nothing that would work for me on a day-to-day basis, but plenty that would work if I wanted to travel Sante Fe and blend in with the 60-year-old retirees while I shop for crystals and Native American handicrafts. For fuck sake. I did find it interesting while there were options with sequins or crushed velvet, there was not an option that offered both on the same head piece. Because that is something I might have been down with.

In the end, I went to etsy.com and bought a selection of homemade summer-colored scarves and hat-like objects. While they will be unable to fool anyone into thinking that I am anything other than a cancer patient, at least I won't be mistaken for someone on her way to pottery class with the Countess.

I am also going to get a wig. OK, maybe two wigs. One for work, weddings, those few and far between occasions where I don't want to purposely make people uncomfortable. Then I want one for everyday occasions, like messing with the Conveyor at Fifth Quadrant. (The Conveyor is the world's worst pub waitress. They had a contest once and when the other contestants realized she was coming, they didn't even bother to show up. Ask around, she really is THAT BAD.)

I will be watching Alias this week for inspiration. And the request line is now open.....

Happy One Month Cancerversary, Here's a Kick to the Balls.

2010-03-22T14:38:00.000-07:00

I would not recommend sitting next to me on an airplane anytime soon.

I've sitting on the wrong side of favorable statistics since November. RU-486 has a 4-6% failure rate. After suffering through the painful unpleasantness of that process three days before the 'cross state championship race, I learned two weeks later that it hadn't worked as it should.

The insertion of an IUD causes contraction-like cramping in only 7-8% of patients. Bingo!

Only 5% of breast cancers occur in women under the age of 40. Mmm-hmm.

This time last week, I was told that there was only a 10% chance that I would have additional positive lymph nodes. I chose to have an axillary node dissection during surgery anyways, just to for some peace of mind.

So much for peace of mind. I had two more positive nodes. One that had a 1cm diameter tumor.

And I still don't have clear margins. The pathology report shows additional DCIS in an area where it wasn't expected.

The doctor gave me two options. First, go in for one last attempt to clear the margins. Second, mastectomy. I've decided on the former without precluding the latter. I am still in the process of working with a genetic therapist and am scheduled to have two full-body scans next week. If the risks of recurrence are unacceptable to me, after those tests are concluded, I can deal with that surgically after chemo is concluded.

So much for my hospital-free week. Back to St. Vincent's on Wednesday morning.

To add injury to insult, I have also developed a very painful nerve issue in my left arm, probably due to swelling that is pinching a major nerve that runs from my chest to my fingertips. Most arm movement makes me feel like someone is pouring hot lead down the inside of my arm. Nothing I can much do about it right now other than stay still, keep up with the vicodin, ice my inner and under arm as much as possible and wait and see.

Being a statistical anomaly is doing nothing for my mental well being. That 90% long-term survival rate is not as soothing is it used to be. I can trust good news about as much as the body that has turned against me. Which is to say, not at all.

I've hit a mental breaking point, one which led me to think one of the thoughts I had forbidden myself to think for the last 4 weeks:

THIS IS SO FUCKING UNFAIR.

I am a fucking state champion bicycle racer. I eat vegetables, pay my bills on time, floss my teeth and use my turn signal. What is it about this universe that decided that I needed to be the one that has to be scarred, needs help bathing and getting dressed and can't even get out of bed without pain?

Something tells me that when I die, someone will tell me its because I voted for Ralph Nader in 2000.

Here is How You Can Help

2010-03-16T09:30:00.000-07:00

I've gotten a lot of inquires from friends and family about how they can help me in the next few months. After a frustrating and exhausting trip to the grocery store this morning I am going to wave the white flag and admit that I'm not really helping myself by conducting everyday activities like I used to.

Having swallowed my pride, I have compiled the following list. I present, in no particular order, "Things You Can Do to Help."

1. So ignore what I said about this list having no particular order. This first request is the most important. Stop what you're doing right now and go perform a breast self-exam (or if you're a dude, go buy a bottle of red wine and perform one on your partner...its a win-win situation). If you're not sure how to do a self-exam, go here.

2. Don't be afraid of bothering me. Contacting lets me know that you care, and that helps more than you realize. If I don't feel like talking on the phone, I won't answer it. If I'm too tired to respond to emails, give me a few days to perk up and I'll get back to you.

3. If you know my family, my roommate and best friend Christy or my boyfriend Ricardo, check in on them and see what they need. Not for my well being, but for theirs Dealing with me on a daily basis will not be easy, because it wasn't an easy task when I was healthy. It may be as simple as a bag of coffee beans or as gracious as giving them a night off from babysitting the sullen cancer patient that insists on watching Top Model re-runs and won't give up the remote control.

4. Food. If you know me, you know I'm not the most proficient person in the kitchen. And I am very aware of how important what I put into my body will be to my ability to recover from treatment and get back into a regular (albeit radically modified) exercise program. If you have something yummy and healthy that you would like to share, let Christy know. She has volunteered to coordinate food related help, as she directly benefits from the goodies that end up in our fridge.

5. Magazines, movies and music. I am spending a lot of time waiting in medical offices waiting around and vegetating on my couch trying not to wreck narcotic-induced havoc on my living environment. I have a short reading attention span when doped up and have watched every DVD in my collection (and am plowing through both Christy and I's Netflix accounts at a rapid rate). And daytime TV sucks. There is only so much Law & Order even I am capable of watching.

6. This is one I'm having a hard time asking for. I have great insurance, but it doesn't cover alternative treatments. To keep it short: I'm willing to barter future legal services in exchange for some discounted massage work (or european cycling magazines...an essential.component of my treatment plan).

7. Ask me what I need, and make me answer it truthfully. I'm a horrible liar, it'll be easy to tell.

Hugs and Kisses to all of you and thanks for everything that you've already given me.

Monday Update

2010-03-15T15:46:00.000-07:00

Cancer tries real hard to be an optimism killer. Unbelievably hard.

Since I haven't blogged for almost two weeks, here is the medical/clinical/nuts and bolts update. I had a left side lumpectomy on Wednesday. It was a really long day, twelve hours, that was further prolonged by some post-op complications that were probably due to dehydration and the fact that I was coming cold turkey off of a four-cup-a-day coffee habit.

Check-in at St. Vincent's was at 6AM, but I was informed upon arrival that I wasn't scheduled for surgery until noon. I spent the morning in a XXL lavender surgery mu-mu (apparently these things are sized for the lowest common denominator patient, who happens to be at least 100 pounds heavier than I am) being shuffled around the hospital to have various needles poked into some of the more sensitive parts of my body. Like my nipple. Twice. Without a numbing agent. Then it took five tries to get my IV in.

Fuck that needle shit. And that is all I have to say about that.

I watched the same episode of Sports Center three times, took naps snuggled up to Ricardo (the great thing about having a tiny boyfriend is that he fits into the hospital bed with you) and asked everyone that came in if I could have a cappuccino. I'm sure that schtick got old after a bit, but I can't say that I cared. It amused me, and amusements were hard to come by that morning.

Then it was noon. Then it was dark.

I woke up with a migraine headache like nothing I had ever experienced. Adding insult to injury was waking up in the recovery room one curtain over from an old woman who was clearing her throat and hawking up snot at full volume every forty-five seconds.

Thursday and Friday were a Vicodin induced blur-a-thon. I kept time in small increments. Ten minute naps. Thirty minutes per ice pack. Top Model episodes last an hour. Two hours until the next pain pill. Six hours between antibiotic doses. Clean drainage tube three times daily.

I can almost handle the pain and the waiting. Its the setbacks and speed bumps that are killing me right now.

Friday afternoon the surgeon called and informed me the lymph nodes were negative, but that one of the margins on the chest-wall side of the tumor are not completely clear of DCIS. So back into surgery on Wednesday.

This morning I met with my first oncologist. He was the first doctor that I'd met with post-op and he had the distinct pleasure of informing me that I did, upon closer examination, have one positive lymph node. Microscopically positive (.4 of a millimeter), but positive nonetheless. And the tumor was larger than the imaging had originally indicated.

I've been upgraded to Stage IIB. Not exactly the upgrade I was looking forward to this spring.

Then we talked about treatment. There were lots of big words and numbers, but it boils down to this. My odds of avoiding a recurrence of the cancer in any part of my body increase dramatically if my treatment plan includes 4-6 months of chemotherapy.

He says this, and, of course, I start crying. I hate being nauseous. I don't want to lose my hair. And the math is simple. Four to six months is really pushing up against the light I had set at the end of this tunnel: Cycle Oregon.

When the oncologist is done, the care consultant comes in and this is the first thing that comes out of her mouth:

Congratulations, you're a survivor.

And, of course, I start crying again.

-----

But just it has been the little things that have got me down, there are big things to be positive about. First, the surgeon did a great job. My boob looks pretty much normal. I'd say 85% normal, moving up to 90% once the swelling goes down and the incision heals.

I also got my drainage tube removed this afternoon, a day early. That goddamn thing was the biggest thorn in my side (pun intended) over the weekend. It hurt like hell, changed the way I had to sleep, sit, and walk and left me with a full-on stinky hippie hairy ass armpit. (The tube came out of the incision where the nodes were removed in my armpit and I was under strict instructions to keep the area dry and not to raise my arm above elbow level.)

It's too bad the stupid tube has to go back in on Wednesday. Wednesday's surgery will have three components: (1) Removing additional lymph nodes to make sure that the invasion was limited that single node, (2) Taking out additional tissue around the surgery site in my boob to get completely clear margins and (3) Installing a catheter in my chest in anticipation of chemotherapy. The third component isn't necessary at this time, but after my experience last week, I want to limit my run-ins with anesthesia to the extent possible.

So that's it. The nuts and bolts. There are so many other things swirling around in my head, but those will have to wait for tomorrow. I have a pedicure in fifteen minutes and a date tonight with a hot bath and a long overdue armpit shave. Ahhhhhh.......

Peaks and Valleys.

2010-03-04T16:09:00.000-08:00

Be OK with what you feel and feel it.

Pretty much the best advice I've received this week.

The last 24 hours have pretty much sucked. I knew a big funk was coming, but the knowledge that something is coming doesn't necessarily mean that surviving it is any easier.

I decided to go to intervals last night and work out with the team. It was probably good for my body to get some intense exercise, but mentally the session was a disaster. It was impossible to get my heart rate up when there is an evil little voice in my head saying "Why are you here? None of this matters anyways." Too much doubt, too little focus. After we were done, I left quickly, wishing I had just stayed home.

Sleep has not yet become a problem. If anything, I'm sleeping too much. I came home last night and went straight to bed at 8PM, sleeping straight through until my alarm went off at 5AM. Hauled Christy and I to core class. Went through the motions. Tried to sweat my way into a better frame of mind.

It didn't work. I put on a good face for breakfast with a friend, then scowled and sulked my way through a quick ultrasound appointment. (The appointment was to confirm that a spot in my right breast that was discovered during the Sunday MRI was normal. It is.) After that appointment, I had two and a half hours to kill before acupuncture. I could have done anything with those two hours: the zoo, shop, read, write. Instead, I went home, closed the drapes and curled up in bed. Watched bad TV with a complete absence of motivation and optimism.

I am scared. Not of dying. I am scared that living as a survivor will take away the things that gave me joy in the times BC (before cancer). Like being fast and strong on a bike. Like a life mostly free of real worry. Like the confidence in my body and beauty that I have finally found now that I am in my 30s.

This fear is a huge weight on my shoulders and I know it is not doing my beleaguered body any good. Acupuncture this afternoon helped immensely. Not just the treatment itself, but Sarah's wise words.

Be OK with what you feel and feel it.

Somehow I'm confident that being OK with the fear and sadness will make it pass that much faster.

I See a Pink Door and I Want it Painted Black.

2010-03-01T11:03:00.000-08:00

If February 23, 2010 was Day 1 of my Life with Cancer, today is Day 6.

And I am already sick of the color pink.

Don't get me wrong. As a general rule, I like the color. I went through a phase a few years ago that involved most of my bikes sporting some sort of pink accessory. My Specialized mountain bike frame was selected primarily because of the pink paint detailing.

And I do appreciate how breast cancer advocates have used simple power of color to raise an unprecedented amount of awareness about the disease. If you are a womens' basketball fan, you would have noticed that many of the major Division 1 programs wore a custom pink uniform during televised games during the month of February. I watched a Tennessee game last week that was almost too much to watch in HD because it was being played in a sea of pink.

Part of this pink overload is my own fault. I spent most of Friday, Sunday and today online. Getting referrals, making appointments, researching. Trying to become an educated patient. There are some great resources out there. Unfortunately, some of the best websites are heavy on the pink. Pepto pink, carnation pink, hot pink, baby pink.

Pink just doesn't jive with how I feel about cancer right now. It feels too passive, too kind. If I had to pick a color that signifies how I feel about cancer right now, it would be a dark, steely gray. Like the color of thunderstorm clouds right before it begins to rain.

Not surprisingly, this is the color I feel right before the start of a big bike race. When I am nervy and twitchy and focused. Maybe a bit hostile.

Driving around the city over the weekend, I've been listening to a lot of the music that is on my cyclocross warm-up playlist: Robyn's "Konichiwa Bitches" and "Cobrastyle," Jean Grae's "Hater's Anthem," Quasi's cover of "Paint it Black." I don't want to be soothed right now. I want angry confidence.

-----

I only cried twice this weekend. The second was on the way home from the hospital yesterday after an early morning MRI. Can't say much interesting about the MRI other than that it was loud, cold and boring.

The techs' attempts to make me more comfortable with a bit of music were thwarted when I realized ten minutes in that they were feeding me two entirely different radio stations simultaneously. I kid you not, I was listening to Sir Mix-a-Lot and Red Hot Chili Peppers at the same time. The MRI machine was so loud that I first thought that it was some sort of crazy mash-up. Once I realized what was happening, trying to sort out what I was listening to became the brain puzzle that I used to distract myself from the fact that I needed to be still for twenty, thirty more minutes. I don't sit still very well.

Being in the hospital as a cancer patient still feels sort of surreal, and the transition back to the outside world (in the form of car rides to the safe harbors of my condo or Ricardo's house) has always involved a huge wash of emotions: relief, anger, sadness, panic. I cry a bit, then things come back into focus. Ricardo gives me as much space as is possible in a moving car. Squeezes my hand, turns up the music so we can listen to something other than my sniffles.

The first crying jag was Saturday night while I was getting ready to go to the ballet and packing for spending the night in Vancouver. Top of my "to-do" list was taking out my body jewelry in anticipation of the MRI. I've done this a dozen times before. Thirty seconds with a mirror and a set of pliers and the physical work is done.

This time when I finish, I'm just standing there in the mirror, looking at my naked self and realize that, in all probability, the nipple ring is never going back in. That there might not even be a nipple there in a month. And if the nipple is there, it will be surrounded by scars and is likely to be pointed in an awkwardly southeastern direction.

My body is never going to look the same.

Tears everywhere.

The onslaught lasted about five minutes, then I washed my face and put on the red dress that Ricardo bought for me in Santa Barbara. It it is beautiful and I look beautiful in it.

-----

Here is where I am, treatment-wise, as of Monday morning. Waiting for MRI results, which should be back this afternoon or tomorrow morning. I have an appointment next Monday to have a second set of surgeon's eyes examine the images and lab results. Tomorrow I am going back out to St. Vincent's to take advantage of the resources at their Breast Clinic. I have spoken to a nurse and a social worker at the Clinic and, after I expressed a bit of frustration that the resources that I had been given didn't address what it was like to have breast cancer at 32 years of age, they are going to hook me up with some resources (both informational and people) that are more age-appropriate. And, finally, I had a long talk with my acupuncturist and we have a long appointment set up for Thursday to discuss my treatment plan.

Emotionally, I think I'm doing pretty well. I have cycles every 6-8 hours where I get into a melancholic pity-party, but (so far) I have been able to snap out of those fairly quickly. Being able to get out and ride my bike certainly helps, as does all of the well wishes that continue to stream in.

Its already apparent that this process will be a serious character-building experience. Patience is not one of my stronger character traits, but I am being forced to accept the fact it is an essential piece of developing a solid treatment plan. Sort of like recovery is an essential piece of a training plan (and look how well I do with that one.)

Cancer.

2010-02-26T08:18:00.000-08:00

I've sat here for about twenty minutes trying to think of an elegant and eloquent opening to this post. Failing miserably. So I'm going to just jump right into the meat of the matter.

I have cancer.

Stage 1 Invasive Ductal Breast Cancer, to be exact.

We found the lump about six weeks ago. I say 'we' because it wasn't actually me that found it. It was the Mexican. Which makes sense, because he spends way more time feeling me up than I spend feeling myself up. It's better that way.

At the time, I didn't think a whole lot of it. I am 32 and have very little history of breast cancer in my family. I also have a nipple ring in that breast, so my first thought was that I may have developed an abscess or cyst associated with that. So we went back to making out and I really didn't think too hard about it again until Sunday.

Sunday was the Jack Frost TT. I had just posted a killer time, despite having raced at Sublime (ly Difficult) Sublimity Road Race on Saturday. Pleased as punch with my weekend of racing, especially considering that I had been taking on a much lighter training schedule this winter. I was putting my TT bike back on the car when the front end swung around and the aerobars hit me square in the left boob.

The pain was so sharp and fierce that it almost dropped me to my knees. A big fat reminder that whatever was growing in me had not gone away, but in fact had gotten a bit bigger and a lot more painful.

On Monday I made an appointment with my general practitioner. (On a side note, if you are in need of a new GP, I switched over to this doctor last summer and LOVE HER. I repeat, LOVE her.) She was concerned enough that she had her office get me scheduled into the Providence Breast Clinic for the next morning.

The Breast Clinic was disconcertingly surreal. The internal waiting area has soothing lights and new age music and tea and home and garden magazines. I sat there in my robe surrounded by 40 and 50 year old women, drinking a double cappucino, listening to Sleater Kinney on my iPod and reading European cycling magazines. Attempting to look bored and unconcerned. Anything that I could do to signal to the world around me "I don't belong here."

There was a deaf woman strapped to an oxygen tank. She freaked me out. It wasn't the oxygen tank or her skeletal appearance or the loud, atonal sound of her voice as she communicated with the woman who is interpreting for her. It was that she directed a crazy stare toward me for the entire time that I was sitting there. Like she knew something that I didn't.

I get through two hour's worth of mammograms and ultrasounds and then sit down with a breast care nurse and a doctor. This is where things started to feel sort of "off." The doctor doesn't exactly look me in the eye and says things like "not a cyst" and "abnormal" and "biopsy," then wishes me luck and leaves the room. The nurse explains the biopsy process to me and, with surprisingly very little wheeling and dealing on my part, convinces the clinic to conduct the biopsy that afternoon.

I am at the clinic for a few more hours for the biopsy and another mammogram, but thankfully do not see the deaf woman again. She scared me to the core.

When I left the clinic, I was told that it would take until at least Thursday afternoon to receive the results. So when I received a call from the GP's office on Wednesday afternoon, I knew in my gut that the news was not going to be good.

Even so, it was still a sucker punch in gut when the doctor said, "I'm sorry, but you have cancer." She talked to me for about five minutes before getting Ricardo from the waiting room, but I don't remember anything that she said.

All I could hear in my head was: I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer.

And then: This is bullshit. I have an Oregon Cup bike race on Sunday. I can't have cancer.

And then I cried. A lot. In Ricardo's arms in the doctor's office, in the car ride home, as I wrote the email informing my team and my friends, in bed as I tossed and turned for most of the night.

I woke up yesterday with a well-deserved hangover, but haven't cried since then. There has just been to much to do and to think about.

I met with the surgeon yesterday morning and she was able to firm down the diagnosis (stage 1/invasive ductal cancer) and lay out my treatment options. The growth is about the size and shape of a round almond and very close to the nipple and the surface of my skin. I have decided to wait for the rest of the lab results and for the results of an MRI on Sunday morning before making any big decisions.

My first big choice will be whether to keep the breast. Much of that will depend on whether the lab results show that the growth is one that is estrogen sensitive and whether the MRI shows that the cancer has creeped toward the other ducts in my breast or toward the lymph nodes. Both of which are real possibilities given the location and size of the growth.

I never had much of an opinion one way or another about my boobs until now. When I was a teenager I hated that they were small, but then loved that they were small once I started endurance racing. The only trouble they have ever given me is the pain I inflicted upon them when I had my nipples pierced twelve years ago.

But now, the idea of losing my left one breaks my heart.

There are sprinklings of blessings and good news. First, Stage 1 is good. Well, its as good as stupid fucking cancer is ever allowed to be. I did some research and women my age with stage 1 breast cancer have a 90% long term survival rate. My guess is that most of that 90% aren't as cantankerous and downright hostile to inconveniences as I am. So I feel like I'm in pretty good shape.

Second, I can continue to ride my bike and train until surgery, which will probably be in about a week and a half. I would actually be racing at BB on Sunday if it weren't for the fact that my MRI is scheduled for the exact same time as the start of the Cat 1/2/3 race. And that was probably my last chance to race for a few months. So I guess I will have to concede the Oregon Cup battle to someone else this year. Consider yourselves lucky, ladies (wink wink).

Third, I have received so much support from my friends and family that it is positively (pun intended) overwhelming. I'm actually taking this morning just to be alone and not only absorb the diagnosis in peace, but to take the time to process all of the words of support, advice and referrals.

I have promised many people that I will keep them posted on the process and my progress, and I will do most of it on this blog. But feel free to contact me privately on email, Facebook or IM. I am not much of a phone talker, but calls are also welcome, just know that I am typically slow to respond to my voice mail.

Thank you all for your love, support and prayers. If you get a chance, please direct a bit of that good feeling to my family, Ricardo, my FT and my Hammer Velo teammates. They will also need your love and support in the next few months.

I am not taking this interruption to my racing plans lightly. Cancer picked the wrong racer to fuck with.

-LK

And So It Begins.

2010-02-13T17:55:00.000-08:00

"Are you ready to race?"

The Mexican asks me as we sit at an outdoor cafe on the main street of Santa Barbara. It's Friday, sunny and I've had a few glasses of wine. The latter is making me a little slow on the uptake and I initially think that the question has to do with reaching the bottom of the glass in front of me.

"Like right now or in general?"

He gives me a look that suggests that I exercise some common sense.

I shrug.

"I suppose."

Motivation to race is hard to come by right now. I'm not sure if its the product of the mileage we did in California or my preoccupation with things other than bike racing. The road race season opener was three days ago. We were on a plane. I haven't even bothered to check the results page to see who won my race.

Because I simply don't care.

Not caring, ironically, has become a source of anxiety. It feels like burn-out and I haven't even lined up to race yet.

We did some great rides in Santa Barbara. Lots of up, up, up and many spectacular vistas. We visited the gate of Neverland Ranch, cruised past wineries featured in the movie Sideways and spent time at the summit of Gibraltar Road, which, at the time, felt like the top of the world.

As predicted, I had good legs for two rides. Sunday's 70-mile Lake Casitas Loop and the 93-mile epic slogfest up Gibraltar to Solvang and back up Hwy 101. But the climbing legs were on vacation by the time we did the Neverland Ranch Ride on Wednesday and I skipped the second Gibralter ascent on Thursday due to a splitting headache and quads so sore that they were tender to the touch.

Instead, R and I stayed in the foothills, stopping for coffee in Carpenteria and for a photo op at the Santa Barbara Pier.

This was our vacation ride. The ride where I finally started to relax and enjoy the week away from Portland. No worrying about nutrition, start times, flat tires, route maps or keeping the group together. Just me, my man and two wheels. It was a little bit of heaven. Too bad it was our last day on the bike.

Calling training camps "vacations" is a misnomer. To me, vacations mean relaxation. Peace. Quiet. A chance to slow down and be still. To eat slow and ride slower (if riding at all). Vacations do not involve the constant juggling of personalities, jockeying for hot showers and predicting of food preferences. Vacation is not exhausting. And I am exhausted.

So I sit here at my desk feeling like I need a vacation from my "vacation." But instead I print off OBRA waivers and send out carpooling emails. Sublimity is on Saturday and I need to find out whether my current ambivalence is more serious than a sort of cyclist's Seasonal Affective Disorder.

Launch

2010-02-02T15:46:00.000-08:00

Hey all-

I'm trying my hand at writing something interesting about something other than biking...check out my new venture at:

http://bto4.blogspot.com/

2010

2010-01-28T11:57:00.000-08:00

I haven't blogged in awhile, mostly because I'm spending that time wrapped up in other people's blogs. Reading 2009 recaps, lists of 2010 goals, dieting tips, training revelations.

[The sound of my head finally popping at about 10AM yesterday.]

Enough already.

Personally, I don't have much to say about 2009 than that which has already been said. But it can be summarized like this:

2009. Raced fast. Burned out hard.

It was a good year, no doubt about that. I won OBRA's Category 4 Women's Best All-Around Rider Award. Which is pretty cool, considering that I only raced as a Cat 4 until April and none of my Cyclocross results counted toward that point total. I received a beautiful glass plaque and considered the occasion momentous enough that I wore a dress and nylons to the awards banquet.

I read a few good cycling books during my post-Nationals time off and all of them had one piece of advice in common: Set goals.

At first, I really struggled with the goal setting process because I was primarily focused on cycling. And focusing primarily on cycling was exceptionally boring. And unsatisfying.

So I came up with a theme for 2010: Balance. I need to bring balance to my life. (Duh, you say.)

Last year I pretty much had racing on the brain 24/7. That intensive focus was good for me at the time because it allowed me to re-direct a lot of the anger and anxiety from my personal life toward the training and racing.

This year there are other items that need some serious TLC. First and foremost, my work life. And, on the other side of the same coin, my soul. The two really aren't aligning at all. I am STUCK.

And then there is this new relationship. I am dating this wonderful man that deserves a content and dynamic partner, not one being held back by insecurities and indecision.

My goals list would be incomplete if it didn't touch on all of these areas.

Without further ado, "Goals."

1. Develop, and stick to, a training plan that in corporates a lot of recovery. If I swung too far on the over-training side last year, I'm going to swing in the other direction this year. Race less, take weekends off to travel and sleep. See what happens. I figure that it'll be a few seasons before I develop a yearly routine that works for me.

2. Stretch as much as possible.

3. More water, less coffee. (So far, EPIC FAIL).

4. More reading and writing, less TV.

5. Improve food competency. And accept that this doesn't mean becoming a gourmet. To that end, R and I are taking a cooking class next month and he's agreed to let me do some garden experimentation in his back yard (where it won't be visible to the neighbors).

6. Write two blog entries per week. One here and one on a new site that will discuss the other things that I am passionate about, but never make their way to race reports.

7. Produce webisode with FT. We've already drafted two scripts , and she has the connections to get them produced. Even if no one else thinks we are hilarious, at least we do.

8. Network.

9. Find a writing mentor.

10. Take chances. Being risk adverse is paralyzing me, both professionally and creatively. Its eating away at my self-image and its got to stop.

11. Redefine what it means, for me, to be a lawyer.

So that's about it. I can't decide whether its too much or not enough. Too specific or too vague.

[Head popping again.]

Or maybe I should just quit waste time judging the list and get on with doing it.

Over and Out.

Build It!

2010-01-22T11:26:00.000-08:00

The Portland Bicycle Plan for 2030 outlines the future of cycling in Portland for the next 20 years. And it is up for a vote before the Portland City Council on February 4th. If adopted, funded and built, it will:

* Attract new riders
* Strengthen policies
* Build a denser bikeway network
* Increase bicycle parking
* Expand programs to support bicycling
* Increase funding for bicycle facilities

But it is just a document unless the City Council approves the plan, funds the plan, and ultimately builds the Portland Bike Network.

The Portland Bicycle Plan is the single best opportunity to improve the conditions for cycling in Portland, and the Bicycle Transportation Alliance needs help to get the plan approved.

Show your support for the Portland Bicycle Plan and help us BUILD IT.

Nationals Race Report (or "Why Skinsuit Photos are the Best Motivation to Start Winter Training")

2010-01-06T15:15:00.001-08:00

Yawn. This is what I get for waiting to write my Nationals race report a month after the fact. Just thinking about cyclocross is making me tired. Or maybe its the fact that the onset of road training means frog-hopping and lunging to China at 5:45 AM, twice a week. Either way, I'm exhausted.

Nationals. What can I say....Bend sure knows how to throw a bike race/party. I felt like my weekend was two parts ice, four parts skinsuit and ten parts beer.

I had a serious sit-down with myself on the drive to Bend about goals and expectations for the race. Up to that point the goal was "don't be last" and the expectation was "get ass kicked." Health issues had waylayed some of my November training. General burnout took care of the rest. In short, I wasn't fit and definitely was not motivated.

The Mexican rightly pointed out that this wasn't exactly best attitude when approaching "the most prestigious event on the cyclocross calendar." I agreed, looked at the preliminary start list for my race, and, accordingly, changed my goals to "race strong through to the finish" and "finish in the top half" and expectations to "freeze ass off in skinsuit" and "start drinking immediately after the race."

The Course.

My evaluation of the course is this: it would have been fun without the ice. Not to say it would have been a good course for me, but it would have been fun. Because I am a bit of a beast, I like courses with longer climbs and straight sections where I can get up to speed. This course had very few of those and, because of the course conditions, involved a lot of slowing down to corner safely, then trying to power back up as quickly as possible. I'm not bad at this (when in shape), but as I had done more beer drinking than training in the previous three weeks...well, it was tough.

There was also a lot of ice. I suffered two spectacular crashes during my pre-ride Once on my own on a grassy, iced-over off-camber section and once after getting tangled up with some hotshot that thought it would be a good idea to race a hot lap while there were at least 150 other riders on the course. By the time I had finished two test laps, I had dented my brand new helmet, torn a hole in my knee warmers and was so crabby that the only thing that motivated me to get on the trainer was the $120 dollars I had paid to put myself through this.

The Warm-Up.

My warm-up literally involved trying to warm up. It was about 33 degrees in the sun and there was no escape from the wind. I sat on my trainer for 20-30 minutes, wearing four layers and visualizing palm trees. After 15 minutes, I actually began to sweat and made one good faith effort to get my heart rate above 150. Then I sat in the car with Anna and drank a warm can of Coke.

The Gear.

This is the one thing I got totally right at Nationals. I was really comfortable during the race.

1 Fleece-lined cyclocross skinsuit. Functional, yet not designed to be flattering in a size Large.
1 Descente sleeveless baselayer. Purchased at a discount store in Seattle for $5.99. I think the the tag was supposed to read $25.99, but my job is not to make sure your inventory is priced correctly.
2 pairs latex gloves. One pair under socks and one pair under gloves. This was the smartest addition to my wardrobe. My skin was clammy and disgusting underneath the latex after the race, but I had no problems with my feet or hands getting cold.
1 pair castelli windproof gloves. I had never raced in these, but was glad that I had packed them after I realized that the Gore winter gloves I wanted to use were both for the left hand. I promptly texted Mindy to tell her I had solved her Gore right glove problem from last April.
1 pair Smartwool socks.
Hincapie fleece-lined knee warmers.
1 fleece headband.
1 dented helmet.
The Franco Pellozoti Glasses.
Specialized Tri-Cross with 34" tires borrowed from a teammate.

(Photo Credit: Dad.)

Pimp.

The Race.

Pre-race and the first 30 seconds of the race were a series of debacles that, in the end, had no effect on the outcome of the race. First, I realized as we were staging that my back tire was flat. Big thanks to Benno for loaning me the back wheel of his pit bike (because it was tubular and awesome, I borrowed it for the entire race) and perfecting the shifting before letting me ride off.

Second, because USA Cycling required me to race as a Cat 4, I was lined up in the boondocks and was right behind a three-rider pile-up that occurred within ten feet of the start line. I was able to get around it and, because the course bottle-necked at 100 meters, I caught back on quickly.

(Photo Credit: Dave Roth)

And proceeded to have a great race, despite one major crash in the second lap and a fall in the fourth lap that put me out of contact with the group that finished 16th-20th. I worked hard for the entire five laps, including a sprint to the finish that, had I stood up just a second sooner, would have scored me one more place.

(Photo Credit: Dad. Starting the third lap of five.)

(Photo Credit: Dad)

The second lap mishap occurred on a slick corner coming out of the pit. I took a bad line, the bike slid out from underneath me and the right brake hood smacked me right in the mouth. Sort of felt like the bike was back-handing me for expecting it to function properly in December. For the next two laps I kept checking for blood, but all I ended up with was a dirt smear above my lip that closely resembled Hitler's mustache.

(Photo Credit: Dad. Note Awesome Dirt Mustache and More Awesome "Shouldering" Technique.)

On the fourth lap I fell at the base of the stair-step run-up. There was a patch of ice on the left side. I knew this because I had already fallen there once. But I was in the process of trying to pass two riders that I had worked for ten minutes to catch and I wanted to try and get one of them on the stairs. She took the right, I went left. My right ankle turned and I ended up on my ass and facing the course backwards.

When I stood up, my right foot wasn't working because my ankle had popped out of joint. This isn't as painful as it sounds, as injuries sustained from high school basketball has left me with few ligaments to damage. The sprain hurt, but I was able to knock the joint back into place by whacking my foot on the bottom stair.

(Photo Credit: Dad. Wincing in pain a bit after the ankle incident.)

I was up and running again, but lost contact with the two riders that I had worked so hard to catch.

(Photo Credit: Dad. Trying to make up some ground in the last lap.)

Then there was another lap, some sprinting, then the 2009 racing season was OVER.

Jeff had a flask of Bailey's and whiskey waiting for me.

Mission accomplished.

(Photo Credit: Dad)

I finished 22nd out of 44 or 45 riders. I'm really happy to have met my goal, but more excited that I was comfortably in the top 20 for most of the race. Crashing happens (to some of us more than others), but knowing that a top 20 finish is a legitimate goal for next year will be motivating when September 2010 rolls around.

Finally, Caught Up: Barton and USGP

2009-12-08T08:56:00.000-08:00

In order to meet my goal of catching up on race reports before Nationals, I bring you my run-downs of the Cross Crusade Finale at Barton Park and USGP Day #2.

Barton: My first A race. There were two major things to fret about (because I always have to fret about something). First, sixty minutes of cross racing. Second, not crashing in front of, or otherwise interfering with, any of the A men.

This is the closest I'd be to the rest of the field for the entire race. See those ladies in the front? They win National Championships. See me? There I am, in the back:

My position would not improve over the course of the race.

I ride fast first laps. For better or worse, its sort of my thing. I rode the hardest first lap of my season and was still spit off the back, as in waaaaaay off the back, within a half of a lap. Those ladies are on such a different level that it may as well be another galaxy.

Barton is a course that you either love or loathe. Personally, even though I sustained a concussion and dislocated thumb here three years ago, I am fond of this course. Two years ago, Barton was the first B race where I didn't get pulled a lap early and it was my best race last season.

The course, in my mind, was divided into three parts. The gravel pits (80% of the course), the paved parking lot (18%) and the crazy whoop-dee lunatic mud single track and run-up that connect the two.

There were a couple of tricky sections. The aforementioned single track and a slick, off-camber downhill that had racked up a huge body count during the earlier races. I had spooked badly, three times, on this section of the course in the morning and hadn't ridden it. But this was the A race...I'd have to at least try and ride it during the race. Or risk being ejected to the beginner men. Even though they had changed the course after the pre-rides to make it less dangerous, I was not looking forward to the prospect of tumbling tits-over-ass in front of at least five dozen onlookers.

Turns out, I rode it cleanly six times (we'll get back to the "six" thing in a minute). In fact, I rode the whole race cleanly. Not gracefully, or quickly, but cleanly.

What eventually killed me were the run-ups. I was right with Margi for most of the first three laps, until the effort of trying to keep up with her on the run-ups finally wore me down. Margi is tiny and someone who has placed top five in the Portland Marathon or something equally impressive. In a run-up battle between mountain goats and monster trucks, the mountain goats will always win.

When we hit the places where I would normally be stronger (the straightaways and pavement) I was out of gas from the running. So, as much as I hated to do so, I let her go and concentrated on keeping a steady pace for the next 35 minutes.

If I haven't gotten this point across already, sixty minutes of cyclocross is a lot of goddamned cyclocross. The second time up the finish line run-up, the lap card read six laps to go.

My first thought: You have to be fucking kidding me.

My second thought: I just may throw my bike at someone.

Granted, six laps for the A men probably meant only four more for me, but still, we're talking about a race where I would usually only race four laps to begin with.

The last two laps were equally hard and hilarious. Hard in that I had little gumption left, but had to keep racing. Hilarious in that I was constantly berating my legs to keeping working. And they were constantly laughing in my face.

(Probably the only time I stood for the last half of the race.)

(Unable to hide how I really feel about racing an extra 20 minutes.)

In the end, I wasn't last and it felt good to ride a technically sound race. I didn't get lapped by my own field and didn't crash in front of anyone. And, for the little things that make me happy, I picked the right tire pressure and wore the right glasses:

(Green Rudy Project glasses: Esthetically atrocious, but perfect for the overcast conditions).

Barton was followed by two race-less weekends. It was glorious. I slept in, ingested a lot of junk calories, rode as much (or as little) as I wanted and helped R paint the interior of his new house.

USGP: Having recently become of bit of a cheapskate, I had decided in October to only race one of the USGP races and skip the Elite race in favor of the Singlespeed race. Not too much to say about this one other than (1) It was cold (2) I was severely under-geared and (3) some of the out of town B racers were total assholes.

(1) It was cold. Like 32 degrees with a wind chill of 32 degrees minus a bunch of other degrees. Because my body overheats so easily, this was the first time I had raced in my cross skinsuit, which is fleece lined and had previously only been used to commute in the rain when I hadn't done laundry for a few days.

For gear, I went with a wool sleeveless baselayer, thick wool socks, fleece lined knee warmers, windstopper gloves over embrocated hands and the skinsuit. Used a cotton cap, but kept my ears uncovered and used a heavy layer of Born #2 emobrocation on my legs, back and shoulders. This combination worked, pretty well but I should have also embrocated my feet right before the race. My toes were hovering on the border of "extremely uncomfortable" and "painful" by the end of the race. Going to have to adjust the strategy for the arctic conditions in Bend.

(2) I did a horrible job of picking the right gear on the Specialized. Mostly because I was lazy and cold. I think I just settled on 46 x 19 or 46 x 21. Whatever it was, it sucked. I was spinning at about 150 RPM on the pavement and packed dirt. And this course had a lot of pavement and packed dirt.

(3) Don't be an asshole. We're all out there to have fun...yelling at people to get out of your way is lame. I doubt that you will miss out on your opportunity for pro sponsorship following this extremely prestigious B race if you display a little courtesy.

There were at least five women in the race. Lindsay Jones was long gone after the pavement, the Signal rider crashed, but caught me again at some point and finished right in front of me. I spent the entire race chasing Anna and a Cucina Fresca rider. I'd catch them in the technical sections and they would ride away from me on the pavement. Lucky for me, the technical section was the second half of the course. My grandma touring gearing allowed me to climb the hills that they were forced to run and I was able to spin fast enough on the pavement to hold a small lead at the end.

Photos here, here and here from Cascade Event Photography.

Awesome Skinsuit Shot Courtesy of Oregon Velo:

There were seven HV riders in the SS race...I don't think we had an entry in any other race. Here is a good shot of some of the boys:

And Chris remounting in style:

And Bryan doing what he does best:

Although I could have easily been convinced to skip this race and stay in bed for an extra hour, I'm glad I did it. It was fun to line up with the menfolk. My legs needed the wake-up call before Nationals and my body needed to experience the shock of racing in freezing conditions. I fell twice, but am calling the race a clean race as both spills were caused to avoid a crash in front of me, not by a handling error.

It's been a lazy week. Unseasonably cold temperatures have driven most of us inside to get those last few workouts in before "the big race."

I have two goals: (1) Enjoy the experience and (2) Don't finish last. We will see how that plan works out.

See you in Bend. BRRRRRRRRR!

Tardy Race Reports: Part II. State Champtionships and PIR

2009-12-08T08:49:00.000-08:00

After packing up and heading back inland after Halloween weekend, I was sick, tired, emotionally overwhelmed and physically under-motivated. Decided to take a drastic measure....a real week off. Didn't work out for five days. No commuting, no training. Lots of sleeping and movie watching, followed by more sleeping.

The worst of it all had passed by Friday, and when El Luchador decided that he wanted to do the State Championship race in Salem, I decided to drag my mom down I-5 south to the Oregon State Fairgrounds and give it a whirl.

State Championships:

First and foremost, this was my favorite course of the year. So a huge thank you to the bicycleattorney.com folks for setting it up. Course was flat, fast and had at least 6 different surfaces to ride or run through: pavement, mud, sand, gravel, loose dirt and a motocross course. No run-ups and lots of room to stand and sprint. A vicious headwind. My kind of course.

R raced early, in the C race, stayed upright and picked a good day to win his first cross race. It was a tight race from start to finish and I got a good warm-up in while frenetically riding back and forth through the course and hollering bloody murder while he raced.

As ecstatic as I was for him, I couldn't be upstaged by my boyfriend in front of my mother.

A monsoon welcomed our start. This kind of weather beats some people down, but I love it. It might be because I get warm and stay warm pretty easily. But it also might be because Mother Nature is just another ass to try and kick.

The fields were small, so they called each field out of the barn individually, lined us up and blew the whistle before we could get too cold.

The start of our race is about thirty seconds into this video. One hundred meters of pavement, a sweeping left turn and another 100 meters of pavement, then into the dirt and mud for the first half of the course. I got a great start and by the time we hit the mud, had a fifteen/twenty meter lead on the field.

This half of the course was a series of straightaways into and out of the headwind, with several surface changes. I buried my head and stood up out of all of the corners, knowing that any gap would have to be created before we headed into the second half of the course, which weaved in and out of the show barns and covered motocross course.

I had a sizeable lead after the first lap, which grew during the second and third laps. I felt great and willed myself not to look back, but to just keep pushing forward. At the end of the third lap, I could sense that Margi and Steph had made up a little ground. On the last time down the starting straightaway I stood up and sprinted as if I was finishing a crit, figuring if they couldn't see me when they rounded the corner onto the same straightaway, I would have the psychological advantage going through the last lap. As long as I stayed upright, that is.

Turns out that I didn't need the psychological advantage. Because I had Burns. For the only time this season, the masters riders started behind the B riders. Burns had worked her way through my field and caught me a third of the way through the last lap. As she was at least three minutes ahead of the next masters rider, she slowed up a bit so I could just hug her wheel for the rest of the race.

Which is what I did, all of the way to the finish line.

(Post Race Smiles for the Hammer Velo State Champions.)

Whether I had won this race or not, I was really happy with my ride. It was technically clean and mentally consistent. And my mom was there at the finish line. Even at 32 years of age, having parents there for big moments doesn't get old.

R prepared a huge celebratory meal for me and my family that night and the two of us capped it off by tossing back a bottle of bubbly that I had been holding onto for five years for a "special occasion." That Saturday was such an occasion, unexpected and joyful.

And Sunday, we both woke up with a bit of a headache. Obviously.

PIR:

Sunday began with extra strength Excedrin for both of us and, for me, a dilemma: Which race? With the third win on Saturday, I was well within automatic upgrade territory. I hadn't gotten the email from OBRA, but I also was well aware of the rules. And of the heckling that would occur from my friends if I lined up for the B race.

One option down. Two remaining: A race or Singlespeed? In reality, there was only one option left because I had no desire to race for an hour after racing, then consuming most of a bottle of champagne, the day before. It was settled. I would make my debut as an A (minus) at Barton.

Racing in the Singlespeed race was a wise decision on my part. It allowed me to race without any pressure and get in a phenomenal workout.

I had to do things differently at PIR because of the nature of the race. Usually, I get a fast first lap in, then settle in, regroup and try to maintain for the last 25 minutes.

However, because I was racing with men, started mid-pack and was pack fodder within two minutes, I had to ride a slow first lap and pick up speed as the race progressed. It was a good exercise in frustration management. I ended up in a pod of about ten guys, most of whom were faster than I, but I was more technically proficient through the barriers, in the mud and through the tricky off-camber sections . Lots of passing and getting caught, passing and getting caught.

(I'm not passing these guys. I'm getting lapped.)

PIR was a sonofabitch of a course as a Singlespeed. 80% the course was covered in varying consistencies of mud and there was no way to get the gearing just right. It also forced me to be a better technical rider, because I couldn't "cheat" my way through parts of the course by gearing down.

I rode the race mostly clean. I say "mostly" because there were several sections of the course where I knew that if I attempted to ride them, I would end up sliding out. So my strategy became to ride those sections as fast as I could and hope that I'd be closer to solid footing when I wiped out and had to hoof it. Stupid, yet fun and, I imagine, entertaining for the spectators.

(Getting lapped again. But still running!)

I worked harder in this race than I think I had all year in a B race. I suppose it was a combination of not having to race strategically and being under no pressure to place well. No one was paying attention to me, so my only job to ride my ass off.

I think I finished 110th out of 140. Ryan Trebon may or may not have lapped me twice. I honestly don't remember.

Only twice this year have I willed myself not to barf after a race: Barlow and PIR. If you can't tell from my face, I was spent.

But was also, again, very happy with cross racing. Which was the biggest victory of the weekend, as I was ready to hang up my shoes after Halloween weekend, content to spectate for the rest of the year.

Up Next: Barton (Or "Why I Missed the Finish of the Best Men's Race of the Year") and USGP Day #2 (Or "You Mean It's Going to be Twenty Degrees COLDER in Bend?!).

Tardy Race Reports: Part I.

2009-11-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

So I got a little behind on the race report writing. Correction: extremely behind. Six weeks and six races behind. That's a lifetime in cyclocross racing. Yowch.

Nationals is Friday. Six weeks ago, this was the big event. The pinnacle of the race season. The end-all, be-all of my racing existence.

Now, its simply the very expensive punctuation mark on what has been a racing season full of some expected frustrations, some unexpected setbacks and many moments of great joy. At this point I'm just happy to have gotten to this point with my sanity and bicycle intact.

I left off my race reports at Halloween Weekend in Astoria. So that is where I will begin again.

Saturday Race, Halloween Weekend: On a scale of 1 to ten, I'd give my performance in this one about a 6.5. I finished sixth, but gained two spots in the last lap only because of the mechanical mishaps of the riders in front of me. Still had a hard time with breathing and had to avoid pushing myself to the point of coughing spasms.

What made this race even remotely fun was that I caught up to Mindy in the second lap and we rode most of the race together. Which primarily involved me chasing her down, crashing in front of her and chasing again.

But it was good to have a friendly wheel to latch onto when the race got mentally tough.

The course, which was muddy and slick to begin with, became more so when the skies opened up with a coastal monsoon ten minutes before start. Mayhem ensued.

I made a poor decision to try and stay with Nissy Cobb for the first half of a lap. When I could no longer hold on and needed to recover, I lost four spots that I was never able to regain.

The first run-up became unrideable fifteen feet from the top.

A second run-up caused a lot of people to go down. I made it riding twice, but not without some moments where I could have easily ended up on my back sliding back downhill.

I did not cause this, although Mindy wants to use this as proof that I'll take my own teammates out in the heat of the moment.

I went back and forth with Margi for most of the last lap. She got the better of me right after this picture was taken, but then had a mechanical 100 meters from the finish line.

I was glad to get this race over with.

I had gotten to the point where the fact that my breathing/snot problem had not subsided in four weeks was so frustrating that I wanted to put my bike in a ditch in hawk a huge loogie on it. Its hard to attack or chase when you're drowning in your own phlegm.

Couldn't spent too much time dwelling on this, as valuable time could be lost pouting instead of preparing and drinking for the Halloween party.

The FTs went as Jersey Whores. From the 80s. Ironically, we bought our "costumes" from a store that sells these "clothes" to people who were not alive in the 80s.

(Fuck ya mutha...now lets go to the mall.)

You know you want to see that full length.

Then there was some of this:

(My hair kept getting better as the night wore on. Note confused Mexican Wrestler in the background. This poor man dates me and spends a lot of time being confused.)

And some of this:

And, as a result, I was glad when, the following morning, we decided to bag "racing" and "sweep the course."

After the race, we kicked some Sorella butt in a dance-off.

It was a good weekend. Someone got punked bad on Sunday night...not sure if he knows it yet.

Tomorrow: State Championships and PIR.

I'm Getting To It, I Promise

2009-11-13T09:06:00.000-08:00

To those of you have have emailed/IMed/Facebooked me about the last two weeks of racing...I promise to get that written up this weekend. Here is the short story of the last 14 days:

1. Sixth at Crusade #5 at Astoria. OK race, was still having a hard time with the lungs being clogged and staying ON my bike.

2. No idea where I finished for Crusade #6. The HV gals rode together at the back of the women's race dressed as french maids. We are in race videos here and here.

3. Took an entire week off for personal reasons. No commuting, no training.

4. Won the Category B State Championship on Saturday. Ricardo also won his race and my mom was there to watch, so it was a big day. The course is now my all time favorite and the Bicycleattorney.com folks did a fabulous job of running the event. The trophies they provided for the winners set the bar high for state championship events next year.

5. The win Sunday meant a mandatory upgrade to the A's. I didn't get "the email," but I know the rules and figured that lining up with the B's on Sunday would have been bad form. I raced singlespeed instead and finished 110th out of 140. I had a blast. It was fun, really fucking hard and there was no pressure.

I'll post real race reports and photos this weekend. I'm going to put my big girl pants on and race with the A's at Barton this weekend. As long as I remember the "no pressure" mantra, it should be fun.

And There Will Be Blood: Hillsboro 2009

2009-10-26T09:38:00.000-07:00

Sometimes cyclocross is brutal because of the course. The mud at Hillsboro. The long climbs at Hornings Hideout, Rainier and Sherwood. Rutted roads that take wear the skin off of our palms.

Other times cyclocross is brutal because, despite our big expectations and best preparations, the sport gets into our head and blows us apart.

On mission on those days, if we choose to accept it, is to laugh in the face of what 'cross throws at us and just enjoy the ride.

That, for me, was Hillsboro 2009.

-----

The Race Report:

Lap 1: Not my best start, as I had some problems getting clipped in, but I made my way to the front by the end of the gravel road and was feeling loose, confident and and comfortable. This feeling would not last long.

I get to the mud bog first and need to get into the small front chainring. Click. Nothing. Click, click. Nothing. Then we're in the mud. Mud with the texture of rubber cement and the odor of Deliverance. And I am totally in the wrong gear. I grind my way through the muck and just when I think I'm in the clear, my front tire jerks to the left and I am suddenly face down in the mud to the right. By the time I've untangled myself from the bike and am riding again, I'm sitting somewhere out of the top 5 or 6 riders.

Unfortunately, the adrenalin rush from the wreck is cruelly short-lived and chasing back to the front group has wiped me out. I'm wheezing and panting and have a panicky realization that I can't take a full deep breath. There is still too much garbage in my lungs.

No. No. No. This was supposed to done with, the sickness and the snot and the rattling.

The second set of barriers was wipe-out #2. The barriers themselves were clean, then, as I went to remount, my right foot slid out from under me and I was back in the mud, again. The three places I've made up, gone. I can no longer see the leaders.

I make it through the tricky, off-camber incline clean, but go down again twice more before I get back around for my second pass at it.

(Photo: Dave Roth)

Crashing is a mental killer for me. Typically I can go down once or twice in a race and still feel like I can remain focused and retain a killer mindset. However, after three of four spills, there is a snowball effect. I lose focus, get tentative. Which, in turn, means I make more mistakes and keep hitting the deck.

Lap 2 and 3: The second lap I am in a small pocket of three or four riders sitting at the back end of the top ten. I make up a place, lose it when I slide out. End up tits-over-ass at the off-camber incline.

(Photo: Tim Schallberger)

At this point, the whole thing has become comical. And I'm doing something I haven't done all year during a race. I'm smiling, interacting with the crowd. Having a really good time getting wet and muddy.

(Credit: Tim Schallberger.)

Chase catches me and makes a quick pass. I think, perfect, someone to chase and heckle for the rest of the race. But she's gone after I have to put my foot down twice in order to keep myself from ending up in the weeds. Neither derailleur is responding to stimuli and my front brake is gummed up enough as to be rendered useless.

My biggest moment of remedial cyclocross racing came on the third time up the incline. I am forced to take the top line and cut a short right corner in order to avoid a wavering and weaving line of slower riders. Cut the corner too short (anyone that has been reading this blog for any amount of time should be aware of my problems with right turns) and my front wheel, again, slides to the left. I go right.

Straight onto the top a wooden course marker.

Hot, red, searing pain spreads up my inner left thigh...all of the way up my inner left thigh. The fans are screaming for me to get up, but I am stunned and prone, fetal position in the mud. Someone drags me to my feet and hands me my bike. The crowd roars, but all I can think is that I may have just ended any hope I had of bearing children.

Lap 4: The ironically titled "Clean Lap." At this point I've basically given up trying to get back on Chase's wheel and have decided that all I want out of this race at this point is one clean lap. Just one. No trips, slips or faceplants. Even if it means getting passed by every single person on the course...I WILL STAY UPRIGHT.

The fourth time up the incline of death loomed large. My nemesis and my chance to take back my race. Started low, aimed for the straightest line to the high side. My back wheel skids once, and I wobble twice coming out of the turn, but I make it out clean and let out a war whoop.

(Photo: Tim Schallberger)

The HV and PV boys go nuts.

In the end, I did stay up right and managed to not get passed by any riders in my field. I rolled through the finish somewhere right outside the top ten (officially fourteenth), out of breath more from laughing than from the effort.

I found Mo right after the race. I can can barely see her through the mud on her face and the mud on my own.

"Holy shit, that was so much fun."

-----

In the last year, I've turned my life upside down in order to train and bike race. It has given me brilliant moments of victory and, unfortunately, debilitating moments of self-doubt. At times, the pressure that I've put on myself to perform well has been almost paralyzing in its intensity. Lost in the intervals and training rides and warm-up routines and talk of series wins and upgrades, I had forgotten how much god-damned entertaining bike racing can be...when we let it be entertaining.

So, for that, thank you Hillsboro.

But no worries, reader, the game face will be back for next week. Costumes or no costumes, I will be back in leg-ripper mode. Just going to try an inject a little more fun into it.

Today's Race Report Brought to You by Azytrhomicin, Tequila and a Sasquatch Pinata

2009-10-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

[First, a brief note about my last race report. After spending 48 hours post-Rainier simultaneously hacking up lungs and feeling like a total lame ass excuse-machine, I was at the doctor for something else and had her take a listen to my lungs.

No wonder I couldn't breathe at Rainier: I had friggin' bronchitis. Although a combination of working from home, nuclear-grade antibiotics and cat-napping had me feeling much better by week's end, I was touch-and-go on racing until Sunday morning.

The ultimate deciding factor? Winning that team port-a-potty.]

----

When I saw that "2" on the lap counter, it was not without a sense of irony that I thought "This is total horseshit."

Cross Crusade race #3, Sherwood Equestrian Center. The only thing grosser than the gunk I was coughing up in ten minute intervals was the piles of horseshit all over the staging area.

(Overheard in the oatmeal line: Man #1 "Dude, I eat pieces of shit like him for breakfast. [Pause.] Man #2, looking down at his boots: "I'm not sure how funny that is right now.")

For those of you that don't already know, I grew up on a farm and am no stranger to horseshit. But I had assumed that moving to the city and taking up a genteel, white-collar sport like cycling would eliminate any future exposures to steaming piles of livestock feces. Cross racing continues to prove many of my life assumptions wrong.

(Tuning out and warming up. Credit: Jon Gornick)

This is a course that you either loved or hated. Lots of single track, rutted out downhill sections, two barriers before a long hop over a creek bed, and 300-meter, total a son-of-a-bitch of a climb at the end. I think that had my lungs been operating at greater than 75% capacity, I would have loved this course. But as things were, that climb kicked my ass to I-5 and back.

Even with the DNF at Rainier, the win at Alpenrose had secured my spot on the front line. I got to slide in next to Anna. She knows how to deal with me when I'm nervous. No questions and some well-timed hand squeezes. A few verbal jabs from the PV menfolk, then it was time to go.

I had another great start and won the first lap for the third time this season.

(Credit: Jon Gornick)(Credit: Bryan Carter)

(Credit: Tim Schallberger)

No appreciable gap on the lead pack, but I got the hole shot and only lost the lead briefly to a rider that passed me, then learned a valuable lesson about pre-shifting before remounting the bike on an uphill. I heard her derailleur protest, heave and pop. Its one of the more horrible noises that a cross racer can hear.

(Credit: Tim Schallberger)

I had three goals for this race: fast first lap, finish and to listen to my body. At the sign of the first coughing fit, I promised myself I would sit up and take it easy for the rest of the race. When Anna and Margi passed me on the second lap, I let them go. I had worked hard for the first lap and knew, unfortunately, that I didn't have the lungs or the legs to hold their pace.

(Credit: Tim Schallberger)

I'm not going to sugar coat this: bronchitis or no bronchitis, this course was fucking hard. Your lungs may have been able to recover on the downhills, but the ruts rattled your bones and destroyed the skin on your palms. The flats were false and by the time you reached the top of the climb, the riders had the look of men being led to the gallows: slack-jawed, eyes glazed over.

(Credit: Jon Gornick)

There was a lot of spittle and foam at the mouth.

(Credit: SoSoVelo)

I kept Margi in my sights until the second climb. By the third, I was in fifth place and starting to feel the itch in my lungs that signals a coughing attack was near. I rounded the top, positive that I would only have to do it one more time.

"2."

Two to go?! Fucking horseshit.

So I rode two more laps. Grinding it out between pockets of beginner riders. Gasping out how I was going to pass...those beginner ladies were champs, I couldn't have been emitting anything more powerful than a phlegmy, gurgling squawk.

(Credit: Tim Schallberger)

The fifth climb ended up being the easiest. I had caught a pack of about 15 slower riders with nowhere to pass. I picked the faster moving left lane, catching FT's wheel and letting her pull me to the top. I had fully intended to slap her on the ass at the finish, but she had the finishing gumption that I lacked and I rolled in right behind her.

Head down on the handlebars. The taste of blood and snot in my mouth. Eyes stinging from sweat. Holy fucking cyclocross, Batman.

(The FTs at the Finish. Credit: pdxcross.com)

Fourth place. It might not have been pretty, and it definitely wasn't fun, but it helped HV keep the lead in the Team Competition.

PS: To the spectators at the barriers. I do appreciate the sentiment, whether it be in jest or otherwise, but it takes more than heckling to convince me to throw an elbow or run someone over. My spectator entertainment services are available for hire for good red wine, Euros or the services necessary to fix my back derailleur on a weekly basis. See you in Hillsboro.

(Credit: Jon Gornick)

It's Not a Race Report If I Only Last One Lap.

2009-10-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you eat the bar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.
-The Stranger, The Big Lebowski (1998)

Man, oh man, did I get eaten by the bar on Sunday in Rainier.

It really boils down to one thing. One that everyone is tired of hearing out of me: I'm sick. Really sick. Sicker than I've been in a few years. The kind of sick that isn't remotely fazed by two straight days of hiding under the covers watching rhythmic gymnastics while overdosing on cold medicine and orange juice.

I shouldn't have even rolled out of bed on Sunday, but pride and stubbornness prevailed over common sense. Rainier may have been my one and only chance to get called up first, and I wasn't going to let a little deep chest cough and debilitating fatigue ruin that moment.

Being sick also prevented me from riding my cross bike during the week and testing the fixes made by the shop on Monday. So, predictably, I started having back derailleur problems at the beginning of the pre-ride, but I thought those had worked themselves out once I had shifted up and down through the full range of gears. Instead of taking it up to the repair tent to make sure, I decided to take a nap in the car.

Coughed and hacked my way through the warm-up and the call-ups. Just 45 minutes of HTFU, that was all I wanted from my body. I think it might have stepped up and pulled through if the first lap hadn't turned into a comedy of errors.

I had a great start....for about 50 meters. Then my bike shifted itself into the easiest gear and would not shift back out. Fifteen riders go flying past me. I curse the bike back into gear and manage to make it though the first 1/3 of the course before it happens again. Bike shifts into easiest gear, but this time no amount of cursing works.

I was lucky to be near the pits and lucky that Shimano is providing pit bikes and wheels for all of the races. I cruised into the pits and was on a pit bike within 45 seconds.

Having a pit bike: awesome. Having a pit bike with pedals that don't quite cooperate with my shoes and with a different shifting system: for me, a bit of a debacle. I ride Crank Brother's eggbeater pedals instead of Candy pedals because the platform on the Candy pedals makes it almost impossible for me to clip out and dismount with my Specialized shoes. I learned this the hard (i.e., faceplant) way at cross practice a month ago.

By the time I was on the pit bike and had some shifting issues sorted out (I ride SRAM, the bike was Shimano), I was smack dab in the middle of the beginner's field and approaching a huge bottleneck on the course....two consecutive short, steep risers as the course moves out of the woods and into a grass field.

Under normal circumstances, this would not have been a problematic section of the course. Build up some speed, weight the bike, climb and ride through. However, that scenario assumes that the riders in front of me are also riding this section.

This was an incorrect assumption.

As soon as I rounded the corner into the first riser, I could see a wall of women off of the bike and walking up the second hill. In order to get up and around safely I would need to slow up and shift into a smaller gear.

Except there was no smaller gear. I had neglected to check where I was and was stuck in the big chainring. And I couldn't get clipped out.

With no safe way to move forward, I laid the bike down into the brambles on the side of the course.

As I lay there on my back in the dirt, still connected to the pit bike, uncontrollably coughing and looking at the steady stream of beginners riding six inches from my head, one thought flashes into my head:

Fuck. This.

I get back up. Cough to the point of throwing up. Then fall back over again.

Maybe on a different day, I would have been up for the challenge of working my way through three fields to try and regain contact with my own. It would have been excellent handling practice. But Sunday was not a "climb every mountain" sort of day. It was a "I am so over this bike racing shit" sort of day.

After reclaiming my own bike from the pit, I finished the lap and rolled off of the course and back to the tent.

Rainier: Fail. DNF. Reboot. Start over.

This week: First priority: get healthy. Second: get bike fixed (again). The weekend brings a new course at Sherwood Equestrian Center. Hm...that means horse shit. Lovely.

Fat, Fast and Dangerous: Alpenrose 2009

2009-10-05T17:45:00.001-07:00

I started racing cyclocross exactly three years ago. First race: Alpenrose 2006. I had been to four clinics, crashed my bike three times trying to dismount and was scared out of my ever-lovin' mind. My unofficial count is that 115 women raced that afternoon.

Yesterday, over 220 women lined up to race cyclocross.

(Photo: Dave Roth. This photo doesn't even include the A Women, who now race with the A men.)

There are very few places on earth where 220 TOTAL people show up for a cross race. Portland rules.

Cross Crusade races make for long days. I like to get there early to pre-ride the course, but we don't race until almost two o'clock. How do we kill the time in between? We harass our junior racers, of course.

(Photo: BikePortland. The FTs discussing race strategy with James Ralston, who shall now be referred to as McDreamy and be forced to wear his jersey half-unzipped at all times.)

And when we are done with that, we ring a lot of cowbell, eat oatmeal and come up with new and offensive ways to motivate our teammates. Most of this involves references to being fat, slow, fat and slow or your mom.

Around 1:45, after two hours of nervous stomach and 45 minutes of sweating to the oldies, its go time. Correction, its go time after several minutes of smack talk about sandbagging, vomiting and the strategic advantages of getting laid before the race. The Women's B line is the place to get all of the good gossip.

(Photo Credit: Dave Roth. Freaking out between two ladies that always make me calm, Lana and Traci. Lana is the one that looks like a sexy Creamsicle).

Having raced this race four years running, I knew how important it would be to get a good start and get to the dirt out in front. So when the whistle blew, I rode it like I stole it.

I had a fantastic first lap, despite what will now be known as the "Alpenrose Run-Up Incident of 2009" (if you'd like more information on this, I'd be happy to direct you to the resulting nonsense on the Cross Crusade forums) and dropping my chain after the first set of barriers. Got the hole shot and built a 10-15 second lead by the end of the first lap, and 20 seconds by the end of the second. The gap fluctuated throughout the race, but I was able to maintain it throughout.

(Photo: Sallyanne Ellis. Hitting the pavement with no one in sight.)

Laps one and two were fairly uneventful, although I did start to notice that I was having a lot of difficulty with my back end shifting (cue ominous music here). Tedder's classes and weekly cross practice have done wonders for my technique. I still can't remount properly, but felt really smooth over the barriers and on the run-up.

(Photo: Oregon Velo. Taking the barriers with the grace of a gazelle and breathing of a winded rhinoceros.)

(Photo: Mike Kender. I was pushing the bike instead of shouldering to protect my back, which went out again earlier that week.)

One of the strategic issues we have to deal with at Cross Crusade races is lapping other riders. For the first two laps, I was able to hammer along at my own pace and the riders I passed were Master A riders with years of experience and solid bike handling. For the final two laps, it gets a bit trickier as we start working our way into the beginner's field. First priority is to get by without startling the other rider. Second, do it without losing too much speed. Third, put as many slower riders between you and the person chasing you.

(Photo: Dave Roth. This wide smooth road was a really good place to pass because it was safe and I could build up a lot of speed to pass quickly.)

Passing became a lesser worry on the third and fourth laps when I realized that there was something very wrong with my back derailleur. A quick check on the pavement indicated that I only had three gears that my bike would get into, and stay in, under load. The rest of the race was a lot of standing to get up inclines and screaming at my bike..."GET IN THERE!"

(Photo: Oregon Velo. Standing somewhere where I normally wouldn't. Using words to describe my bike that I normally wouldn't.)
(Photo: Tim Schalberger. I have no idea when this photo was taken. I just like it because I look skinny and strong.)

I could see and sense that my teammate Anna had cleared the pack and was bearing down on me in the third lap, so in the fourth I sprinted as many of the flats and climbs as my three-speed would allow and exercised a bit more caution in the technical sections. I knew that if she got within 10 meters of me, I was done for.

One more lap, she may have caught me. But lucky for me, four was the number for the day.

(Photo: Tim Schalberger.)

First Cross Crusade Win. And on my favorite course.

The day had many team highlights, including wins by Mindy (Master B) and Kolben (Junior 17-18), top ten finishes by Anna (B), Bryan (Clydesdale), Angela (Master B) and Marc (Master C) and Top 20 finished by Tedder (Unclassified Old Farts), Jamie B. (B) and Jamie F. (Clydesdale). As a result, HV is currently winning the Feudal States Competition, the Crusade's team competition for rights to a private blue room for the 2010 season. That is a serious prize, people.

The damage to the Tri-Cross was minimal...bent derailleur hanger that the all-star crew at River City replaced within 15 minutes on Monday morning.

With another win comes the bittersweet acknowledgment that I have a limited number of B races left before I get my upgrade notice. So time to kick this head cold and get ready to go out with guns blazing.

900 Extra Seconds of Suffering is a Lot of Suffering

2009-09-28T09:34:00.000-07:00

Nine hundred seconds. This was the difference between the pop-tart, cream-puff level suffering at Starcrossed and the Tabasco-sauce-and-battery-acid-in-the-throat suffering of Battle at Barlow.

I won the Women's B race yesterday. My first cyclocross "W" and I'm really grateful for that. But nothing about this race was fun, graceful, coordinated or even remotely exhilarating. Simply, it fucking sucked.

Yes, I know. If you're doing it right, racing cyclocross is supposed to suck. Especially when one's Saturday pre-race hydration plan included six beers, four gin and tonics and two of something pink in a martini class. The suffering that comes with that sort of "race prep," I deserve. And I can control that.

I can also control waking up and getting to the race in time for a decent warm-up. And whether or not I decide to ride like my ass is on fire for the first lap of a race, consequences be damned.

But heat. Heat is something I can't control. This is becoming progressively more frustrating. Even with the weather in the mid-70's, my body refused to regulate itself properly. I love this time of year, warm days and cool nights, but have officially gotten to the point where I can't wait to race in the rain.

Enough of that. Here is how the race went down.

Lap 1: I went out hard from the whistle, got the hole shot and was out front for most of the first lap and a half. Barlow has the most challenging run-up of the season (in my opinion). There are two choices: a shorter route up a set of railroad-tie stairs that are too high for anyone under 6'8 to actually "run up" or a longer route up dusty and loose single track.

The first lap I attempted the stairs.

By the fourth step-up, my hip was screaming "NO THANK YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH!" Although acupuncture has finally loosened the problem muscles, those muscles have lost conditioning and were in no mood to heave my 150 pound ass, plus a 18 pound bike, up a dirt hill at full speed.

After the run-up, the course continues to climb for another 50 meters. It is totally ride-able, IF you are in the right gear. First time up, I had forgotten to shift down before dismounting my bike and had to grind my way up and out of that section. Even through exhaustion, I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Lap 2: After ten minutes, the burn has set in. But I was hoping that after two laps, I would be able to settle in, become one with my burn and recover for a bit. Didn't quite work that way. I realized that I was in a bit of trouble the second time through a false flat up and out of the woods and onto some practice fields. After the problems this summer, I'm acutely aware of when normal suffering starts to cross over into overheating....my hands start to tingle and shake.

I realized that I was going to have to let up. Either that or pass out. So I let up. Two riders in my group pass me. I have two goals at this point: (1) keeping within 5-10 seconds of the lead while I try to get a little recovery and (2) not quitting. Because all I really wanted to do was roll off the course, take all of my clothes off, pour a bottle of HEED over my head and hit myself in the head with my own shoe until I passed out under a tree.

(Photo: Tim Schalberger)

Laps 3, 4 and 5: A lot of wanting to get this race the hell over with. Somewhere in lap 4 I caught both of the women that had passed me in laps 2 and 3. One looked like she ran out of gas after attacking most of the third lap and the second dropped her chain on the penultimate time up the run-up. She probably would have won the race if not for that mechanical. She looked a helluva a lot stronger than I felt.

The only thing did feel good about was that I was riding clean and, although was slower through the barriers that I would have liked, technique was decent. Here is a link to a barrier shot from Oregon Cycling Action. I still can't remount correctly in a race, but I can't say that I really care. It'll come in time. And maybe with some more heckling from...well, they know who they are.

(Photo: Tim Schalberger)

After the bell lap rung, we rode into some flat switchbacks and I could see the gap on who was chasing me . Figured that if I could just stay upright and keep moving forward, I would stay in front. Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully. I was JUST. SO. FUCKING. HOT.

Longest lap of a life full of long laps. I took the stairs on the run-up with the grace of a large jungle mammal and banged both of my shins. Hit my back tire on all of the barriers. Accidentally spit on a spectator when the wind picked up at an inopportune moment.

Never been so glad to finish a race, ever.

(Photo: Tim Schalberger)

My first ever win on a bicycle was the Icebreaker Crit in April. That win was exhilarating and made me want to race my bike FOREVER. This win was excruciating and made me want to throw myself in front of a slow moving train and pour Aardvark sauce in my eyes. As I slowly rolled back to the team tent, three things were going through my head:

(1) Do not pass out or throw up in front of all of these people.

(2) Why the fuck do I so this to myself?! Correction, pay MONEY to do this to myself?!

(3) Shirt. Off. Now.

Then I sat down, put my head between my knees and tried not to cry. That is how bad I felt. And how relieved I was that I hadn't quit.

---

It feels sort of "off" to be writing such a bitchy, negative race report about winning a race. Some folks never get to win a race, and I've been blessed to win several this year.

But, then again, I suppose that every racer knows what it feels like to have your body revolt and to not have any idea how to deal with it.

All in all, once I had cooled off enough for a proper perspective check, it was a good day. My FT placed in the Top 10 of the beginner race, Beth was dominating her race until a last lap flat, our junior racer cleaned up his field and German went 2/2 on races where he crashes spectacularly. There were post-race beers and black bean burgers. And I finally got decent post-race sleep, thanks to REM caps, compression socks and some post-race TLC.

Cross Crusade starts in T-Minus six days. My guess is that the B field will top 50 riders, and everyone will be fighting for call-up points for the rest of the series. Let the mayhem begin.

Starcrossed In Stripes

2009-09-22T08:27:00.001-07:00

It official: Cross Season 2009 has begun. Like last year, my season opener was Starcrossed in Seattle, WA. For me, its a perfect season opener. Only 30 minutes and held on a flat fast course that favors riders that can power up repeatedly and recover quickly.

Let me digress for a moment. I love this course and the venue. But honestly, the administration of this race (at least for us lowly category amateurs) needs a lot of improvement. Registration did not open until an hour before the womens' race began. The lines are long and there was some confusion on the paperwork that needed to be completed by out-of-state riders. Preprinted waivers had made up EXCEPT for the first race of the day. There weren't enough pens or safety pins. There were probably several ladies that didn't get a proper warm-up in because they were stuck standing in line for 30 minutes. That is sort of bullshit.

What is also bullshit is that race numbers (which, in theory, determine your place at the starting line) were assigned randomly, not by time of pre-registration. I was the first or second person to register for the 3/4 race, but was assigned race number 154. What the hell?! This also happened to Jeff and my teammate Dave. It completely negated any reason to register early.

And it completely changed my race strategy. I had anticipated lining up at the very front and hammering from the whistle. Now, I would probably have to spend at least a half lap working my way through people before I could get up to speed.

I get nervous enough before races, and this development did not improve my mood in the slightest. Because Heidi and I had been in line early, I was able to get in a decent 35 minute warmup. Not the hour I would have liked, what was lost in quantity was made up in quality. 20 minutes at high tempo, followed by six one-minute sprints. Ears ringing with The Knife and sweating like a pig, my mood improved and, by the time we staged, I was sort of resigned to starting in the back and making the most of it.

(Anna and I getting ready to do some damage to the 3/4 field. What I can't understand is how I managed to roll around for twenty minutes with a crooked helmet without anyone telling me. Thanks friends.)

Turns out most of my agitation was unwarranted. The call-ups were almost as random as the number assignment. Anna ended up getting called up to the front row and I was in the second. I could totally handle that.

I had a great start, once I got around the two women that were lined up in front of me. Both of them were (by their own admission) novice racers and both had a hard time getting clipped in. Anna made it to the first corner first, but we both pushed hard on the second straightaway and were 1-2 by the time we took the second corner into the velodrome.

That is pretty much how it stayed for the next 29 minutes. A Haggens Berman ride made up the gap twice, but fell back again almost immediately both times.

Sorella Anne's husband Tim was taking picture and video at the race. Here is a video of the first time over the barriers. This is when Anna and I started overtaking the masters' field during the first lap. I go through at about 1:10, Anna at about 1:14.

Anna set the pace most of the race. She pushes a huge gear and I was content to suck her wheel. I often paced us through the more technical portions, but she always made it back around me on the straights.

(The run-up...one of the few places I was in front of the Annamal.)

Looking back on the race, I should have spent some time in my big ring while we were riding the flat, fast sections. I was staying out of it due to the stress that pushing those gears put on my injured back (that is a whole other story), but it let Anna to ride the same pace with less work.

Notice the proper facial form for cross racing: suffering. And boy, I was suffering. But its a different sort of suffering when I'm at the front of a race. Its about pride just as much as it is about the taste of blood in my mouth. I got myself up to the front and there was no way I was going to start moving backward.

I was able to hold Anna's wheel until the last 1/2 of the last lap. My legs were about to pop and I couldn't match her last big acceleration. She got a ten meter gap that I knew I wasn't going to be able to close. The goal at that point was to hold my position for three more looooooong minutes.

Notice that BOTH my helmet and hat are crooked at this point. As is Anne's tongue.

I almost did it. A Gentle Lover's rider passed me with about 75-50 meters before the finish and, again, I couldn't match her passing acceleration.

Rolled through in third place. Here is the video Tim took at the finish. Anna and I finish at about the 1:50 mark.

The post-race inner monologue went like this: Yah! Podium! Schwag! Throwing up in my mouth! I have to do this for HOW many more minutes next week?!

I am really happy with this race. Stayed upright, had good form through the technical sections and rode at a really high pace for about 25 minutes. I love racing the TriCross and was pleased with the tire and tire pressure choices (IRD Crossfires at about 38-40 psi). I do need to talk to the shop about the chain length...I almost dropped my chain three times and I think it may be too big for racing in the small chainring.

Room for Improvement One: fitness. The extra 10-15 minutes in Crusade races is seeming like an eternity right now, but that should develop in small chunks over the course of the season.

Room for Improvement Two: remount. I can remount properly about half of the time in practice, but was nowhere close to doing it right in the race. I watch my friend Heather remount in races and she's so smooth. It is not only faster, but it has to be easier on the bike and the body.

Finally, courtesy of Dave Roth, the Women's 3/4 Podium:

(The rest of Dave's pictures can be found here.)

All pinstripes and all smiles.

But seriously, I could have done without the podium girls. Now, if they could have gotten a few of those pro racers to stand up there with us, in lycra, that would have been a different story.

I'll be out at Barlow this weekend, at least to volunteer. Racing is a game time decision that will depend on how my back heals and stretches out over the next 72 hours.

Missing: Two Inches of Knee Skin on the Alpine Trail. Reward if Found.

2009-08-26T10:53:00.000-07:00

It is only appropriate that my favorite section of single track during Mountain Bike Oregon ("MBO") was the Jedi Trail, because so much about mountain biking is letting go and using the Force. And because I spent most of the weekend feeling like a fucking Ewok on an out of control jet scooter.

(So I tried to use Google to find a picture of an Ewok on a jet scooter to post here. I didn't find one, but DAMN, people sell some weird shit on the internet.)

MBO involved three days of camping, sweet Oakridge singletrack and beer. I had the distinct honor of camping with the Portland Velo crew. Sal and Kender scored a great camping spot next to the river:
(Shade, good company and the finest HUB and Ninkasi have to offer.)

Sherry and I rolled into town around 3:30. It took me three beers and almost an hour to set up my borrowed tent and camp cot. Tents are frustrating. The poles need to be numbered or something to help the camping-impaired. Or there needs to be instructions, with pictures. Some things just aren't self-evident to city folk.

"Fun with Tents" was followed by a Bortnem-led trip to a secret swimming hole. This involved drunk mountain bike riding, pissing off some locals and throwing a lot of rocks. Throwing rocks is just as fun when you're 32 as when you're 12.

Ate some food, drank some more beer and I went to bed at 8. Yes, 8. Nature is hard work, people. It takes a lot out of you.

Friday: Alpine-Tire-Cloverfield. I decided that if I was going to do a big ride, Friday was the day. Fresh legs, maximum enthusiasm.

I can't say that the maximum enthusiasm (i.e., two thermoses of coffee) had kicked in at this point.

We signed up for the 25-ish mile ATC ride. Here is the elevation profile of just the Alpine Trail:

I think the ATC ride broke off of Alpine at about mile 6 or 7, then there was a lot of up, then down down down. Then up. Then more down.

Here is the meadow at the top of the first climb. I had brilliantly stuck my glasses in my helmet on the climb up to this meadow and they bounced off two-thirds of the way through. This sucked for numerous reasons (1) The glasses were green with green lenses. Notice the abundance of green in this picture. This did not make for easy searching; (2) The glasses aren't mine, so it wasn't as though I could leave them lost and (3) I completely fell off the back of the group after taking fifteen minutes to find said glasses, then having to stop to buckle my helmet. Then again to fix my cleats. Then again to fix my seatpost.

It was gorgeous trail and due to the almost 4000 feet in elevation loss, we passed through several distinct ecosystems, including some old growth forest.

The worst part of the ride was the halfway point, where I hadn't eaten enough and was having a really hard time focusing and keeping my eyes up trail. I ate it two or three times at really stupid places and reopened several of the scars on my right knee.

But I survived the 18 or so miles of singletrack mostly intact and tacked on another 15 miles for good measure with the three mile ride to the shuttle and, after deciding that riding home from the trailhead would be a great fucking idea, twelve more miles of road back to camp. That last twelve was a great fucking idea. Note: hope you didn't miss the sarcasm in that last sentence. Note 2: if Sal and Kender make a gentleman's agreement to take it easy back to camp, they are lying sacks of crap.

That night I barely made it through dinner and two beers with my eyes open. Was in bed again by 8:30.

Saturday: Alpine Top. This means we rode the Alpine Trail from start to finish. See above for elevation profile. This ride was my favorite of the weekend, even though Aunt Flo made an unexpected, and very unwelcome, appearance mid-ride. Which was TOTALLY AWESOME, by the way. Mountain biking is all about focus, and its exponentially harder to focus with Rage Against the Machine playing in one's belly.

Heidi, Kristin, Sherry, Stephanie and I rode with a slower paced group led by Tori Bortnem. Less uphill, more swoopy downhill, including the aforementioned Jedi Trail. Although this picture hardly does the trail justice, this is what much of it looked like:

I would pay someone to shuttle me up and down all day, just to ride this trail over and over again. It was THAT good.

Here we are taking a short breather mid-ride. Me, Heidi, Kristin and my very angry uterus.

Wisely took the shuttle back to camp.

At this point in the weekend, we are 48 hours in and I haven't bathed. This suddenly became unacceptable. So we threw on the bathing suits and headed upriver with some beer and Dr. Bonner's peppermint soap.

The beer did nothing to take away from the fact that the middle fork of the Willamette is FUCKING ASS COLD AS HELL. But it did make the whole hair-washing, Tecnu-rinsing experience a bit easier to bear.

Heidi and I then headed into town on a beer/Dairy Queen run. Here is a haiku in honor of the Dairy Queen run:

Blizzards are awesome
When you have spent the whole day
Dodging poison oak

Did some more reading, some eating, some Hard Lemonade drinking (nothing says white trash camping quite like Mike's). Back in bed by 8:30. Feel like I'm turning into my parents.

Sunday: North Fork and the Pump Track. Having nothing to prove and feeling grateful to have escaped any major debacles thus far, we decided on an easy Sunday ride. North Fork runs along, you guess it, the North Fork of the Willamette River. It's a Sunday drive kind of trail. No major climbs or descents.

Heidi and I rode the six miles out, and decided to take the road back after I noticed that my knee had started to swell again and had never really loosened up that morning. This gave us around 45 minutes to play on the pump track at the trail head. Rode some skinnies, hopped some curbs, took a nap in the sun.

The drive home was a frustrating reminder of why I bike commute. As in, I HATE being stuck in traffic. More than I hate bananas. Or Fox News. Or Jack Johnson's music.

My MBO bike assessment: Definitely worth it, especially if you've never ridden Oakridge singletrack. Rides are guided, trails are beautiful and challenging. I was tested the entire weekend. Granted, simply riding a switchback without face-planting is a test for this roadie. But the weekend was the perfect opportunity to practice the skills I learned at camp and my confidence improved each hour we were on the trails.

My only regret was not having the energy to drink enough beer to justify the entry fee. But there is always next year.

[The Lights Blink, Signaling the End of Intermission]

2009-08-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

Haven't felt much like writing about bikes lately. Don't get me wrong, there has been plenty of bike in my life-commuting and intervals and Tuesday PIR and cyclocross training and mountain biking. My short track knee healed, then became my Mountain Bike Oregon knee. Riding home late now requires lights and my days of carefree commuting on my race bike are numbered. The winter bike is tuned up and ready for the first September rainfall. Cross is starting soon and I have a lot of work to do to get rid of my double-hopping, triple salchow remount.

What was lacking was any inspiration to write about riding. The acts of training had become so scheduled that they were performed almost mechanically. Which may sound bad, but it wasn't. Rather, it allowed me to get my fitness back for cyclocross without expending a lot of emotional energy.

What I have been writing about is relationships and love and sex and my own perceived loss of sanity. Not here, obviously. Once I realized that there are people out there that ACTUALLY READ THIS THING, I decided that a private blog would allow me to get my verbal knickers untwisted with minimal risk of catastrophic embarrassment.

There has been a lot of "relationship" cycling (pun totally intended) through my life in the last few weeks--both on the romantic and friendship front. Things that are promising. Things that are disappointing. Things that disappear from my life just as quickly as they appeared. Things that were old that become new again. Things that appeared new, but were in fact old but wrapped in shiny new clothing. Things that keep me up too late at night. Things that just make me want to sleep for days.

As is my custom when my life gets complicated, I tried to simplify and focus by selecting a song and listening to it 20, 50, 80 times in a row. This strategy frequently backfires, as I usually pick something sticky sweet and romantic (currently playing: James Yuill's "This Sweet Love"), which begets a trance-like manic and repetitive inner monologue:

I am lonely.

I lost five pounds!

I am a bad friend.

I got laid!

I think I am going crazy.

Frye boots!

I am going to die an old cat lady.

Nachos!

I need new cyclocross tires.

I love my life!

I hate my life.

Nachos!

And so on and so forth. I really did feel like I was going, as Burns eloquently puts it, "cuckoo for CoCo Puffs." Luckily, the timing of this most recent spell coincided with reading a book on chemistry of the female brain. As an aside, this book was given to me by an ex-boyfriend who claimed that it helped him understand me. I, therefore, refused to be understood and refused read the book until I found myself going away for a long weekend with nothing to read (Ayn Rand did not count as reading material. Getting through that book is basically a character building exercise.).

There was a chapter on what happens, chemically, to the brain of many childless 30-something women. In a word: Bonkers.

This made me feel a lot better. I may be insane, BUT ITS NOT MY FAULT. I can blame hormones. I no longer had to be accountable for crying uncontrollably during minivan ads. Or when Fred Meyers runs out of gummy bears. Or when wedding pictures for people I don't even KNOW are posted on Facebook. Because these events have all happened in the last six weeks.

So I wrote about all of it. Obsessively. Then erased everything. Compulsively.

Now that the estrogen wave has subsided, I'm back. Back to thinking and writing about "normal" things. Bikes, bikes and more bikes. So stay tuned for a scratch-and-sniff post on Mountain Bike Oregon and how I survived three days without taking a shower.

Short Track Finale: Another One Bites the Dust.

2009-08-07T09:42:00.000-07:00

My knees and calves are breathing a huge sigh of relief. As of Monday night, Short Track 2009 is officially over. It was a fun evening...I had a decent individual race, anchored our team for the relay race, made the series podium for the Cat 2 U35 women and...won a f#*&ing bike frame. Unreal. Now I can't say that I never win anything at raffles.

The individual race was nothing to write home about. I wasn't going to be able to win the series and just needed to finish in front of Sarah T. in order to hold my spot on second place. I hit the deck hard in the first lap (see photo from prior blog entry) and, after that, rode just hard enough to stay in front of Sarah once I caught back up to her two laps later.

Here I am attempting to look serious about racing while we waited for the team relay to begin. It is, however, hard to look serious when covered in dirt, with a grease spot on your boob.The relay ended up being a lot harder than I thought it would be. Because I was the last rider, I had to ride a lap, then an extra half lap, of the motocross course--at full speed. By the time it was my turn, my legs were stiff from standing around and the sun had gone down. Since I have a hard enough time staying upright with good light, I was flirting with disaster by going balls to the wall in low light. But there were no crashes or debacles and HV finished somewhere midpack.

Then it was time for awards and raffle. My teammates are awesome-most of them stuck around to watch my three minutes of glory on the podium. Brooke McDermid won the series. Its too bad she's got a bum knee, she'd be a helluva cross racer.

Sarah and I with our Second and Third Place medals, pretending to be excited that we have to be Cat 1s next season.

After my podium, we sat around for a bit and debated about sticking around for the grand finale of the raffle. The debate took so long that by the time we had decided to leave, we decided that we might as well stick around.

And then we waited...and waited...and waited. No one from our team had won any of the big deal prizes. Which was surprising, because the only folks eligible for those prizes were those that had raced 5 or more races and there were at least 5 of us who had sacrificed life and limb at least that many times.

The grand prize was a Niner mountain bike frame. They pulled one, two, three names of people who had left early. Then they pulled my name. And, yeah, sorry for ruining the family event by yelling, "Shut the FUCK up" at the top of my lungs.

I'm now the proud owner of a beautiful, shiny 29er bike frame. But, as you all know, I need another bike like I need another hole in my head. So the decision has been made to build it up for Christy, so that the Blonde Ball of Hate can bring her special brand of fury to the dirt next year. Watch out, ladies. She has a mountain bike and isn't afraid to use it.

Because I Am Predictable Like That

2009-08-05T09:02:00.001-07:00

2009 08-03 Short Track 6
Originally uploaded by Anne and Tim Photos

Let Me Tell You How I REALLY Feel About Nature.

2009-07-29T15:08:00.000-07:00

I don't camp. Well, I do camp, but neither willingly nor excitedly.

Don't get me wrong, I love being outside. It is part of why I ride my bike (almost) everywhere.

But when it comes to camping, there are two diametrically opposed forces at work. One is an honest appreciation of the peace, quiet and simple beauty of nature. The other is my appreciation for uninterrupted sleep, mosquito-free space and fresh armpits and nether-regions.

My parents made it easy to ignore the internal camping conflict when, five years ago, they bought a cabin just outside the southeastern border of Crater Lake National Park. The cabin is an ongoing project, but has all the comforts...electricity, heat, laundry, kitchen and, uh, cable and a soaking bathtub. (My mom is as much of a camper as I am.)

The cabin has been a peaceful place to escape from life, in general, and the city, in particular. Depending on the quality of outside light and the quantity of alcoholic beverages consumed, I usually can usually average one book and nine hours of sleep per 24 hours.

Both Christy and I have been struggling through professional and personal rough patches since the start of the summer. It seemed like a good time to escape to the woods.

Here is the weekend, by the numbers:

Hours spent driving in 48 hours: 7
Varieties of Clamato-laced domestic beer available at Chemult gas station: 1
Hours spent on cross bikes riding to and from the Pinnacles: 2.5
Times cross bike's bell rung to ward off cougars, chipmunks and homicidal maniacs squatting in the backwoods: 15
Tourists made uncomfortable by reference to Pinnacles as "hermaphroditic" and "vaginal:" 5
Degrees at end of ride: 92
Pitchers of frozen margaritas consumed post-ride: 6
Times the words "this is a really strong drink" uttered by my mom: 10
Pages of Ayn Rand read: 200
Pages of Ayn Rand not driven by incomprehensible dialogue or unnecessarily heavy prose: 0.
Ratio of pages of Ayn Rand read to threats to destroy book by fire or throwing into creek: 3:1
Number of mosquitoes living within an acre of the cabin: 3.6 trillion
Alfred Hitchcock movies about homicidal birds viewed: 1
Episodes of the Muppet Show enjoyed while drinking coronas: 2
References made to "Man Island" and Ken dolls wearing diapers: way too many.

It was a short weekend, but a good one. Here are my favorite photos:

(Destination reached without cougar attack.)

(Christy contemplating the wonders of nature.)

(The hermaphroditic pinnacles.)

(The FTs!!)

(Quality Control.)

(Christy promoting literacy.)

(Lindsay promoting literary flogging.)

(Quiz A: Which beer was better? Quiz B: Which book is more infuriating to Read?)

(The effects of heat, tequila and literacy officially kick in.)

Catching Up: Mtn Bike Camp and Short Track Week 5

2009-07-28T10:49:00.000-07:00

Two weekends ago I attended the Dirt Series Mountain Bike Camp in Hood River Oregon. I read about the camp in Bicycling Magazine in 2007 and decided that some intensive instruction would really help me get over the skills and fear plateau that I'd sitting at for two years.

I have a checkered history with mountain biking. I bought a mountain bike when I was in college after I met my now ex-husband, who was a great mountain biker. Unfortunately, when it came to mountain biking, their idea of a good time was to slap on a head lamp, smoke a couple bowls and bomb down something in the middle of the night while looking for Sasquatches. No thank you, stoners.

Understandably, this was not the best learning environment for a new rider who had a serious aversion to going downhill fast. And that crew were not patient instructors. After one broken wrist and numerous screaming matches, the bike was shelved until I moved to Eugene. I used it for transportation and was only slightly annoyed when it was stolen around the time of my divorce.

Fast forward to three years later. After my first season of cyclocross, three things were immediately apparent. One, I loved cross. But, two, I was not fit. And three, I needed to learn to stay ON my bike. Someone mentioned that a lot of the good cross racers used short track mountain biking as handling practice for cyclocross. So, in 2007, I bought a 43-pound, circa-1985 Gary Fisher and started "racing" short track.

"Racing" in quotation marks because, for the first two years, short track was more about survival, band-aids and arnica cream than it was about the competition. From the end of June through the beginning of August, my body looked like a two-year-old had picked out the bruise colors from the paint box and went to town on my legs.

This year I wanted things to be different. I was sick and tired of feeling uncoordinated and like I needed to be wearing a grizzly suit every time I rode on the dirt.

So, camp.

Great things about the camp:

It is an all women's camp. I left mountain biking in 2001 partially because the men I rode with had neither the patience or ability to break skills down for beginner riders. And they were a bunch of non-helmet wearing flaming idiots that did not feel like a ride was worth doing unless there was the certainty of maiming and the threat of death. And lots of weed. Fuck you guys, seriously.
The riders are divided into groups for both skills practice and group rides and the instructors are flexible moving riders to different groups. I was in the almost-remedial group for the entire weekend and was happy as a clam.
If you attend the entire camp, you get almost 20 hours of small group and one-on-one instruction.
I rode Post Canyon and Syncline for the first time. Whoop!

Opposite-of-Great Things About the Camp:

It is an all-women's camp. As in, heavy on the rah-rah-rah and girl power. Although I did appreciate that element when I was working up the balls to ride my first rock face, at times it got to be too much.
It was over 90 degrees the entire weekend. Summer can go blow itself at this point.

Things That I Learned at the Camp:

I can't do switchbacks. A lot of the braking and balance required to do switchbacks is the exact opposite of what you would do on a road bike. My brain and body really struggled with how counter intuitive some of it was.
I may not like switchbacks, but I rode a lot of stunts, bridges and rock faces without blinking twice. My riding group ended up nicknaming me the daredevil. If someone needed to be the first to go try something stupid, everyone looked at me.
Flat pedals may be the way to go with more technical mtn biking. I was a lot more confident when I knew how easy it would be to bail out.

They tell you at camp orientation that one weekend at camp is like an entire season of riding on your own. As I don't ride anything close to a full season of mountain biking, it ended up feeling like two years. I still feel only partially competent, but its closer to 75% competent as opposed to 75% incompetent.

Somehow I felt like short track the following Monday in temperatures close to 95 degrees was a smart idea. Wrong. I had a decent start, but had too little air pressure in my back tire. After skidding and sliding for a lap and a half, my body decided to remind me that it doesn't like racing in sub-Saharan temperatures.

Didn't feel so good after that. Scratch that. I felt awful. I finished the race, but it took an hour before my the skin on my face faded from a deep coral, and I threw up the first few times I tried to put cold water in my system after the race.

It was 105 degrees at short track yesterday. I took the smart route, rode in the morning and spent the worst hours of the afternoon and early evening at the Kiwi Missile's going-away pizza party. Sometimes I am capable of making good decisions.

Next up: My report of Lindsay vs. Nature vs. Tequila at my parent's cabin at Crater Lake.

Short Track. Round Four. Fight!

2009-07-16T08:35:00.000-07:00

I am feeling anxiety the likes of which I haven't felt since, well, since I first started racing short track three years ago. Even at low speed during the practice lap, each time my back wheel skids or shimmies, heart is in the throat and stomach is doing somersaults. Waiting for inevitable death or maiming.

Crash anxiety. How I loathe and fear thee.

Nothing about my spill last week should, logically, cause this kind of nervous energy. It wasn't a high speed crash or an error on technical terrain. Just a stupid mistake on an unfortunate choice of racing surface.

Unfortunately, humans are not rational. Thus--the anxiety. Humans also make questionable, albeit practical, wardrobe choices. Thus--my decision to wear a huge, circa 1996 rollerblading knee pad over my still oozing and swollen right knee. I feel like a spandex clad storm trooper. Unfortunately, Dawn is hurt and unable to show her solidarity by wearing the matching pad on her left knee. I'd be disappointed if I wasn't already spending all of my emotional energy trying not to vomit.

Seriously, Lindsay, this is short track. Short. Track. SHORT TRACK. Out of shape fun in the summer time. Not by any means a nausea inducing event.

But so it goes.

Kristin tells me that it'll all disappear once we start racing. I hope so. Irrational fear is not something I deal with well. Beth is not helping matters. She advises a new addition to our group that my wheel is the one to be on at the start. Hardly. My wheel is a pink and black clad anti-christ.

But Kristin is right. As soon as we're off and running, the rational-fearful-anxious part of my brain is unceremoniously steamrolled by the "I'm going to get that fucking hole shot" part of my brain.

I get the lead and keep it for most of the starter loop. Then I crash. Again. On gravel. Again.

But this time there is no pain, no shock. Just anger about losing my coveted positioning. I get myself up and quickly chase back up to the lead group. The course loop is short and there were very few places to pass safely. I work my way up to the back of a pack of 6 or 7 riders.

I get around Beth when she gets held up at the log (I don't see it happen, but I can hear it: Clank. Scrape. "FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!") and Sage, always gracious, lets me around on the motocross course. Now I'm sitting in the back of a group of four, one lap to go. Elaine is long gone. The fight is for second place.

The three ladies ahead of me are fading and I am within ten feet of the U35 leader, but I am quickly running of places where I feel confident enough with my handling to make a safe pass. The race has come down to balls and technique, not fitness, and I am, predictably, on the losing end of that battle. I surge, and get cut off. Catch back up and chicken out on passing on a corner. So I sit and soft pedal, frustrated and antsy.

I finish fifth overall, second U35. Second through eighth places all roll in within 5 seconds of each other.

The eight of us gather outside of the gate and, immediately, there are introductions and high-fives all around. Laughter and repeated exclamations of "Holy shit, that was fun" and "Sorry I crashed in front of everyone again!" (that was me, of course). This is why we put up with the anxiety and risk. For the moments when you realize that it is often more fun to finish fifth in a tight race than win alone.

It takes about ten minutes before I realize that my right hip is on fire and my knee is throbbing from the effort. I'm missing more skin, but the behemoth knee pad has limited the damage to my hip.

Another short track down, another hole in my shorts. Next season we need to find a kit vendor that makes Kevlar-reinforced side panels for their shorts. I'd buy, like, eight pairs. And wear one of them on my head.

This weekend: Dirt Series Mountain Bike Camp in Hood River. Also known as "48 Hours of Lindsay Learning How to Stay ON the Mountain Bike." Think good thoughts for me and for anyone unfortunate enough to get on my wheel.

----

P.S. For additional shits and giggles, I posted a weekend ride report on the team blog.

Weekends. Oh Lovely Weekends.

2009-07-13T16:02:00.000-07:00

This weekend involved pedicures, beer, bachelorette parties and bikes. The swelling in my knee has subsided considerably and I was able to get in almost 110 miles over two days, including a Sunday morning team ride that reminded me why it is good to have teammates that you can tease mercilessly.

Back to Short Track tonight. If you can't pick me out of the crowd by my pink bike, the rollerblading knee pad on my right knee should help.

Stupid is As Stupid Does

2009-07-07T08:23:00.000-07:00

Anyone know a good couple's counselor? Preferably one that specializes in the complicated, and frequently abusive, relationship between a woman and her mountain bike.

I love that bike, don't get me wrong. It's exactly what I wanted when I bought the bike and, well, its pink. But a recent exchange of physical and verbal assaults has got me rethinking our communication style.

Saturday: 8 Hours of Independence Mountain Bike Race near Philomath, Oregon. Sam and I were a team, Jeff and Beth were a team. I thought: perfect way to spend the Fourth of July...four hours of mountain biking with some rest and plenty of time to refuel. Get some skills practice in and stay out of trouble until later in the day.

Problem....95 degree temperatures, no real mountain bike climbing skills and shoes that were most definitely not made for pushing a bike uphill for 10-15 minutes each lap. I started having heat problems almost immediately into the major climbing sections on my first lap and my feet were covered in blisters by the end of the second lap. Decided to call it a day. Sam, being crazy, fit and a remarkable mountain biker, proceeded to keep riding--for three more hours.

Our "team" did eight laps: LK-2, Sam-6. I spent most of that in the shade, reading and drinking beer. And being totally OK with being a lazy sloth. Although, I do have to say that reading fucking Ayn Rand is no walk in the park.

I'm going to start researching endurance athletes and adaptation to racing and training in the heat. When I sat down later that day and really thought about my history as an athlete, dating back to the dark period known as "high school," I have consistently had problems with overheating. My first half-ironman in 2006 and the Mt. Hood road race this year are the most egregious examples. But I can also remember struggling in overheated gyms when I played basketball and getting bloody noses in crowded dance clubs. Am I doomed to spring and fall racing or is there something I can do to change how my body regulates itself?

Monday: Short track. I rolled up to PIR fairly distracted by personal issues of the non-biking nature and not feeling an single ounce of competitiveness. But after two pre-ride laps and the discovery that there were some new, fun faces to race with this week, I could feel a little fire building in my belly.

Our start was on a gravel road this week, 100 meters of treachery before rolling into the grass. The course favored the better technical riders and I wanted a fast start to get a cushion.

This plan lasted 4 pedal strokes.

When the whistle blew, I took 3 stokes to get clipped in (or what I though was clipped in) and on the fourth stood up to build some speed. My right foot slipped off the front of the pedal, my back wheel slid out and down I went. Hard. In the Gravel. Straight onto my right knee.

I immediately covered my head with my arms, hoping to avoid becoming total roadkill. I think someone made it over the top of me, as I have a large gash in my left side that looks like it was caused by a chainring. Team Beer's Danielle had the unfortunate luck to be right behind me when I fell and her seat ended up wedged in the back of my helmet.

After the non-Lindsay carnage had been cleared, I just lay there for 15-30 seconds, head ringing and unable to move my right leg. Some friends hauled me off the course, as I couldn't really feel my lower right leg and couldn't put any weight on the knee.

Once safely in the grass, the feeling in my knee and leg quickly returned. But I do wish the knee could have stayed numb a bit longer. The skin on it was hanging off in huge flaps and blood was quickly making its way through the layer of gravel and dust.

The medics should really keep a bottle of whiskey in their supplies. Not for sterilizing wounds, but for placating idiot bike racers that are having a pound of gravel excised from their bodies after a crash. The inside of my fingers and hands are still bruised from grabbing the chair to avoid the more instinctive reaction of backhanding the volunteer medic. The latter would have been very bad form.

Made it home safely with the help of a teammate and made it to sleep quickly with the help of vicodin and vodka. The V&V was a great sedative and absolutely essential to working up the courage to unwrap the bandages and reclean the wound. Somehow, being slightly drunk and high takes the edge off of looking at a part of one's own body and realizing that it looks suspiciously like ground beef. Ugh.

I'm about 40 hours out from the wreck at this point and my knee has swollen to the size of a softball and is the opposite of aesthetically pleasing. Definitely won't be riding Tabor tonight (in fact, can't ride at all and have been guiltily driving to work) and my plans to head to the track Friday and Sunday are on hold for the time being.

The prospect of getting back into shape for cyclocross has become more and more daunting with each passing day. My plan to take 2-3 weeks of active recovery has morphed into a six-week streak of lazy hedonism and, now, dealing with the primordial, puffy ooze attached to my right leg. But my hip has stopped aching 24/7 and, if I can get through the acute day-to-day feeling of out-of-shape guilt, I think my body will be thanking me in December for being a clumsy fool in July.

And the Hits Just Keep on Coming

2009-07-02T08:31:00.000-07:00

I think it has something to do with my doctor's office. It's got messed up ju-ju.

First of all, I really don't like my doctor. Haven't really since the beginning of our relationship, which epitomizes several things that are fucked up with our health care system. I always feel rushed and have a really difficult time getting her to slow down and answer my questions. Then there is the fact that she is Korean and I only understand 1 out of 3 things that she is saying, but end up feeling like a racist hillbilly when I ask her to repeat things so I can understand what the hell is going on with my body.

As a result, I only go into that office when I absolutely have to. I've even set it up that I can just call in when I get sinus infections and they'll usually just write up the prescription. Most of my other care needs are met by my chiropractor and acupuncturist. Both of which my insurance won't pay for, but ultimately keep me healthy and out of the overcrowded traditional health care system. Sigh.

Most of my visits to the doctor coincide with days that were already ridiculous to begin with and become more ridiculous during the visit. Two years ago, I was there the day after breaking up with my boyfriend, convinced I had ass cancer. Turns out it was just hemorrhoids (Hell-o, old age), but I was so distracted by the thought of dying alone with ass cancer and having my dead body eaten by my cats that I dropped my wallet on the street near the hospital and spent the afternoon scrambling to cancel credit cards, get to meetings on time and eventually picking the wallet up from the good Samaritan that found it and returned it to me totally intact.

Last fall I was there numerous times trying to figure out why I was chronically fatigued. At one point, it was twice weekly to have blood drawn. After the appointment where the doctor finally informed me that there was nothing physically wrong with me and recommended that I speak with a mental health professional (I ultimately went to acupuncture and was fine after two sessions), I dropped my keys in the toilet in the office bathroom and smacked my forehead on a cabinet fishing out said keys...and then spent an extra 20 minutes in the office bleeding out of my skull and being stared at in the waiting room. It must have been disconcerting...most people don't go into the treatment area unscathed and come out with a gaping head wound.

Yesterday, more of the same. I woke up with my period, thus beginning a fabulous day of cramping and fatigue. I was an hour late for the doctor's appointment, blaming it on my blackberry instead of my own incompetence. Then, the diagnosis.

To give this some context, over the weekend I was in Bend and, for the first time all summer, I got some sun exposure while wearing something other than a cycling jersey. I am really careful about sunscreen (my mother has had skin cancer and I'd had suspicious lesions removed as a teenager), but I did manage to get some color on my shoulders. And noticed that there were a few places on my left shoulder that weren't tan at all. Same with a few spots on my left leg.

I have a healthy sense of paranoia about these type of things, so I called the doctor on Monday morning and, two days later, found myself sitting in the waiting room. I've got a burrito in a paper bag on my lap and despite my best efforts, the whole area is starting to smell like steak and hot sauce.

The doctor first looks at the spots on my leg. Both look like scars, but are small cysts. Nothing that can really be done about them unless they start cause discomfort.

Then she takes a look at my shoulder and asks me if I know what athlete's foot is. I'm sort of confused, as we aren't looking at my feet and, again, I'm having a hard time understanding what she is saying. So I ask again and she tells me again, slowly, that I basically have athlete's foot on my shoulder. Not the EXACT SAME fungus as what causes athlete's foot, but a fungus nonetheless. And there is no way of determining how long I've had it or how much there is until my entire back gets tan.

Really? Seriously?

Its an easy enough problem to solve and apparently many people that spend significant time in synthetic exercise clothing get this type of skin issue. This doesn't really help my state of mind a whole lot. I'm already feeling decidedly unsexy this week...I'm three weeks overdue for a haircut, cramping, hemorrhaging out of my uterus and my legs still look like someone took a cane to them after short track last week. Now I have a fucking mushroom colony growing on my back.

With this I go back to work and try to get a memo written before I ride up to Tabor to "race." Around three, my nose starts bleeding profusely for no reason. I'm on a conference call and have no kleenex, so I end up sitting in my office for twenty minutes with a tampon stuck up my nose so I don't bleed all over my dress.

And finally, Tabor. I got my ass handed to me two years ago in the Cat 4 race and have been avoiding lining up since then. But Tuesday morning I opened by big mouth and told Sam (who is in the hunt for the series win) that I'd go try and help her if I could.

I helped set the pace for the first two laps, then my legs decided that enough was fucking enough. We had one of those "Hey legs, this is a RACE," "Hey Lindsay, you haven't been training for a month, so fuck off," arguments...one that I ended up losing. Badly. I got unceremoniously spit off the back and spent the next five laps doing $15 hill repeats and getting heckled by my friends. Including a half naked man wearing only his bib shorts.

I was glad to get home in one piece after that kind of day and managed to have an almost debacle-free evening at home. Stepping on the walrus-cat can hardly count, as I do that every night.

Next up: Eight Hours of Independence MTB race as a team with Sam on the Fourth of July. This could be really fun or be a total suck-fest. Depends on how long I can stay upright, I suppose.