Don't worry, the links/images that are broken over there --> will be fixed soon!
Monday, June 29, 2009
I can't help but think of an insect smashed by a fly-swatter when someone goes flying over the handlebars on a mtn. bike. Heck, it happened to me this past Thursday -- just one of the downsides of inertia.
I have to admit though, I do like looking at mountain biking as a bit of a metaphor for life. Sometimes you're best served by momentum and it's those moments of hesitation that can wreck a good line, so to speak. Continuing the analogy, I often lose momentum after a particularly good ride, perhaps to preserve whatever perceived greatness I have swirling in my head instead of continuing to press on, when the risk of failure--or a bad ride--looms.
I've been thinking about it this past weekend and applying the momentum theory to other aspects of my life. Usually there's a nice balance with the various elements that drive my life: hiking, climbing, biking, gaming, travel, music, writing, friendships, relationships, ultimate frisbee, whatever. In taking stock, I've noticed I've lost a lot of momentum across the board, which is a bit concerning. No one area (save maybe mtn biking) has forward momentum. Some, like writing, are inching forward while some are stagnant. Some have even regressed.
I think acknowledging the stasis is a good start. The less involved I am with the important things in my life, the more drab each day can seem and the faster time goes by. Since there's no such thing as filler time in life, it's time to light a few fires and get rolling again -- even if it means the occasional trip over the proverbial handlebars.
I have to admit though, I do like looking at mountain biking as a bit of a metaphor for life. Sometimes you're best served by momentum and it's those moments of hesitation that can wreck a good line, so to speak. Continuing the analogy, I often lose momentum after a particularly good ride, perhaps to preserve whatever perceived greatness I have swirling in my head instead of continuing to press on, when the risk of failure--or a bad ride--looms.
I've been thinking about it this past weekend and applying the momentum theory to other aspects of my life. Usually there's a nice balance with the various elements that drive my life: hiking, climbing, biking, gaming, travel, music, writing, friendships, relationships, ultimate frisbee, whatever. In taking stock, I've noticed I've lost a lot of momentum across the board, which is a bit concerning. No one area (save maybe mtn biking) has forward momentum. Some, like writing, are inching forward while some are stagnant. Some have even regressed.
I think acknowledging the stasis is a good start. The less involved I am with the important things in my life, the more drab each day can seem and the faster time goes by. Since there's no such thing as filler time in life, it's time to light a few fires and get rolling again -- even if it means the occasional trip over the proverbial handlebars.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Cracking one eye open, I look at the unfamiliar sequence of numbers on my clock:3, then 4, then 5. AM. Ouch!
My room is quiet and cool, Xanadu (my cat, not an exotic escort) is curled up against my outstretched arm, barely flinching at the banal sports jabber emanating from my alarm. This is it... time for the Blue River Century! The previous 12 hours were spent stuffing my belly with high calorie foods, tuning up the road bike and mentally preparing for the task ahead. All my gear and food was carefully laid out so my sleep-deprived brain had a mere two objectives to worry about: get into the truck, drive to Keystone.
On the way up, I rocked out to Weird Al, Bad Religion, Crystal Method and a little They Might Be Giants. Arriving a little after 6:15 AM, I slowly assembled my gear for the ride...
Riding in memory of my fallen friend; a jingle of inspiration.
Race director and friend Marie Willson and her biker, banana-lovin', boyfriend Dustin pre-ride. What's that guy on the left doing?
Excitement builds as the riders begin to congregate on the starting line. The sky is overcast and cool, great weather for a long ride! At 7:11 AM, the ride begins with miles and miles of downhill! Little pelotons form amongst riders; I find myself in a pack up near the front. We cruise down Route 9 through the Gore Range peaks to Ute Pass, where the strain of the hill begins to break apart the packs of riders. The uber-hardcore riders are already zipping back down the out-and-back pass by the time I'm within a mile of the first aid station. I tuck in behind a trio of strong riders, two gals and a guy and reach the first aid station in good style.
I did bring along my camera to record mydeterioration visits to the 4 aid stations. This first one at the top of Ute Pass came at roughly mile 25.
Smiling at aid station 1, with a chunk of something in my teeth. Check out the sweet port-a-potty in the background!
Blasting down Ute Pass, I zip by lines of bikers clawing uphill, some in good fashion... some not. The ride back into Silverthorne becomes a bit hypnotic, as I get into a rhythm of pedal strokes. I am passed by only one person, a woman who was either a manic body builder or a fan of anabolic steroids. Where most people have calf muscles, it appeared she had implanted a human buttocks. Even NFL running back have smaller legs. I should have snapped a picture.
Eventually at mile 45 or so, I pulled into the picturesque aid station at Dillon Lake, where the goldfish crackers flowed like wine.
Aid station 2, Dillon Lake.
The next leg was a big push from Frisco to Copper Mountain, then up Fremont Pass. Again, I tucked in with two other riders on the climb up the pass. I felt like I was really working hard, harder than I'd like--and 30 minutes into the climb realize I'm still in one of my hardest gears. Oops! As it turns out, the guy I did the climb with would be my riding buddy for the rest of the day, a good bloke from Denver named Ralph. As I reached the Smiling Moose Deli sponsored aid station, the sky opened up and the rain did wash upon the Earth.
Aid station 3, Fremont Pass, mile 66, where I had a downright godly avocado and cucumber sandwich
After a wet and slightly perilous descent back into Frisco, we rode up and over Swan Mountain Road, where I hooked up with a bunch of riders in the lead pack. Together, we rode back to Keystone at mile 95. Our final aid station awaited as the sky grew darker and darker.
Aid station 4, back at Keystone. Time to drop the tunes and go for the summit of Loveland Pass, 10 miles and 2,000 ft. uphill!
This was it, the final push. Nothing was particularly sore on my body, but my legs didn't have the power they had 7 hours previously. I knew it would be a grind--10 miles uphill, topping out at 11,990 ft is no easy task. My first goal would be the A-Basin ski area, which was 7 miles from Keystone. From there, it was a quick 3 mile jaunt to the summit.
As I began the climb, I felt a numbness in my spirit. I was going to make it, no doubt about that, but I began to feel a mental fatigue to match my spun-out legs. In between pedal strokes, I would hear the soft jingle of Talus' collar on my bike. I remembered how strong my little dog was, struggling to his feet to give an earnest greeting even when his brain was being invaded by a horrible disease. I owed it to him to be strong, to live for both of us, to suffer a bit so the sweetness of normal life would be exaggerated for a time. A gritty determination filled the void. The rain became more steady and began to downpour, mixing in with snowflakes and sleet.
At A-Basin, Ralph caught up to me. We gave each other mini-pep talks and went for the final push. Eventually, he opened up a little gap between us and we both pushed on. Talus continued to carry my spirit as I pushed up towards the final goal. With half a mile left, I could see the sign designating the summit. I pushed harder and the weather got colder. With a few defiant pedal strokes, I joined Ralph at the summit and cajoled a tourist to snap our photo.
Ralph on the left, me on the right at the summit of Loveland Pass, 105 miles and 8 hours later. Yet, the ride was not over...
There was a bone chilling cold in the air--mid 30's air temp and rain/sleet equals perfect hypothermia weather. We began a wet and wild 10 mile descent to return to Keystone. My body was racked with cold and my hands grew numb but I knew as long as I could count to ten in my head, hypothermia had not yet set in. Amazingly, a half-dozen or so cyclists were still pushing for the summit on my way down--cheers to them!
Eventually, I broke away from Ralph, whose poor hands were colder than mine. I had soaking wet but full-fingered gloves, he had fingerless gloves. As I rounded the final bend to return to Keystone, my body shivered hard from the wet cold but I felt overall pretty good. The lousy weather had scattered the post-ride party and it was all I could do to unhook my pack, grab my keys and load my bike into my truck. I stripped off my wet clothes and sat with the heat turned up full bore, trying to get my soggy skin rewarmed. I was way happy, not too tired and glad to be back at Keystone.
While the conclusion was a little anti-climatic, the ride was awesome. I drove home with a goofy, half-chattering smile on my face. Even though I had the heat blasting the whole time, it wasn't until I indulged in a 45 minute shower back at home in Boulder that I really began to thaw.
I'd highly recommend the Blue River Century for bike enthusiasts--I found that I really enjoyed the challenge, the scenery, the camaraderie and the places my mind went during the ride. At times I was zoned out, listening to music. At others, I thought of friends, dreams, aspirations. I felt good and strong and missed those who have slipped from this world. I fantasized about a good meal. I wished I was going home to Talus. I never felt bad or frustrated, maybe a little cold but never unhappy.
It's a weird thing, to ride your bike for 100+ miles in a day. A strange sort of endeavor, but one I thoroughly enjoyed. For all the time we put into the various minutia of life, it felt so good to be doing something out of the ordinary with a group of like-minded individuals. Huge props to Marie (who posts comments on this blog from time to time) for making her dream a reality and giving those who are up to the challenge a forum to push our bodies, hearts and spirits.
My room is quiet and cool, Xanadu (my cat, not an exotic escort) is curled up against my outstretched arm, barely flinching at the banal sports jabber emanating from my alarm. This is it... time for the Blue River Century! The previous 12 hours were spent stuffing my belly with high calorie foods, tuning up the road bike and mentally preparing for the task ahead. All my gear and food was carefully laid out so my sleep-deprived brain had a mere two objectives to worry about: get into the truck, drive to Keystone.
On the way up, I rocked out to Weird Al, Bad Religion, Crystal Method and a little They Might Be Giants. Arriving a little after 6:15 AM, I slowly assembled my gear for the ride...
Excitement builds as the riders begin to congregate on the starting line. The sky is overcast and cool, great weather for a long ride! At 7:11 AM, the ride begins with miles and miles of downhill! Little pelotons form amongst riders; I find myself in a pack up near the front. We cruise down Route 9 through the Gore Range peaks to Ute Pass, where the strain of the hill begins to break apart the packs of riders. The uber-hardcore riders are already zipping back down the out-and-back pass by the time I'm within a mile of the first aid station. I tuck in behind a trio of strong riders, two gals and a guy and reach the first aid station in good style.
I did bring along my camera to record my
Blasting down Ute Pass, I zip by lines of bikers clawing uphill, some in good fashion... some not. The ride back into Silverthorne becomes a bit hypnotic, as I get into a rhythm of pedal strokes. I am passed by only one person, a woman who was either a manic body builder or a fan of anabolic steroids. Where most people have calf muscles, it appeared she had implanted a human buttocks. Even NFL running back have smaller legs. I should have snapped a picture.
Eventually at mile 45 or so, I pulled into the picturesque aid station at Dillon Lake, where the goldfish crackers flowed like wine.
The next leg was a big push from Frisco to Copper Mountain, then up Fremont Pass. Again, I tucked in with two other riders on the climb up the pass. I felt like I was really working hard, harder than I'd like--and 30 minutes into the climb realize I'm still in one of my hardest gears. Oops! As it turns out, the guy I did the climb with would be my riding buddy for the rest of the day, a good bloke from Denver named Ralph. As I reached the Smiling Moose Deli sponsored aid station, the sky opened up and the rain did wash upon the Earth.
After a wet and slightly perilous descent back into Frisco, we rode up and over Swan Mountain Road, where I hooked up with a bunch of riders in the lead pack. Together, we rode back to Keystone at mile 95. Our final aid station awaited as the sky grew darker and darker.
This was it, the final push. Nothing was particularly sore on my body, but my legs didn't have the power they had 7 hours previously. I knew it would be a grind--10 miles uphill, topping out at 11,990 ft is no easy task. My first goal would be the A-Basin ski area, which was 7 miles from Keystone. From there, it was a quick 3 mile jaunt to the summit.
As I began the climb, I felt a numbness in my spirit. I was going to make it, no doubt about that, but I began to feel a mental fatigue to match my spun-out legs. In between pedal strokes, I would hear the soft jingle of Talus' collar on my bike. I remembered how strong my little dog was, struggling to his feet to give an earnest greeting even when his brain was being invaded by a horrible disease. I owed it to him to be strong, to live for both of us, to suffer a bit so the sweetness of normal life would be exaggerated for a time. A gritty determination filled the void. The rain became more steady and began to downpour, mixing in with snowflakes and sleet.
At A-Basin, Ralph caught up to me. We gave each other mini-pep talks and went for the final push. Eventually, he opened up a little gap between us and we both pushed on. Talus continued to carry my spirit as I pushed up towards the final goal. With half a mile left, I could see the sign designating the summit. I pushed harder and the weather got colder. With a few defiant pedal strokes, I joined Ralph at the summit and cajoled a tourist to snap our photo.
There was a bone chilling cold in the air--mid 30's air temp and rain/sleet equals perfect hypothermia weather. We began a wet and wild 10 mile descent to return to Keystone. My body was racked with cold and my hands grew numb but I knew as long as I could count to ten in my head, hypothermia had not yet set in. Amazingly, a half-dozen or so cyclists were still pushing for the summit on my way down--cheers to them!
Eventually, I broke away from Ralph, whose poor hands were colder than mine. I had soaking wet but full-fingered gloves, he had fingerless gloves. As I rounded the final bend to return to Keystone, my body shivered hard from the wet cold but I felt overall pretty good. The lousy weather had scattered the post-ride party and it was all I could do to unhook my pack, grab my keys and load my bike into my truck. I stripped off my wet clothes and sat with the heat turned up full bore, trying to get my soggy skin rewarmed. I was way happy, not too tired and glad to be back at Keystone.
While the conclusion was a little anti-climatic, the ride was awesome. I drove home with a goofy, half-chattering smile on my face. Even though I had the heat blasting the whole time, it wasn't until I indulged in a 45 minute shower back at home in Boulder that I really began to thaw.
I'd highly recommend the Blue River Century for bike enthusiasts--I found that I really enjoyed the challenge, the scenery, the camaraderie and the places my mind went during the ride. At times I was zoned out, listening to music. At others, I thought of friends, dreams, aspirations. I felt good and strong and missed those who have slipped from this world. I fantasized about a good meal. I wished I was going home to Talus. I never felt bad or frustrated, maybe a little cold but never unhappy.
It's a weird thing, to ride your bike for 100+ miles in a day. A strange sort of endeavor, but one I thoroughly enjoyed. For all the time we put into the various minutia of life, it felt so good to be doing something out of the ordinary with a group of like-minded individuals. Huge props to Marie (who posts comments on this blog from time to time) for making her dream a reality and giving those who are up to the challenge a forum to push our bodies, hearts and spirits.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
If I disappear from the web for a while... that's why. Moving my servers, hoping for the best :)
As much as I enjoy mountaineering and climbing, I realistically know that I do not have the talent or drive to be a world-class, elite mountaineer. Jonny Copp was the only one amongst my friends out here in Boulder who truly was of that caliber. Humble, fun, down to Earth, JC nonetheless was an incredibly accomplished climber, ticking off first routes all over the world--Patagonia, Afghanistan, China, Pakistan and so on. While we weren't super close, he was still a buddy and an inspiration.
Recently, news has some in that his climbing party--consisting of himself and two other climbers--was reported late in returning from a daring first ascent attempt on an obscure, unclimbed peak in China called "Mount Edgar" (you can read more about it here). Sadly, the rescue efforts, which are already into day 7 have turned up an as-of-yet unidentified body. All signs are pointing to tragedy.
It feels kind of surreal because JC has had so many amazing scrapes and close calls and always made it back home to Boulder. His life was one of constant adventure and endlessly pushing the limits of what is possible in the mountains. While there is still a sliver of hope, it's not looking good. I'm not ready to write any sort of eulogy, but... the fact is, this is the game of mountaineering. You can be the very best in the world and when the time comes, mother nature will claim her bounty. Such was the case with another seemingly invincible climber, Alex Lowe.
I've always thought that one must be pre-programmed with a fearless gene to continue to take risks of this magnitude over and over again. Some describe it as an addiction. For most of us, even one close call with truly imminent and life-threatening danger is enough to cause us to fearfully abandon whatever it was that chilled our spines. This is normal and natural as a response. However, some people have a different view on the world; many cite the near-fatal consequences and wild settings as truly living. Maybe they are right to some degree, but the problem with the big game is that losing is for keeps.
Saturday, June 06, 2009
As much as I enjoy mountaineering and climbing, I realistically know that I do not have the talent or drive to be a world-class, elite mountaineer. Jonny Copp was the only one amongst my friends out here in Boulder who truly was of that caliber. Humble, fun, down to Earth, JC nonetheless was an incredibly accomplished climber, ticking off first routes all over the world--Patagonia, Afghanistan, China, Pakistan and so on. While we weren't super close, he was still a buddy and an inspiration. Recently, news has some in that his climbing party--consisting of himself and two other climbers--was reported late in returning from a daring first ascent attempt on an obscure, unclimbed peak in China called "Mount Edgar" (you can read more about it here). Sadly, the rescue efforts, which are already into day 7 have turned up an as-of-yet unidentified body. All signs are pointing to tragedy.
It feels kind of surreal because JC has had so many amazing scrapes and close calls and always made it back home to Boulder. His life was one of constant adventure and endlessly pushing the limits of what is possible in the mountains. While there is still a sliver of hope, it's not looking good. I'm not ready to write any sort of eulogy, but... the fact is, this is the game of mountaineering. You can be the very best in the world and when the time comes, mother nature will claim her bounty. Such was the case with another seemingly invincible climber, Alex Lowe.
I've always thought that one must be pre-programmed with a fearless gene to continue to take risks of this magnitude over and over again. Some describe it as an addiction. For most of us, even one close call with truly imminent and life-threatening danger is enough to cause us to fearfully abandon whatever it was that chilled our spines. This is normal and natural as a response. However, some people have a different view on the world; many cite the near-fatal consequences and wild settings as truly living. Maybe they are right to some degree, but the problem with the big game is that losing is for keeps.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
June 8th will be the 7th anniversary of Colorado's famous Hayman Fire, an incredibly destructive wildfire that consumed 138,000 acres, 133 homes and caused millions of dollars of damage. The summer of 2002 was brutally hot, setting the stage for mass destruction. I can remember going to 7 PM Ultimate Frisbee games with the temperature stuck at 105°F. Everything was brown, dry, dead. Once the Hayman Fire began, there were weeks of hazy ash-filled skys, the clouds and debris acting like a blanket on an already parched landscape.
The great tragedy of this epic conflagration is that it was started by a single person, a person whose motivation remains a mystery to this day. Terry Barton was, of all things, a Federal Forestry Worker with 18 years experience. Originally, she had tried to pin the fire on a passing camper, then changed her story that she was burning a letter from her ex-husband that got out of control. In the end, investigators concluded there was no letter and that she had created the fire to put it out--in other words, to seem like a hero.
All this is speculation of course, only she truly knows how the great fire came to be--or to put it more poetically, what emotional tinder ignited the blaze. Regardless of how it began, the end result was Terry Barton serving 6-12 years in federal prison and legally (though I don't know how they impose this) owing the government 14.7 million dollars.
So the question is, is she a sympathetic figure? While her ticky-tack explanations for starting the fire leave much to be desired, one would hope her intention was not to burn a good chunk of Colorado for fun. Or maybe it was? Maybe there was something hypnotic and perverse, some vision of raging fire that tipped the balance of judgement in her head.
The reason I ponder all this is because 2009 is an atmospheric contrast to 2002. It's been rainy--as rainy as I've seen it out here--and the land is green, lush and colorful. The dancing flames and scorched earth are now distant memories. Many folks out here would not recognize the name Terry Barton.
No real conclusions here, just thoughts. It's wild how nature is so quick to heal, to replenish and resurrect itself. Trees that were given life in the wake of the great fire will be a good six feet tall when Terry Barton is released from prison. And soon enough, there will be another dry season and it will all play out again, regardless of triggered by human hand or force of nature.
The great tragedy of this epic conflagration is that it was started by a single person, a person whose motivation remains a mystery to this day. Terry Barton was, of all things, a Federal Forestry Worker with 18 years experience. Originally, she had tried to pin the fire on a passing camper, then changed her story that she was burning a letter from her ex-husband that got out of control. In the end, investigators concluded there was no letter and that she had created the fire to put it out--in other words, to seem like a hero.
All this is speculation of course, only she truly knows how the great fire came to be--or to put it more poetically, what emotional tinder ignited the blaze. Regardless of how it began, the end result was Terry Barton serving 6-12 years in federal prison and legally (though I don't know how they impose this) owing the government 14.7 million dollars.
So the question is, is she a sympathetic figure? While her ticky-tack explanations for starting the fire leave much to be desired, one would hope her intention was not to burn a good chunk of Colorado for fun. Or maybe it was? Maybe there was something hypnotic and perverse, some vision of raging fire that tipped the balance of judgement in her head.
The reason I ponder all this is because 2009 is an atmospheric contrast to 2002. It's been rainy--as rainy as I've seen it out here--and the land is green, lush and colorful. The dancing flames and scorched earth are now distant memories. Many folks out here would not recognize the name Terry Barton.
No real conclusions here, just thoughts. It's wild how nature is so quick to heal, to replenish and resurrect itself. Trees that were given life in the wake of the great fire will be a good six feet tall when Terry Barton is released from prison. And soon enough, there will be another dry season and it will all play out again, regardless of triggered by human hand or force of nature.
